fic: the things we know (no one else knows)
Title: the things we know (no one else knows)
Author: obsessionality
Verse: BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rated: Explicit
Warnings: None, unless you count somewhat graphic descriptions of sex, and odd perspectives
Word Count: 815
For come_at_once with the prompt: Anyone can be passionate, but it takes real lovers to be silly
His relationship with Sherlock is unlike any he’s had with his other lovers in the past.
And he’s had a quite a few. He’s not known as Three-Continents Watson for nothing.
And despite that, Sherlock had retained the capacity to surprise him at the most, well, surprising times, when he thought that he’d just about seen it all.
It wasn’t like Sherlock was inexperienced either, which had been a little bit surprising. Not, he’d explained, because Sherlock was unattractive or anything, but because he’d expected Sherlock’s tastes and preferences to be so specific that he hadn’t even bothered with all the idiots out there. That was why he’d been so surprised when Sherlock had picked him, of all people. Surprised and flattered.
But that was an understatement of how he’d felt when Sherlock had ambushed him in the bathroom to give him a very memorable blowjob, pressed up against the tiles of the cubicle, steam fogging up the mirror and the shower running cold. He’d hardly dared to touch the riotous curls in front of him, because he hadn’t even been sure it wasn’t a dream.
Their first few encounters went a lot like that, honestly. There was a lot of Sherlock jumping him and him being confused. And very very turned on, god, Sherlock’s mouth. He’d been pleased to say that he’d had some of the very best sex in his life with Sherlock Holmes.
But then something had changed, and he hadn’t expected it.
Instead of having meals together out of convenience, they had meals together with intent. As absurd as that sounded. And he’d had more relationships than he could have counted, but he’d never been as turned on as he had been by Sherlock Holmes, sitting on the couch in naught but his dressing gown, slurping down cold noodles.
Things calmed down. The intensity of their relationship dialled down, but their relationship stayed the same. He’d never been with the same person for long enough for that to happen before. Sherlock moved into his bedroom (because he wanted to use his own for Science, John!), and then they started doing sitcom things, like sharing a sink while brushing their teeth, and waking each other up with blowjobs. Sherlock even let down the façade in front of him, and that was a surprising, almost miraculous thing.
He’d not even realised that Sherlock had a façade, because as far as he could tell, Sherlock had no filters at all. But he’d quickly discovered that wasn’t true.
Sherlock was a shameless bed hog, and an unholy monster in the mornings. It was almost adorable. He’d have petted Sherlock if he’d been sure he wouldn’t lose a couple of fingers. Sherlock talked in his sleep. Sherlock even sang in his sleep. Sometimes he wanted to tape him, and play it back to him in the morning.
But something stopped him.
Sherlock was never human in front of other people. And he knew it. They both knew it. Sherlock was cold and still and perfect, or as perfect as he could be, without being human. He’d never been much for superstition, but if he’d recorded Sherlock singing French lullabies in his sleep, dappled in silver moonlight, it would have made everything real in the harsh light of the day.
He wasn’t about to let anyone else see the ethereal creature that was Sherlock, appear human to anyone but himself, thanks very much.
It took him a good long time to realise that Sherlock had deliberately dropped his façade in front of him, just as he’d dropped his façade in front of Sherlock. The same way he didn’t mind (as much) his own slightly worn body, and his thinning hair, and the funny noises his tummy made when he was balls deep in Sherlock sometimes. Not even when Sherlock laughed at him, and made John want to fuck him even harder.
There were fewer and fewer pretences between the two of them, until one day, Sherlock stole all the blankets and then accidentally rolled out of bed, when he realised there were no walls between them at all. He’d laughed and laughed until his stomach hurt, and Sherlock had pretended to be offended, but he hadn’t really been anything of the sort.
And when they’d curled up in bed that night, after one enthusiastic, sweaty session of sex (or two, he wasn’t shy), he’d realised that he’d never known someone as well as he’d known Sherlock, not ever in his life. It was the best feeling in the world that no one else had ever seen Sherlock Holmes accidentally fall out of bed before, or trip on his own silly dressing gown. And more than anything else, that made him feel that what they had was real, and that it would last forever.
