Fic - That Lovely Weekend - John/Sherlock - NC-17
Title: That Lovely Weekend
’Verse: Long Ago (And Far Away): WWII AU. Follows That Certain Night, All that May Fall from the Skies Above and When the Dawn Comes Up.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock and John share a final weekend together before John is posted to North Africa.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3,300
Notes: The title is from That Lovely Weekend by Vera Lynn. As ever, this was brilliant fun to write.
February, 1941
The train station was heaving with girls in pretty dresses and anxious, ageing mothers. A scant amount of children who hadn’t been evacuated in the first place or had returned to London waited patiently, wide-eyed, for the train to roll in.
Sherlock stood in the middle of the crowd on the platform, standing head and shoulders above most, straight-backed and serious. A frown darkened his brow as he looked down the train tracks, his hands linked behind his back. He remained immovable and stern-looking even as the train rounded the corner and the other people on the platform began to chatter excitedly, smiles lighting up their weary faces.
The train groaned to a stop and those waiting for their boys surged forwards as the carriage doors began to snap open and young, fresh-faced soldiers poured out onto the platform. Sherlock’s frown deepened as he scanned the length of the train, as he watched soldier after soldier jump off, waiting for dusty hair and an easy grin and kind, tired eyes.
It had been three months since they’d last seen each other. Mycroft had secured Sherlock special dispensation from Bletchley Park for a few days and he’d travelled down to London that morning, ripped the dust covers away from their bed and their chairs in Baker Street before heading to the station to wait.
Sherlock caught sight of a familiar profile, its owner about to step out of one of the carriages further down the platform. ‘John,’ he breathed, his eyes widening, his face going slack before he burst into a run, weaving in and out of little clusters of re-united sweethearts and families. ‘John!’ he bellowed, his mouth spreading into a wide grin when John turned and their eyes met. John laughed loudly, the sound dying when Sherlock came to a faltering stop in front of him, breathing heavily.
‘John,’ Sherlock said again, this time in a choked whisper. He reached out halfway to John’s face but quickly change the path of his hand to John’s shoulder, gripping tightly. John nodded at Sherlock and glanced down at Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, then back up to Sherlock’s face.
‘Yes, yes, you’re quite right,’ Sherlock mumbled, dropping his arm back to his side, shoving his hands in his pockets.
‘Finally!’ a breathless voice exclaimed to the left, and a pretty, plump girl with long dark hair pushed between the two of them to be swept into the arms of her sweetheart. John and Sherlock watched as the young man took the girl’s face in his hands and pressed their lips together with a rapturous look on his face.
‘Oh, I missed you,’ the lad murmured, kissing the girl again and again, wrapping his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her hair. ‘I missed you, I missed you so much, darling.’
John turned back to face Sherlock, clearing his throat. ‘Good... good journey down, was it?’
‘Pleasant enough,’ Sherlock said quietly, lingering on the re-united couple to their left. He eventually turned away, his eyes flickering across John’s face. He frowned again and squared his shoulders. ‘Your hair’s shorter.’
‘Yours needs a good trim,’ John returned with a slight smile.
Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards. ‘Come along,’ he snapped, turning on his heel and marching across the platform.
John swung his kit bag back up onto his shoulders and followed.
***
The underground train from Charing Cross to Baker Street was packed; lads in uniforms, women, children and a few elderly men in suits were stuffed into each carriage like sardines. John had taken his kit bag off and had placed it between his feet on the floor. Both he and Sherlock were standing; Sherlock holding onto a strap over his head and John grasping the pole that ran from floor to ceiling as the train lurched towards Baker Street.
It was almost unbearably hot, the air close and stale, but neither man complained at the overcrowding. Sherlock was pressed against John’s back almost from head-to-toe, and it didn’t matter that a middle-aged woman was pressed up against Sherlock or that another soldier was right up against John. Sherlock managed to surreptitiously rest a hand on John’s waist and he could smell the scent that was so uniquely John: carbolic soap and disinfectant and tea.
***
John closed the door of 221b behind them and twisted the key in the lock. Sherlock stood just behind him, clasping one gloved hand with his other.
‘Rather strange, isn’t it? Being back home,’ John murmured, still facing the door. He pulled his smart red beret off and sighed deeply.
