Fic: People Might Talk - 1/4
Title: People Might Talk - 1/4
Author’s Name: Laura Sichrovsky
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 13,911 total - 5,485 in this part
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Sherlock/John kissage, and shaggage
Spoilers: For the end of The Great Game
Summary: What might have happened if Moriarty hadn’t come back to the pool at the end of The Great Game and Sherlock and John kept up that flirting?
Disclaimer: This is where I put the statement saying that I do not own John or Sherlock, (Heh! I wish!), or anything relating to the show or books. No one is paying me to do this and if you feel the sudden urge to send me gifts, you might want to talk to someone about that. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat own all things Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Holmes and Watson. None of them have given me permission to use these characters as I have so if you have problems with the story, please send the pretzel bombs to me, not them. (Though if you could actually send a pretzel bomb to ACD, I’d be impressed.)
Author’s Notes: A friend of mine asked me what would have happened if Jim hadn’t come back to the pool, being as Sherlock and John seemed to be flirting there. I rather liked the idea, so here is what I came up with. Thanks need to be given, and here is where they go. Thanks to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat for giving me a Sherlock I can get behind. Thanks to Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman for making this Sherlock and John so amazing. I tried to fight it, but they were just too remarkable not to fall for. Big thank yous to Emma de los Nardos for her input and Gemma for the super-fast beta job and helping me pull this apart and put it back together. Thank you to Elin for reading this over for me. And my biggest thank yous to my guiding influence and my best friend, Ann. She’s the best beta ever and the Sherlock to my John. Without her, I am nothing. (Couldn’t do it without you, love. Wouldn’t want to try.)
People Might Talk
Wednesday March 30, 2011 (12:30 am) - Sherlock’s point of view:
This isn’t how Sherlock envisioned things going. In all the mental scenarios he’d run through, this hadn’t even been a remote possibility. Admittedly, he’d anticipated that things with Moriarty could turn dangerous; there was a reason that he had brought John’s gun with him. Sherlock accepted that he might be putting himself directly in the line of fire, but it was a risk he was willing to take if it stopped this lunatic from harming anyone else. However, while Sherlock was willing to trade pretty much anything, including his own soul, in this bargain to bring down a criminal genius, John’s life was not subject to negotiation. And yet, John, who had been safely on his way to spend the night with Sarah, well out of harm’s way, is standing three meters from Sherlock with enough explosives strapped to him to level the British Museum.
Sherlock’s shoulders are starting to ache from the rigid posture he’s maintaining, keeping his wrists locked and the Browning trained on Moriarty. His mind is racing, shuffling through escape plans, dismissing them almost as soon as they materialize for various reasons, ranging from “wouldn’t work” to “the bomb would go off” to “just downright stupid.” There has to be some way for them to get out in one piece; he simply hasn’t thought of it yet.
Moriarty shifts his shoulders, changing his stance a bit. He looks at Sherlock and smiles.
“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?” His voice is polite, belying the dire nature of their conversation. Something about his attitude annoys Sherlock and he rolls his eyes.
“Oh, let me guess; I get killed.”
Moriarty looks disappointed, like Sherlock’s given the wrong answer on a game show or something equally trivial. It sends a twist of unease through Sherlock, making him feel like he’s missed something, though he couldn’t even begin to guess what.
“Kill you? Eh, no. Don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m going to kill you anyway someday. I don’t want to rush it though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no. If you don’t stop prying,” Moriarty’s voice drops, sounding deeper, darker, and he leans forward just a bit. “I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you.”
He chokes out the last sentence, his voice catching in his throat, making him seem a bit deranged. Sherlock feels uneasy as he realizes that John’s life hangs on the whims of this nut job. He narrows his eyes, feeling the need to be just a bit defiant.
“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” Sherlock says slowly, keeping his voice soft.
Moriarty looks at Sherlock and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His expression changes to one of understanding and Sherlock feels anxiety wind through him. Moriarty tips his head just the slightest bit.
“But we both know that’s not quite true.” His eyes drift marginally in John’s direction and Sherlock is fighting panic.
There is no way that Moriarty could know how Sherlock feels about John; even John doesn’t know. Sherlock has worked to keep his emotions in check, to never betray anything but friendly regard for John, as hard as that has been. Sherlock is determined that he will keep it to himself until he can get over these feelings. It’s for the best really, considering that John doesn’t return them. It’s obvious that he’s interested in Sarah and that he could never look at Sherlock that way. And as Sherlock has never displayed an outward sign of his affections, it seems entirely implausible that Moriarty has figured it out. He must be referring to John and Sherlock’s friendship, trying to use that as a weak point.
They stand and look at each other for about ten seconds, but to Sherlock it seems so much longer. Behind Moriarty, Sherlock sees John, looking slightly confused at the turn the conversation’s taken. He also seems to be looking around, assessing strengths and weaknesses and Sherlock feels a rush of pride and affection for this man who has Sherlock’s back. Moriarty shifts again, looking at Sherlock.
“Well, I’d better be off.” He turns and looks back at John. “So nice to have had a proper chat.”
Sherlock adjusts his weight, easing the pinching between his shoulders and realigning the gun so it’s trained right between Moriarty’s eyes.
“What if I was to shoot you now; right now?” Sherlock asks, his eyes darting, his mind racing.
“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” Moriarty opens his mouth and makes a frankly creepy comical surprised face. “’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit…disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.”
Moriarty turns, his posture easing just a bit.
“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”
And then, shockingly, Moriarty is slowly walking away and Sherlock and John are still in one piece. Sherlock wants to run to John, to make sure he is safe, but he will not let his guard down with a man as unpredictable as Jim Moriarty. Sherlock holds the gun more rigidly, tracking Moriarty with the gun as he walks away.
“Catch…you…later,” Sherlock says as he walks towards John, keeping the gun trained on its intended target until Moriarty is no longer in sight.
“No you won’t.” The high pitched sing-song voice sets Sherlock’s teeth on edge.
Sherlock takes a breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s unthinkable that they’ve gotten out of this so easily. After about thirty seconds, when nothing explodes and no gun shots go off, Sherlock dismisses his darker voices and moves to free John. He bends down, placing the gun on the pool tiling and drops to one knee in front of John, his hands frantically working to unfasten the vest. Some part of his brain is whispering to him that it would be just like Moriarty to make them think they’re safe, only to blow John up right in front of Sherlock. He did, after all, say he was going to burn Sherlock’s heart out and from the look on his face as he said it, Moriarty knows exactly who has full possession of Sherlock’s heart.
