Some mornings, now, Sherlock leaves his hair
ungelled, silky and loose, to savor the way John runs a careless hand
over it, passing by. He’ll let his stubble remain until he gets a chance
to rub his face roughly in John’s neck and hear his surprised giggle.
After a shower, he stands in front of the mirror and smooths his hands
over his naked belly, feeling the softening, and smiles, because John
cooks for them every night, magnificent food, and it’s good; it’s more
than good. They’re home.
Meanwhile something’s happening to John
as he settles into the fact of Sherlock-and-John: he’s becoming clearer
around the edges, visible, vivid. His jeans hold him closer and his
shirts get brighter; jewel tones that set off the silver of his sculpted
hair. He steps out with wildly patterned socks peeking above his
sensible shoes. Sherlock never mentions the layers of John’s
self-protection coming off; but he looks his fill.
One night
they’re reading together in the quiet of the living room when Rosie
peeks her head in; on her way out to meet friends. Sherlock reminds her
to take her pocketknife, and not to take drinks from people she doesn’t
know, and John asks her to text him in two hours and tell him how it’s
going. She smiles her reassurances, Yes, of course, yes, I will; asks
Sherlock if he likes her nail polish (teal with a subtle sparkle) and he
says he does. It goes nicely with her top. She leaves. It’s quiet.
“I liked her polish too,” John says. “I wish she’d ask me what I think of her outfits.”
“She knows which of us has taste.“
“Hey!”
“All
right, your taste is fine. But no one would expect you to have a
passionate opinion on nail polish, John.” Sherlock’s tone is indulgent.
“What if I do?” John’s blushing, but his chin rises bravely.
Sherlock gives him a good long stare and then starts to smile. “John. Do you?”
John’s
blush deepens. “I used to sneak into Harry’s room and try hers on when I
was six, seven years old.” He sighs. “Not stupid enough to leave it on
more than five minutes. If mum had caught me there’d have been hell to
pay.”
“Your mother,” says Sherlock, clearly, “was an idiot. And
Rosie has an excellent array of nail colors in the catchall next to the
sink.”
Rosie comes home at half ten to find her dads in the
kitchen, spiking their mugs of hot cocoa with the Christmas liquor, with
the third Star Wars movie on pause in the sitting room. Sherlock’s
nails are a deep, rich red, and John’s are a shimmery, starry blue, and
they’re both mussed and blushy enough that she says promptly, “Hi dads.
Bye dads,” grabs a tin of biscuits and heads straight upstairs. She
knows very well when to get out of their way.
Downstairs, the Star Wars theme song starts up, and almost covers the sound of their laughter.
It’s still technically summer, so I’m going for it. For today’s Summer Saturday Self-reblog, I’m sharing a chapter from a collection I titled “Glimpses.” It was supposed to be one of those 30 day challenges, but I only got four of them done. “Kisses” is number four in the collection… You can read the rest on AO3.
******
It’s silly and childish this thing they do.
The first time, it’s an accident. Sherlock blames John’s nurturing bedside manner. John knows that’s not it, because as a professional, he understands it’s both unsanitary and frowned upon.
Especially when the patient in question is a six foot tall adult male with a stab wound. A fidgety, lanky man-child who, incidentally, happens to be his flatmate.
John thinks it’s just too many days with too little sleep.
He’s only shared a flat with Sherlock for a few weeks, and John’s already stitching up a stab wound. Sherlock’s cut is deep, but not dangerously so, across his forearm. By comparison, it’s one of the easiest combat wounds John’s treated.
John feels terrible about the whole thing. It’s not his fault, Sherlock even says as much, but he can’t help thinking that if he had just been quicker… More sullen than usual, John cleans the wound thoroughly, and sets to work on the stitches. Eighteen in all. John’s technique is efficient, his touch gentle, and the end results are neat and precise.
Sherlock wonders at the skill he observes, despite the shoulder wound and nerve damage. He’s absorbed with deciding how he can test John’s full capabilities and hardly notices when John dresses the wound with military precision. It takes him a moment to realize that John does something peculiar next.
“Did you just…”
“Sorry. Oh god. I’m sorry, I don’t know wh-” John lowers his chin to his chest. He takes a few purposeful breaths before dropping things haphazardly into his kit.
“It’s been a long time since anyone’s kissed my boo-boos.” Sherlock clears his throat. He’s sure John can hear the smile tugging at his lips, and he’s not certain that’s a response John will appreciate.
“Damn it. I’m sorry.” John mumbles as he stands abruptly, tugs off his gloves, and turns to wash his hands.
“John.” Sherlock grabs his sleeve. John faces him, but he’s looking at the wall beyond Sherlock’s shoulder, avoiding eye contact. “It feels better already.” He doesn’t smile. He won’t. John’s eyes dart to his; he opens his mouth, then closes it without speaking. “Perhaps a lollipop next time.”
John huffs and repeats, “a lollipop,” at the same time Sherlock declares, “cherry is my favorite.” They stare at each other and Sherlock does smile when relief replaces embarrassment on John’s face.
“Let’s keep the next times few and far between, yeah?” John laughs.
The “next times” aren’t as frequent as one might think. Sherlock is a good fighter after all. And though he destroys their belongings for the sake of science, he is a graduate level chemist, so he knows how to, on principle, avoid injury.
But there is a next time. So, John cleans, stitches and dresses the cut on Sherlock’s brow. When the last plaster is in place Sherlock looks up with expectation.
John reaches into his kit. “I’ve got rockstars of science stickers.” He holds up one featuring Pasteur and one featuring Curie. “Or lollipops.”
“I want one of each.”