‘Rather,’ Sherlock agreed, watching John’s back for a moment before shaking himself and striding towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve saved my tea ration for you, I’ll put the kettle on, you’ve had a long journey,’ he said, taking his coat and scarf and hat and jacket off as he went, throwing them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He bent down and grabbed the kettle out of one of the bottom cupboards, giving it a quick rinse before filling it and putting it on the hob. He took a box of matches out of his pocket, struck one and lit the gas before getting two mugs out of another cupboard. A house spider lurked in one, legs bent in underneath its body, and Sherlock tipped the mug upside down to be rid of it before washing both of the mugs and the pot, as well, to be on the safe side.
Gripping the wooden counter tightly for a moment (still scorched from that experiment with the semolina two years ago), Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. Straightening his back, he pulled the tea canister he’d brought from Bletchley towards himself and spooned the leaves into their old pot. ‘We’ve only got powdered milk, I’m afraid,’ he called to John, continuing to mumble as he removed the kettle from the hob when it started whistling. ‘Didn’t quite have the time to see about any fresh, and I forgot the sugar I’ve been saving so we haven’t any of that, either.’ He stirred the tea around the pot, impatient, and poured it into the mugs before it had had any time to brew properly. Clenching his unoccupied hand, Sherlock stirred some powdered milk into the already weak tea, his stirring growing more frantic as he tried to stop the milk forming lumps on the drink’s surface.
Grabbing the handles of both mugs, he turned and gasped in surprise when he saw John standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him.
‘I’ve missed you very much, Sherlock,’ John murmured, his voice tight, his face weary and serious.
Sherlock dumped the teas down onto the table, crossed the space between them in three long strides and pulled John into a desperate kiss. He cupped John’s jaw with one hand, his other cradling the back of John’s head as their tongues curled around each other’s. With a hitching breath, John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s tie and tugged him further down, closer, close and right and home for the first time in three months.
‘I love you, I’ve missed you,’ John whispered, his eyes closed as he kissed Sherlock again, stroking Sherlock’s bicep through his shirt. ‘I can’t tell you how I’ve missed you.’
***
‘You know, the lads are forever rabbiting on about what they miss about home,’ John said a few hours later, lying next to Sherlock in their bed, curled up behind him, his leg thrown over Sherlock's hip. He ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair and kissed one of his lightly freckled shoulders. ‘They all talk about home-cooked meals and sticky buns at teatime and starched shirts.’
It was just past five and darkness had fallen. John had only left the bed to fuss with the blackout curtains as the sun set and now their bedroom was illuminated only by the light from a Tiffany lamp resting atop a stack of books in the corner.
Sherlock chuckled. ‘Are you getting ideas?’ he mumbled into the pillow they were sharing, his eyes half-closed.
‘Of course not,’ John said, grinning against Sherlock’s skin. ‘It is rather difficult to join in when what I’ve got to offer to the conversation involves heads in the larder and limbs in the sink, however.’
‘That was once,’ Sherlock mumbled, rolling to face John, resting his hand on John’s bare waist. The lamplight made the usually harsh angles of his face and body softer, gentler. ‘I suppose you want me to-’ he pressed a kiss to John’s throat, ‘starch your shirts and-’ another kiss, to his chest, ‘bake you cakes and send you-’ a wet kiss to his stomach as Sherlock shifted further down the bed, ‘letters swimming in my perfume with a lipsticked kiss-’ John arched clear off the bed as Sherlock pressed a lewd kiss to his glans, ‘-on the seal?’
‘Sherlock,’ John gasped, drawing his knees up and threading a hand in Sherlock’s hair.
‘Send you pictures of me holding the baby and parcels with tinned pilchards and new kitted socks every month?’ Sherlock teased, grinning up at John before pulling the sheets over his head and swallowing John down.
John bit down on his fist to stifle his moan at the feel of Sherlock’s mouth around him. He stroked Sherlock’s scalp and shivered when Sherlock tightened his lips and began to move slowly up and down.
‘Sherlock,’ John gasped again, a flush appearing high on his cheeks. ‘Christ, Sherlock, let me see you,’ he said, wetting his lips, closing his eyes. ‘Please.’