“All right?” Sherlock’s voice cracks and he’s pretty sure John didn’t hear the entire question. He repeats it, knowing how anxious his voice sounds. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” From the breathy tone in his voice and the fact that he keeps repeating himself, Sherlock can tell that John isn’t entirely okay, but with what they’ve just been through, it’s understandable; and it’s not like Sherlock isn’t shaking himself. He’s having a devil of a time getting the damned vest off. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
John has just been standing there, getting his breath back as Sherlock gets to his feet, pulling on the vest. Now Sherlock realizes that he’s also gotten the edges of John’s jacket as well and everything is tangled up and caught on John’s shoulders. Sherlock hears a clock ticking in his head, counting down what Sherlock perceives as Moriarty’s patience levels and he feels the desperate need to get the explosives off of John before something truly horrible happens. Sherlock tugs more insistently on the vest, freeing his fingers from the edges of the jacket and he pulls John slightly off balance. John takes an awkward step, then catches himself.
“I’m fine. Sherlock. Sherlock! Oh Jeesh.”
Sherlock finally tugs so hard that John stumbles two steps back, but the vest comes off and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief as he shoves the vest across the tiling and away from them. Sherlock turns to look at John, who is standing there, pulling in great gulps of air and looking slightly shell shocked. He’s shaken, but safe and a sudden flash of anger runs through Sherlock. Moriarty changed the rules when he involved John and Sherlock thinks now might be a good time to find the bastard and discuss the finer points of renegotiation. Sherlock bends down, grabbing the gun on his way past and runs through the door.
It doesn’t take him long to figure out that Moriarty is gone. Sherlock has the sudden fear that maybe Moriarty doubled back and Sherlock realizes that he’s left John unprotected. He turns and races back to the pool where he finds John, slumped against the side of one of the changing rooms, gasping and shaking. He doesn’t appear injured and Sherlock understands that the shock must have finally caught up with him. Sherlock’s first instinct is to go to John, to touch him, make sure he’s okay, calm him down a bit. But he knows that John is sensitive about appearing weak, so he starts to pace, expending frustration and thinking.
He really doesn’t like where his thoughts are going. As much as Sherlock hates to admit it, and against all logic, Moriarty knows. How he knows isn’t really relevant right now, eclipsed by the plain truth that he knows. He’s found a weakness in Sherlock, one that no one else has seen and that Sherlock’s been fighting to conquer for weeks. The thought that Sherlock keeps coming back to is that because Moriarty does know exactly how to hurt Sherlock the most, John is in terrible danger. As he paces, Sherlock thinks he should have Mycroft send John away, put him somewhere safe where Moriarty will never find him. But the idea of a life without John causes an aching in Sherlock’s chest. And it’s not like John would go willingly anyway, no matter what Sherlock said to him. John is too brave and loyal to run away, even if it would save his life.
Sherlock thinks about how John had grabbed Moriarty tonight, willing to face the consequences, just to save Sherlock and he feels decidedly grateful to have this man in his life. He looks over to where John is still leaning on the wall, pulling in deep, noisy gulps of air. John looks back at him, quirking an eyebrow.
“Are you okay?” John asks, concern heavy in his voice.
Why does John have to be so noble? John is the one who was kidnapped, John is the one who had explosives strapped to his body, John is the one who just about died, and here he is, worrying about Sherlock. Sherlock shakes his head, trying not to be overwhelmed by his affection for this man.
“Me? Yeah. Fine. I’m fine. Fine.” Sherlock is still pacing and running his hands through his hair distractedly. He looks over at John, needing to tell him how he feels, but not being able to find the words. “That uh…thing that you uh…that you did that um…” Sherlock pauses, clearing his throat. “…that you offered to do…that was um…good.”
Oh, yes, what an elegant speech that was. How is it that when he wants to say something to make John understand his importance, Sherlock’s brain completely deserts him?
“I’m glad no one saw that,” John says quietly.
It takes a second for that to sink in. What in the world does he mean by that? Sherlock stops pacing and leans in looking at John.
“Hm?”
“You. Ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”
It certainly isn’t what Sherlock expects John to say and he stifles a smile, relaxing at the easy banter. He looks at John.
“People do little else.”
Sherlock can’t stop the grin as John snorts a laugh and starts to get to his feet. As John leans forward, Sherlock suddenly realizes he still has the gun in his hand. How had he forgotten that? He puts it in his coat pocket and steps to help John, taking his arm to give him support. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he gasps when he feels a shock go through him at the sensation of John under his fingers. John looks up at him, studying his face and Sherlock swears he sees threads of desire in John’s eyes.
“We…uh…we should…get a cab,” Sherlock says, unable to look away.
John slowly nods, still looking at Sherlock and the tension around them ratchets up a few notches. Sherlock moves closer to John, feeling the warmth of his body even from this distance. Sherlock’s hand is still on John’s arm and Sherlock now turns, bringing his other hand up to rest on John’s lower back. Sherlock is prepared for John to step away or flinch and abortive contingency plans are running around at the back of his brain. He is not, however, anticipating that John will step forward so that they are pressed against each other and when John does, Sherlock’s mental musings crash to a halt. Sherlock swallows, looking down into John’s eyes, his heart beating faster as he sees emotions swirling behind those eyes; affection, admiration, loyalty, desire…arousal. Sherlock realizes that he’s leaning forward, tilting his head just a bit, lining his mouth up with John’s. When did that happen? Before he can give it more though, he starts to bend down, his hand on John’s back tightening, pulling him closer. He can smell John, subtle and spicy, tea and aftershave and he can feel the warmth of his skin just centimeters from Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s brain is going hazy with need. Any second he’ll be tasting John’s lips and that thought sends waves of heat through Sherlock. And then John gives a little cough and steps back slightly.
“Right. A cab you said?”
Sherlock blinks, feeling slightly disoriented as his mind adjusts to the fact that John is now three feet away, blushing furiously in the dim light of the pool.
“Yes. We should…a cab, yes.”
Sherlock looks down at the tiling, struggling not to feel stupid. He’s obviously misread John’s interest levels. There is no way that John doesn’t know what Sherlock had been about to do. Sherlock only hopes that things won’t be awkward, now that John knows that Sherlock has feelings for him. If he loses John now… Sherlock is so caught up in his own thoughts that he literally jumps when John touches his hand. He looks up to see John smiling at him.
“Let’s go home,” John says quietly. He looks around the building. “This place is making me uncomfortable. And I think I’d rather be somewhere more private right now.”
Sherlock blinks when John gives his hand a deliberate squeeze as he says the word, “private.” There’s something about his voice and the way he’s looking at Sherlock that makes Sherlock’s breath catch. Maybe he wasn’t reading John wrong after all. John’s thumb starts tracing circles along the back of Sherlock’s hand and suddenly Sherlock sees the value in getting away from this God forsaken swimming pool and back to Baker Street. He nods at John.
“Yes, I think going home is an excellent idea.” As they start walking for the exit, a thought occurs to Sherlock and he stops. “Damn. We left the vest over there. We need to call Lestrade.”
“And then he’ll want to interview us to get the whole story,” John says glumly. “We could be here all night.”
“We could take the vest home and turn it in tomorrow,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. At John’s look of horror, he frowns. “Not good?”
“Very not good. You want to take enough C4 to level the entire street home with us?”
“We can’t just leave it lying around,” Sherlock points out.