He hoped.
Author: obsessionality
Verse: BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rated: Explicit
Warnings: None, unless you count somewhat graphic descriptions of sex, and odd perspectives
Word Count: 815
For come_at_once with the prompt: Anyone can be passionate, but it takes real lovers to be silly
His relationship with Sherlock is unlike any he’s had with his other lovers in the past.
And he’s had a quite a few. He’s not known as Three-Continents Watson for nothing.
And despite that, Sherlock had retained the capacity to surprise him at the most, well, surprising times, when he thought that he’d just about seen it all.
It wasn’t like Sherlock was inexperienced either, which had been a little bit surprising. Not, he’d explained, because Sherlock was unattractive or anything, but because he’d expected Sherlock’s tastes and preferences to be so specific that he hadn’t even bothered with all the idiots out there. That was why he’d been so surprised when Sherlock had picked him, of all people. Surprised and flattered.
But that was an understatement of how he’d felt when Sherlock had ambushed him in the bathroom to give him a very memorable blowjob, pressed up against the tiles of the cubicle, steam fogging up the mirror and the shower running cold. He’d hardly dared to touch the riotous curls in front of him, because he hadn’t even been sure it wasn’t a dream.
Their first few encounters went a lot like that, honestly. There was a lot of Sherlock jumping him and him being confused. And very very turned on, god, Sherlock’s mouth. He’d been pleased to say that he’d had some of the very best sex in his life with Sherlock Holmes.
But then something had changed, and he hadn’t expected it.
Instead of having meals together out of convenience, they had meals together with intent. As absurd as that sounded. And he’d had more relationships than he could have counted, but he’d never been as turned on as he had been by Sherlock Holmes, sitting on the couch in naught but his dressing gown, slurping down cold noodles.
Things calmed down. The intensity of their relationship dialled down, but their relationship stayed the same. He’d never been with the same person for long enough for that to happen before. Sherlock moved into his bedroom (because he wanted to use his own for Science, John!), and then they started doing sitcom things, like sharing a sink while brushing their teeth, and waking each other up with blowjobs. Sherlock even let down the façade in front of him, and that was a surprising, almost miraculous thing.
He’d not even realised that Sherlock had a façade, because as far as he could tell, Sherlock had no filters at all. But he’d quickly discovered that wasn’t true.
Sherlock was a shameless bed hog, and an unholy monster in the mornings. It was almost adorable. He’d have petted Sherlock if he’d been sure he wouldn’t lose a couple of fingers. Sherlock talked in his sleep. Sherlock even sang in his sleep. Sometimes he wanted to tape him, and play it back to him in the morning.
But something stopped him.
Sherlock was never human in front of other people. And he knew it. They both knew it. Sherlock was cold and still and perfect, or as perfect as he could be, without being human. He’d never been much for superstition, but if he’d recorded Sherlock singing French lullabies in his sleep, dappled in silver moonlight, it would have made everything real in the harsh light of the day.
He wasn’t about to let anyone else see the ethereal creature that was Sherlock, appear human to anyone but himself, thanks very much.
It took him a good long time to realise that Sherlock had deliberately dropped his façade in front of him, just as he’d dropped his façade in front of Sherlock. The same way he didn’t mind (as much) his own slightly worn body, and his thinning hair, and the funny noises his tummy made when he was balls deep in Sherlock sometimes. Not even when Sherlock laughed at him, and made John want to fuck him even harder.
There were fewer and fewer pretences between the two of them, until one day, Sherlock stole all the blankets and then accidentally rolled out of bed, when he realised there were no walls between them at all. He’d laughed and laughed until his stomach hurt, and Sherlock had pretended to be offended, but he hadn’t really been anything of the sort.
And when they’d curled up in bed that night, after one enthusiastic, sweaty session of sex (or two, he wasn’t shy), he’d realised that he’d never known someone as well as he’d known Sherlock, not ever in his life. It was the best feeling in the world that no one else had ever seen Sherlock Holmes accidentally fall out of bed before, or trip on his own silly dressing gown. And more than anything else, that made him feel that what they had was real, and that it would last forever.
He hoped.