New Fic: A Study in Winning (4/10) part 1 of 2
Title: A Study in Winning
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 11K this part. 100K+ total
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: None for Season 2.
Previous parts: One Two Three
*
A Study in Winning
Part Four
*
They ended up at the Chinese down the end of the street that apparently stayed open until two. It wasn’t until Sherlock had mentioned dinner that he realised how starving he was. He hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast, having been too nervous before his match to have more than a smoothie and a health bar for lunch. He would have eaten properly that evening had he not have been forced to attend that party. God that felt like a long time ago now.
He accepted Sherlock’s offer of a shower first, finding a freshly laid out towel waiting for him. He wondered briefly if that had been the landlady’s doing but despite thinking that it was pushed it from his mind as something he didn’t particularly want to dwell on. The shower was quick but he felt fresher than he had been as he stepped back into his now slightly wrinkled clothing.
Exiting the bathroom he found Sherlock waiting for him, now more casually dressed, the black suit and purple shirt having been replaced by dark jeans and a green shirt that seemed to alter the colour of his eyes. Over that he pulled on a dark sports jacket that looked more blue than black. He was certainly back in full control, but still so different from the persona of the arrogant, aloof Frenchman that he often portrayed. Hiding in plain sight, he realised, like a chameleon, subtly shifting to suit each place and situation.
He still hadn’t found his other sock though.
Chinese wasn’t something he had very often, being as it was usually full of sugar and fake foods that did not go well with a sportsman’s diet. Sherlock of course reassured him of the restaurant’s quality, although neglected to explain just how it was possible to tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle. One thing was certain though, Sherlock certainly knew his way around the menu, ordering a whole heap of food that was both nutritious and delicious, even if half the time they were having to avoid the fried foods and the sauces.
“So,” Sherlock said once they had finished the soup, “you wanted to talk to me about something.”
It was funny, in everything that had happened that evening he had almost forgotten about his ordeal with the mysterious stalker.
“Oh yes,” he said poking at a spring roll. “I met a fan of yours today.”
Sherlock looked at him blankly. “A fan?”
“Your biggest fan actually, according to him. He knew all about us, from the food out to the, uh, you know.” He cleared his throat. “He seemed like a real nut job stalker. Do people still have stalkers?”
He watched as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Did he offer you money?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“To spy on me?”
“No. Opposite really. He seemed quite keen that I leave you alone.”
“I take it you didn’t accept.”
That wasn’t quite the reaction he had been expecting. “Uh, no.”
Sherlock eyed him speculatively. “You could have done with the money.”
He opened his mouth to protest, to point out that no amount of money would have persuaded him to keep away. Well, no amount from that nut job at least, and then he was going to protest that he couldn’t believe that Sherlock thought so little of him, but something in Sherlock’s expression made him stop, because it was almost as if the other man knew, or at least understood.
“Who is he?” he asked instead, because it was obvious that Sherlock knew exactly who he had been talking about.
“The most fanatical man you’ve ever met,” Sherlock said, “and not our problem right now.”
Fair enough, he conceded. They were away from the hotel, very few people knew where they were, they should be fine.
“I looked you up on the internet the other day,” he said instead.
Sherlock’s lips pursed together in what he was coming to recognise as a cross between vague annoyance and slight surprise.
“Reading my wiki page does not constitute ‘looking me up’,” he said.
He wasn’t about to rise to that one. “True,” he said with a slight smile, “but it was pretty interesting anyway.” He leant forward slightly, as if they weren’t basically the only two people on this side of the restaurant. “Was it true about you and Irene Adler?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched. “You tell me, three continents Watson.”
He sat back with a slight embarrassed groan. “You read my page as well.”
“Naturally,” Sherlock said with that smile of his. “It was most informative.”
“You know most of that section is exaggerated or incorrect.”
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “I, for one, saw no mention of your obvious bisexuality, while your exploits with women were delightfully diverse and distracting. You appear to have built up quite the reputation as a ladies man and have done little to dispel it.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t see anything about the real you on your page either,” he pointed out deciding that attack was the best form of defence. “Although, pulling a sensation like Irene. You two looked good together.” And they certainly had. Irene with her dark hair and big eyes, all legs and alluring smile against his cheekbones and eyes, tall and elegant with his arm around her waist at some film premier or such event.
“Should hope so,” Sherlock said, “that was rather the point. We each needed something that the other could provide. It was mutually beneficial.”
“So you weren’t…” he motioned with his fork having already given up on the chop sticks.
“Oh, god, no,” Sherlock said.
“But your wiki page….”
“Well of course it does,” Sherlock said cutting him off. “I practically wrote the thing. Better to be an arrogant Frenchman with a rod up his arse and his arm around one of the most captivating and sought after women in the world, than an arrogant Frenchman with a cock up his arse and only a tennis racket warming his bed.”
John tried not to wince, partly due to the words and partly due to just how close to home they had hit.
“You must have read about me and Mary,” he said deciding that a slight change of topic would be good.
Sherlock tipped his head slightly. “Kiss and tell, Sun exclusive.” He pulled a slight face. “Tell me, what hurt more, the screwed emotional break-up, or the way she went on to screw you in front of the world?”
It was… actually he wasn’t sure what sort of comment that was. It wasn’t malicious or purposely hurtful, at least it didn’t sound like it. It sounded more bluntly curious than anything, something just so… Sherlock.
Leaning back in his chair he raised his hands over his face and then found himself starting to smile, and then to laugh. Then he found he couldn’t stop. After a moment he heard Sherlock join in as well and for the first time since the whole messed up ordeal he felt relaxed enough to let go and release the emotions and tensions he had somehow held onto. Months of counselling and therapy where he had barely been able to talk about it and here he was laughing as if it was the most hilarious joke he had ever heard.
Oh god that felt good.
They finished their meal in good humour, trading comments, some more barbed than others, one upping each other with each story until they finally staggered home barely able to say more than a few words together without giggling and losing their train of thoughts.
They ended up kissing of course, and then falling onto the bed before it became clear that neither of them were up for the return match, both physically and mentally worn out and really only looking for sleep.
“Do you… should I…” he started motioning vaguely to the door in a way he trusted the Frenchman would understand despite already looking to be more than half a asleep, relaxed and stretched out in only his boxer-briefs.
“No,” he heard the muffled voice say, a strong hand reaching out to grasp around his waist. “Stay.”
It was a bad idea, he was sure of it, an intimacy they had so far avoided, but neither of them had a match the next day and it was nice here in this big comfortable bed and he didn’t want to have to move.
“Okay,” he whispered bending his head to press a kiss to the slightly freckled shoulder closest to him. Stripping off his shirt he kept his pants on and stretched out beside him, pulling the sheet back over them. In the darkness he could just about make out the small smile on Sherlock’s face. Then he closed his own eyes and drifted off.
*
He awoke to find himself lying on his back, the morning sun starting to stream through the window. Looking down he realised that the weight across his waist was Sherlock’s arm, stretched out sideways from where the other man was laying asleep on his front, sheet kicked down to just reveal the band of his underwear. Armani black boxer briefs, really? No simple Marks and Spencer’s finest for him then.
Smiling, he lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the momentary lull and the pleasant warmth from the body beside him. It had been a good number of months since he had last actually shared a bed with someone and he had forgotten both just how good and how awkward that could be. Sherlock’s arm was nice, comforting and very slightly bordering on possessive, so he was loathed to disturb it, but in a while his bladder would force him to move and he would have to attempt to escape without waking his bed partner.
In the end he managed to take advantage of Sherlock’s own movements and succeeded in slipping out without any problems. Standing, he stretched and yawned, wincing slightly when he felt the tightening in his right thigh and slight stiffness in his shoulder. He had feared as much following the last match. He would have to be a little careful, make sure not to overdo it or pull anything.
Glancing around he spotted a clock and confirmed that it was still early but not outrageously, which would give them plenty of time for a proper wake up in a bit and another doze before life in general forced them out of bed and into the real world.
Padding to the bathroom across the hall he relieved himself and washed his hands before deciding it would be best to steal some of Sherlock’s toothpaste. He didn’t have his toothbrush with him, nor was there, as he expected, a spare, but he did his best with the paste and his fingers, feeling at least a little bit cleaner.
Finished he figured a drink would be good, so went to the kitchen, slipping in the side door, and looked around to see if he could spot a glass or other vessel suitable to drink from. Preoccupied he almost missed the faint rustling of a newspaper, but froze at the sound of a heart stopping familiar voice.
“Good morning, John.”
Horrified, he spun round to find his worst nightmare and the last person he would have expected calmly sat facing him on one of the armchairs, newspaper in hand, umbrella propped up against the coffee table next to a half drunk cup of tea.
Cup of tea?!