“Here, let me call,” John says, nodding his head as if he’s made a decision. He dials his phone, smiling at Sherlock as he waits. “Lestrade, it’s John Watson. Funny you should ask. I’ll just get right to it; less traumatic that way. Moriarty kidnapped me and strapped three pounds of explosives to my body, but then Sherlock came and got me and Moriarty left. So we’re standing at an abandoned swimming pool with a vest covered in C4 and I really need to go home now. No, I’m physically fine, but…yes, right. Couldn’t we just…well, I’d rather wait until I’m not shaking so hard that Sherlock has to hold me up. No, really, all I need is to go home and sleep. Right. The Clapham swimming pool. And how long will that be? Thank you. Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow. Thank you.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s sending the bomb disposal squad. They should be here in five minutes or so. We’ll get with him for the reports tomorrow. I say we go wait out on the curb, just in case Moriarty decides to set that thing off for fun.”
“Good idea, John,” Sherlock says nodding.
In actuality, it takes seven minutes for the explosives experts to arrive. Not that Sherlock is counting or anything. They stand side by side on the curb, watching the streets, listening for sirens. It could have been boring or awkward, in fact Sherlock expected that it would be, but it wasn’t. On the contrary, for Sherlock it is a fairly engaging seven minutes. John and Sherlock spent the entire time standing, saying nothing, not even looking at each other. John shifts his weight from one foot to the other and stretches out his shoulders. To the casual observer it must look like he’s working out muscle kinks or attempting to stay warm, but every move brushes John’s hip against Sherlock’s and John’s fingers skim across the back of Sherlock’s wrist. By the time the police show up, Sherlock’s breath is coming in excited bursts and he has to look away from John to even put a coherent sentence together.
They are sent on their way fairly quickly and Sherlock finds as they are sitting in a cab on the way to Baker Street that he is beyond trying to be subtle. He reaches out, taking John’s hand. After a minute, John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and his thumb starts tracing a path along Sherlock’s index finger, down and back up his thumb. Back and forth, maddeningly slow. His touch is electric, sending waves of desire through Sherlock. Sherlock looks down, fascinated by the sight of their hands entwined together in the dim light coming through the cab’s windows. Sherlock turns his hand over, his fingers brushing John’s, increasing the pleasure he feels from John’s touch. John stops the movement of his thumb and lets go of Sherlock’s hand, turning it over to hold it palm up in his lap.
Sherlock swallows a gasp as John’s fingers feather across his palm; this time the shocks go straight to his groin. He draws in a deep breath as John’s touch continues up, over his wrist, light and unhurried. John pauses, his ring finger tracing slowly back and forth along the bone of Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock closes his eyes, swallowing and stifling a moan.
The sleeve of Sherlock’s shirt prevents John from going further and Sherlock assumes he will either move back down to his hand or stop altogether. Instead John’s touch moves up to Sherlock’s collarbone, causing his breath to come in gasps. He turns to look at John, fully intending to tell him that perhaps a cab isn’t the most dignified place to do this. John looks back at him, his eyes dark with need, his breathing as erratic as Sherlock’s. Renewed desire, hot and powerful, shoots through Sherlock. His hand reaches for John and he moves closer, John’s leg now pressing against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock puts his hand on John’s thigh and lightly traces up and down, slowly running from knee to hip, reveling in the gasps and breathy whimpers John is making. Some part of Sherlock’s brain admits that he’s caught up in the moment, that he’s allowing his hormones to override his reason, but he honestly doesn’t care. John is reciprocating his affections and Sherlock cannot bring himself to walk away when he’s finally being offered what he’s wanted for months.
The cab pulls up to 221 and Sherlock fumbles for his wallet pulling out money to pay the driver. Based on the look the cabbie gives him, Sherlock realizes that he’s overpaid him rather dramatically, but he just doesn’t care. He smiles and nods at the man and quickly follows John out, wanting nothing more than to get inside the building as swiftly as possible. John’s hand is shaking as he struggles to fit the key into the lock. It likely doesn’t help that Sherlock is pressing himself against John from behind. He feels John draw a deep breath that steadies him and then the door is open. Sherlock follows John in, pulling his suit coat off with every intention of racing up the stairs. But John has other plans and Sherlock finds himself pressed against the entryway wall with John looking up at him, his eyes dark and shining.
“Tease,” John whispers, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Not at all,” Sherlock says, his voice deep with need. “And if you’ll come upstairs with me, I’ll show you that I always follow through on my promises.”
Sherlock can hear Mrs. Hudson’s television and John must hear it too because he nods and steps back from Sherlock. They take the stairs two at a time and Sherlock barely hears the door close behind them as he turns, pressing John back against it. Sherlock’s hands come up, holding John’s face as Sherlock looks down, studying it, committing the happy, aroused expression to memory.
“Sherlock?” John whispers. “Everything okay?”
Sherlock nods.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
Sherlock doesn’t want to be this serious right now. He wants to just enjoy finally having John in the way he’s only been allowed to in his dreams until tonight. But he can’t silence his thoughts and he needs John to understand how important he really is to Sherlock. Sherlock gently strokes John’s cheek with his thumb.
“I thought I was going to lose you tonight, John.”
John gives him a wry smile.
“I thought you might too.”
Sherlock is mildly horrified by that and he’s shaking his head emphatically.
“Don’t say that, not even as a joke.”
John’s expression goes very serious.
“I wasn’t joking. I’m still not sure how we got out of that in one piece.” John reaches out, touching Sherlock’s face with gentle fingers. “God, when I saw the sniper’s scope on your forehead, I was thinking I might lose you too.”
Sherlock realizes that he’s shaking and he looks down at John, feeling overwhelming affection and desire.
“I need you, John,” Sherlock says, his voice deep and soft in the silence of the flat.
“I’m right here, Sherlock.”
And then Sherlock is moving, bending in to kiss John. A jolt goes through him as their mouths meet and Sherlock hears a moan, startled to realize that he made the noise. But his embarrassment is short lived when John opens his mouth and his tongue starts stroking Sherlock’s. Sherlock presses against John, his hips jerking involuntarily as John nibbles Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock pulls back, gasping for air.
“Too…too many…clothes.” It isn’t eloquent, but it gets the point across and John is nodding in agreement.
Sherlock’s fingers are shaking and he can’t seem to work the buttons on his shirt. He growls in frustration and John laughs.
“Here, let me help you.”
John’s voice is low and smooth and it makes Sherlock’s heart beat even faster. Sherlock notes that John’s shirt is already undone and hanging open. He can see the bare skin of John’s chest and stomach and he aches to touch it. It only takes a few seconds and then John is pushing Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
“Better?” John whispers.
Sherlock nods, stepping forward to remove John’s shirt. Sherlock’s long fingers ghost along John’s chest, pressing upwards, drifting to his shoulders, taking the offending plaid shirt with them. He lingers a bit savoring the feel of the skin under his hands before tracing down John’s arms to leave the shirt on the floor next to Sherlock’s. He pulls John to him, gasping when he feels John’s skin against his and then he is kissing John again, deep and needy. He can taste John and for a minute, his mind tries to define the flavor, but then John is squeezing Sherlock’s arse with both hands and Sherlock decides thinking is overrated.