“Pick one.” John acts like he’s reasoning with a child.
“Two stickers,” Sherlock bargains.
“One.”
Pouting, Sherlock switches strategies. “John, I’m injured.” But John’s not budging. “Fine. A lollipop and…” Sherlock inclines his forehead towards John and taps the bandage.
“For godsake.” John rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He digs in his bag and pulls out two lollipops. “Tequila worm or cherry scorpion?”
“Cherry scor-” Sherlock holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers impatiently. “This lollipop has a scorpion in it.” He looks both disgusted and fascinated.
“Yes.” John digs out a few more. “Green apple cricket. Banana ant…”
Sherlock is giddy. He tears the cellophane off an amber colored butter rum grasshopper.
“Let me know how it is.” John chuckles as he organizes his kit. Sherlock hums, and leans forward. “Right,” John sighs. He’s smiling. He places a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s brow.
“Feels better already.”
“Git.”
Five lollipops (two cherry scorpions, one each tequila worm, strawberry ant, and blueberry cricket), three stickers (Tesla, Bohr, and Oppenheimer), and as many kisses later (plus the one case that was so terrible, so ugly, three gentle kisses to the crown of Sherlock’s concussed head made them both feel better), it’s John who needs patched up.
Sherlock pretends he doesn’t notice how pale and drawn John looks. He won’t draw unwanted attention, but he’s furious with Lestrade for not noticing. He rattles off an obvious deduction and casts a murderous glare at the suspect before hailing a cab.
“Home.” John shakes his head when Sherlock tries to protest.
Under the cover of night, John’s grey jumper and black jacket do a fantastic job concealing the blood from the long jagged cut over his left ribs. It doesn’t need stitches, nothing is punctured, but it hurts and bleeds any time he breathes or moves. Which is always.
John allows Sherlock to clean the wound. Sherlock gripes about Lestrade’s team, which makes John laugh then curse in pain. He guides Sherlock through dressing the cut with tight bindings to keep himself from moving.
“I expected more difficulty.” Sherlock is done helping John and is digging through John’s kit, upsetting the meticulous order.
“Hurts too much.” John winces and holds out his hand. “Besides, if I’m going to die on a case, it’s not going to be from infection.”
“No one is dying on a case.” Sherlock frowns as if he’s considering the possibility for the first time. He places two paracetamol in John’s hand.
“Thanks, but that’s not what I want.” John points to his kit. “I’ve had my eye on the banana ant.”
Sherlock chuckles. He finds John’s lollipop and hands him the Schrödinger sticker. “You earned two, I think.”
John hums thoughtfully. “And?”
“Y-you want me to? Really?”
“Works wonders for you.” John tilts his head and taps his cheek. “Here will do.”
Sherlock places a careful kiss on John’s cheek, then another on the top of his head for good measure.
People: *kindly gives me wonderful and delightful parentlock headcanon*
Me: aww :’) 💕💕💕💕
Also me: speaking of Rosie can you imagine how hurt Sherlock would feel if Rosie had grown into her teen years and Sherlock and Rosie argued (as parent and child often do) but then in her fit of emotions she tells Sherlock off saying that “you’re not even my real father! John is my father! Not you, and I know you’re both keeping a secret from me and I know what it is, I know you killed my mother! So you don’t get to tell me what to do!”
John knows something is wrong the moment he walks into 221B. Rosie is nowhere to be seen, there’s a shattered teacup in in the kitchen, and Sherlock is sitting on his chair, his hands in his hair and his face hidden in his knees. You don’t have to be a consulting detective to figure out what’s happened.
“Had another fight with Rosie, then?” he asks, because it’s ridiculous, the amount those two fight. And there’s no in-between either – it’s either Sherlock-and-Rosie like they’re joined at the hip, talking philosophy and science and literature in a mad mishmash of seven different languages – Rosie maintains that it’s impossible to discuss poetry in anything but French, and Sherlock is firm that Arabic is the only suitable language to discuss philosophy, although he’s willing to give German the occasional go – or it’s screaming matches in the sitting room and throwing things.
Sherlock’s breath hitches, and John stops dead. He knows that sound, he’s heard it before, in the dead of night when Sherlock thought he was asleep, and once on the floor of a morgue.
“Sherlock, are you crying?” he finds himself asking, and Sherlock flinches away from him. When John takes a step closer Sherlock actually flees from him, slamming the bedroom door behind him, and okay, this is just not on.
It’s not hard to deduce where Rosie is. He hasn’t spent twenty years following Sherlock Holmes through London without learning a thing or two, after all, and it’s only about ten minutes before he finds her, sitting on a park bench watching the ducks.
He sits down beside her and doesn’t say anything for a moment. She looks like Mary, in the set of her eyes and her mouth, but mostly, and he’s not sure how that happened, she looks like Sherlock. It’s in the way she carries her head, in the grace of her violinist’s hands. It’s in the way that her eyes – which she got from John, the ordinary made remarkable by her fine-featured face – seem to see deeper and more clearly than those of ordinary people. Only fifteen, and a beauty, and a genius, with a mind like a steel trap and a smile like a summer dawn – Rosie Watson is going to break so many hearts someday, but right now John needs to make sure that her first doesn’t belong to Sherlock.
She speaks before he can.
“I told him he’s not my real father,” she says quietly – and it’s the most ridiculous thing John’s ever heard, because she says those words, those hateful words, in the posh accent she learned at Sherlock’s knee. “And I said that I know he killed my mother.”
And every word sinks into John’s chest like a punch from an angry stranger, and he makes a strangled sound almost like a sob.
“Where…where did you hear that?” he asks.
Rosie doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move her eyes from the middle distance.