He stared, his brain seemingly incapable of processing the fact that somehow this man had broken in - BROKEN IN - while they had been asleep, made himself a cup of tea - TEA - and was calmly waiting for them as if it was a perfectly normal - NORMAL - thing to do. What his brain did finally clue him into was that he was currently stood in Sherlock’s kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of pants while this crazy, insane, bloody jail escaped loony simply raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.
Shit. Crap. Fuck. Buggery hell.
Turning, he did the only thing open to him.
“Sherlock!”
He didn’t bother with any niceties, no gentle wake up calls, he simply called the other man’s name the moment he got back into the bedroom. His voice sounded as if it was bordering on hysteria, but he didn’t care as he leant over to slap at Sherlock’s bare shoulder with one hand while he attempted to yank on his shirt with his other.
“Sherlock!”
It turned out to be harder to wake the Frenchman than he had feared just fifteen minutes before.
“Sherlock, for god’s sake, wake up. You have to get up, Sherlock!”
The Frenchman groaned, muttering something that might have been, “five more minutes,” in a garbled mix of languages, before a rather sharp poke in the back had him blearily opening his eyes.
“Putain!” he groaned in what John was starting to think was a universal French curse word. “Please tell me the world is ending, or all the best shags in the world are not going to put me in a good mood.”
“He’s here!” John said only just managing to keep his balance as he pulled on his trousers. “He’s fucking well here and sitting in your fucking main room, drinking your fucking tea.”
He wasn’t usually that free with curse words - well, outside the bedroom setting anyway - but this seemed to warrant it.
“Who’s here?” Sherlock asked infuriatingly not moving.
“Your fan, that’s who,” he hissed. “He knows where you live. Well of course he knows where you live, he’s your biggest fan apparently, but that somehow seems to give him permission to break in and… Sherlock?!”
He stared as Sherlock simply rolled onto his back and groaned.
“What are you…” he started until the words somehow got lost from between his brain and his mouth. “Sherlock! Are you even listening to me?”
Sherlock groaned again, scrubbing his hands over his face muttering something about it being far too early to deal with this, and there John lost him in a stream of French, before finally Sherlock sat up, kicked his feet over the side of the bed and said something about needing a drink.
“Wait? What? Sherlock,” he managed as Sherlock pulled on a blue dressing gown and knotted the tie around his waist. “You can’t go out there like that. He’s….” but apparently Sherlock could and he did.
Feeling sort of helpless, John followed behind, stunned when Sherlock made a point of ignoring the man in the main room in favour of filling the kettle and riffling around for two clean mugs.
“Sherlock, John,” the fan said still sat where he had been but now carefully folding down his newspaper. “I trust you both slept well.”
John wasn’t sure he liked the sight of that apprising look, or the tone of voice. And when it came to it, when had the man lost that slight Central European accent? How comes he now sounded perfectly English? More than perfectly English in fact.
“Another important publicity event avoided, you do make a habit of this, Sherlock. That little stunt has even managed to make it into the papers. Not the printed ones of course, it had fortunately been too late for that, but the online versions have it. The Daily Mail is positively gleeful about the whole ordeal.” His lips curled in a look of disgust. “You do make things so hard for yourself, don’t you?”
Sherlock sighed, he actually sighed, as if finding your stalker in your main room first thing in the morning was not an unusual occurrence. Oh hell, thought John as he stared at them, it was an unusual occurrence, right?
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock said turning to lean again the kitchen cabinet, running another hand down his face.
“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said a bit more sharply, “I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’.”
“Always so aggressive,” the fan said obviously disapprovingly. “Good for the courts, not so good now. Did it never occur to you that you and I want the same thing?”
“Oddly enough,” Sherlock said, “no.”
“We have more in common than you’d like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. Your tennis will suffer. And you know how it always upset Grand-mere.”
Sherlock’s eyes goggled. “I upset her?” he said as if that was the most outrageous thing he had heard all week. “Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.”
Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no! Oh what the bloody, blimey, bleeding hell.
“No. No, wait…” John managed eyes darting between the pair of them. “Grand-mere? Who’s Grand-mere?”
The kettle clicked off behind him.
“Grandmother,” Sherlock said. “Our grandmother. This is my brother, Mycroft.”
Turning Sherlock grabbed the kettle, pouring the steaming water into the two mugs he had found from somewhere.
“Putting on weight again?” he asked.
“Losing it, in fact,” the stalker, fan, man, person, brother, hell, said, rising primly to his feet, tugging down his waistcoat before bringing over his now empty cup.
John stared. “He’s your brother?” he finally managed, eyes desperately scanning between them, not sure if he was searching for signs of similarity or for this being all one big joke.
“Course he’s my brother,” Sherlock said fishing out the tea bags and dumping them on the draining board.
Right. Brother. Right. Oh. “So he’s not….”
“Not what?” Sherlock asked, moving him out of the way to get to the fridge.
“I don’t know…” he managed, “mad lunatic stalker?”
He wordlessly accepted the mug that was pushed into his hands.
“Close enough,” Sherlock said motioning to the cup.
John dutifully drank and found it to be a remarkably good cup of tea. Actually pretty well spot on how he liked to take it, even down to the amount of sugar. He blinked and was about to ask how Sherlock had known, but then the other man was turning away and Mycroft - Mycroft? What was it with these names? - was protesting about not apparently being a mad lunatic stalker.
“Don’t listen to him. He knows more about me than I do so of course he’s my stalker,” Sherlock said scornfully, “when he’s not too busy being my agent, manager, publicist, trainer, events coordinator, accountant, president of my fan club, oh and holding a minor position on the ATP’s Board of Directors.”
Sherlock stalked to the sofa, put his tea down before literally lounging himself across the seat, staring up at the ceiling as his legs kicked off the end.
“Goodbye, Mycroft. Try not to scare the neighbours on the way out. You know how they hate that.”
John watched as the man who most probably was Sherlock’s biggest fan, although not apparently a lunatic stalker, pursed his lips together and then very deliberately went to the sink to wash and rinse his cup. He looked as if he was quite used to this sort of behaviour from Sherlock, although he quite obviously didn’t like it.
“So,” John said because he felt like he should say something as it was clear the other two weren’t going to continue, “when you said you’re concerned about his tennis, you actually are concerned?”
“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said as he deliberately dried his hands.
“I mean,” he tried again, “you actually are worried that I could be a distraction for him, away from his tennis.”
Mycroft placed down the tea-towel. “I meant what I said, John. You seem like a decent man, more decent than most it transpires, but this is Sherlock’s Wimbledon year. After the French Open I had hoped that… well, you don’t need to know about that. Just tell me, what was it like to punch James Moriarty?”
That was not the question he had been expecting. “Fine,” he said truthfully. “Uh, more than fine in fact.”
“Good,” Mycroft said, “that’s good, isn’t it, Sherlock?”
Sherlock merely grunted from where he was still on the sofa.
“Am I to presume that we have confirmed the identity of your…aficionado, Sherlock?”
“Yes, it’s Moriarty,” Sherlock said vaguely waving a hand. “Just as I said it was, so we knew that already.”
“No, we suspected that, there’s a difference. The poor man does seem to have a rather unhealthy obsession with you.”
Sherlock made a dismissive noise and muttered something in French that had Mycroft frowning. Then he swung his legs back over to the floor and sat up.
“Still here, Mycroft?” he said. “You’re disturbing my rest day, and I’m sure you’ve got far better things to do. Lestrade is probably bored without me, go and bother him. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you.”
Mycroft’s lips narrowed, but he calmly walked to the armchair to retrieve his umbrella. “I’m sure you’ve already deduced what’s in the bags and boxes, but I’ll confirm anyway.”
Looking round, John noticed the extra boxes and bags for the first time, wondering how he might have missed them, but they did blend in rather well with the other boxes and bags strewn around the place.
“Changes of clothing,” Mycroft continued, “for both of you; practice clothes, smart wear, casual wear, nightwear… should you require it. Clean underwear, wash bags, spare toothbrushes.” At that he tipped his head in John’s direction. “Rackets, balls, and so on. Fresh fruit, vegetables, staple foods, milk, juice and other perishables. Do remember to put the relevant items in the fridge. Both of your laptops, mobile phone chargers, Sherlock your violin, and I do believe Lestrade has included some items to keep you both relaxed and entertained, should you desire it. Please excuse the fact we had to gain access to your hotel room, John, but we determined that the situation rather warranted it.”
“Oh, right,” he managed, “thanks.”
Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock, I expect you back in your room by seventeen hundred hours tomorrow. We have some things that need to be discussed. In the meantime, please refrain from damaging yourself, and do try to keep out of the press.”
Swinging his umbrella, Mycroft made his way to the door. “Oh, I am also delighted to say that both your test results came back clean. I thought you would appreciate knowing that. Use that information wisely and do be careful.”
Then he was gone. John stared at the door.
