Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Our Legacy

“Stop, stop!” John shouted, coming up for air before he was pulled under the water again and pinched soundly on the bum. He managed to kick Sherlock away, and they came up a few feet apart. “Stop it, you dickhead! I won fair and square.”

“You cheated.”

“Did not. I’m compact. More hydrodynamic.”

Sherlock snorted and splashed John again. “I’ve a longer reach than you do. You took two strokes to my one. I should have won easily.”

“What can I say?” John shrugged, treading water. “I’m practically a porpoise.”

Sherlock pouted. “A particularly small porpoise. You can’t even touch the bottom here, can you?”

John tried; he couldn’t without completely submerging his head. He frowned, then began his splash attack with renewed vigour.

“Truce,” called Sherlock after getting a direct hit to the face. He wiped water out of his eyes and swam over to John, who had retreated toward the edge of the pool.

“Come here,” said Sherlock, the tone of his voice now gentle and seductive. John eyed him dubiously, convinced Sherlock would drag him back out and dunk him again, but when Sherlock held out his arms, made sad eyes at him, and called his name just so, John found he couldn’t resist. He pushed off from the edge and crossed the few feet to Sherlock, wrapping his legs around his lover’s torso.

John sighed and let Sherlock hold his weight. He was going to miss the pool, and he was now lamenting the fact that the first time they actually used it together was their final night in Holmes Hall.

Everything had been boxed up in crates and packing cases; they’d spent the entire day sorting, folding, wrapping, taping, and loading until John’s shoulder began acting up and Sherlock developed a case of the sulks. They were both irritable and moody by dinnertime. John had hoped for a nice, final, intimate meal with Sherlock, but as the kitchen had been completely gutted of cooking utensils, plates, and cutlery, they were forced to go into Burnett Thwaite for supper at the local pub.

Nothing about supper turned out to be intimate; it seemed the entire village got wind of their presence in town and had come to bid them farewell. What should have taken an hour turned into three, and by the time they made it back to the hall, it was growing dark.

It had been too early to go to bed, yet with every passing hour Sherlock grew even more fidgety and sullen. Thankfully John had had the foresight to pluck a robust Valpolicella from the boxes as they’d packed up the wine cellar. They had found two lonely, mismatched tea-cups to drink from, and John used the corkscrew attachment on his Swiss Army knife to open the bottle. They sat on packing crates in the kitchen and drank toasts to the house, their past, and their future.

Two full cups apiece improved their moods considerably, although John found the packing crate less than comfortable seating and his body growing stiffer. He grimaced as he poured the last of the wine.

“I’ll rub it,” Sherlock offered.

“It won’t help.” John thought about the hateful blue rubber therapy band he’d binned earlier that day (it was not coming to London with them). “The only thing that really helps is to get it moving,” he said. “I’ll miss the pool.”

Something shifted in Sherlock’s expression. “Let’s go, then.”

“I’ve packed my trunks.”

“Who said anything about trunks?” he said, smiling suggestively. “Let’s have a race.”

“Oh-ho!” John said, raising his eyebrows. He’d always enjoyed a bit of playful competition, and he wasn’t about to pass Sherlock up on an opportunity to show off -- and be naked.

They left their mismatched teacups in the sink and made it to the pool, unbuttoning shirts as they went.

John liked the look of the pool at night, the glass ceiling above them dark and shadowy, the water clear and inviting.

As it turned out, Sherlock had miscalculated that his longer reach wouldn’t necessarily mean an easy victory. They’d raced the length of the pool and back three times, and John bested him every one. John hadn’t counted on Sherlock’s playful response to being thoroughly trounced, however, and he’d been taken aback when Sherlock turned on him and dunked him under the water. It was juvenile and absolutely welcome.

Now in Sherlock’s arms, John focused on catching his breath, simply enjoying the feel of being buoyant, the slip of cool water on his skin. He’d never been in this position before, being carried face-to-face by another man. Naked. The fact that Sherlock was a man was making itself blatantly obvious at the moment, too.

“So that’s what slowed you down,” he said, wiggling his pelvis against Sherlock.

“It’s my rudder.”

John snorted, feeling awfully twelve. Sherlock was usually so reserved. He rarely made dirty jokes or called body parts anything but their proper names. When he did come out with something obscene or childish, it never failed to take John by delighted surprise. John hummed, then disentangled himself and stretched out onto his back, putting himself on display atop the water. “See? I think there will soon be a mast to join it,” he said cheekily.