“Need to feel you,” John gasps. “Trousers are in the way.”
Sherlock reaches for the button and zip, leaning back in to kiss John as he does. He feels John’s hands pulling the trousers and pants down, pushing them off Sherlock’s hips. They are suddenly around his ankles and he’s kicking off shoes and socks and the trouser puddle, all the while sucking on John’s lips. Sherlock finds the button on John’s jeans and he makes quick work of them, smiling as he feels John struggling to get free from the jeans and pants.
“Stupid boots,” John grumbles, breaking the kiss just long enough to take off the boots and kick his jeans and underwear away.
He steps back into Sherlock’s arms and then they are kissing again and running their hands all over each other’s bodies.
“Sofa,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips.
“Hm?”
“My legs are shaking again. We need somewhere to sit.”
Sherlock nods, kissing John again. He never wants to stop this, it feels so good. He gently steers them around the coffee table and pushes John backwards. John teeters for a second and then falls into a sitting position on the sofa. Sherlock follows him, never losing the connection of their mouths. Now Sherlock has one knee on the couch next to John and he’s looming over him, leaning him back and ravaging John’s mouth. John’s hands come up to Sherlock’s hips and he pulls him over until Sherlock is straddling John’s lap. It’s not unpleasant, but the height difference has Sherlock hunching over. John breaks the kiss and looks up at him.
“Maybe we should switch positions.”
“That wouldn’t be too much for your legs?” Sherlock asks, reaching down to stroke John’s cheek.
“Not if I put all my weight on you.”
The image that brings to Sherlock’s brain makes his breath catch and he climbs off John’s lap and helps John to his feet. Sherlock sits down, settling into the cushions, then reaches up to pull John onto his lap. There’s an awkward moment as John gets situated, and then Sherlock’s brain shuts down completely as John’s hips settle against his. John is leaning towards him and Sherlock grabs his head, pulling him in to resume the kissing. Sherlock’s tongue sweeps in and the only thing filling that great brain of his is the taste of John, the low moans John makes, and the amazing sensation of John’s hips rhythmically rubbing against his.
John sifts his position slightly and it’s just enough so their erections are stroking against each other and Sherlock breaks the kiss, throwing his head back and moaning.
“Oh, god, John. This…” Sherlock breaks off, incapable of any further thought.
“Like this, do you?”
“Yes…I…John.” The last word is a long drawn out moan and Sherlock can feel John shiver.
“God, do you know how sexy that sounded?” John gasps.
Sherlock tries to compose some sort of coherent reply, but it’s quickly derailed when John leans forward and starts kissing Sherlock’s neck. John’s hands come up and he gently pinches Sherlock’s nipples. No one has ever done that before and Sherlock is unprepared for the jolt that goes straight to his groin. He calls out John’s name, his voice sounding desperate to his own ears. John moves up to kiss his mouth again and Sherlock wonders if John likes having his nipples played with too. Sherlock brings his hands up and the sounds John makes against Sherlock’s mouth are definitely worth the experiment. John breaks the kiss, gasping.
“Sherlock, I need…I need more.”
“What do you want, John?”
John doesn’t answer. He reaches out, taking Sherlock’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers, and then he guides them down so that their joined hands encircle both their erections. John sets the pace, moving their hands and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. He barely hears John speaking.
“This might be better for our first time.”
Sherlock can only nod, words completely beyond him now. If this is what John wants then Sherlock will gladly go with it. He feels John’s grip tighten and bolts of pleasure are shooting along Sherlock’s spine. His hips thrust up, a counter harmony to the rhythm that John’s set and he feels John doing the same. John leans forward, capturing Sherlock’s lips and they are desperately kissing, all tongues and heat, as the pleasure builds in Sherlock’s stomach. He feels John start to shake and he almost worries until he hears the deep, breathy moans John is making against Sherlock’s lips. John leans back, pulling in great gulps of air, and then he’s screaming Sherlock’s name and Sherlock is watching indescribable pleasure washing over John’s face. Sherlock holds on as long as he can, not wanting to miss a moment of John’s release, but then he can’t fight it anymore and his world narrows to one moment, one heartbeat, exploding out in sensation and light, every cell aching in perfect pleasure. Sherlock hears himself screaming John’s name and he feels like he might be turning inside out for a couple of seconds. And then he is sitting on the couch with John on his lap, their foreheads resting against each other, fighting to catch their breath. John shifts his hips and moves to the side, sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “My legs were starting to cramp.”
“It’s not a problem,” Sherlock says quietly.
He’s not entirely sure how to handle this situation. Sex has never really been his thing and most of his experiences were when he was heavily under the influence of drugs. The post coital cuddling and conversations never really factored in. But this is John and Sherlock honestly cares for him. He will not let this be awkward. It might be new, but he’ll learn, for John’s sake. Sherlock feels John shiver next to him and he realizes that he’s a bit cold himself. They need a blanket. Sherlock knows they normally keep one on the back of the sofa, but a quick glace tells him it’s not there. Did he throw it to the side this morning? He can’t remember. Sherlock pushes himself up, moving across the sofa to look on the floor. No, not there. Behind, maybe? Sherlock leans way over the side, still not seeing anything. He scans the room, looking at the chairs and the desk, not seeing any sign of the blanket. Sherlock sighs, giving it up as a lost cause. Maybe it would just be better if they moved to Sherlock’s bed. The idea of the two of them snuggled up together under the covers sounds very nice to Sherlock and he moves back over to propose it to John. John is look at him oddly, but it doesn’t really register at first.
“John, I’m sorry, but…”
Before Sherlock can expound on the blanket situation, John cuts him off.
“Don’t. I…god, what have we done?” Sherlock’s heart starts to beat faster and he’s suddenly sure he doesn’t want to hear the next thing John says. “This is…this was a mistake.”
Sherlock blinks, unable to form a coherent thought. He feels like someone’s slapped him and he struggles to come up with something, anything to say. He wants to tell John he’s wrong or beg him to take it back, but he just can’t find the words. And then Sherlock realizes something. They almost died tonight. He should have thought about that and the resulting adrenaline high and what it meant. John hadn’t wanted Sherlock, he’d only been reacting to the chemicals that flooded his body. And Sherlock, who really should have known better, had taken advantage of that. There’s a level of not good here that makes Sherlock feel ashamed. He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock whispers.
John doesn’t say anything, he just nods at Sherlock and then he’s getting up from the couch, gathering up his clothes. Without saying a word, he leaves the room and Sherlock can hear him climbing the stairs. Sherlock closes his eyes, fighting the urge to scream. He should have known better. No one has ever loved Sherlock and he should be realistic in knowing that no one ever will. This is what happens when you let your guard down and give in to emotions. You make a mess of things and hurt the only person who means anything to you. Sherlock shakes his head and gets to his feet. He won’t ever make this mistake again.
Part 2 this way.