“Test results?” he said finally looking back to where Sherlock was now poking through one of the boxes, frowning as he held up a James Bond DVD. “He’s talking about drugs, right? The tests from the other day?”
“STIs, John,” Sherlock said simply. “He’s confirming that we’re both clean for STIs.”
“How?”
“The blood test. You didn’t think that was standard did you?”
“Oh god.”
“Relax, that’s just his way of giving his blessing. I do believe he rather approves of you.”
That was… that was good he supposed. He rather thought he would prefer to be on Mycroft Holmes’ good side rather than his bad.
“So, what now?” he asked watching as Sherlock critically studied the bananas and other fruit he had retrieved from the box.
“Well,” Sherlock said, “breakfast would appear to be on the cards, courtesy of my brother, but first I was weighing up the possibility of you joining me in the shower.”
John raised his eyebrows, keeping his expression straight as he sipped his tea.
“Just a shower?” he asked.
“Well, shower and a shag,” Sherlock said.
“Ah,” John said. “Well, I suppose I’ve got nothing better to do.”
*
The shower wasn’t huge, but there was enough room for Sherlock to stand behind him and torture him with a good, firm, but slow hand job that had him gasping while the Frenchman whispered filthy things in his ear and made love to his neck with his mouth. Apparently it was pay back for leaving him hanging so long the night before. As paybacks went this was one he could live with.
After the shower he discovered that his bag did contain everything he could need and more, and was rather relieved to be able to pull on a fresh pair of pants and jeans. Sherlock, however, appeared to prefer a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms over which he pulled his dressing gown and promptly went to town on the fruit with the blender. It turned out he made a pretty good smoothie.
He accepted it with a smile while sorting out another cup of tea and some toast - jam for him, honey for Sherlock.
The morning was spent in a haze of lazy domestication. After the events of the previous day Sherlock seemed content to do very little, lounging around first with his laptop - snorting at the reports of the previous evening in the tabloids - and then with his violin. He turned out to be a rather proficient player, not concert standard, but more than able to zip through both some classical pieces and some more popular ones.
For the most part though he was ignored. Realising that the Frenchman wasn’t being rude but rather needed time to himself, John happily left him to it, then decided it was pointless to be surprised when on opening his laptop discovered a post-it note with the internet password for the flat on it.
He spent the morning checking his emails, writing his blog and laughing at the youtube video of the cat falling off the shelf. His blog took most of his time since he felt it only fair to talk about the fantastic week of tennis he was having. Of course he completely neglected to mention the fantastic week of sex he was also having. There was only so much other people needed to know about. He even responded to a message from Harry, although he didn’t tell her about having seen Clara. That wasn’t something he particularly wanted to go into right now.
Lunch consisted of whole wheat pasta salad knocked together from the foods in the box, followed by a lovely fruit salad that Mrs Hudson kindly brought up for them. His second meeting with her was decidedly less embarrassing than the first, although he hadn’t been able to stop the blush when she pointed out as a matter of fact that she had seen it all before anyway, and that she was their landlady not their mother. Sherlock, of course, took it all in his stride, placing an affectionate kiss on her cheek before stealing a strawberry. It was a little strange seeing him be so demonstrative, especially as he was so well known for his cold persona, but John had to admit that it seemed to suit him.
“Ah, here they are,” Sherlock suddenly said triumphantly, pulling an envelope out of one of the boxes. “Tickets for the semi-final and final.”
“For me?” Mrs Hudson said obviously delighted.
“Naturally,” Sherlock said accepting her hug.
“Well then,” she said, “I shall expect to see you both there then. Oooh, wait until I tell Mrs Turner next door about this.”
“That was good of you,” John said once she had disappeared down the stairs.
“Mrs Hudson is one of my most loyal supporters,” Sherlock said waving it away. “She keeps my secrets, I keep hers. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Still,” John said flopping back down onto one of the armchairs, “you’re planning on making the final then.”
“I’m planning on winning the final,” Sherlock corrected. “It’s my time, my year, my trophy.”
“Well,” John said with a small smile, “won’t be easy. You’ll have to get past the likes of Federer, Djokovic… Moriarty to do that.”
“Exactly.” With that Sherlock took refuge on the sofa, stretching out, fingers pressed together as in prayer. There he stayed, silent and still for the best part of an hour.
“You didn’t mention yourself.”
John almost jumped when the silence was finally broken and looked up from his laptop to find Sherlock now looking at him, eyes narrow.
“Sorry, what?” he asked getting the distinct impression that an entire conversation may have happened that he had not been aware of.
“When you listed the players I would have to beat to take the trophy,” Sherlock said, “you didn’t mention yourself.”
Ah, no, he hadn’t. “Well, you know the draw,” he said, “we’re at different ends. The only time we would meet would be the final, and if that happened then it would mean Nadal, Murray, Trevor had all gone out.”
Sherlock grunted. “Could happen.”
But not likely though.
“I hear the big money is on you verses Nadal,” he said.
“We’ll see,” Sherlock said. “Switch the telly on will you. BBC2. I have some research to do.”
The one o’clock match from Centre Court was the third round draw of Moriarty versus Thomaz Bellucci. Sherlock scowled when the commentators went on about how good the American was, how it could possibly be his year this time, but seemed to perk up when he spotted the faint bruising across Moriarty’s jaw.
“You going to tell me what’s really going on between you and Moriarty?” John asked, handing Sherlock a cup of tea.
“Would you tell me how you got that scar on your shoulder?”
John stiffened before forcing himself to relax, taking a seat to watch the match. “You’ve read my wiki page,” he said.
Sherlock made a noise in the affirmative. “I’ve also read between the lines of your wiki page,” he said, “but I would much rather hear it from you.”
John pressed his lips together. He rarely spoke about his accident, glossing over it in most cases, avoiding it all together the rest of the time. It wasn’t anybody’s business but his own and anyway it was hardly the easiest of topics to relive.
He said nothing but got the impression that Sherlock was neither surprised nor offended by that, and before long the match was in progress and Sherlock’s attention was fully diverted.
Moriarty won of course.
By mid-afternoon John felt himself getting restless. While he hadn’t minded being in one place for the day he felt a little lazy and really wanted to go outside.
“Right,” he said rising to his feet and stretching. “I’m going for a run.”
Sherlock rose to his feet. “Good idea,” and then he disappeared into his bedroom.
John went to change in the bathroom and emerged to find Sherlock lacing up his trainers waiting for him, dressed in an old t-shirt and a loose pair of jogging bottoms. Naturally he looked good in them, but there was probably very little that he didn’t look good in.
“Ready?”
He nodded and followed Sherlock out the door.
It turned out that they were very close to Regent’s Park and it was clearly a route that Sherlock knew well. A couple of people glanced in their direction as they went, but little else. They stopped after eight miles or so and stretched out again, Sherlock keeping up a running commentary about some of the people they passed. Then they headed back, a little slower this time, Sherlock taking them up random back streets and alleyways until they eventually ended up back at Baker Street and the flat.
Another shower later - not shared this time - and John offered to make dinner himself rather than go out again. Sherlock accepted and after some persuading reluctantly agreed to be introduced to the phenomenon that was James Bond via the classic that was Goldfinger. Lestrade at least appeared to know his Bond having provided a choice of Goldfinger, From Russia with Love, Dr No, The Spy Who Loved Me, and Goldeneye.
For the most part Sherlock endured it with reasonable humour, commenting only when he couldn’t help himself - “Pussy Galore? That’s not even subtle!” - and the evening passed pleasantly into the night.
“I still want it you know,” John said softly once the film was well and truly over and even Sherlock had run out of ways of insulting it.
“Hmmm?” Sherlock asked turning his head.
John looked at him. “Yesterday you told me to ask you again tomorrow. Today is tomorrow, so… I would rather like it if you would take me to bed and fuck me.”
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, unblinking. He met the gaze and held it, refusing to look away. He was serious and he wanted Sherlock to know that. In the cold light of day he still wanted Sherlock to take him.
“Okay,” Sherlock finally said with a short nod, and with that it was settled.
*
It had been a considerable number of years since he had last been penetrated by a man, more than he really cared to think about. It had nothing to do with him being uncomfortable with his bisexuality, an accusation that had been thrown at him in the past, it was more that he simply hadn’t desired it. His relationships - such as they had been - with men had always been few and far between, content as he had been to date and sleep with women, and few of his so called dalliances with other men had lasted long enough for it to have become a problem. Actually, since Mary, he hadn’t exactly held down any significant relationships at all for very long, his thing with Sarah being the only possibly exception. Then again, his relationship with Sarah had started and ended with little more than friendship.
He couldn’t explain why Sherlock was different, why what was obviously little more than a holiday romance had led him to want to lie back and be taken, but it did and he did, and by god he wanted it.
“You’re tense.”