“Perhaps you should drop anchor in my port,” replied Sherlock, causing John to dissolve into another fit of giggling. Perhaps the wine was more potent than he’d thought.

“That’s awful,” John said at last, swimming back over to the ledge.

Sherlock shrugged, clearly proud of himself for making John laugh. “How’s your shoulder?” he asked.

John tested it. “Better.”

“Good.” Sherlock pressed forward, backing John into the pool tiles and bringing their bodies together. “Let’s get out.”

“Yeah? You’re not tired, are you?”

“On the contrary,” said Sherlock, leaning in to place his wet lips to John’s ear. John shivered as Sherlock’s hand trailed down his side. “On the other hand, let’s stay in. Can I touch you?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” replied John. He found it endearing that Sherlock still asked. Something about sex rendered the man practically polite. John usually reacted just the opposite: arousal took control, made him more demanding and more likely to direct. He had occasionally enjoyed a bit of power play in the bedroom with a few of his previous lovers, but he wanted the sexual aspects of his and Sherlock’s relationship to unfold organically, and so far Sherlock just seemed to be getting comfortable with his own reawakened sexuality.

“Turn around. Put your arms up on the ledge.”

John raised his eyebrows. It was the first time he’d heard Sherlock issue a command. Hello, sergeant-major, he thought, and quickly complied. He rested his chin on his hands as he spread his legs apart and let his body drift away from the wall and into Sherlock behind him. Relaxing, he savoured the sensation of his bollocks hanging suspended in the water and the contrast of the cool environment with the warmth of his erection.

“That’s it,” murmured Sherlock, sliding his hands down John’s sides to his hips before running them back up again and over his nipples. John sighed and leaned into the touch. He closed his eyes as Sherlock manoeuvred their bodies so that Sherlock was directly behind him. John felt the nudge of Sherlock’s cock between his legs, and he closed them so that Sherlock was trapped there between his thighs.

“What were you saying about ports and anchors?” he asked breathily.

Sherlock hummed and brought his large hands down to John’s groin, one hand wrapping around his length while the other cupped his balls. “Not here. Just want to touch you for a while.”

“By all means,” John replied as he shivered with pleasure. “Whatever...floats your boat.”

Deep, quiet laughter behind him. “Mmm,” Sherlock hummed. “Relax for me.”

John did his best to keep his body pliant as Sherlock fondled him. It was more like Sherlock was exploring, memorising how John’s skin felt while submerged, whether or not his flesh would respond to touch differently while wet. Long, warm fingers plucked at his nipples, smoothed down and over his ribs, worked down between his legs, tested the weight of his bollocks, the firmness of his prick before sliding down his thighs and back up. He was gentle and slow, and, true to his word, didn’t seem intent on bringing John or himself to orgasm. Nonetheless, it wasn’t long before John found his breathing speed up, a familiar ache building in the floor of his pelvis.

“Better stop,” he said, lifting his head from his arms and turning around. Sherlock’s wet hair curled above his brow, the shadows casting his cheekbones in sharp relief. The water rippled and caught the feeble glow from the wall sconces around him. There was an underwater light at the far end of the pool, enough for John to be able to see Sherlock’s body, his long legs as he trod water, the dark ‘v’ of hair between them. John reached out and drew their faces together for a kiss.

Even damp, cool, and tasting rather like pool chemicals, John delighted in the feel of Sherlock’s lips under his, their soft plumpness, the dip of his philtrum. John tipped his head so he could get better access to Sherlock’s tongue, which, in contrast to his lips, was hot and still tasted slightly of spicy wine.

They kissed leisurely as Sherlock slowly guided them back to the steps. When the water was shallow enough for both of them to kneel, Sherlock took both of John’s hands and planted them firmly on his arse. John, knowing when to take a hint, kneaded the muscles and ran his fingertips over the cleft, causing Sherlock to grow squirmy and more insistent.

“Are we still doing innuendo?” Sherlock asked, taking a moment to rub their cocks together, “because if so, I’m rather eager to be plundered.”

John groaned theatrically, but something about plundering Sherlock’s arse struck a loud and resonant chord with his limbic system. He mentally filed it away with other ‘phrases that shouldn’t but actually do sound extremely sexy when said by Sherlock Holmes.’ He was half tempted to haul Sherlock out of the water and go at it right there on a lounger. That was, of course, the moment he realised they hadn’t brought any towels with them, and their clothes that they’d left in a heap by the pool’s edge looked as if they had received a thorough soaking from their earlier water fight.