Smirking wickedly, Sherlock threw the sheets back and stared up at John. He lifted one eyebrow and fluttered his tongue against John’s length, gripping John’s thighs so tightly that crescent-shaped nail impressions, red and angry-looking, had formed on his skin.
‘Sherlock,’ John moaned, tightening his fist in Sherlock’s curls. ‘Jesus, Sherlock, I... I want...’
‘What?’ Sherlock purred, kissing low on John’s stomach, his hip, his leg. ‘What do you want, John?’
‘You, I, Christ, I want--’ John sat up and tugged Sherlock into a kiss by the back of his neck. Groaning, Sherlock stretched up and stroked John’s face, his hair, along his shoulders and down his chest.
John knelt up and pushed Sherlock onto his back, climbing atop him and biting down hard on his neck. ‘I missed you, God, I missed you,’ John groaned, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s neck and jaw and cheeks and forehead and eyelids. He pinned Sherlock’s hand to the pillow next to his head and laced their fingers together.
‘Yes,’ Sherlock breathed, tilting his head back, his eyes half-lidded as John bent to kiss Sherlock’s exposed throat. ‘Yes, John, yes, I know.’
The ominous whirring roar of the air raid siren started up outside.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ John snarled through gritted teeth, his hand clenching around Sherlock’s. ‘Three fucking months and all we have is two days and--’ he extracted himself from Sherlock and knelt up, took a deep breath in, pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. He sighed heavily. ‘Come on, then. Get dressed.’
Sherlock sat up and pulled John into a soft kiss by the back of his neck, playing with the short hairs at his nape.
The siren’s whine continued. Shouts rang out on the street below.
‘Sherlock,’ John murmured, their lips still brushing. ‘Sherlock, we can’t, come on, get dressed.’
‘Under the table,’ Sherlock replied, holding John’s waist, pushing his hips up against John’s backside. ‘The kitchen table, under there, I won’t waste this time with you, I won’t.’
John swallowed and breathed a little heavier. ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous--’
Sherlock cut him off with a hard, biting kiss. ‘All the more reason to do it,’ he panted against John’s lips.
Moaning, John nodded and kissed Sherlock once more before grabbing the sheets and blankets off their bed. ‘Come on, Sherlock, don’t dawdle,’ he ordered, feeling his way through the doors and into the kitchen, spreading the bedcovers out on the floor. ‘It’s really bloody cold in here,’ he said when Sherlock joined him and they both crawled under the wooden table.
Smiling, Sherlock pulled a blanket over both of them and wrapped his arms around John. ‘Come here,’ he murmured, pulling John closer to his body, rubbing his arms and back to try and create some friction.
The kitchen, with the boards in front of the windows and the blackout curtains drawn, was completely dark. John and Sherlock could only just make each other’s features out and were relying on touch more than sight. It was so cold in the high-ceilinged room that they could see their breath, and both men were shivering even as they huddled close to each other.
John grinned, a short giggle escaping him. ‘We’re mad,’ he said. ‘Utterly, utterly mad, this is... this is idiocy.’
The sirens continued to whirr and wail. The low, dull roar of the bombers could be heard, but only just.
Sherlock’s mouth twisted into his strange smile and he laughed too, the sound coming from deep in his chest. His eyes wrinkled with amusement and he pressed his lips to John’s once more, pushing his tongue into John’s mouth with a quiet moan. Sighing, John climbed on top of Sherlock again, reaching to cradle the back of his head, keeping it off the cold, tiled floor. John deepened the kiss and pressed his hips down against Sherlock’s, forcing a cry from the man beneath him.
‘I love you,’ John gasped, breathing heavily, mouthing Sherlock’s neck and throat again as they thrust against each other, quickly settling into a rhythm as the sound of the bombers grew closer. Sherlock nodded, swallowing, wrapping his arms around John’s body and holding him as tightly as he possibly could. He rested one hand on John’s rear, the other on the back of John’s neck as John continued to lick and suck and bite and mark Sherlock’s skin.
‘John,’ Sherlock gasped, his hands tightening at a particularly vicious nip to his collarbone. A violent shudder ran through them both at the sound of an explosion some miles away.