Sherlock had taken charge the moment they had reached the bedroom, crowding into him to strip him of his shirt and kiss him to within an inch of his life. It felt good. Of course it felt good, this was Sherlock, this was a man who knew how to wield his tongue as well as he wielded a racket, and yet he could do very little but grasp the Frenchman’s upper arm and go along with the ride.
The lips broke away long enough to move around his jaw and onto his neck, tipping his head slightly even as the words were whispered into his ear.
“Relax.”
The word sounded surprisingly seductive, murmured by his ear as a hand snaked up his back, long fingers toying with his neck and sinking into his hair. He groaned softly when the mouth moved to gentle nipping, tipping his head back to get more of the sensation but seemingly unable to loosen the grasp of his hands.
“I know it’s been a while, John,” the voice continued, “but you have to relax. Trust me. Let go.”
Closing his eyes he tried to loosen his grasp even as the lips met his again, his mouth opening to let in the tongue.
They stayed like that for what seemed like forever, lazily caressing their tongues together, sneaking in quick breathes as one of Sherlock’s hands continued to stroke at his neck and hairline, the other running slowly up and down his bare back. His own hands finally moved to explore the Frenchman, one getting lost in the loose curls, the other sliding down to unbutton the jeans and to slip down beneath the waist band to caress the top of the shapely arse.
They hadn’t kissed like this since their first time of coming here, since they had practically fallen into each other outside this very flat and… Christ. He gasped as a powerful thigh pressed between his legs, moving against the bulge in his trousers.
“Fuck,” he managed, tipping his head back as he rocked against the leg.
“That’s the idea, yes,” he heard Sherlock say and then he was being manhandled to the bed and pushed back onto it, quick fingers delving for his flies. His jeans and pants were quickly stripped away before the long, masculine form of the Frenchman moved over him, head dipping to once more assault his mouth.
“No… wait,” he finally managed, angling his head away in an attempt to escape the pleasures of that tongue. “Socks,” he finally managed, “got to remove… socks.”
Sherlock stopped long enough to raise his eyebrows and then cast his gaze down their bodies to where he was still black socked, and the Frenchman was still in possession of all the clothing for his lower body. It looked ridiculous of course; ridiculous and funny and surprisingly hot.
He pressed his toes against the jean clad legs and offered an apologetic smile. Sherlock didn’t say anything in return, just leant over him and pressed open mouthed kisses first to his shoulder, then to his chest, and then lower and lower, skirting his groin before working down one leg. He had a somewhat crafty expression on his face as he caught the tip of the first sock between his teeth and then slowly pulled upwards, the sock coming with him. Then leaning over he did the same on the other side, dropping both socks over the edge of the bed before getting to his own feet and hooking his fingers into the waist band of his already unbuttoned jeans, and slowly pulling down.
It was hardly the most seductive of strip teases, but John found himself unable to do more than stare as the blue jeans gave way to pale skin and an erection he was suddenly so desperate to get a hold of.
Picking his moment, he shifted his hips and caught the Frenchman between his legs, tugging him back down, bare skin against bare skin.
“Tease,” he declared, pressing his hips up so their lengths rubbed together, delighted when Sherlock’s mouth fell open in a soft exhale.
“Always,” Sherlock said and then they were tumbling over, bodies rubbing in delightful friction as John forced his way on top, capturing Sherlock’s hands in his, pinning them to the bed just above the mop of dark curls. Shifting his weight, he ground down with some satisfaction as Sherlock stared up at him, mouth open, eyes very much wide and intense, while clearly curious to see what he would do next. It was incredibly arousing knowing that he has such a powerful body between his thighs to do with as he pleased.
He shifted until he was happy with how their bodies were aligned and then he leant back down, weight on his arms, mouth pressing first to the tip of the Frenchman’s nose and then to the slightly swollen lips.
“I believe,” he said rocking their hips together, “that you were,” he swallowed the gasp as the hips beneath him jerked up, “going to,” he met that gaze, “fuck me.”
He ground down again and the body beneath arched. Then they were rolling over again, the Frenchman on top, all long limbs and warm skin pressing him into the mattress, breathing into his mouth.
“Yes,” he heard… felt… breathed in, and then their lips were meeting with bruising force. He surrendered, slinging his arms around Sherlock’s body, raking his fingers through that hair.
“How do you want it?” he heard as the lips broke from his to run a tongue against the day old stubble on his chin. “Hard and fast? Slow and deep? Close and… intense?”
“Yes,” he gasped, screwing his eyes shut, not caring about what was being said, only that it kept being said.
He heard Sherlock chuckle, felt the vibrations in the other man’s chest, and then Sherlock was rolling away, reaching for something and then returning to scatter hot opened mouthed kisses against his neck and chest, gradually getting lower and lower until it all suddenly stopped.
Catching his breath, he opened his eyes, looking down to find Sherlock crowded over his lower body, an almost smug expression on his face. Then the head lowered and the next thing he knew of was the warm heat of that mouth engulfing the head of his penis.
Christ!
His hips jerked automatically, his cock sliding further into that wet heat, even as hands gripped at him to control his movements. It was… it was… oh god, they hadn’t done this yet, and a small part of his brain remembered about the clean test results, but the majority of his mind was just sinking into the sensations. He didn’t even notice when the first finger slipped passed his ring of muscles and buried itself inside him.
“Holy…” he arched gasping as the first realisation of what was happening hit him with the flexing of the finger directly against his prostate. His hand flew to his mouth, fingers curling into a fist as he inhaled sharply and fought not to bite down. He had forgotten what that had felt like. How could he have forgotten? The shock of pleasure that felt so unlike anything else, colliding so forcefully with the wet suction around his cock.
“Fuck!”
A second finger slid in as Sherlock hummed around him. He could feel the stretch this time, a slight burn, but that quickly gave way to more pleasure, another flick at his prostate, another particularly hard suck.
He shoved his free hand into the bedding, clenching it tightly as he dared to look down to where Sherlock’s head was bobbing, cheeks hollowed, eyes bright. It was a sight more magnificent than anything from his most wildest dreams, and if not for the slight discomfort of a third finger being added he was almost certain that it could well have ended right there and then.
“Sh-Sherlock!” he managed, pushing a hand into the soft curls to tug him up.
A long suck and then he was being released, Sherlock’s fingers slipping from him as the Frenchman consented to being pulled back up for a proper kiss.
“Baise moi,” he whispered with his best French pronunciation, having correctly deduced the meaning of the phrase.
Sherlock’s gaze faltered for a moment, but then he was scrambling back, grabbing for a condom from the handful scattered on the side.
“Wait,” John said catching Sherlock’s wrist when he saw what the other man was doing. “We don’t… that is….” Damn it, they were both clean after all.
Sherlock hesitated for a moment before purposefully carefully tearing into the packet. “Next time,” he said slipping the condom onto himself and then coating the outside with a generous amount of lube. “Want this to last. Need this to last.” Then the Frenchman was back over him, grabbing pillows, carefully angling his better leg over his arm and leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Tell me if you want to stop. Just… tell me.”
He nodded, pressing upward to meet those lips again before lying back to allow Sherlock to scoot back down his body. He was about to be fucked, he realised. He was really about to be penetrated by another man’s cock and to….
He winced slightly as Sherlock pressed in, the familiar burn as his body stretched and then continued to stretch as Sherlock moved until finally the moment when the widest part had been accepted and swallowed and he had Sherlock there, in him and over him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on the strange sensation of fullness and the slight discomfort it brought as Sherlock stopped. It was obvious he was waiting for something, waiting for him to say or do something. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, one arm reaching down to try and pull Sherlock closer, get him to go deeper.
His wishes must have been obvious as the other man started to press in again, that fullness moving deeper and deeper until it touched his prostate, his hips beyond his control as they jerked upwards to take the entire offered length.
“Putain!” he heard breathed over him and then he was pulling that head down, pressing their open mouths together and ordering him to move.
Sherlock moved and he gasped. It felt… oh god… he could barely think about how it felt. At its most basic it was warm and wet and he was saying something, words were spilling from his mouth but it hardly mattered because all that mattered was that Sherlock kept moving those narrow hips and that pert bottom of his just like that… yes, that… there, god, don’t stop… never stop… those whispered French words which had never sounded so unbelievably fucking filthy… and breathing against him, with him, in him, until all he could do was to lift his leg higher, to cling on tighter, and to murmur the words faster, harder, deeper, until his world condensed down to skin and heat and the cock driving into him.
“Sherlock!”
They had never been as close as this, in all their fucking, never this close, breathing the same air, lips barely an inch apart, eyes glued together, building… building until finally he heard his name, felt fingers wrapping around his cock, a hand pulling his legs up that desperately bit higher. Throwing his head back he let his mouth fall open, raked his fingers across the sweaty shoulder… once, twice, and then… came.