“You want it?” John asked, gently pressing his index finger to Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock groaned and shuddered. He was incredibly sensitive there, and John had learned very quickly how to turn his logical lover into a quivering mess. All it took was a firm but delicate touch, and Sherlock’s big beautiful brain went offline; the mind palace slammed all its doors simultaneously except for the one that contained everything he knew of love and sex, which was thrown wide open. And add in a tongue? The first time John attempted rimming, Sherlock had all but levitated off the bed.

These were good things to know when making love to the world’s only consulting detective.

Sherlock’s eagerness filled John with a sense of invincibility, an abundance of joy; it made him feel potent, powerfully virile, vibrantly alive. John pushed his finger in just a fraction, just enough for Sherlock to feel it, before withdrawing it and extricating himself from Sherlock’s arms. “Well,” he said, standing, cock stiff and bobbing before him as he climbed quickly out of the pool, “you’ll have to come and get it. Maybe this time you’ll win.”

With that, he took off as fast as he could, naked and dripping and praying he didn’t slip on the floor and crack his head open. Behind him he heard Sherlock groan with frustration before he, too, hauled himself out of the water and gave chase.

***

The old walls of Holmes Hall had seen some interesting things in their time -- political plots, family drama, the private joys and griefs of servants, a scandal or two. They had never, however, seen two grown, wet, naked, and magnificently aroused men chase each other down the hallway. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson had indulged in a herbal soother before she went to sleep, or she would have seen (and later heard) things that are better left to the imagination.

Sherlock’s long legs served him well in the chase, and although John probably could have made it to his bedroom first, Sherlock flicked the hallway lights off as he passed by them, causing John to lose a few moments to surprise and utter darkness.

Sherlock pressed John up against the door and kissed him, but John found the doorknob with his fingers and ducked inside, sending them both half-sprawling into the room, where the game began anew. John went around his bed, then over it, laughing as Sherlock reached out to grab him. But John wasn’t quick enough; Sherlock’s long-fingered hand caught his ankle, and John was trapped.

They wrestled together on the bed, vying for dominance.

“You’re stronger than you look,” grunted John as he attempted to flip Sherlock onto his back.

“You’re faster than you look,” countered Sherlock, locking his legs around John’s.

“I used to be quite fit,” said John, catching his breath and relaxing his body: game over.

“Hhmm,” said Sherlock. “You are fit. Very fit.”

John blushed. Sherlock didn’t compliment people very often. Not unless he meant it. “What’s got into you?” he asked.

“Nothing yet, although I did think I was being fairly forward.”

John rolled his eyes. “No, really.”

Having fully caught his breath, John rolled Sherlock off him and to the side so they were face-to-face, sideways on the bed.

“I have a low tolerance for alcohol,” Sherlock explained. “Red wine. It gets me every time.”

“Yeah right. You had two glasses. I’ve seen you knock back a few glasses of whisky without the ensuing innuendo. Are you sure you’re OK?”

Sherlock sighed. “Of course I’m OK,” he said, irritation creeping into his voice. “Why wouldn’t I be OK?”

“You’re leaving. This was your childhood home. It’s important.”

“Oh, please. It’s just a house.”

John gave Sherlock his best well-that’s-a-load-of-bullshit face.

Sherlock sighed and propped himself up on his elbow. “This room was used for guests when I was a boy,” he said. “We didn’t have them frequently, and I liked the big windows. It was a nice place to read. Quiet. Before it was redecorated it was very... pink. Like being inside a rose.”

“OK…?”

“But I won’t remember it empty, furniture draped with covers. I’ll remember it with you in it. The way you looked the first night I came to find you. I saw so much about you then, from the second you opened that door. I wanted you even then, you know. I didn’t recognise it, wouldn’t dare admit it to myself. I was still half out of my mind, I suppose.” Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and looked around the room from their vantage point on the bed. “I sat in your chair that night,” he remembered. “You gave me nicotine patches. I was so thankful I could have kissed you. I thought about you sometimes, that you’d be just downstairs, sitting there in your chair, reading. Not long after I allowed myself a glimpse of a fantasy.”