‘God,’ John cried, rubbing against Sherlock more insistently, keeping one hand at the back of Sherlock’s head but moving the other to stroke himself and then Sherlock, his eyes screwed shut, an almost pained expression on his face as the world outside grew louder and uglier. ‘Bloody hell, Sherlock, this is stupid, this is so dangerous, I--’ he shoved their lips together, tightening his hand around Sherlock, swallowing every desperate whining noise that Sherlock made.
‘Don’t pretend... that you don’t like it,’ Sherlock gasped when John pulled back for air, grinning against John’s jaw, moving one of his hands to stroke John even as he shivered and bucked at John’s ministrations. ‘I know you,’ he murmured, biting down on John’s earlobe, moving his hand quicker and quicker as the roar of the bombers grew louder and louder and the noise of explosions closer and closer. ‘I know all there is to know about you, John Watson and I... Christ, I...’
John kissed Sherlock desperately, thrusting into Sherlock’s fist as the noise outside drowned out the sound of their breathing, the whisper of skin on skin. Shoving his face into Sherlock’s neck, John spread the sticky fluid leaking from Sherlock’s tip around their lengths, his pace growing more and more frantic.
‘I love you,’ he mouthed against Sherlock’s damp skin, the din above them much too loud to be heard over. ‘I love you, I love you, I--’
At the loudest explosion yet, which couldn’t have been more than a couple of streets away, Sherlock arched up against John and came silently, his head thrown back, only John’s hand stopping it from slamming against the floor tiles. John wrapped his other hand around Sherlock’s so that it was tighter around him and with a deep groan, he shot his release across Sherlock’s stomach, sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s neck.
The noise of the aeroplanes overhead grew quieter as, gasping for breath, John collapsed on top of Sherlock, his limbs and his head too heavy to hold up. Sherlock held John close and kissed John’s face, lingering on the prominent features that he knew so well and so intimately.
‘They’re flying east,’ Sherlock murmured, running his nose down the side of John’s face. ‘We’re safe. I’m safe, I’m here,’ he whispered, kissing John gently on the lips.
John smiled weakly and nodded, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s hip. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything as inexcusably stupid as what we just did without me with you?’ he asked, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock’s skin, pressing soft kisses to the livid red marks that he’d created on Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock huffed a tired laugh. ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I promise you, John.’
***
Sunday afternoon came far too quickly.
Once again they were standing opposite each other on the platform of a train station, people swarming around them, girls and boys clinging to one another and stealing final, frantic kisses.
‘Take care of yourself,’ John said quietly, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s.
Sherlock frowned and nodded. He cleared his throat and looked at the floor, shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘Remember to... remember to eat, from time to time, and uh, try to be nice to everyone and--’
‘I’m not a child, John,’ Sherlock hissed, his jaw tight as he glared at his shoes.
‘I... I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ John said, sighing and closing his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just... I... oh, this is...’ He pressed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head.
‘It’s horrid,’ Sherlock murmured. He reached out and gripped John’s forearm tightly.
‘Sherlock,’ John said. ‘Sherlock, we’re in public, people will--’
‘Damn them,’ Sherlock said, his voice fierce. He tightened his grip, his fingers digging in even through the thick material of John’s uniform. ‘Come home, John,’ he murmured. ‘Come home to me. I need you.’
‘I know,’ John breathed, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.
‘I need you,’ Sherlock repeated. ‘I... I...’
‘I know,’ John whispered, brushing his hand over Sherlock’s for the briefest of moments. ‘I know.’
The conductor’s whistle blew.
John swallowed and bent to swing his kitbag up onto his shoulders. He used everyone else being distracted by saying their goodbyes to lean in closer to Sherlock, to whisper, ‘I love you too,’ against the curve of Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock closed his eyes and released a shuddering breath. John waited for him to open them again and then offered his hand. Taking a deep breath in, Sherlock took it, shaking for far longer than he would if it were anyone else.
‘Write,’ John implored.
‘Come home,’ Sherlock replied.
Nodding, John released Sherlock’s hand and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist for just a second before he turned and climbed aboard the train, sitting down with his kitbag between his legs and his face in his hands, the windows obscured from view by his fellow soldiers hanging out of them.
Sherlock stood on the platform and watched the train until it rolled out of sight, on towards the coast.