Author’s Name: Laura Sichrovsky
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 13,911 total - 5,485 in this part
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Sherlock/John kissage, and shaggage
Spoilers: For the end of The Great Game
Summary: What might have happened if Moriarty hadn’t come back to the pool at the end of The Great Game and Sherlock and John kept up that flirting?
Disclaimer: This is where I put the statement saying that I do not own John or Sherlock, (Heh! I wish!), or anything relating to the show or books. No one is paying me to do this and if you feel the sudden urge to send me gifts, you might want to talk to someone about that. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat own all things Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Holmes and Watson. None of them have given me permission to use these characters as I have so if you have problems with the story, please send the pretzel bombs to me, not them. (Though if you could actually send a pretzel bomb to ACD, I’d be impressed.)
Author’s Notes: A friend of mine asked me what would have happened if Jim hadn’t come back to the pool, being as Sherlock and John seemed to be flirting there. I rather liked the idea, so here is what I came up with. Thanks need to be given, and here is where they go. Thanks to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat for giving me a Sherlock I can get behind. Thanks to Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman for making this Sherlock and John so amazing. I tried to fight it, but they were just too remarkable not to fall for. Big thank yous to Emma de los Nardos for her input and Gemma for the super-fast beta job and helping me pull this apart and put it back together. Thank you to Elin for reading this over for me. And my biggest thank yous to my guiding influence and my best friend, Ann. She’s the best beta ever and the Sherlock to my John. Without her, I am nothing. (Couldn’t do it without you, love. Wouldn’t want to try.)
People Might Talk
Wednesday March 30, 2011 (12:30 am) - Sherlock’s point of view:
This isn’t how Sherlock envisioned things going. In all the mental scenarios he’d run through, this hadn’t even been a remote possibility. Admittedly, he’d anticipated that things with Moriarty could turn dangerous; there was a reason that he had brought John’s gun with him. Sherlock accepted that he might be putting himself directly in the line of fire, but it was a risk he was willing to take if it stopped this lunatic from harming anyone else. However, while Sherlock was willing to trade pretty much anything, including his own soul, in this bargain to bring down a criminal genius, John’s life was not subject to negotiation. And yet, John, who had been safely on his way to spend the night with Sarah, well out of harm’s way, is standing three meters from Sherlock with enough explosives strapped to him to level the British Museum.
Sherlock’s shoulders are starting to ache from the rigid posture he’s maintaining, keeping his wrists locked and the Browning trained on Moriarty. His mind is racing, shuffling through escape plans, dismissing them almost as soon as they materialize for various reasons, ranging from “wouldn’t work” to “the bomb would go off” to “just downright stupid.” There has to be some way for them to get out in one piece; he simply hasn’t thought of it yet.
Moriarty shifts his shoulders, changing his stance a bit. He looks at Sherlock and smiles.
“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?” His voice is polite, belying the dire nature of their conversation. Something about his attitude annoys Sherlock and he rolls his eyes.
“Oh, let me guess; I get killed.”
Moriarty looks disappointed, like Sherlock’s given the wrong answer on a game show or something equally trivial. It sends a twist of unease through Sherlock, making him feel like he’s missed something, though he couldn’t even begin to guess what.
“Kill you? Eh, no. Don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m going to kill you anyway someday. I don’t want to rush it though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no. If you don’t stop prying,” Moriarty’s voice drops, sounding deeper, darker, and he leans forward just a bit. “I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you.”
He chokes out the last sentence, his voice catching in his throat, making him seem a bit deranged. Sherlock feels uneasy as he realizes that John’s life hangs on the whims of this nut job. He narrows his eyes, feeling the need to be just a bit defiant.
“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” Sherlock says slowly, keeping his voice soft.
Moriarty looks at Sherlock and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His expression changes to one of understanding and Sherlock feels anxiety wind through him. Moriarty tips his head just the slightest bit.
“But we both know that’s not quite true.” His eyes drift marginally in John’s direction and Sherlock is fighting panic.
There is no way that Moriarty could know how Sherlock feels about John; even John doesn’t know. Sherlock has worked to keep his emotions in check, to never betray anything but friendly regard for John, as hard as that has been. Sherlock is determined that he will keep it to himself until he can get over these feelings. It’s for the best really, considering that John doesn’t return them. It’s obvious that he’s interested in Sarah and that he could never look at Sherlock that way. And as Sherlock has never displayed an outward sign of his affections, it seems entirely implausible that Moriarty has figured it out. He must be referring to John and Sherlock’s friendship, trying to use that as a weak point.
They stand and look at each other for about ten seconds, but to Sherlock it seems so much longer. Behind Moriarty, Sherlock sees John, looking slightly confused at the turn the conversation’s taken. He also seems to be looking around, assessing strengths and weaknesses and Sherlock feels a rush of pride and affection for this man who has Sherlock’s back. Moriarty shifts again, looking at Sherlock.
“Well, I’d better be off.” He turns and looks back at John. “So nice to have had a proper chat.”
Sherlock adjusts his weight, easing the pinching between his shoulders and realigning the gun so it’s trained right between Moriarty’s eyes.
“What if I was to shoot you now; right now?” Sherlock asks, his eyes darting, his mind racing.
“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” Moriarty opens his mouth and makes a frankly creepy comical surprised face. “’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit…disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.”
Moriarty turns, his posture easing just a bit.
“Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”
And then, shockingly, Moriarty is slowly walking away and Sherlock and John are still in one piece. Sherlock wants to run to John, to make sure he is safe, but he will not let his guard down with a man as unpredictable as Jim Moriarty. Sherlock holds the gun more rigidly, tracking Moriarty with the gun as he walks away.
“Catch…you…later,” Sherlock says as he walks towards John, keeping the gun trained on its intended target until Moriarty is no longer in sight.
“No you won’t.” The high pitched sing-song voice sets Sherlock’s teeth on edge.
Sherlock takes a breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s unthinkable that they’ve gotten out of this so easily. After about thirty seconds, when nothing explodes and no gun shots go off, Sherlock dismisses his darker voices and moves to free John. He bends down, placing the gun on the pool tiling and drops to one knee in front of John, his hands frantically working to unfasten the vest. Some part of his brain is whispering to him that it would be just like Moriarty to make them think they’re safe, only to blow John up right in front of Sherlock. He did, after all, say he was going to burn Sherlock’s heart out and from the look on his face as he said it, Moriarty knows exactly who has full possession of Sherlock’s heart.
“All right?” Sherlock’s voice cracks and he’s pretty sure John didn’t hear the entire question. He repeats it, knowing how anxious his voice sounds. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” From the breathy tone in his voice and the fact that he keeps repeating himself, Sherlock can tell that John isn’t entirely okay, but with what they’ve just been through, it’s understandable; and it’s not like Sherlock isn’t shaking himself. He’s having a devil of a time getting the damned vest off. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
John has just been standing there, getting his breath back as Sherlock gets to his feet, pulling on the vest. Now Sherlock realizes that he’s also gotten the edges of John’s jacket as well and everything is tangled up and caught on John’s shoulders. Sherlock hears a clock ticking in his head, counting down what Sherlock perceives as Moriarty’s patience levels and he feels the desperate need to get the explosives off of John before something truly horrible happens. Sherlock tugs more insistently on the vest, freeing his fingers from the edges of the jacket and he pulls John slightly off balance. John takes an awkward step, then catches himself.