John looked at Sherlock, whose eyebrows had come together. What was that mind palace of his really like? John supposed it was fantastic and absurd, with nothing where it was supposed to be. Sherlock probably kept sexual fantasies in the freezer and bludgeonings in the bathroom cupboard. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Mycroft had all hinted at Sherlock’s ambivalence about (and even disdain for) sex, but Sherlock, as John had discovered, did have a libido. Granted, that libido was irregular and just as unpredictable as the man himself: there were days Sherlock was simply content to bring John off and then share a cuddle without achieving his own orgasm; and then there were other times that he was downright horny, nearly throwing himself at John and whispering all sorts of dirty things (finger me, John, or lick me open or will you come on my face?) that John couldn’t help but oblige. All of which were usually followed by Sherlock panting, “my love, oh, my love” as he teetered over the abyss.

Sex was closely linked with emotion for Sherlock, John realised. Selling Holmes Hall had been extremely difficult for Sherlock whether he would admit it or not; no wonder he was so keen for physical contact.

John decided to leave the conversation for later. “What fantasy was that?” he asked.

In an instant, the look of sentimental concern vanished from Sherlock’s face and was replaced by something born of desire. “Me riding you on that chair.”

John felt a little electric zing travel up his spine and down his legs, and his cock twitched in approval. “Well,” he said, feeling a little lightheaded, “By all means, be my guest.”

“Backwards.”

Sweet Jesus. John barely had a chance to think about how that might actually work (backwards?) before Sherlock descended upon him, capturing his mouth in a wet and insistent kiss.

“We didn’t pack the lube, did we?” Sherlock whispered when he came up for air.

“In my shaving kit.”

Sherlock nudged under John’s ear with his nose, licked at his neck. “Get on that chair,” he demanded before climbing off the bed and heading for the bathroom.

John heard the door click shut behind him and let out a shaky sigh. His heart was pounding, so he took several breaths to calm himself down. Never before had he had a lover whose very words affected him so much. Sherlock’s voice --so deep and masculine-- was incredibly arousing, and the things he said when he was in the mood -- dirty things, frankly honest things, even clinical things -- affected John more than any feminine moans and whimpers ever had.

On shaky legs, John made his way to the red padded chair and sat; it was a bit cold under his bare backside, so he pulled the old tartan blanket off the back, slung it over the chair, and sat back down. He looked down at his lap, at the curving scar on his leg. He traced it with his fingers, and then took himself in hand for a few leisurely moments of self-pleasure.

They hadn’t done it in a chair before, unless you count the blowjobs they’d given each other on Mycroft’s sofa. So far their episodes of penetrative sex were limited to the bedroom. Sherlock didn’t speak much of his sexual history, but from what John could gather it was limited and experimental. Either that, or done in exchange for drugs. Sickened at the prospect of anyone causing the man he loved harm or using him, John vowed to make every time they had sex meaningful, loving, nurturing, and safe. (At least, John figured, until they had reached a point where they’d grown comfortable communicating their needs and desires with one another.) So, sex had been in a safe and cosy bed, where afterward they could lie entwined, breathing each other’s air and holding on to one another, two men clinging to driftwood in an ocean.

It was good, too. Very, very good.

John figured they had plenty of time for adrenaline-fueled, up-against-the-wall sex, break-the-kitchen-table sex, or drench-the-floor bathtub sex.

Halfway through wondering if both of them could fit into the bathtub at 221b Baker Street, the bathroom door opened and Sherlock strode out, still gloriously hard.

“Open your legs,” he said. “Yes. Like that.”

John complied. “Do you want me to…?” He looked for the lube but didn’t see it.

“No,” said Sherlock, kneeling in front of him. “But I wouldn’t mind getting you wet first. It’s half the fun.”

Closing his eyes, John sighed as Sherlock took him in his mouth, deep, enough to trigger his gag reflex and produce an influx of saliva, which he left there as he pulled off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“There.” Sherlock smiled. It was dark and a little sinister. “Close them now.” He tapped John’s knee gently.

John did so, his heart beating triple time. Sherlock got to his feet. “Watch me,” he said. “Watch everything.” And then he turned around, felt for the arms of the chair with his hands, and tucked his shins up on either side of John’s thighs. He made the awkward move look graceful, acrobatic, even, and then he leaned forward. “Watch,” he said, voice less commanding and more needy than it had been before. “Watch as you go in. Relax if you can.”