“Did you know Sherlock kept a diary?” she asks instead of answering, and no, John had not known that. “I found it under the desk last week. I’d dropped a slide and…”
“And you read it?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She pauses. “I stopped after the part where he talks about having killed her. He said “Mary’s dead. She’s dead and I killed her. I wish I hadn’t, but I did, and I’m so sorry.” I thought…I thought she died on a case. I was going to ask about it but then today we were fighting and it just came out. You know?”
She does glance at him then, the same unsure glance from the corner of the eye that Sherlock always gives, when he knows what he’s said is not-good, but isn’t quite sure how badly it’s going to be received.
John doesn’t say anything.
“And his face when I said it,” Rosie continues. “I…he looked like I’d shot him.”
“Well,” John says quietly, “that’s probably how it felt to him.”
Rosie sucks in a breath.
“I have to go – I have to go apologize-” She’s trying to stand but John finds that his hand has fixed itself around her wrist, so tightly that it probably hurts.
“Sit,” he says.
“But-”
“Sit down. You’ve hurt Sherlock, hurt him badly, and I’m not letting you anywhere near him until you know enough to understand exactly what you’ve done. So sit down, and listen.”
She sits, and John begins to explain. He skips the parts she already knows – Moriarty and the Fall, and the wedding. He starts with when Mary shot Sherlock in the heart. He can see from the way Rosie’s jaw clenches that this, at least, had not been in Sherlock’s diary. Probably he’d never written it down, protecting Mary even in his private writings.
He tells the story, the whole story, the lies and the cover-ups and Magnussen, and eventually he comes to Mary’s death. They’re both crying a bit by then.
“He thought he’d killed her. Hell, I thought he’d killed her. I know better now, but he…well. Sherlock’s always been very willing to believe the worst of himself.”
“But that’s not logical!” Rosie protests, and she’s pacing in front of the bench now, her hands in her golden hair. “That’s stupid! She got herself killed, how could he blame himself for that? How could you blame him for that?”
“It was…a complicated situation,” John says carefully. “I was very confused. Remember I already loved Sherlock – I’ve always loved him, since the day we met -, but I was married to your mother, and it seemed easier, I guess. To tell myself it was his fault, because I already felt so guilty because…”
“Because you didn’t love her anymore,” Rosie says flatly.
And maybe it’s time he admits it.
“No, not by then. I’m sorry, Bee.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” she says, and puts her hand on his head. “She shot Sherlock.” Like it’s that simple, like someone who shoots Sherlock doesn’t deserve love. And John hates that she has to reconcile this with her picture of Mary – whom they had never painted as a saint, but nobody had felt the need to bring the assassin bit up before.
“There’s more,” he says. “Sit down, please.”
And then he tells her about the way that Sherlock had baby-proofed 221B, had moved his experiments to 221C, had bought a cot and a highchair and a pram, had learned how to play lullabies on the violin. He tells her how, when they had first moved into 221B with Sherlock – when John and Rosie were still sharing the upstairs bedroom – he would wake up in the morning to find Rosie asleep on Sherlock’s chest in the living room. How when she took her first steps it was into Sherlock’s arms. He reminds her of violin lessons and painting each other’s toenails, and the way Sherlock would read to her for hours when she was fussy, or recite entire plays.
By the time he stops, she’s crying into her hands.
“I don’t know why you said what you said,” John says finally. “But you have to know that it’s not true. Sherlock has been a father to you all your life, in every way that matters. And I think that you know that. Sherlock loves you with all his heart, and that’s a beautiful gift. But that means you can hurt him more than anyone, so you need to have a care, my darling.”
She nods once and then she’s up, racing back towards Baker Street with her hair and her coat flying behind. John follows at a more leisurely pace. He stops to get himself a coffee on the way.
They’ll sort it out. They always do. Sometimes his geniuses just need a little push.
Sherlock freezes when he hears the click of the bathroom door’s lock.
“John, please-” he starts, but breaks off when Rosie’s golden head peeks around the door. “Oh.”
“I picked the lock,” she says, holding up a hairpin. She’s been crying, and she looks strangely awkward, standing there with a hairpin in one hand, her shoulders hunched and her hair wind-blown. “I’m so sorry for what I said.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s true anyway. It’s all true, I’m just being stupid.” He summons up a smile for her, but it must look dreadfully fake because her face crumbles and she starts crying again and oh God, he made her cry!
Sherlock stumbles to his feet and takes her in his arms. They end up on the floor, Rosie in his lap as she was when she was tiny, just a tiny bundle of smiles with a tuft of golden hair, and she clings to him to tightly, as though she thinks he might run if she lets go. As if he would. As if he could.
“It’s not true,” she whispers into his neck. “None of it’s true, Sherlock.”
“Technically-”
“Fuck technically!” she hisses, and her arms go around him even more tightly. “Not a word of it is true, and I don’t even know why I said it now, becauseit’s stupid, and it’s wrong, and it was cruel, and I’m so sorry, Sherlock, please say you’ll forgive me!”
There’s a lump in his throat, but he manages it. “Of course. Of course I forgive you, Bee.” he murmurs, and drops a kiss on her head. “Sometimes people hurt each other.”
“But I don’t want to hurt you, Sherlock,” she says, and sits up. She takes his face in her hands and they stare at each other. “You didn’t kill my mother,” she says fiercely. “She got herself killed, and got you to blame yourself for it. And she nearly killed you!”
“Weeell,” Sherlock starts, but she glares at him and he leaves off. Perhaps now isn’t the moment for a David Tennant impression.