*
Continue
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 11K this part. 100K+ total
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: None for Season 2.
Previous parts: One Two Three
*
A Study in Winning
Part Four
*
They ended up at the Chinese down the end of the street that apparently stayed open until two. It wasn’t until Sherlock had mentioned dinner that he realised how starving he was. He hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast, having been too nervous before his match to have more than a smoothie and a health bar for lunch. He would have eaten properly that evening had he not have been forced to attend that party. God that felt like a long time ago now.
He accepted Sherlock’s offer of a shower first, finding a freshly laid out towel waiting for him. He wondered briefly if that had been the landlady’s doing but despite thinking that it was pushed it from his mind as something he didn’t particularly want to dwell on. The shower was quick but he felt fresher than he had been as he stepped back into his now slightly wrinkled clothing.
Exiting the bathroom he found Sherlock waiting for him, now more casually dressed, the black suit and purple shirt having been replaced by dark jeans and a green shirt that seemed to alter the colour of his eyes. Over that he pulled on a dark sports jacket that looked more blue than black. He was certainly back in full control, but still so different from the persona of the arrogant, aloof Frenchman that he often portrayed. Hiding in plain sight, he realised, like a chameleon, subtly shifting to suit each place and situation.
He still hadn’t found his other sock though.
Chinese wasn’t something he had very often, being as it was usually full of sugar and fake foods that did not go well with a sportsman’s diet. Sherlock of course reassured him of the restaurant’s quality, although neglected to explain just how it was possible to tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle. One thing was certain though, Sherlock certainly knew his way around the menu, ordering a whole heap of food that was both nutritious and delicious, even if half the time they were having to avoid the fried foods and the sauces.
“So,” Sherlock said once they had finished the soup, “you wanted to talk to me about something.”
It was funny, in everything that had happened that evening he had almost forgotten about his ordeal with the mysterious stalker.
“Oh yes,” he said poking at a spring roll. “I met a fan of yours today.”
Sherlock looked at him blankly. “A fan?”
“Your biggest fan actually, according to him. He knew all about us, from the food out to the, uh, you know.” He cleared his throat. “He seemed like a real nut job stalker. Do people still have stalkers?”
He watched as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Did he offer you money?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“To spy on me?”
“No. Opposite really. He seemed quite keen that I leave you alone.”
“I take it you didn’t accept.”
That wasn’t quite the reaction he had been expecting. “Uh, no.”
Sherlock eyed him speculatively. “You could have done with the money.”
He opened his mouth to protest, to point out that no amount of money would have persuaded him to keep away. Well, no amount from that nut job at least, and then he was going to protest that he couldn’t believe that Sherlock thought so little of him, but something in Sherlock’s expression made him stop, because it was almost as if the other man knew, or at least understood.
“Who is he?” he asked instead, because it was obvious that Sherlock knew exactly who he had been talking about.
“The most fanatical man you’ve ever met,” Sherlock said, “and not our problem right now.”
Fair enough, he conceded. They were away from the hotel, very few people knew where they were, they should be fine.
“I looked you up on the internet the other day,” he said instead.
Sherlock’s lips pursed together in what he was coming to recognise as a cross between vague annoyance and slight surprise.
“Reading my wiki page does not constitute ‘looking me up’,” he said.
He wasn’t about to rise to that one. “True,” he said with a slight smile, “but it was pretty interesting anyway.” He leant forward slightly, as if they weren’t basically the only two people on this side of the restaurant. “Was it true about you and Irene Adler?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched. “You tell me, three continents Watson.”
He sat back with a slight embarrassed groan. “You read my page as well.”
“Naturally,” Sherlock said with that smile of his. “It was most informative.”
“You know most of that section is exaggerated or incorrect.”
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “I, for one, saw no mention of your obvious bisexuality, while your exploits with women were delightfully diverse and distracting. You appear to have built up quite the reputation as a ladies man and have done little to dispel it.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t see anything about the real you on your page either,” he pointed out deciding that attack was the best form of defence. “Although, pulling a sensation like Irene. You two looked good together.” And they certainly had. Irene with her dark hair and big eyes, all legs and alluring smile against his cheekbones and eyes, tall and elegant with his arm around her waist at some film premier or such event.
“Should hope so,” Sherlock said, “that was rather the point. We each needed something that the other could provide. It was mutually beneficial.”
“So you weren’t…” he motioned with his fork having already given up on the chop sticks.
“Oh, god, no,” Sherlock said.
“But your wiki page….”
“Well of course it does,” Sherlock said cutting him off. “I practically wrote the thing. Better to be an arrogant Frenchman with a rod up his arse and his arm around one of the most captivating and sought after women in the world, than an arrogant Frenchman with a cock up his arse and only a tennis racket warming his bed.”
John tried not to wince, partly due to the words and partly due to just how close to home they had hit.
“You must have read about me and Mary,” he said deciding that a slight change of topic would be good.
Sherlock tipped his head slightly. “Kiss and tell, Sun exclusive.” He pulled a slight face. “Tell me, what hurt more, the screwed emotional break-up, or the way she went on to screw you in front of the world?”
It was… actually he wasn’t sure what sort of comment that was. It wasn’t malicious or purposely hurtful, at least it didn’t sound like it. It sounded more bluntly curious than anything, something just so… Sherlock.
Leaning back in his chair he raised his hands over his face and then found himself starting to smile, and then to laugh. Then he found he couldn’t stop. After a moment he heard Sherlock join in as well and for the first time since the whole messed up ordeal he felt relaxed enough to let go and release the emotions and tensions he had somehow held onto. Months of counselling and therapy where he had barely been able to talk about it and here he was laughing as if it was the most hilarious joke he had ever heard.
Oh god that felt good.
They finished their meal in good humour, trading comments, some more barbed than others, one upping each other with each story until they finally staggered home barely able to say more than a few words together without giggling and losing their train of thoughts.
They ended up kissing of course, and then falling onto the bed before it became clear that neither of them were up for the return match, both physically and mentally worn out and really only looking for sleep.
“Do you… should I…” he started motioning vaguely to the door in a way he trusted the Frenchman would understand despite already looking to be more than half a asleep, relaxed and stretched out in only his boxer-briefs.
“No,” he heard the muffled voice say, a strong hand reaching out to grasp around his waist. “Stay.”
It was a bad idea, he was sure of it, an intimacy they had so far avoided, but neither of them had a match the next day and it was nice here in this big comfortable bed and he didn’t want to have to move.
“Okay,” he whispered bending his head to press a kiss to the slightly freckled shoulder closest to him. Stripping off his shirt he kept his pants on and stretched out beside him, pulling the sheet back over them. In the darkness he could just about make out the small smile on Sherlock’s face. Then he closed his own eyes and drifted off.
*
He awoke to find himself lying on his back, the morning sun starting to stream through the window. Looking down he realised that the weight across his waist was Sherlock’s arm, stretched out sideways from where the other man was laying asleep on his front, sheet kicked down to just reveal the band of his underwear. Armani black boxer briefs, really? No simple Marks and Spencer’s finest for him then.
Smiling, he lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the momentary lull and the pleasant warmth from the body beside him. It had been a good number of months since he had last actually shared a bed with someone and he had forgotten both just how good and how awkward that could be. Sherlock’s arm was nice, comforting and very slightly bordering on possessive, so he was loathed to disturb it, but in a while his bladder would force him to move and he would have to attempt to escape without waking his bed partner.
In the end he managed to take advantage of Sherlock’s own movements and succeeded in slipping out without any problems. Standing, he stretched and yawned, wincing slightly when he felt the tightening in his right thigh and slight stiffness in his shoulder. He had feared as much following the last match. He would have to be a little careful, make sure not to overdo it or pull anything.
Glancing around he spotted a clock and confirmed that it was still early but not outrageously, which would give them plenty of time for a proper wake up in a bit and another doze before life in general forced them out of bed and into the real world.
Padding to the bathroom across the hall he relieved himself and washed his hands before deciding it would be best to steal some of Sherlock’s toothpaste. He didn’t have his toothbrush with him, nor was there, as he expected, a spare, but he did his best with the paste and his fingers, feeling at least a little bit cleaner.
Finished he figured a drink would be good, so went to the kitchen, slipping in the side door, and looked around to see if he could spot a glass or other vessel suitable to drink from. Preoccupied he almost missed the faint rustling of a newspaper, but froze at the sound of a heart stopping familiar voice.
“Good morning, John.”
Horrified, he spun round to find his worst nightmare and the last person he would have expected calmly sat facing him on one of the armchairs, newspaper in hand, umbrella propped up against the coffee table next to a half drunk cup of tea.
Cup of tea?!