John, like any man, he supposed, had always fancied the look of erotic poses. Once, long ago during his first year of university, some of the girls on his floor had got a hold of a version of the Kama Sutra illustrated with gorgeous photography. It’d ended up in the room of a girl he’d been regularly studying (and having casual sex) with. They drank several pints, tried several poses, and gave it all up in favour of their old standby (her-on-top). The images had stayed with him long after the girl had: bodies purposefully posed for pleasure, but also for aesthetics. A still picture was just as arousing to him as a video. An intimate moment, frozen forever.

Now that he was with Sherlock, sometimes he enjoyed closing his eyes or turning off all the lights, giving his other senses a chance to indulge in the feel of skin on skin, the scent of sex-musk, the sounds of exertion. Sometimes he had to shut his eyes against emotion; sometimes he had to force back tears that threatened to spill out and run down the sides of his face and into his ears. He was, after all, madly, deeply, and wholly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes, who, apparently, knew how to fold himself into a chair, backward, on top of his lover.

And the view.

John had always appreciated the line of a strong back; Sherlock’s was longer and stronger than any woman’s. And he’d always appreciated the curvature of the gluteus maximus; Sherlock’s arse was beautifully made. But what lay between those rounded cheeks...Good God. Sherlock had prepared himself; his puckered arsehole shiny-wet, the dark hairs surrounding it slicked to his skin. John breathed in and held it for a few seconds to calm himself down before taking his own wet cock in his left hand and rubbing the glans gently over it.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. He meant it. His nimble doctor’s fingers had always seemed to migrate to that hot, damp spot between the arsecheeks of his former lovers. Some swatted his hand away; other, more adventurous ladies had been more willing to let John lead them into new, uncharted territory. A handful of his former lovers had straight-up asked for it. No matter his partner, though, he always felt there was something slightly kinky about anal play that aroused him to no end. The anus was more stubborn than the yielding vaginal opening; it was less slick, the tissue and muscle felt different under the tongue. And even the most freshly-showered bum still held a unique, dark and earthy fragrance, one that when he was in the mood John’s brain registered as a powerful aphrodisiac. There was also something very sexy in being trusted, knowing that his partner trusted him enough to touch, much less penetrate, such a sensitive and intimate spot.

Yet Sherlock was no woman. John had seen plenty of men’s undercarriages in his profession and approached each and every one with clinical detachment. His one encounter with Murray was nothing more than frantic frottage (although, admittedly, he would have done much more had time and destiny allowed). He hadn’t even been sure Sherlock would be interested in the idea, and he hadn’t wanted to be presumptuous.

However it didn’t take long into their new relationship before Sherlock had reached for John’s hand during a blowjob and placed it on his backside. “I love it,” he’d said breathlessly. “Touch it. Please.” John nearly came just from the words alone.

It had been beautiful then, and it was still beautiful now several months into their life as lovers: Sherlock in his lap, poised above him, the cleft of his arse wet and inviting. Above him, Sherlock shivered and wiggled his hips. John took the hint, lined himself up, and gently guided Sherlock down.

“Watch,” said Sherlock again as the head of John’s cock nudged his hole, and so John did; he watched as the thickness of his prick stretched the muscle, as the shaft disappeared into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s breath left him in a great huff, and John heard him groan softly.

“You OK?” he asked as Sherlock fully seated himself.

“Brilliant,” he said, voice deep and husky.

“I’m not sure I can move much like this,” said John, running his palms up Sherlock’s sides and down again.

“You don’t need to. Just enjoy yourself.”

“Do you want me to touch you?”

Sherlock rearranged himself a bit in the chair, shifting to find the right angle. “Can you put your hands on my hips?” he asked. “Yes, just like that.”

He loved the feel of Sherlock’s hip bones, the skin warm under his palms. Sometimes Sherlock liked a rougher touch, liked to be gripped firmly by those hips while taking it from behind. For now, John kept his touch gentle as Sherlock began to move above him.

‘Move’ was perhaps the wrong word. ‘Undulated’ would have been more accurate. ‘Danced,’ even. What started as slow circles quickly graduated to a slow but thorough grinding. Unable to get much leverage in the chair, John tried to stay still as Sherlock took his pleasure.

“Are you watching, John?”

“Yes, love.” He was. He was watching a fine sheen of sweat form on Sherlock’s back, watching the muscles of his arms stand out as he gripped the chair, watching the hair on the back of his neck begin to dampen and curl. He was most definitely watching the place where their bodies were joined, quick glimpses of his own cock as it was once and once again lost into Sherlock’s tight heat. “I’m watching. Jesus. I wish you could see this.”

“Tell me what you see.”