“No, I’ve studied your anatomy textbooks, and I know where that scar of yours is – I’ve seen it. She was trying to kill you. And if she had – if I’d never known you…God, Sherlock, my life would have been so empty. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
And he doesn’t, not quite, but she is glaring at him, so he gives a short nod, and she smiles, a wry little twist of a ‘you’re an idiot’ smile that she definitely got from John. When she starts talking, she speaks quickly, like the words are falling over each other to get out of her mouth, and she’s staring at him intently – deducing whether he believes her, the way he taught her.
“I’m saying that without you, I would have grown up speaking only one language. I would never have learned the violin. I would have had a miserable father and a lying mother. I would have learned normal, boring things at a normal, boring school. I would never have gone to Germany and pretended to be a runaway and saved a hundred people from the worst thing I can imagine. I would have no idea what the inside of an eyeball looks like, or what bees do when they think nobody is watching. I would have grown up, and I would have been ordinary, and maybe I would have been happy, but you, Sherlock! You have made me extraordinary. Everything that I am, everything that I’m proud of in my life and all the things I’m going to do one day – that’s all because of you. So don’t let anyone tell you you’re not my father, because you’re the best father anyone has ever had, and that’s final”
And okay, now Sherlock is crying again, but only because he feels as though his heart is about to burst out of his chest, and Rosie puts her arms around him again and just holds him as he cries, his magnificent, brilliant daughter, whom he loves more than anything.
Sherlock isn’t sure how long he cries for, but when he stops, John is standing beside them, watching them with a smile.
“I take it you two sorted it out, then?” he asks.
Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t know what (it will probably be something witty and self-deprecating though) but Rosie speaks before he can.
“Dad,” she says. “I think Sherlock needs to adopt me.”
concept: john making a passing comment about butterfly kisses in some dismissive, oh whatever kind of way, but sherlock frowns and says what?? there’s another way to kiss?? you don’t kiss me that way?? and john laughs but goes over and says hold still, i’ll show you, and he real slowly flutters his eyelashes against sherlock’s cheek, and when he pulls back sherlock is pink and his mouth has dropped open a bit and he says a little breathlessly, can i do that to you? and john says sure so sherlock leans in and does it to him and it’s actually kind of incredibly intimate, the soft soft brush of eyelashes, and everything is quiet except the sound of their breathing as it hitches in their chests and when sherlock draws back again john cups his face in his two hands and kisses him properly, so so slowly and so so softly, and reminds himself to kiss sherlock more often, just because he can
John whined from the back of his throat. “Christ, just…”
Sherlock pressed the head of his cock against John’s hole, feeling the resistance of it as he pushed inside, the muscles squeezing around him.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John sucked in a sharp, trembling breath. “Stop, stop. It’s too big.”
Sherlock took a deep breath and wrenched his self control back from the single-minded need to be buried to the root inside John. He stopped moving, gripping the base of his cock between thumb and finger and waited.
“Just give me a sec,” John said, hanging his head, forehead pressing to the pillow beneath. He widened his knees, gyrating his hips, trying to adjust to the girth of Sherlock’s cock. “How far are you? How much inside?”
“Just the head,” Sherlock said with far more calm than he felt. “John, I…”
“Just a second,” John mumbled, squeezing his eyes closed. The pressure of being stretched open, the fullness he felt already, and Sherlock wasn’t even halfway. “More lube.”
Sherlock quickly squirted from the bottle, pouring cool lube all around John’s hole with his cock still inside. He circled his finger around the stretched rim, shivering in pleasure at how red it looked swallowing his cock like that.
The rim massage of Sherlock’s finger and the extra lube helped, easing the painful pressure into something else, something not quite pleasure yet on the verge of it.
“Okay,” John breathed with a thick swallow around his dry tongue. “More,”
Sherlock groaned under his breath, a soft noise that caught in his teeth as he pushed forward. His cock slipped in with far more ease but the resistance was still there, the tightness of John’s fluttering little hole still massaging around his cock. “Just a little more,” Sherlock said with a breathy sigh, watching with something like euphoria as his cock disappeared into John’s body. “Just a bit more,”
Shivery heat tightened John’s nipples as little goosebumps prickled across his skin. He felt too full already, too widely stretched, and yet Sherlock wasn’t stopping, he was still going.
“God, John, look at you taking me like this,” Sherlock marveled at it, at how that sweet little hole was swallowing his cock up. A low moan rumbled from deep in his chest as he finally bottomed out, his cock fully sheathed inside John’s body.
It was pure driven instinct to pull back and start thrusting; he curbed the need by raking the pads of his fingers down John’s back, admiring his taut muscles, the way his bones felt, the fine sheen of sweat across his skin.
Curling around smaller John’s body, loving how perfectly they fit together, Sherlock kissed the back of John’s neck and nosed into his hair. “Please, John,”
John groaned in a mewling kind of way, a lit fuse inside his body as Sherlock’s chest pressed against him, changing the angle of his hips, his cock sliding just so and pushing up against the place inside him that made his legs quake. “Move, Jesus, Sherlock, move,” he panted.
With a noise of pure pleasure, Sherlock started to move his hips in smooth, thrusting motions. It didn’t take long for power to build, the urge to go faster and harder too great to resist. He pushed down on John with his body with each powerful thrust until John’s knees slid out from under him, pushing him flat on his front. Sherlock covered John’s body with his, sliding his arms beneath John’s chest to gain leverage as he fucked into John’s hole with snapping, hard thrusts. His whole cock was pushed inside John, his balls slapping against John’s skin as he moved, the slick little noises of fucking filling the room.