’Verse: Long Ago (And Far Away): WWII AU. Follows That Certain Night, All that May Fall from the Skies Above and When the Dawn Comes Up.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock and John share a final weekend together before John is posted to North Africa.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3,300
Notes: The title is from That Lovely Weekend by Vera Lynn. As ever, this was brilliant fun to write.
February, 1941
The train station was heaving with girls in pretty dresses and anxious, ageing mothers. A scant amount of children who hadn’t been evacuated in the first place or had returned to London waited patiently, wide-eyed, for the train to roll in.
Sherlock stood in the middle of the crowd on the platform, standing head and shoulders above most, straight-backed and serious. A frown darkened his brow as he looked down the train tracks, his hands linked behind his back. He remained immovable and stern-looking even as the train rounded the corner and the other people on the platform began to chatter excitedly, smiles lighting up their weary faces.
The train groaned to a stop and those waiting for their boys surged forwards as the carriage doors began to snap open and young, fresh-faced soldiers poured out onto the platform. Sherlock’s frown deepened as he scanned the length of the train, as he watched soldier after soldier jump off, waiting for dusty hair and an easy grin and kind, tired eyes.
It had been three months since they’d last seen each other. Mycroft had secured Sherlock special dispensation from Bletchley Park for a few days and he’d travelled down to London that morning, ripped the dust covers away from their bed and their chairs in Baker Street before heading to the station to wait.
Sherlock caught sight of a familiar profile, its owner about to step out of one of the carriages further down the platform. ‘John,’ he breathed, his eyes widening, his face going slack before he burst into a run, weaving in and out of little clusters of re-united sweethearts and families. ‘John!’ he bellowed, his mouth spreading into a wide grin when John turned and their eyes met. John laughed loudly, the sound dying when Sherlock came to a faltering stop in front of him, breathing heavily.
‘John,’ Sherlock said again, this time in a choked whisper. He reached out halfway to John’s face but quickly change the path of his hand to John’s shoulder, gripping tightly. John nodded at Sherlock and glanced down at Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, then back up to Sherlock’s face.
‘Yes, yes, you’re quite right,’ Sherlock mumbled, dropping his arm back to his side, shoving his hands in his pockets.
‘Finally!’ a breathless voice exclaimed to the left, and a pretty, plump girl with long dark hair pushed between the two of them to be swept into the arms of her sweetheart. John and Sherlock watched as the young man took the girl’s face in his hands and pressed their lips together with a rapturous look on his face.
‘Oh, I missed you,’ the lad murmured, kissing the girl again and again, wrapping his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her hair. ‘I missed you, I missed you so much, darling.’
John turned back to face Sherlock, clearing his throat. ‘Good... good journey down, was it?’
‘Pleasant enough,’ Sherlock said quietly, lingering on the re-united couple to their left. He eventually turned away, his eyes flickering across John’s face. He frowned again and squared his shoulders. ‘Your hair’s shorter.’
‘Yours needs a good trim,’ John returned with a slight smile.
Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards. ‘Come along,’ he snapped, turning on his heel and marching across the platform.
John swung his kit bag back up onto his shoulders and followed.
***
The underground train from Charing Cross to Baker Street was packed; lads in uniforms, women, children and a few elderly men in suits were stuffed into each carriage like sardines. John had taken his kit bag off and had placed it between his feet on the floor. Both he and Sherlock were standing; Sherlock holding onto a strap over his head and John grasping the pole that ran from floor to ceiling as the train lurched towards Baker Street.
It was almost unbearably hot, the air close and stale, but neither man complained at the overcrowding. Sherlock was pressed against John’s back almost from head-to-toe, and it didn’t matter that a middle-aged woman was pressed up against Sherlock or that another soldier was right up against John. Sherlock managed to surreptitiously rest a hand on John’s waist and he could smell the scent that was so uniquely John: carbolic soap and disinfectant and tea.
***
John closed the door of 221b behind them and twisted the key in the lock. Sherlock stood just behind him, clasping one gloved hand with his other.
‘Rather strange, isn’t it? Being back home,’ John murmured, still facing the door. He pulled his smart red beret off and sighed deeply.