He stared, his brain seemingly incapable of processing the fact that somehow this man had broken in - BROKEN IN - while they had been asleep, made himself a cup of tea - TEA - and was calmly waiting for them as if it was a perfectly normal - NORMAL - thing to do. What his brain did finally clue him into was that he was currently stood in Sherlock’s kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of pants while this crazy, insane, bloody jail escaped loony simply raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.
Shit. Crap. Fuck. Buggery hell.
Turning, he did the only thing open to him.
“Sherlock!”
He didn’t bother with any niceties, no gentle wake up calls, he simply called the other man’s name the moment he got back into the bedroom. His voice sounded as if it was bordering on hysteria, but he didn’t care as he leant over to slap at Sherlock’s bare shoulder with one hand while he attempted to yank on his shirt with his other.
“Sherlock!”
It turned out to be harder to wake the Frenchman than he had feared just fifteen minutes before.
“Sherlock, for god’s sake, wake up. You have to get up, Sherlock!”
The Frenchman groaned, muttering something that might have been, “five more minutes,” in a garbled mix of languages, before a rather sharp poke in the back had him blearily opening his eyes.
“Putain!” he groaned in what John was starting to think was a universal French curse word. “Please tell me the world is ending, or all the best shags in the world are not going to put me in a good mood.”
“He’s here!” John said only just managing to keep his balance as he pulled on his trousers. “He’s fucking well here and sitting in your fucking main room, drinking your fucking tea.”
He wasn’t usually that free with curse words - well, outside the bedroom setting anyway - but this seemed to warrant it.
“Who’s here?” Sherlock asked infuriatingly not moving.
“Your fan, that’s who,” he hissed. “He knows where you live. Well of course he knows where you live, he’s your biggest fan apparently, but that somehow seems to give him permission to break in and… Sherlock?!”
He stared as Sherlock simply rolled onto his back and groaned.
“What are you…” he started until the words somehow got lost from between his brain and his mouth. “Sherlock! Are you even listening to me?”
Sherlock groaned again, scrubbing his hands over his face muttering something about it being far too early to deal with this, and there John lost him in a stream of French, before finally Sherlock sat up, kicked his feet over the side of the bed and said something about needing a drink.
“Wait? What? Sherlock,” he managed as Sherlock pulled on a blue dressing gown and knotted the tie around his waist. “You can’t go out there like that. He’s….” but apparently Sherlock could and he did.
Feeling sort of helpless, John followed behind, stunned when Sherlock made a point of ignoring the man in the main room in favour of filling the kettle and riffling around for two clean mugs.
“Sherlock, John,” the fan said still sat where he had been but now carefully folding down his newspaper. “I trust you both slept well.”
John wasn’t sure he liked the sight of that apprising look, or the tone of voice. And when it came to it, when had the man lost that slight Central European accent? How comes he now sounded perfectly English? More than perfectly English in fact.
“Another important publicity event avoided, you do make a habit of this, Sherlock. That little stunt has even managed to make it into the papers. Not the printed ones of course, it had fortunately been too late for that, but the online versions have it. The Daily Mail is positively gleeful about the whole ordeal.” His lips curled in a look of disgust. “You do make things so hard for yourself, don’t you?”
Sherlock sighed, he actually sighed, as if finding your stalker in your main room first thing in the morning was not an unusual occurrence. Oh hell, thought John as he stared at them, it was an unusual occurrence, right?
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock said turning to lean again the kitchen cabinet, running another hand down his face.
“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said a bit more sharply, “I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern’.”
“Always so aggressive,” the fan said obviously disapprovingly. “Good for the courts, not so good now. Did it never occur to you that you and I want the same thing?”
“Oddly enough,” Sherlock said, “no.”
“We have more in common than you’d like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. Your tennis will suffer. And you know how it always upset Grand-mere.”
Sherlock’s eyes goggled. “I upset her?” he said as if that was the most outrageous thing he had heard all week. “Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.”
Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no! Oh what the bloody, blimey, bleeding hell.
“No. No, wait…” John managed eyes darting between the pair of them. “Grand-mere? Who’s Grand-mere?”
The kettle clicked off behind him.
“Grandmother,” Sherlock said. “Our grandmother. This is my brother, Mycroft.”
Turning Sherlock grabbed the kettle, pouring the steaming water into the two mugs he had found from somewhere.
“Putting on weight again?” he asked.
“Losing it, in fact,” the stalker, fan, man, person, brother, hell, said, rising primly to his feet, tugging down his waistcoat before bringing over his now empty cup.
John stared. “He’s your brother?” he finally managed, eyes desperately scanning between them, not sure if he was searching for signs of similarity or for this being all one big joke.
“Course he’s my brother,” Sherlock said fishing out the tea bags and dumping them on the draining board.
Right. Brother. Right. Oh. “So he’s not….”
“Not what?” Sherlock asked, moving him out of the way to get to the fridge.
“I don’t know…” he managed, “mad lunatic stalker?”
He wordlessly accepted the mug that was pushed into his hands.
“Close enough,” Sherlock said motioning to the cup.
John dutifully drank and found it to be a remarkably good cup of tea. Actually pretty well spot on how he liked to take it, even down to the amount of sugar. He blinked and was about to ask how Sherlock had known, but then the other man was turning away and Mycroft - Mycroft? What was it with these names? - was protesting about not apparently being a mad lunatic stalker.
“Don’t listen to him. He knows more about me than I do so of course he’s my stalker,” Sherlock said scornfully, “when he’s not too busy being my agent, manager, publicist, trainer, events coordinator, accountant, president of my fan club, oh and holding a minor position on the ATP’s Board of Directors.”
Sherlock stalked to the sofa, put his tea down before literally lounging himself across the seat, staring up at the ceiling as his legs kicked off the end.
“Goodbye, Mycroft. Try not to scare the neighbours on the way out. You know how they hate that.”
John watched as the man who most probably was Sherlock’s biggest fan, although not apparently a lunatic stalker, pursed his lips together and then very deliberately went to the sink to wash and rinse his cup. He looked as if he was quite used to this sort of behaviour from Sherlock, although he quite obviously didn’t like it.
“So,” John said because he felt like he should say something as it was clear the other two weren’t going to continue, “when you said you’re concerned about his tennis, you actually are concerned?”
“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said as he deliberately dried his hands.
“I mean,” he tried again, “you actually are worried that I could be a distraction for him, away from his tennis.”
Mycroft placed down the tea-towel. “I meant what I said, John. You seem like a decent man, more decent than most it transpires, but this is Sherlock’s Wimbledon year. After the French Open I had hoped that… well, you don’t need to know about that. Just tell me, what was it like to punch James Moriarty?”
That was not the question he had been expecting. “Fine,” he said truthfully. “Uh, more than fine in fact.”
“Good,” Mycroft said, “that’s good, isn’t it, Sherlock?”
Sherlock merely grunted from where he was still on the sofa.
“Am I to presume that we have confirmed the identity of your…aficionado, Sherlock?”
“Yes, it’s Moriarty,” Sherlock said vaguely waving a hand. “Just as I said it was, so we knew that already.”
“No, we suspected that, there’s a difference. The poor man does seem to have a rather unhealthy obsession with you.”
Sherlock made a dismissive noise and muttered something in French that had Mycroft frowning. Then he swung his legs back over to the floor and sat up.
“Still here, Mycroft?” he said. “You’re disturbing my rest day, and I’m sure you’ve got far better things to do. Lestrade is probably bored without me, go and bother him. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you.”
Mycroft’s lips narrowed, but he calmly walked to the armchair to retrieve his umbrella. “I’m sure you’ve already deduced what’s in the bags and boxes, but I’ll confirm anyway.”
Looking round, John noticed the extra boxes and bags for the first time, wondering how he might have missed them, but they did blend in rather well with the other boxes and bags strewn around the place.
“Changes of clothing,” Mycroft continued, “for both of you; practice clothes, smart wear, casual wear, nightwear… should you require it. Clean underwear, wash bags, spare toothbrushes.” At that he tipped his head in John’s direction. “Rackets, balls, and so on. Fresh fruit, vegetables, staple foods, milk, juice and other perishables. Do remember to put the relevant items in the fridge. Both of your laptops, mobile phone chargers, Sherlock your violin, and I do believe Lestrade has included some items to keep you both relaxed and entertained, should you desire it. Please excuse the fact we had to gain access to your hotel room, John, but we determined that the situation rather warranted it.”
“Oh, right,” he managed, “thanks.”
Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock, I expect you back in your room by seventeen hundred hours tomorrow. We have some things that need to be discussed. In the meantime, please refrain from damaging yourself, and do try to keep out of the press.”
Swinging his umbrella, Mycroft made his way to the door. “Oh, I am also delighted to say that both your test results came back clean. I thought you would appreciate knowing that. Use that information wisely and do be careful.”
Then he was gone. John stared at the door.