“I’m fine. Sherlock. Sherlock! Oh Jeesh.”
Sherlock finally tugs so hard that John stumbles two steps back, but the vest comes off and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief as he shoves the vest across the tiling and away from them. Sherlock turns to look at John, who is standing there, pulling in great gulps of air and looking slightly shell shocked. He’s shaken, but safe and a sudden flash of anger runs through Sherlock. Moriarty changed the rules when he involved John and Sherlock thinks now might be a good time to find the bastard and discuss the finer points of renegotiation. Sherlock bends down, grabbing the gun on his way past and runs through the door.
It doesn’t take him long to figure out that Moriarty is gone. Sherlock has the sudden fear that maybe Moriarty doubled back and Sherlock realizes that he’s left John unprotected. He turns and races back to the pool where he finds John, slumped against the side of one of the changing rooms, gasping and shaking. He doesn’t appear injured and Sherlock understands that the shock must have finally caught up with him. Sherlock’s first instinct is to go to John, to touch him, make sure he’s okay, calm him down a bit. But he knows that John is sensitive about appearing weak, so he starts to pace, expending frustration and thinking.
He really doesn’t like where his thoughts are going. As much as Sherlock hates to admit it, and against all logic, Moriarty knows. How he knows isn’t really relevant right now, eclipsed by the plain truth that he knows. He’s found a weakness in Sherlock, one that no one else has seen and that Sherlock’s been fighting to conquer for weeks. The thought that Sherlock keeps coming back to is that because Moriarty does know exactly how to hurt Sherlock the most, John is in terrible danger. As he paces, Sherlock thinks he should have Mycroft send John away, put him somewhere safe where Moriarty will never find him. But the idea of a life without John causes an aching in Sherlock’s chest. And it’s not like John would go willingly anyway, no matter what Sherlock said to him. John is too brave and loyal to run away, even if it would save his life.
Sherlock thinks about how John had grabbed Moriarty tonight, willing to face the consequences, just to save Sherlock and he feels decidedly grateful to have this man in his life. He looks over to where John is still leaning on the wall, pulling in deep, noisy gulps of air. John looks back at him, quirking an eyebrow.
“Are you okay?” John asks, concern heavy in his voice.
Why does John have to be so noble? John is the one who was kidnapped, John is the one who had explosives strapped to his body, John is the one who just about died, and here he is, worrying about Sherlock. Sherlock shakes his head, trying not to be overwhelmed by his affection for this man.
“Me? Yeah. Fine. I’m fine. Fine.” Sherlock is still pacing and running his hands through his hair distractedly. He looks over at John, needing to tell him how he feels, but not being able to find the words. “That uh…thing that you uh…that you did that um…” Sherlock pauses, clearing his throat. “…that you offered to do…that was um…good.”
Oh, yes, what an elegant speech that was. How is it that when he wants to say something to make John understand his importance, Sherlock’s brain completely deserts him?
“I’m glad no one saw that,” John says quietly.
It takes a second for that to sink in. What in the world does he mean by that? Sherlock stops pacing and leans in looking at John.
“Hm?”
“You. Ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”
It certainly isn’t what Sherlock expects John to say and he stifles a smile, relaxing at the easy banter. He looks at John.
“People do little else.”
Sherlock can’t stop the grin as John snorts a laugh and starts to get to his feet. As John leans forward, Sherlock suddenly realizes he still has the gun in his hand. How had he forgotten that? He puts it in his coat pocket and steps to help John, taking his arm to give him support. Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he gasps when he feels a shock go through him at the sensation of John under his fingers. John looks up at him, studying his face and Sherlock swears he sees threads of desire in John’s eyes.
“We…uh…we should…get a cab,” Sherlock says, unable to look away.
John slowly nods, still looking at Sherlock and the tension around them ratchets up a few notches. Sherlock moves closer to John, feeling the warmth of his body even from this distance. Sherlock’s hand is still on John’s arm and Sherlock now turns, bringing his other hand up to rest on John’s lower back. Sherlock is prepared for John to step away or flinch and abortive contingency plans are running around at the back of his brain. He is not, however, anticipating that John will step forward so that they are pressed against each other and when John does, Sherlock’s mental musings crash to a halt. Sherlock swallows, looking down into John’s eyes, his heart beating faster as he sees emotions swirling behind those eyes; affection, admiration, loyalty, desire…arousal. Sherlock realizes that he’s leaning forward, tilting his head just a bit, lining his mouth up with John’s. When did that happen? Before he can give it more though, he starts to bend down, his hand on John’s back tightening, pulling him closer. He can smell John, subtle and spicy, tea and aftershave and he can feel the warmth of his skin just centimeters from Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s brain is going hazy with need. Any second he’ll be tasting John’s lips and that thought sends waves of heat through Sherlock. And then John gives a little cough and steps back slightly.
“Right. A cab you said?”
Sherlock blinks, feeling slightly disoriented as his mind adjusts to the fact that John is now three feet away, blushing furiously in the dim light of the pool.
“Yes. We should…a cab, yes.”
Sherlock looks down at the tiling, struggling not to feel stupid. He’s obviously misread John’s interest levels. There is no way that John doesn’t know what Sherlock had been about to do. Sherlock only hopes that things won’t be awkward, now that John knows that Sherlock has feelings for him. If he loses John now… Sherlock is so caught up in his own thoughts that he literally jumps when John touches his hand. He looks up to see John smiling at him.
“Let’s go home,” John says quietly. He looks around the building. “This place is making me uncomfortable. And I think I’d rather be somewhere more private right now.”
Sherlock blinks when John gives his hand a deliberate squeeze as he says the word, “private.” There’s something about his voice and the way he’s looking at Sherlock that makes Sherlock’s breath catch. Maybe he wasn’t reading John wrong after all. John’s thumb starts tracing circles along the back of Sherlock’s hand and suddenly Sherlock sees the value in getting away from this God forsaken swimming pool and back to Baker Street. He nods at John.
“Yes, I think going home is an excellent idea.” As they start walking for the exit, a thought occurs to Sherlock and he stops. “Damn. We left the vest over there. We need to call Lestrade.”
“And then he’ll want to interview us to get the whole story,” John says glumly. “We could be here all night.”
“We could take the vest home and turn it in tomorrow,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. At John’s look of horror, he frowns. “Not good?”
“Very not good. You want to take enough C4 to level the entire street home with us?”
“We can’t just leave it lying around,” Sherlock points out.