‘Rather,’ Sherlock agreed, watching John’s back for a moment before shaking himself and striding towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve saved my tea ration for you, I’ll put the kettle on, you’ve had a long journey,’ he said, taking his coat and scarf and hat and jacket off as he went, throwing them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He bent down and grabbed the kettle out of one of the bottom cupboards, giving it a quick rinse before filling it and putting it on the hob. He took a box of matches out of his pocket, struck one and lit the gas before getting two mugs out of another cupboard. A house spider lurked in one, legs bent in underneath its body, and Sherlock tipped the mug upside down to be rid of it before washing both of the mugs and the pot, as well, to be on the safe side.
Gripping the wooden counter tightly for a moment (still scorched from that experiment with the semolina two years ago), Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. Straightening his back, he pulled the tea canister he’d brought from Bletchley towards himself and spooned the leaves into their old pot. ‘We’ve only got powdered milk, I’m afraid,’ he called to John, continuing to mumble as he removed the kettle from the hob when it started whistling. ‘Didn’t quite have the time to see about any fresh, and I forgot the sugar I’ve been saving so we haven’t any of that, either.’ He stirred the tea around the pot, impatient, and poured it into the mugs before it had had any time to brew properly. Clenching his unoccupied hand, Sherlock stirred some powdered milk into the already weak tea, his stirring growing more frantic as he tried to stop the milk forming lumps on the drink’s surface.
Grabbing the handles of both mugs, he turned and gasped in surprise when he saw John standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him.
‘I’ve missed you very much, Sherlock,’ John murmured, his voice tight, his face weary and serious.
Sherlock dumped the teas down onto the table, crossed the space between them in three long strides and pulled John into a desperate kiss. He cupped John’s jaw with one hand, his other cradling the back of John’s head as their tongues curled around each other’s. With a hitching breath, John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s tie and tugged him further down, closer, close and right and home for the first time in three months.
‘I love you, I’ve missed you,’ John whispered, his eyes closed as he kissed Sherlock again, stroking Sherlock’s bicep through his shirt. ‘I can’t tell you how I’ve missed you.’
***
‘You know, the lads are forever rabbiting on about what they miss about home,’ John said a few hours later, lying next to Sherlock in their bed, curled up behind him, his leg thrown over Sherlock's hip. He ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair and kissed one of his lightly freckled shoulders. ‘They all talk about home-cooked meals and sticky buns at teatime and starched shirts.’
It was just past five and darkness had fallen. John had only left the bed to fuss with the blackout curtains as the sun set and now their bedroom was illuminated only by the light from a Tiffany lamp resting atop a stack of books in the corner.
Sherlock chuckled. ‘Are you getting ideas?’ he mumbled into the pillow they were sharing, his eyes half-closed.
‘Of course not,’ John said, grinning against Sherlock’s skin. ‘It is rather difficult to join in when what I’ve got to offer to the conversation involves heads in the larder and limbs in the sink, however.’
‘That was once,’ Sherlock mumbled, rolling to face John, resting his hand on John’s bare waist. The lamplight made the usually harsh angles of his face and body softer, gentler. ‘I suppose you want me to-’ he pressed a kiss to John’s throat, ‘starch your shirts and-’ another kiss, to his chest, ‘bake you cakes and send you-’ a wet kiss to his stomach as Sherlock shifted further down the bed, ‘letters swimming in my perfume with a lipsticked kiss-’ John arched clear off the bed as Sherlock pressed a lewd kiss to his glans, ‘-on the seal?’
‘Sherlock,’ John gasped, drawing his knees up and threading a hand in Sherlock’s hair.
‘Send you pictures of me holding the baby and parcels with tinned pilchards and new kitted socks every month?’ Sherlock teased, grinning up at John before pulling the sheets over his head and swallowing John down.
John bit down on his fist to stifle his moan at the feel of Sherlock’s mouth around him. He stroked Sherlock’s scalp and shivered when Sherlock tightened his lips and began to move slowly up and down.
‘Sherlock,’ John gasped again, a flush appearing high on his cheeks. ‘Christ, Sherlock, let me see you,’ he said, wetting his lips, closing his eyes. ‘Please.’