John turned his head the side, panting as he moaned in a staccato to match Sherlock’s thrusts. His cock was rubbing between his body and the soft bed sheets, teasing him with the promise of release but never quite getting there. It was glorious, sweet torture.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” John begged and panted and clawed at the pillow. He was completely covered by Sherlock’s body, completely at Sherlock’s mercy, unable to move except to squirm and wiggle.
“Hold on,” Sherlock breathed, stopping the movement of his hips. “Roll with me,” he said, lifting off of John only enough so that John could move with Sherlock as he rolled them onto their sides, spooning up behind John tightly, his cock slipping out.
Lifting John’s leg up, Sherlock kissed the shell of John’s ear and said, “Put me back inside you,”
With a trembling sigh, John reached between his legs, grasping for Sherlock’s slick, hard cock and took it in his hand, guiding it back to his hole where he pushed the tip in and bore down, groaning in a desperate, breathy way as he felt the hot stretch all over again.
“Touch yourself, wank your cock for me,” Sherlock said, sliding his hand up the back of John’s thigh. He pushed over the curve of John’s sweet little arse and then slid his hand up to grip at the soft bit of fat John had at his hips. Using it as leverage, Sherlock held onto John’s body and fucked into him, listening as John wanked himself.
“Come on, love,” Sherlock breathed, the excitement in his body increasing with every moan that fell from John’s lips.
With a wiggle of his hips, John bore down on Sherlock’s cock, taking it into himself deep and hot. It didn’t take long to feel that familiar ache in his balls, that shivery tension behind his navel. With a soft, low cry John came into his hand, spilling come over his fingers and onto the sheets, Sherlock’s name on his lips.
Watching and listening to John come sent Sherlock over the edge. The way John’s body was squeezing and pulsing around his cock was an exquisite kind of torture, pulling pleasure from him in pumps of soft sticky come that filled John’s little hole.
“God, John, so good,” Sherlock panted, hips stuttering to a stop as the last of his orgasm drained from him.
It took a while to get themselves detached and cleaned up and they ended up taking a joint trip to the loo. After a shared shower where they soaped each other and kissed in between each slide of soapy hands on smooth, soft skin, they collapsed in bed together.
Without a word, John pulled Sherlock around him, huddling his body against Sherlock’s. A shivery pleasant tingle ran through him as the position echoed what they’d been doing just a short while ago.
Lacing their fingers together on John’s stomach, Sherlock nuzzled the back of John’s neck, marveling yet again at how perfect they fit together. The solid weight and muscle of John pressed up against him was the deepest comfort Sherlock could have ever hoped for.
In his defense, it’s been a particularly tough day. Not that any day these days is considered any better but today… today has just a fucking day. A day full of murders and chases and gorgeous detectives being brilliant as hell, and frankly he has a right to be this wound up. This high-strung. This fucking horny.
It’s what he tells himself anyway.
Silence falls over his room at Baker Street, shadows playing across his ceiling as midnight falls upon London and he simply can’t help himself any longer, the ache of holding off burning him from the inside out. His eyes flutter closed as he slips his pants off and tugs his shirt over his head, images of things he’s held private for so long dancing across his vision like movie clips, things he’s never dared to long for, never allowed his waking self to imagine because up until recently it hasn’t been an option.
Now it is.
Or it will be soon.
It’s started out slowly, exactly how John knows it should. A shoulder squeeze in the morning, a gentle back-rub in the afternoon, only recently daring to graze soft kisses over sharp cheekbones and only once or twice have lips actually met.
Slow.
It’s how he wants to do it, and it’s how he knows Sherlock Holmes needs to do it because Sherlock has never had any type of relationship like this before and John wants this to be utterly perfect for him and so slow is best. Slow is necessary. Ever since that night a few months ago, the night John had woken to Sherlock perched on the edge of his bed, hands fidgeting in his lap, beautiful green eyes wide and round and frightened, that night that John had narrowly missed being swiped open with a switchblade and Sherlock had barely contained his utter panic and somehow everything was different. That night that Sherlock hadn’t said a single word and John had understood. That night that they’d become them. They’d become this.
Slow.
And slow is fine. Slow is good.
But slow doesn’t douse the fire in John’s belly when he bloody looks at Sherlock Holmes and slow doesn’t make Sherlock Holmes any less beautiful and slow doesn’t stop the fantasies from filling John Watson’s sex-starved brain for the man living one floor below him.
They still sleep apart. It hasn’t been verbally requested, only assumed, and John’s okay with it, though he somehow misses Sherlock every night without even knowing what it would be like to sleep near each other, but for some reason it still feels important. This thing between them is fragile. Sherlock is fragile. And John doesn’t want to go mucking it up just yet. They’ll get there at their own pace. Of that, John is certain.
Though now, as he lays in the darkness alone, slow is not doing it for John’s aching lower half. Not at all. Not when visions are playing around his mind and a naked Sherlock is currently spinning around his head and the idea of his beautiful flatmate on his back beneath John is all it takes for him to mutter a curse of resignation before he’s up on his knees with a hand snaking down his body and a bitten off moan slips past his lips, the fantasy taking full form as John plants a hand against his headboard, leaning forward and rocking his hips into his fist.
Stroking from base to tip, eyes fluttering closed, losing himself in the image in his head in the privacy of his own mind, John Watson gives in, deciding the quiet in the flat is the best he’ll ever get to have a private wank to the thought of his beautiful flatmate currently dissecting something in the kitchen but oh god it doesn’t matter, who the fuck cares what Sherlock is doing right now, all that matters is what he’s not doing, which is that he’s not currently writhing under John Watson, but oh god those curls and those ethereal eyes and those tight shirts and that slender, fit body and Christ Christ Christ.