“Here, let me call,” John says, nodding his head as if he’s made a decision. He dials his phone, smiling at Sherlock as he waits. “Lestrade, it’s John Watson. Funny you should ask. I’ll just get right to it; less traumatic that way. Moriarty kidnapped me and strapped three pounds of explosives to my body, but then Sherlock came and got me and Moriarty left. So we’re standing at an abandoned swimming pool with a vest covered in C4 and I really need to go home now. No, I’m physically fine, but…yes, right. Couldn’t we just…well, I’d rather wait until I’m not shaking so hard that Sherlock has to hold me up. No, really, all I need is to go home and sleep. Right. The Clapham swimming pool. And how long will that be? Thank you. Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow. Thank you.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s sending the bomb disposal squad. They should be here in five minutes or so. We’ll get with him for the reports tomorrow. I say we go wait out on the curb, just in case Moriarty decides to set that thing off for fun.”
“Good idea, John,” Sherlock says nodding.
In actuality, it takes seven minutes for the explosives experts to arrive. Not that Sherlock is counting or anything. They stand side by side on the curb, watching the streets, listening for sirens. It could have been boring or awkward, in fact Sherlock expected that it would be, but it wasn’t. On the contrary, for Sherlock it is a fairly engaging seven minutes. John and Sherlock spent the entire time standing, saying nothing, not even looking at each other. John shifts his weight from one foot to the other and stretches out his shoulders. To the casual observer it must look like he’s working out muscle kinks or attempting to stay warm, but every move brushes John’s hip against Sherlock’s and John’s fingers skim across the back of Sherlock’s wrist. By the time the police show up, Sherlock’s breath is coming in excited bursts and he has to look away from John to even put a coherent sentence together.
They are sent on their way fairly quickly and Sherlock finds as they are sitting in a cab on the way to Baker Street that he is beyond trying to be subtle. He reaches out, taking John’s hand. After a minute, John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and his thumb starts tracing a path along Sherlock’s index finger, down and back up his thumb. Back and forth, maddeningly slow. His touch is electric, sending waves of desire through Sherlock. Sherlock looks down, fascinated by the sight of their hands entwined together in the dim light coming through the cab’s windows. Sherlock turns his hand over, his fingers brushing John’s, increasing the pleasure he feels from John’s touch. John stops the movement of his thumb and lets go of Sherlock’s hand, turning it over to hold it palm up in his lap.
Sherlock swallows a gasp as John’s fingers feather across his palm; this time the shocks go straight to his groin. He draws in a deep breath as John’s touch continues up, over his wrist, light and unhurried. John pauses, his ring finger tracing slowly back and forth along the bone of Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock closes his eyes, swallowing and stifling a moan.
The sleeve of Sherlock’s shirt prevents John from going further and Sherlock assumes he will either move back down to his hand or stop altogether. Instead John’s touch moves up to Sherlock’s collarbone, causing his breath to come in gasps. He turns to look at John, fully intending to tell him that perhaps a cab isn’t the most dignified place to do this. John looks back at him, his eyes dark with need, his breathing as erratic as Sherlock’s. Renewed desire, hot and powerful, shoots through Sherlock. His hand reaches for John and he moves closer, John’s leg now pressing against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock puts his hand on John’s thigh and lightly traces up and down, slowly running from knee to hip, reveling in the gasps and breathy whimpers John is making. Some part of Sherlock’s brain admits that he’s caught up in the moment, that he’s allowing his hormones to override his reason, but he honestly doesn’t care. John is reciprocating his affections and Sherlock cannot bring himself to walk away when he’s finally being offered what he’s wanted for months.
The cab pulls up to 221 and Sherlock fumbles for his wallet pulling out money to pay the driver. Based on the look the cabbie gives him, Sherlock realizes that he’s overpaid him rather dramatically, but he just doesn’t care. He smiles and nods at the man and quickly follows John out, wanting nothing more than to get inside the building as swiftly as possible. John’s hand is shaking as he struggles to fit the key into the lock. It likely doesn’t help that Sherlock is pressing himself against John from behind. He feels John draw a deep breath that steadies him and then the door is open. Sherlock follows John in, pulling his suit coat off with every intention of racing up the stairs. But John has other plans and Sherlock finds himself pressed against the entryway wall with John looking up at him, his eyes dark and shining.
“Tease,” John whispers, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Not at all,” Sherlock says, his voice deep with need. “And if you’ll come upstairs with me, I’ll show you that I always follow through on my promises.”
Sherlock can hear Mrs. Hudson’s television and John must hear it too because he nods and steps back from Sherlock. They take the stairs two at a time and Sherlock barely hears the door close behind them as he turns, pressing John back against it. Sherlock’s hands come up, holding John’s face as Sherlock looks down, studying it, committing the happy, aroused expression to memory.
“Sherlock?” John whispers. “Everything okay?”
Sherlock nods.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
Sherlock doesn’t want to be this serious right now. He wants to just enjoy finally having John in the way he’s only been allowed to in his dreams until tonight. But he can’t silence his thoughts and he needs John to understand how important he really is to Sherlock. Sherlock gently strokes John’s cheek with his thumb.
“I thought I was going to lose you tonight, John.”
John gives him a wry smile.
“I thought you might too.”
Sherlock is mildly horrified by that and he’s shaking his head emphatically.
“Don’t say that, not even as a joke.”
John’s expression goes very serious.
“I wasn’t joking. I’m still not sure how we got out of that in one piece.” John reaches out, touching Sherlock’s face with gentle fingers. “God, when I saw the sniper’s scope on your forehead, I was thinking I might lose you too.”
Sherlock realizes that he’s shaking and he looks down at John, feeling overwhelming affection and desire.
“I need you, John,” Sherlock says, his voice deep and soft in the silence of the flat.
“I’m right here, Sherlock.”
And then Sherlock is moving, bending in to kiss John. A jolt goes through him as their mouths meet and Sherlock hears a moan, startled to realize that he made the noise. But his embarrassment is short lived when John opens his mouth and his tongue starts stroking Sherlock’s. Sherlock presses against John, his hips jerking involuntarily as John nibbles Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock pulls back, gasping for air.
“Too…too many…clothes.” It isn’t eloquent, but it gets the point across and John is nodding in agreement.
Sherlock’s fingers are shaking and he can’t seem to work the buttons on his shirt. He growls in frustration and John laughs.
“Here, let me help you.”
John’s voice is low and smooth and it makes Sherlock’s heart beat even faster. Sherlock notes that John’s shirt is already undone and hanging open. He can see the bare skin of John’s chest and stomach and he aches to touch it. It only takes a few seconds and then John is pushing Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
“Better?” John whispers.
Sherlock nods, stepping forward to remove John’s shirt. Sherlock’s long fingers ghost along John’s chest, pressing upwards, drifting to his shoulders, taking the offending plaid shirt with them. He lingers a bit savoring the feel of the skin under his hands before tracing down John’s arms to leave the shirt on the floor next to Sherlock’s. He pulls John to him, gasping when he feels John’s skin against his and then he is kissing John again, deep and needy. He can taste John and for a minute, his mind tries to define the flavor, but then John is squeezing Sherlock’s arse with both hands and Sherlock decides thinking is overrated.