Smirking wickedly, Sherlock threw the sheets back and stared up at John. He lifted one eyebrow and fluttered his tongue against John’s length, gripping John’s thighs so tightly that crescent-shaped nail impressions, red and angry-looking, had formed on his skin.
‘Sherlock,’ John moaned, tightening his fist in Sherlock’s curls. ‘Jesus, Sherlock, I... I want...’
‘What?’ Sherlock purred, kissing low on John’s stomach, his hip, his leg. ‘What do you want, John?’
‘You, I, Christ, I want--’ John sat up and tugged Sherlock into a kiss by the back of his neck. Groaning, Sherlock stretched up and stroked John’s face, his hair, along his shoulders and down his chest.
John knelt up and pushed Sherlock onto his back, climbing atop him and biting down hard on his neck. ‘I missed you, God, I missed you,’ John groaned, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s neck and jaw and cheeks and forehead and eyelids. He pinned Sherlock’s hand to the pillow next to his head and laced their fingers together.
‘Yes,’ Sherlock breathed, tilting his head back, his eyes half-lidded as John bent to kiss Sherlock’s exposed throat. ‘Yes, John, yes, I know.’
The ominous whirring roar of the air raid siren started up outside.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ John snarled through gritted teeth, his hand clenching around Sherlock’s. ‘Three fucking months and all we have is two days and--’ he extracted himself from Sherlock and knelt up, took a deep breath in, pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. He sighed heavily. ‘Come on, then. Get dressed.’
Sherlock sat up and pulled John into a soft kiss by the back of his neck, playing with the short hairs at his nape.
The siren’s whine continued. Shouts rang out on the street below.
‘Sherlock,’ John murmured, their lips still brushing. ‘Sherlock, we can’t, come on, get dressed.’
‘Under the table,’ Sherlock replied, holding John’s waist, pushing his hips up against John’s backside. ‘The kitchen table, under there, I won’t waste this time with you, I won’t.’
John swallowed and breathed a little heavier. ‘Do you have any idea how dangerous--’
Sherlock cut him off with a hard, biting kiss. ‘All the more reason to do it,’ he panted against John’s lips.
Moaning, John nodded and kissed Sherlock once more before grabbing the sheets and blankets off their bed. ‘Come on, Sherlock, don’t dawdle,’ he ordered, feeling his way through the doors and into the kitchen, spreading the bedcovers out on the floor. ‘It’s really bloody cold in here,’ he said when Sherlock joined him and they both crawled under the wooden table.
Smiling, Sherlock pulled a blanket over both of them and wrapped his arms around John. ‘Come here,’ he murmured, pulling John closer to his body, rubbing his arms and back to try and create some friction.
The kitchen, with the boards in front of the windows and the blackout curtains drawn, was completely dark. John and Sherlock could only just make each other’s features out and were relying on touch more than sight. It was so cold in the high-ceilinged room that they could see their breath, and both men were shivering even as they huddled close to each other.
John grinned, a short giggle escaping him. ‘We’re mad,’ he said. ‘Utterly, utterly mad, this is... this is idiocy.’
The sirens continued to whirr and wail. The low, dull roar of the bombers could be heard, but only just.
Sherlock’s mouth twisted into his strange smile and he laughed too, the sound coming from deep in his chest. His eyes wrinkled with amusement and he pressed his lips to John’s once more, pushing his tongue into John’s mouth with a quiet moan. Sighing, John climbed on top of Sherlock again, reaching to cradle the back of his head, keeping it off the cold, tiled floor. John deepened the kiss and pressed his hips down against Sherlock’s, forcing a cry from the man beneath him.
‘I love you,’ John gasped, breathing heavily, mouthing Sherlock’s neck and throat again as they thrust against each other, quickly settling into a rhythm as the sound of the bombers grew closer. Sherlock nodded, swallowing, wrapping his arms around John’s body and holding him as tightly as he possibly could. He rested one hand on John’s rear, the other on the back of John’s neck as John continued to lick and suck and bite and mark Sherlock’s skin.
‘John,’ Sherlock gasped, his hands tightening at a particularly vicious nip to his collarbone. A violent shudder ran through them both at the sound of an explosion some miles away.