What would Sherlock Holmes look like in the throws of an orgasm? What would his body do? What would his eyes do? Would he toss that ridiculous head of curls back and moan out loud? Would he bite his lip harshly and swallow any cries? Would he beg for John to give it to him harder, deeper, faster?
John bucks his hips at the idea, his Mind Sherlock currently arching his back as John drives his cock deeper into him, pressing him back into the mattress with a growl. He pictures Sherlock whimpering as John’s cock nudges against his prostate, pictures that beautiful man sliding a hand into John’s hair and holding on for dear life, pictures Sherlock’s eyes rolling back in his head as John delivers him thrust after thrust of pleasure.
“Fuck, Sherlock,” John grounds out from between clenched teeth, grip tightening on his cock as he thrusts forward, body moving as though he’s currently shagging Sherlock into the sheets, practically feeling those long legs wrapped around his waist, almost seeing soft pink skin laid out beneath him. “Sherlock, oh Christ…”
“Oh, John.”
It takes a full six seconds for that voice to resonate around his head before John realizes it’s not coming from his thoughts at all but from behind him, a real voice coming from a real body that isn’t only in his imagination but currently in his room. And before John can stop himself, can drag his pants back up his hips and cover himself and apologize profusely, long, pale arms are wrapping around his torso as a strong, slender form presses up against his back, knees finding their way between John’s, the figure folding itself over John effortlessly. “Oh god, John.” Soft, damp lips press warm kisses along the length of his neck and John can’t help moaning, his hand still flying over himself, unable to stop, unable to think because oh god Sherlock is here, Sherlock is really here and it’s so much better than his imagination. It’s so much better than he could have ever anticipated.
“Sherlock,” is all John can manage to garble, the feeling of his gorgeous partner wrapping around him after so many months of wanting this desperately is almost too much, and he should be ashamed, he should be deeply deeply horrified and apologetic.
But he can’t be.
Not when Sherlock’s hand starts to travel down his stomach, not when Sherlock shushes him softly when John whimpers, not when Sherlock sneaks his hand beneath John’s and whispers, “That’s it, John,” in a growling, fierce voice.
“Oh- Oh Sherlock, I… fuck, ohhh fuck.” John tries to explain, tries to apologize, tries to say something but long fingers are wrapping around his flushed cock and he’s panting, head dropping back against Sherlock’s shoulder, giving over to it, unable to stop it, unable to care that this has all gone horribly wrong but somehow feels unbelievably right. “Oh god, oh my god,” he mutters shakily, hips pumping into that unfamiliar yet so familiar fist, the warmth almost unbearably pleasurable.
“Why are you hiding away up here like this, John?” Sherlock murmurs into his ear, pulling long, deliberate strokes over his cock, fingers gliding to the base and tickling through soft pubic hair before making their way back up to the very sensitive tip, brushing a thumb over the head and causing John to practically sob out a moan.
“I… I… I can’t, I can’t,” John shudders, the very real threat of orgasm hovering just on the fringes of his hazed reality. “I wasn’t… we’re… we are… taking…I… slow.”
“Why?” Sherlock practically growls, his free hand roaming over John’s chest to pinch one of his peaked nipples. “Why are you torturing us with slow, John? Don’t you know? Don’t you have any idea how badly I want you?”
“Sherlock,” John cries out sharply, the touch to his pectorals sending zings of pleasure rippling down his spine and straight to his cock, his own hands finding their way up and over his head and around to find inky curls ready and waiting for him to wrap his fingers in, and he does, taking immense pleasure in the sound of Sherlock groaning in his ear.
“Pull my hair,” Sherlock breathes, moving to tweak John’s other nipple and stroking him faster, and John complies, tugging gently and Sherlock gives a filthy flick of his wrist, moaning John’s name into his neck. John arches harshly into Sherlock’s fist, entire body practically curving into a C-shape as he holds onto the dark curls and fucks the fist in front of him.
“I… I didn’t… know…” John is struggling with his words but maybe words can wait, maybe words can just be put on the back burner for now because the pleasure sweeping his body currently is severe and thick and all-consuming and John doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out until he’ll be happily drowning in it.
“If you’ve been going slow for my benefit, then I am terribly sorry but you’ve been misinformed,” Sherlock continues to murmur in his ear like he isn’t currently rocking every single fiber of John’s being. “I don’t want slow, John Watson. What I want is you. All of you. Every square inch of you.”
“Sherlock.” It’s the only word he seems to be able to articulate right now, the only word that seems to matter at all as he can practically see the tidal wave about to crash over him and swallow him whole into the depths of bone-deep bliss.
“I want to touch you every day, John,” Sherlock whispers, nose grazing John’s ear, the soft touch only heightening the vibrating need in his body. “I want your hands on me all the time. I want to kiss you. I want to feel your tongue touch mine. I want to hold you. I want to press myself against you and feel you. I want to touch your cock. I want to stroke you until you come.”
He punctuates his point with a pinch of a nipple and squeeze to John’s length and John sobs to the ceiling, eyes slammed closed.
“I want to taste you,” Sherlock continues like he isn’t currently playing John’s body the same as he plays that bloody violin of his. “I want to lick your cock and swallow your come. I want to know what you look like with your dick in my mouth.”
John is nodding. Or he thinks he’s nodding. He might just be shaking. Who the fuck cares really because Sherlock’s deep voice is resonating in his ear, explaining in great detail everything he wants and everything John has wanted and he’s about to slip right over when-
“But most of all, John, more than anything else,” Sherlock growls, speeding up his hand and somehow pressing unbearably closer to John, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me on my back, on my hands and knees, on my side. I want you to fuck me on the sofa and in my chair and on the kitchen table. I want you to bend me over the desk and ravage me. I want you to take me to bed and let me ride your cock. I. Want. You. To. Fuck. Me.”