“Test results?” he said finally looking back to where Sherlock was now poking through one of the boxes, frowning as he held up a James Bond DVD. “He’s talking about drugs, right? The tests from the other day?”
“STIs, John,” Sherlock said simply. “He’s confirming that we’re both clean for STIs.”
“How?”
“The blood test. You didn’t think that was standard did you?”
“Oh god.”
“Relax, that’s just his way of giving his blessing. I do believe he rather approves of you.”
That was… that was good he supposed. He rather thought he would prefer to be on Mycroft Holmes’ good side rather than his bad.
“So, what now?” he asked watching as Sherlock critically studied the bananas and other fruit he had retrieved from the box.
“Well,” Sherlock said, “breakfast would appear to be on the cards, courtesy of my brother, but first I was weighing up the possibility of you joining me in the shower.”
John raised his eyebrows, keeping his expression straight as he sipped his tea.
“Just a shower?” he asked.
“Well, shower and a shag,” Sherlock said.
“Ah,” John said. “Well, I suppose I’ve got nothing better to do.”
*
The shower wasn’t huge, but there was enough room for Sherlock to stand behind him and torture him with a good, firm, but slow hand job that had him gasping while the Frenchman whispered filthy things in his ear and made love to his neck with his mouth. Apparently it was pay back for leaving him hanging so long the night before. As paybacks went this was one he could live with.
After the shower he discovered that his bag did contain everything he could need and more, and was rather relieved to be able to pull on a fresh pair of pants and jeans. Sherlock, however, appeared to prefer a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms over which he pulled his dressing gown and promptly went to town on the fruit with the blender. It turned out he made a pretty good smoothie.
He accepted it with a smile while sorting out another cup of tea and some toast - jam for him, honey for Sherlock.
The morning was spent in a haze of lazy domestication. After the events of the previous day Sherlock seemed content to do very little, lounging around first with his laptop - snorting at the reports of the previous evening in the tabloids - and then with his violin. He turned out to be a rather proficient player, not concert standard, but more than able to zip through both some classical pieces and some more popular ones.
For the most part though he was ignored. Realising that the Frenchman wasn’t being rude but rather needed time to himself, John happily left him to it, then decided it was pointless to be surprised when on opening his laptop discovered a post-it note with the internet password for the flat on it.
He spent the morning checking his emails, writing his blog and laughing at the youtube video of the cat falling off the shelf. His blog took most of his time since he felt it only fair to talk about the fantastic week of tennis he was having. Of course he completely neglected to mention the fantastic week of sex he was also having. There was only so much other people needed to know about. He even responded to a message from Harry, although he didn’t tell her about having seen Clara. That wasn’t something he particularly wanted to go into right now.
Lunch consisted of whole wheat pasta salad knocked together from the foods in the box, followed by a lovely fruit salad that Mrs Hudson kindly brought up for them. His second meeting with her was decidedly less embarrassing than the first, although he hadn’t been able to stop the blush when she pointed out as a matter of fact that she had seen it all before anyway, and that she was their landlady not their mother. Sherlock, of course, took it all in his stride, placing an affectionate kiss on her cheek before stealing a strawberry. It was a little strange seeing him be so demonstrative, especially as he was so well known for his cold persona, but John had to admit that it seemed to suit him.
“Ah, here they are,” Sherlock suddenly said triumphantly, pulling an envelope out of one of the boxes. “Tickets for the semi-final and final.”
“For me?” Mrs Hudson said obviously delighted.
“Naturally,” Sherlock said accepting her hug.
“Well then,” she said, “I shall expect to see you both there then. Oooh, wait until I tell Mrs Turner next door about this.”
“That was good of you,” John said once she had disappeared down the stairs.
“Mrs Hudson is one of my most loyal supporters,” Sherlock said waving it away. “She keeps my secrets, I keep hers. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Still,” John said flopping back down onto one of the armchairs, “you’re planning on making the final then.”
“I’m planning on winning the final,” Sherlock corrected. “It’s my time, my year, my trophy.”
“Well,” John said with a small smile, “won’t be easy. You’ll have to get past the likes of Federer, Djokovic… Moriarty to do that.”
“Exactly.” With that Sherlock took refuge on the sofa, stretching out, fingers pressed together as in prayer. There he stayed, silent and still for the best part of an hour.
“You didn’t mention yourself.”
John almost jumped when the silence was finally broken and looked up from his laptop to find Sherlock now looking at him, eyes narrow.
“Sorry, what?” he asked getting the distinct impression that an entire conversation may have happened that he had not been aware of.
“When you listed the players I would have to beat to take the trophy,” Sherlock said, “you didn’t mention yourself.”
Ah, no, he hadn’t. “Well, you know the draw,” he said, “we’re at different ends. The only time we would meet would be the final, and if that happened then it would mean Nadal, Murray, Trevor had all gone out.”
Sherlock grunted. “Could happen.”
But not likely though.
“I hear the big money is on you verses Nadal,” he said.
“We’ll see,” Sherlock said. “Switch the telly on will you. BBC2. I have some research to do.”
The one o’clock match from Centre Court was the third round draw of Moriarty versus Thomaz Bellucci. Sherlock scowled when the commentators went on about how good the American was, how it could possibly be his year this time, but seemed to perk up when he spotted the faint bruising across Moriarty’s jaw.
“You going to tell me what’s really going on between you and Moriarty?” John asked, handing Sherlock a cup of tea.
“Would you tell me how you got that scar on your shoulder?”
John stiffened before forcing himself to relax, taking a seat to watch the match. “You’ve read my wiki page,” he said.
Sherlock made a noise in the affirmative. “I’ve also read between the lines of your wiki page,” he said, “but I would much rather hear it from you.”
John pressed his lips together. He rarely spoke about his accident, glossing over it in most cases, avoiding it all together the rest of the time. It wasn’t anybody’s business but his own and anyway it was hardly the easiest of topics to relive.
He said nothing but got the impression that Sherlock was neither surprised nor offended by that, and before long the match was in progress and Sherlock’s attention was fully diverted.
Moriarty won of course.
By mid-afternoon John felt himself getting restless. While he hadn’t minded being in one place for the day he felt a little lazy and really wanted to go outside.
“Right,” he said rising to his feet and stretching. “I’m going for a run.”
Sherlock rose to his feet. “Good idea,” and then he disappeared into his bedroom.
John went to change in the bathroom and emerged to find Sherlock lacing up his trainers waiting for him, dressed in an old t-shirt and a loose pair of jogging bottoms. Naturally he looked good in them, but there was probably very little that he didn’t look good in.
“Ready?”
He nodded and followed Sherlock out the door.
It turned out that they were very close to Regent’s Park and it was clearly a route that Sherlock knew well. A couple of people glanced in their direction as they went, but little else. They stopped after eight miles or so and stretched out again, Sherlock keeping up a running commentary about some of the people they passed. Then they headed back, a little slower this time, Sherlock taking them up random back streets and alleyways until they eventually ended up back at Baker Street and the flat.
Another shower later - not shared this time - and John offered to make dinner himself rather than go out again. Sherlock accepted and after some persuading reluctantly agreed to be introduced to the phenomenon that was James Bond via the classic that was Goldfinger. Lestrade at least appeared to know his Bond having provided a choice of Goldfinger, From Russia with Love, Dr No, The Spy Who Loved Me, and Goldeneye.
For the most part Sherlock endured it with reasonable humour, commenting only when he couldn’t help himself - “Pussy Galore? That’s not even subtle!” - and the evening passed pleasantly into the night.
“I still want it you know,” John said softly once the film was well and truly over and even Sherlock had run out of ways of insulting it.
“Hmmm?” Sherlock asked turning his head.
John looked at him. “Yesterday you told me to ask you again tomorrow. Today is tomorrow, so… I would rather like it if you would take me to bed and fuck me.”
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, unblinking. He met the gaze and held it, refusing to look away. He was serious and he wanted Sherlock to know that. In the cold light of day he still wanted Sherlock to take him.
“Okay,” Sherlock finally said with a short nod, and with that it was settled.
*
It had been a considerable number of years since he had last been penetrated by a man, more than he really cared to think about. It had nothing to do with him being uncomfortable with his bisexuality, an accusation that had been thrown at him in the past, it was more that he simply hadn’t desired it. His relationships - such as they had been - with men had always been few and far between, content as he had been to date and sleep with women, and few of his so called dalliances with other men had lasted long enough for it to have become a problem. Actually, since Mary, he hadn’t exactly held down any significant relationships at all for very long, his thing with Sarah being the only possibly exception. Then again, his relationship with Sarah had started and ended with little more than friendship.
He couldn’t explain why Sherlock was different, why what was obviously little more than a holiday romance had led him to want to lie back and be taken, but it did and he did, and by god he wanted it.
“You’re tense.”