‘God,’ John cried, rubbing against Sherlock more insistently, keeping one hand at the back of Sherlock’s head but moving the other to stroke himself and then Sherlock, his eyes screwed shut, an almost pained expression on his face as the world outside grew louder and uglier. ‘Bloody hell, Sherlock, this is stupid, this is so dangerous, I--’ he shoved their lips together, tightening his hand around Sherlock, swallowing every desperate whining noise that Sherlock made.
‘Don’t pretend... that you don’t like it,’ Sherlock gasped when John pulled back for air, grinning against John’s jaw, moving one of his hands to stroke John even as he shivered and bucked at John’s ministrations. ‘I know you,’ he murmured, biting down on John’s earlobe, moving his hand quicker and quicker as the roar of the bombers grew louder and louder and the noise of explosions closer and closer. ‘I know all there is to know about you, John Watson and I... Christ, I...’
John kissed Sherlock desperately, thrusting into Sherlock’s fist as the noise outside drowned out the sound of their breathing, the whisper of skin on skin. Shoving his face into Sherlock’s neck, John spread the sticky fluid leaking from Sherlock’s tip around their lengths, his pace growing more and more frantic.
‘I love you,’ he mouthed against Sherlock’s damp skin, the din above them much too loud to be heard over. ‘I love you, I love you, I--’
At the loudest explosion yet, which couldn’t have been more than a couple of streets away, Sherlock arched up against John and came silently, his head thrown back, only John’s hand stopping it from slamming against the floor tiles. John wrapped his other hand around Sherlock’s so that it was tighter around him and with a deep groan, he shot his release across Sherlock’s stomach, sinking his teeth into Sherlock’s neck.
The noise of the aeroplanes overhead grew quieter as, gasping for breath, John collapsed on top of Sherlock, his limbs and his head too heavy to hold up. Sherlock held John close and kissed John’s face, lingering on the prominent features that he knew so well and so intimately.
‘They’re flying east,’ Sherlock murmured, running his nose down the side of John’s face. ‘We’re safe. I’m safe, I’m here,’ he whispered, kissing John gently on the lips.
John smiled weakly and nodded, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s hip. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything as inexcusably stupid as what we just did without me with you?’ he asked, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock’s skin, pressing soft kisses to the livid red marks that he’d created on Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock huffed a tired laugh. ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I promise you, John.’
***
Sunday afternoon came far too quickly.
Once again they were standing opposite each other on the platform of a train station, people swarming around them, girls and boys clinging to one another and stealing final, frantic kisses.
‘Take care of yourself,’ John said quietly, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s.
Sherlock frowned and nodded. He cleared his throat and looked at the floor, shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘Remember to... remember to eat, from time to time, and uh, try to be nice to everyone and--’
‘I’m not a child, John,’ Sherlock hissed, his jaw tight as he glared at his shoes.
‘I... I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ John said, sighing and closing his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just... I... oh, this is...’ He pressed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head.
‘It’s horrid,’ Sherlock murmured. He reached out and gripped John’s forearm tightly.
‘Sherlock,’ John said. ‘Sherlock, we’re in public, people will--’
‘Damn them,’ Sherlock said, his voice fierce. He tightened his grip, his fingers digging in even through the thick material of John’s uniform. ‘Come home, John,’ he murmured. ‘Come home to me. I need you.’
‘I know,’ John breathed, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.
‘I need you,’ Sherlock repeated. ‘I... I...’
‘I know,’ John whispered, brushing his hand over Sherlock’s for the briefest of moments. ‘I know.’
The conductor’s whistle blew.
John swallowed and bent to swing his kitbag up onto his shoulders. He used everyone else being distracted by saying their goodbyes to lean in closer to Sherlock, to whisper, ‘I love you too,’ against the curve of Sherlock’s ear.
Sherlock closed his eyes and released a shuddering breath. John waited for him to open them again and then offered his hand. Taking a deep breath in, Sherlock took it, shaking for far longer than he would if it were anyone else.
‘Write,’ John implored.
‘Come home,’ Sherlock replied.
Nodding, John released Sherlock’s hand and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist for just a second before he turned and climbed aboard the train, sitting down with his kitbag between his legs and his face in his hands, the windows obscured from view by his fellow soldiers hanging out of them.
Sherlock stood on the platform and watched the train until it rolled out of sight, on towards the coast.