And, obviously, that’s what does it.
A devastating shiver races down John’s spine and spreads out to every one of his limbs as he falls apart in Sherlock’s arms, fingers tightening in curls, hips throwing themselves into a fist as Sherlock practically destroys him, his entire body shuddering helplessly, wrecked from head to toe as Sherlock works him through it, never ceasing his movements, never not speaking, filling every single nerve of John’s body with pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Gasping harshly, chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath, John falls back against Sherlock, letting his entire weight rest against him, not having the strength nor the desire to hold himself up, his knees starting to ache with the pressure on them but right now it simply doesn’t matter because Sherlock is stroking his chest and his belly and rocking him gently, soothing him back to calm as his body shivers with the aftershocks.
He allows himself to be soothed, eyes fluttering closed, brain attempting to right itself from where Sherlock has practically shattered it to bits, trying its best to analyze the situation and clear the fog and bloody understand what the hell just happened.
But Sherlock is still here. Sherlock chose to come up here. Sherlock put himself willingly in this situation without John asking anything of him.
Sherlock doesn’t want slow.
Sherlock wants John.
Happy warmth fills his insides, replacing the shaking with calm waves of tenderness and John turns in Sherlock’s arms, just slightly, just enough to see Sherlock’s face and smile lazily up at him and whisper, “You mean to tell me we could have been doing this the whole time?”
Looking startled for half a second, Sherlock’s mouth turns from a surprised ‘o’ to a sneaky, pleased grin, eyes crinkling at the corners, cheeks tinged pink. “Yes, John,” he whispers, leaning down to brush a kiss over his lips. “You could have had this a long time ago.”
“Well,” John whispers back, his strength slowly returning to him as he prepares to pounce. “Let’s not waste another minute then, yeah?”
Sherlock tapping in Morse code onto Johns chest in the middle of the night while he thinks he’s asleep but John, who’s just barely still awake softly smiles into Sherlock’s hair that’s pressed just below his chin not letting him know that he’s feeling every single sweet nothing sherlock’s been too shy to verbalize just yet
Sherlock is curled up against John’s side, curly head tucked under John’s chin, lips brushing his shoulder. Sherlock is, of course, still awake; he’s been quiet for half an hour, but the slight tension in the muscles under John’s hand gives him away. The flat is dark and silent, the street below blissfully calm. John is dozing, just about to fall into a proper sleep when he feels a light tapping on his chest.
At first, John thinks it’s nothing–Sherlock tapping his fingers while he thinks is not uncommon–until his sleep-heavy brain manages to pick up on a pattern. Sherlock is tapping with two fingers, index and middle: index tapping quick and short, middle tapping and then pausing before continuing. Morse code, John eventually realizes, and manages to catch the tail end of whatever Sherlock is tapping now.
-l-w-a-y-s b-e-e-n y-o-u
There’s another pause, longer, and Sherlock continues tapping.
I l-o-v-e y-o-u
Sherlock must believe that John’s asleep. He’s never said the words aloud before, nor anything half as affectionate, since they stumbled into this long-overdue relationship. John deliberately keeps his breathing slow and deep, afraid that the slightest movement will give him away and make Sherlock stop.
m-y c-o-n-d-u-c-t-o-r o-f l-i-g-h-t
y-o-u k-e-e-p m-e r-i-g-h-t
John can’t help smiling into the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock doesn’t notice and keeps going.
y-o-u a-r-e m-o-r-e t-h-a-n I d-e-s-
Sherlock stutters to a stop mid-word. His fingers curl against his palm, slowly, regretfully, leaving his hand resting on John’s chest. John swallows, imagining the quiet, sad expression that he would see on Sherlock’s face if he lifted his own head.
John gives up the game. He shifts to wrap both arms tightly around Sherlock and dips his head to press a kiss against Sherlock’s brow. A sharp, quick intake of breath tells him Sherlock is surprised, but instead of speaking, John taps his own message against the back of Sherlock’s shoulder.
y-o-u d-e-s-e-r-v-e e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g
Sherlock is still for a long, quiet moment. Then he tucks his face into the crook of John’s neck, and John feels Sherlock’s shy smile as he finally drifts to sleep.
Fa Subitoby kim47, 6
k, explicit, John wears a suit. Sherlock finds it extremely distracting.
Dress Senseby
PrettyArbitrary, 6 k, explicit. Sherlock only wants the same thing everyone
wants: to dress John up in a £1000 suit and then strip it right back off him.
Suitedby mydwynter, 3
k, explicit. Sherlock and John have a little game they play to unwind. John
looks fantastic in his suit, but even better when he takes it off.
Balls-deep in the corner pocket by moonblossom, 2 k, explicit. John wears a new suit, Sherlock finds him
even more attractive than usual, and the boys take advantage of the surface of
a billiards table at a high-end gentleman’s club.
The Only Thing That Looks Good
On Meby blessedjessed, 3 k, mature. In which John wears a bespoke suit, and
Sherlock suddenly has difficulty concentrating on his work. Fluffy little
one-shot.
Thank You for Smoking by Lorelei_Lee, 13 k,
explicit. Sherlock encourages a suspect to smoke inside Scotland Yard… so
that he can (secretly) inhale the smoke too. Too bad John took Sherlock’s
promise seriously that he had quit smoking. John decides to teach Sherlock a
lesson he won’t soon forget …
The Gentleman’s Guide to
Breaking in a Suitby 221b_hound, 4 k, explicit. John is working today,
but he has texted Sherlock to say he’s bringing home a new-ish suit. Sherlock,
excited, has prepared.