Sherlock had taken charge the moment they had reached the bedroom, crowding into him to strip him of his shirt and kiss him to within an inch of his life. It felt good. Of course it felt good, this was Sherlock, this was a man who knew how to wield his tongue as well as he wielded a racket, and yet he could do very little but grasp the Frenchman’s upper arm and go along with the ride.
The lips broke away long enough to move around his jaw and onto his neck, tipping his head slightly even as the words were whispered into his ear.
“Relax.”
The word sounded surprisingly seductive, murmured by his ear as a hand snaked up his back, long fingers toying with his neck and sinking into his hair. He groaned softly when the mouth moved to gentle nipping, tipping his head back to get more of the sensation but seemingly unable to loosen the grasp of his hands.
“I know it’s been a while, John,” the voice continued, “but you have to relax. Trust me. Let go.”
Closing his eyes he tried to loosen his grasp even as the lips met his again, his mouth opening to let in the tongue.
They stayed like that for what seemed like forever, lazily caressing their tongues together, sneaking in quick breathes as one of Sherlock’s hands continued to stroke at his neck and hairline, the other running slowly up and down his bare back. His own hands finally moved to explore the Frenchman, one getting lost in the loose curls, the other sliding down to unbutton the jeans and to slip down beneath the waist band to caress the top of the shapely arse.
They hadn’t kissed like this since their first time of coming here, since they had practically fallen into each other outside this very flat and… Christ. He gasped as a powerful thigh pressed between his legs, moving against the bulge in his trousers.
“Fuck,” he managed, tipping his head back as he rocked against the leg.
“That’s the idea, yes,” he heard Sherlock say and then he was being manhandled to the bed and pushed back onto it, quick fingers delving for his flies. His jeans and pants were quickly stripped away before the long, masculine form of the Frenchman moved over him, head dipping to once more assault his mouth.
“No… wait,” he finally managed, angling his head away in an attempt to escape the pleasures of that tongue. “Socks,” he finally managed, “got to remove… socks.”
Sherlock stopped long enough to raise his eyebrows and then cast his gaze down their bodies to where he was still black socked, and the Frenchman was still in possession of all the clothing for his lower body. It looked ridiculous of course; ridiculous and funny and surprisingly hot.
He pressed his toes against the jean clad legs and offered an apologetic smile. Sherlock didn’t say anything in return, just leant over him and pressed open mouthed kisses first to his shoulder, then to his chest, and then lower and lower, skirting his groin before working down one leg. He had a somewhat crafty expression on his face as he caught the tip of the first sock between his teeth and then slowly pulled upwards, the sock coming with him. Then leaning over he did the same on the other side, dropping both socks over the edge of the bed before getting to his own feet and hooking his fingers into the waist band of his already unbuttoned jeans, and slowly pulling down.
It was hardly the most seductive of strip teases, but John found himself unable to do more than stare as the blue jeans gave way to pale skin and an erection he was suddenly so desperate to get a hold of.
Picking his moment, he shifted his hips and caught the Frenchman between his legs, tugging him back down, bare skin against bare skin.
“Tease,” he declared, pressing his hips up so their lengths rubbed together, delighted when Sherlock’s mouth fell open in a soft exhale.
“Always,” Sherlock said and then they were tumbling over, bodies rubbing in delightful friction as John forced his way on top, capturing Sherlock’s hands in his, pinning them to the bed just above the mop of dark curls. Shifting his weight, he ground down with some satisfaction as Sherlock stared up at him, mouth open, eyes very much wide and intense, while clearly curious to see what he would do next. It was incredibly arousing knowing that he has such a powerful body between his thighs to do with as he pleased.
He shifted until he was happy with how their bodies were aligned and then he leant back down, weight on his arms, mouth pressing first to the tip of the Frenchman’s nose and then to the slightly swollen lips.
“I believe,” he said rocking their hips together, “that you were,” he swallowed the gasp as the hips beneath him jerked up, “going to,” he met that gaze, “fuck me.”
He ground down again and the body beneath arched. Then they were rolling over again, the Frenchman on top, all long limbs and warm skin pressing him into the mattress, breathing into his mouth.
“Yes,” he heard… felt… breathed in, and then their lips were meeting with bruising force. He surrendered, slinging his arms around Sherlock’s body, raking his fingers through that hair.
“How do you want it?” he heard as the lips broke from his to run a tongue against the day old stubble on his chin. “Hard and fast? Slow and deep? Close and… intense?”
“Yes,” he gasped, screwing his eyes shut, not caring about what was being said, only that it kept being said.
He heard Sherlock chuckle, felt the vibrations in the other man’s chest, and then Sherlock was rolling away, reaching for something and then returning to scatter hot opened mouthed kisses against his neck and chest, gradually getting lower and lower until it all suddenly stopped.
Catching his breath, he opened his eyes, looking down to find Sherlock crowded over his lower body, an almost smug expression on his face. Then the head lowered and the next thing he knew of was the warm heat of that mouth engulfing the head of his penis.
Christ!
His hips jerked automatically, his cock sliding further into that wet heat, even as hands gripped at him to control his movements. It was… it was… oh god, they hadn’t done this yet, and a small part of his brain remembered about the clean test results, but the majority of his mind was just sinking into the sensations. He didn’t even notice when the first finger slipped passed his ring of muscles and buried itself inside him.
“Holy…” he arched gasping as the first realisation of what was happening hit him with the flexing of the finger directly against his prostate. His hand flew to his mouth, fingers curling into a fist as he inhaled sharply and fought not to bite down. He had forgotten what that had felt like. How could he have forgotten? The shock of pleasure that felt so unlike anything else, colliding so forcefully with the wet suction around his cock.
“Fuck!”
A second finger slid in as Sherlock hummed around him. He could feel the stretch this time, a slight burn, but that quickly gave way to more pleasure, another flick at his prostate, another particularly hard suck.
He shoved his free hand into the bedding, clenching it tightly as he dared to look down to where Sherlock’s head was bobbing, cheeks hollowed, eyes bright. It was a sight more magnificent than anything from his most wildest dreams, and if not for the slight discomfort of a third finger being added he was almost certain that it could well have ended right there and then.
“Sh-Sherlock!” he managed, pushing a hand into the soft curls to tug him up.
A long suck and then he was being released, Sherlock’s fingers slipping from him as the Frenchman consented to being pulled back up for a proper kiss.
“Baise moi,” he whispered with his best French pronunciation, having correctly deduced the meaning of the phrase.
Sherlock’s gaze faltered for a moment, but then he was scrambling back, grabbing for a condom from the handful scattered on the side.
“Wait,” John said catching Sherlock’s wrist when he saw what the other man was doing. “We don’t… that is….” Damn it, they were both clean after all.
Sherlock hesitated for a moment before purposefully carefully tearing into the packet. “Next time,” he said slipping the condom onto himself and then coating the outside with a generous amount of lube. “Want this to last. Need this to last.” Then the Frenchman was back over him, grabbing pillows, carefully angling his better leg over his arm and leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Tell me if you want to stop. Just… tell me.”
He nodded, pressing upward to meet those lips again before lying back to allow Sherlock to scoot back down his body. He was about to be fucked, he realised. He was really about to be penetrated by another man’s cock and to….
He winced slightly as Sherlock pressed in, the familiar burn as his body stretched and then continued to stretch as Sherlock moved until finally the moment when the widest part had been accepted and swallowed and he had Sherlock there, in him and over him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on the strange sensation of fullness and the slight discomfort it brought as Sherlock stopped. It was obvious he was waiting for something, waiting for him to say or do something. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, one arm reaching down to try and pull Sherlock closer, get him to go deeper.
His wishes must have been obvious as the other man started to press in again, that fullness moving deeper and deeper until it touched his prostate, his hips beyond his control as they jerked upwards to take the entire offered length.
“Putain!” he heard breathed over him and then he was pulling that head down, pressing their open mouths together and ordering him to move.
Sherlock moved and he gasped. It felt… oh god… he could barely think about how it felt. At its most basic it was warm and wet and he was saying something, words were spilling from his mouth but it hardly mattered because all that mattered was that Sherlock kept moving those narrow hips and that pert bottom of his just like that… yes, that… there, god, don’t stop… never stop… those whispered French words which had never sounded so unbelievably fucking filthy… and breathing against him, with him, in him, until all he could do was to lift his leg higher, to cling on tighter, and to murmur the words faster, harder, deeper, until his world condensed down to skin and heat and the cock driving into him.
“Sherlock!”
They had never been as close as this, in all their fucking, never this close, breathing the same air, lips barely an inch apart, eyes glued together, building… building until finally he heard his name, felt fingers wrapping around his cock, a hand pulling his legs up that desperately bit higher. Throwing his head back he let his mouth fall open, raked his fingers across the sweaty shoulder… once, twice, and then… came.
*
Continue