“Need to feel you,” John gasps. “Trousers are in the way.”
Sherlock reaches for the button and zip, leaning back in to kiss John as he does. He feels John’s hands pulling the trousers and pants down, pushing them off Sherlock’s hips. They are suddenly around his ankles and he’s kicking off shoes and socks and the trouser puddle, all the while sucking on John’s lips. Sherlock finds the button on John’s jeans and he makes quick work of them, smiling as he feels John struggling to get free from the jeans and pants.
“Stupid boots,” John grumbles, breaking the kiss just long enough to take off the boots and kick his jeans and underwear away.
He steps back into Sherlock’s arms and then they are kissing again and running their hands all over each other’s bodies.
“Sofa,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips.
“Hm?”
“My legs are shaking again. We need somewhere to sit.”
Sherlock nods, kissing John again. He never wants to stop this, it feels so good. He gently steers them around the coffee table and pushes John backwards. John teeters for a second and then falls into a sitting position on the sofa. Sherlock follows him, never losing the connection of their mouths. Now Sherlock has one knee on the couch next to John and he’s looming over him, leaning him back and ravaging John’s mouth. John’s hands come up to Sherlock’s hips and he pulls him over until Sherlock is straddling John’s lap. It’s not unpleasant, but the height difference has Sherlock hunching over. John breaks the kiss and looks up at him.
“Maybe we should switch positions.”
“That wouldn’t be too much for your legs?” Sherlock asks, reaching down to stroke John’s cheek.
“Not if I put all my weight on you.”
The image that brings to Sherlock’s brain makes his breath catch and he climbs off John’s lap and helps John to his feet. Sherlock sits down, settling into the cushions, then reaches up to pull John onto his lap. There’s an awkward moment as John gets situated, and then Sherlock’s brain shuts down completely as John’s hips settle against his. John is leaning towards him and Sherlock grabs his head, pulling him in to resume the kissing. Sherlock’s tongue sweeps in and the only thing filling that great brain of his is the taste of John, the low moans John makes, and the amazing sensation of John’s hips rhythmically rubbing against his.
John sifts his position slightly and it’s just enough so their erections are stroking against each other and Sherlock breaks the kiss, throwing his head back and moaning.
“Oh, god, John. This…” Sherlock breaks off, incapable of any further thought.
“Like this, do you?”
“Yes…I…John.” The last word is a long drawn out moan and Sherlock can feel John shiver.
“God, do you know how sexy that sounded?” John gasps.
Sherlock tries to compose some sort of coherent reply, but it’s quickly derailed when John leans forward and starts kissing Sherlock’s neck. John’s hands come up and he gently pinches Sherlock’s nipples. No one has ever done that before and Sherlock is unprepared for the jolt that goes straight to his groin. He calls out John’s name, his voice sounding desperate to his own ears. John moves up to kiss his mouth again and Sherlock wonders if John likes having his nipples played with too. Sherlock brings his hands up and the sounds John makes against Sherlock’s mouth are definitely worth the experiment. John breaks the kiss, gasping.
“Sherlock, I need…I need more.”
“What do you want, John?”
John doesn’t answer. He reaches out, taking Sherlock’s hand in his, interlacing their fingers, and then he guides them down so that their joined hands encircle both their erections. John sets the pace, moving their hands and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. He barely hears John speaking.
“This might be better for our first time.”
Sherlock can only nod, words completely beyond him now. If this is what John wants then Sherlock will gladly go with it. He feels John’s grip tighten and bolts of pleasure are shooting along Sherlock’s spine. His hips thrust up, a counter harmony to the rhythm that John’s set and he feels John doing the same. John leans forward, capturing Sherlock’s lips and they are desperately kissing, all tongues and heat, as the pleasure builds in Sherlock’s stomach. He feels John start to shake and he almost worries until he hears the deep, breathy moans John is making against Sherlock’s lips. John leans back, pulling in great gulps of air, and then he’s screaming Sherlock’s name and Sherlock is watching indescribable pleasure washing over John’s face. Sherlock holds on as long as he can, not wanting to miss a moment of John’s release, but then he can’t fight it anymore and his world narrows to one moment, one heartbeat, exploding out in sensation and light, every cell aching in perfect pleasure. Sherlock hears himself screaming John’s name and he feels like he might be turning inside out for a couple of seconds. And then he is sitting on the couch with John on his lap, their foreheads resting against each other, fighting to catch their breath. John shifts his hips and moves to the side, sitting next to Sherlock on the sofa.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “My legs were starting to cramp.”
“It’s not a problem,” Sherlock says quietly.
He’s not entirely sure how to handle this situation. Sex has never really been his thing and most of his experiences were when he was heavily under the influence of drugs. The post coital cuddling and conversations never really factored in. But this is John and Sherlock honestly cares for him. He will not let this be awkward. It might be new, but he’ll learn, for John’s sake. Sherlock feels John shiver next to him and he realizes that he’s a bit cold himself. They need a blanket. Sherlock knows they normally keep one on the back of the sofa, but a quick glace tells him it’s not there. Did he throw it to the side this morning? He can’t remember. Sherlock pushes himself up, moving across the sofa to look on the floor. No, not there. Behind, maybe? Sherlock leans way over the side, still not seeing anything. He scans the room, looking at the chairs and the desk, not seeing any sign of the blanket. Sherlock sighs, giving it up as a lost cause. Maybe it would just be better if they moved to Sherlock’s bed. The idea of the two of them snuggled up together under the covers sounds very nice to Sherlock and he moves back over to propose it to John. John is look at him oddly, but it doesn’t really register at first.
“John, I’m sorry, but…”
Before Sherlock can expound on the blanket situation, John cuts him off.
“Don’t. I…god, what have we done?” Sherlock’s heart starts to beat faster and he’s suddenly sure he doesn’t want to hear the next thing John says. “This is…this was a mistake.”
Sherlock blinks, unable to form a coherent thought. He feels like someone’s slapped him and he struggles to come up with something, anything to say. He wants to tell John he’s wrong or beg him to take it back, but he just can’t find the words. And then Sherlock realizes something. They almost died tonight. He should have thought about that and the resulting adrenaline high and what it meant. John hadn’t wanted Sherlock, he’d only been reacting to the chemicals that flooded his body. And Sherlock, who really should have known better, had taken advantage of that. There’s a level of not good here that makes Sherlock feel ashamed. He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock whispers.
John doesn’t say anything, he just nods at Sherlock and then he’s getting up from the couch, gathering up his clothes. Without saying a word, he leaves the room and Sherlock can hear him climbing the stairs. Sherlock closes his eyes, fighting the urge to scream. He should have known better. No one has ever loved Sherlock and he should be realistic in knowing that no one ever will. This is what happens when you let your guard down and give in to emotions. You make a mess of things and hurt the only person who means anything to you. Sherlock shakes his head and gets to his feet. He won’t ever make this mistake again.
Part 2 this way.