Oh nonny, it’s so hard to chose! I can’t say these are the hottest fics I’ve read, but here’s a few scorchers I pulled out of my lists. Hope some are new for you!
HOT Sexytimes Johnlock Fic Recs
The Red Box by Cleo2010, 12 k, explicit. PWP. Existing
relationship. Sherlock uncovers John’s secret kink – he likes to wear women’s
underwear in the bedroom. Sherlock indulges him by adding to his collection. Oh
my! Hot sex!
Curious
Case by Cleo2010, 44 k, explicit.
Some of the hottest getting-together sex ever. Sherlock has burns on his hands,
and has to ask John to jerk him off to relieve his sexual tension and clear his
mind. For some reason, this must go on for 11 searingly-hot chapters as John
navigates his sexuality crisis, and admits he’s in a relationship with
Sherlock. DAMN! Unnnf.
001 by tepidspongebath, 5 k, explicit. Part of a
series of number porn stories. When John comes home from having sex, Sherlock
deduces what happened while John jerks off to his voice. HOT.
Symposium by sweetcupncakes, 2.5 k,
explicit. Hot little PWP of John and Sherlock in a clench in the kitchen
cheating on Mary. Infidelity. Very thinky. WOW.
Best of Three by SilentAuror, 17 k, explicit . Utterly hot
bet that Sherlock won’t turn on “Not Gay” John in a little three-nights-running
experiment. Hot, and sweet, and bewitching.
Evening Rideby lapislazuli, 8 k, explicit. Short little PWP that is so freaking hot, I can’t
stand it. John literally bumps into a tall posh stranger in a crowded tube car,
and the resulting anonymous humping is something they seem to keep
(accidentally on purpose) repeating on a bi-weekly basis. A fav.
How To Remove A Bra by flawedamythyst, 2 k, explicit. John shows
Sherlock how to remove a bra for a case, and bit of cross-dressing and
proximity has our lads going from pre-slash to slash. Hot and cute. Yum.
Nothing ever
happens to me by
PlainJane, 5 k, explicit. Short PWP. John is working as a security guard at
Heathrow airport when a certain posh subject needs a pat down. HOT sexy times.
Distractionsby allonsys_girl , 9 k, explicit. Sherlock is
a detective on a case in a bar. John is a pretty shots boy working the room
with a tray of drinks. Sherlock texts Lestrade that he’s off the case for the
night as he and John find a private spot. Ooh la la, lip gloss, gold shorts and
army boots, oh my! Switchlock.
Best Seat in the House by wendymarlowe, 5 k, explicit. Stripperlock!
Sherlock dances for money in a club, and John is the new bartender. Sherlock
takes him home one night, and John takes him to see God. Very hot, and very
sweet.
Sacrifices Must Be Made by Winter_of_our_Discontent, 4 k, explicit.
Dragonlock AU. This was just an adorable blend of a dragon world with BBC
Sherlock. John is sent as a human sacrifice, but somehow they hit it off, and a
different relationship unfolds between John and his shape-shifting new dragon
friend. PWP – very hot.
Keep Each Other Company by agameofscones (orithea), 4 k, explicit.
Sherlock is a Time Traveler and one night, John ends up in bed with two
Sherlocks – as if one isn’t enough.
A Thorough Examination / In
Depth by emungere, explicit, 15 k.
Dark!John. This is a prime example of medical kink – but wrapped up in a rape,
noncon situation. John convinces Sherlock to have a physical done, but his
medical attentions stray much darker than Sherlock was expecting. Something of
a happy ending, very hot, but beware the tags!
Just Browsing by bendingsignpost, 3 k, explicit. Alternate
first meeting, Sherlock and John meet in a bookshop and have it off in a
storage room. Sooo hot, and a bit of Darkfuckprince!Sherlock.
Caring for John seriesby SailorChibi, 5 works, mature-explicit.
John has searched his whole life to find someone he can submit to. He just
wants someone to take care of him but he’s never found the right person. Until
he started dating Sherlock. Together they explore what works for them both.
Hot, caring BDSM. Thumbs up!
When
this is all over, let’s meet in New York by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for, 12 k, mature. Freelance photographer John Watson is on
assignment in a city verging on war. When he meets the mysterious Sherlock
Holmes, tension crackles and the night takes a decidedly sexy turn. A gritty
little love story inspired by Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
Under the
Gun by justacookieofacumberbatch
(buffyholic), 24 k, John is an assassin sent to eliminate Sherlock Holmes.
Unfortunately, John finds himself too fascinated with his target to complete
the mission. Good plot and very hot! Bamf!John.
Lock and Key series by 221b_hound. 8 parts, explicit. John is back at Baker street after Mary, and
slowly he and Sherlock find their way together. Sherlock wants to know
everything once he and John are intimate, all the fantasies that turn John on.
What did you think aboutseries by Chryse – 6 parts, explicit Johnlock
PWP shorts that involve John and Sherlock trading their sexual fantasies back
and forth as they find ways to act them out. Wows! So Hot!
The One Where Sherlock Comes In
His Pants
by ellie_hell, 5 k, explicit. The five times Sherlock came in his pants
and the one time he came in someone else’s. Aaarrgggh. Hot kinky sex that
remains sweet.
The Matter Seriesby bees_stories, 2 parts, explicit. Sherlock
asks John to give him a hand (for both health and science) in getting rid of an
unwanted erection. John acts strangely thereafter until Sherlock can confront
him. Hot and sweet and just a touch of angst. THUMBS UP!
Johnlock Fanfic 