John shivered. He felt odd, all of a sudden, so full of love and lust that it swelled up against his ribcage, his senses overwhelmed. He licked his lips and whispered, “I see us. Together.”

“What does it look like? Describe it to me.”

“Oh God.” John breathed out as Sherlock lifted up a bit only to come back down and move his hips in a slow circle. “Your arse, Sherlock. Jesus. Move back up a bit, yeah, like that. Can I touch it?”

Sherlock hummed in assent, and John insinuated his hand between them so he could gently trace the tight, stretched rim of Sherlock’s hole. “That’s,” he said, trying to find the right words, “that’s fucking perfect. I’m in you. Just the way it looks...it makes me look, the way that beautiful little hole of yours takes me...you’re all stretched out like that...like I’m huge…” The last word gusted out from between his lips as Sherlock moved again. “It’s all slippery, love. It looks...wet...it looks like a video and feels like...Heaven. Fuck, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” whispered Sherlock. “Yes.”

“Are you still OK?” The position must be hard on Sherlock’s legs, which were doing most of the work. In his position in the chair, John couldn’t even get enough leverage to thrust up with much force. Not that it mattered. Just being inside Sherlock, feeling his weight and watching their bodies together was enough to start him on the path to orgasm.

Sherlock lifted his hand from the arm of the chair. He must have touched himself for the hand returned, wet and slippery, to John’s thigh. “I’m practically dripping,” he said, panting now. “Phenomenal...prostate...unh...stimulation.”

John heard himself groan. He wished he had a mirror; he wished he could record it from the front so he could see Sherlock’s slender, perfect cock, so he could see their bollocks pressed together.

“Can you come this way?” John asked, running his hands over Sherlock’s back again. He wanted to reach around and pinch his nipples, but Sherlock had now shifted forward, bracing his forearms on his legs.

“Yes,” he replied, panting. He was truly working now, sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. John could smell him, too, the somewhat metallic tang of clean sweat mingled with chlorine and sex musk. “I can feel you everywhere,” Sherlock breathed. “God, John.”

John smiled to himself, gripped Sherlock again by the hips. “Is it as good as the fantasy?”

Sherlock’s legs had begun to twitch. He grunted something that John took as an affirmative.

“And how did it end?” he asked.

“I...I...don’t know. I never let myself finish.”

“Pity, that. I want a mirror. I want to see from the front. God, I bet you look amazing. I want to see you come. It’s lovely, you know. Watching you. Watching you let go. Jesus, Sherlock, I’m...I’m almost there.”

“John…”

“Yes, love, that’s it.”

“It’s so...it’s so...oh God…” Sherlock trailed off, unable to speak through his gasps and moans. His voice suddenly rose an octave, groans becoming keens and whispers, before he arced up and back. “Hand!” he gasped. John reached forward with his left hand; Sherlock grabbed it and folded it around his cock. “Now!” he groaned, “yes, oh, oh!” John pumped just twice before it began to pulse and spurt.

John felt Sherlock’s orgasm around his own cock, the internal muscles fluttering against his frenulum, the rim rhythmically contracting around his shaft.

It was enough to send him over the edge, and he pushed himself down into the cushion of the chair just to get enough leverage to thrust a handful of times, and then he, too, came, the powerful orgasm washing over him. He heard himself grunting, a raw, animalistic sound, and he barely registered holding onto Sherlock to stop him from toppling right off his lap and out of the chair.

It left him gasping, trembling and weak, body utterly spent and heart overflowing with a deep and profound love for the man on his lap. Maybe it was the novel position or the fact he was already feeling overly sentimental, but whatever the cause, he felt so deeply grateful, so amazed that of all the people on the planet, Sherlock chose to share not only his friendship but also his body and heart with him. Sex only seemed to amplify the emotion, his orgasm not just a physical release of hormones and semen, but an outpouring of all those complex and nebulous emotions he usually kept carefully in check. It was a relief, really, to finally be able to let go, to love freely, and to be loved in return.

Once he could think again, he shifted in his chair only to find it wet. “It’s got come on it now,” he said in playful lament. “We’ll have to take it with us.”

“Yes, we must,” agreed Sherlock. He looked down. “Might need to take the rug, too.”

Exhausted, John let his head fall back against the chair. “Jesus,” he said. “Sherlock, that was...that was...Jesus.”

“Happy to have rendered you speechless. However, I’ve got cramp in my feet.”

“Oh God,” said John, pulling his head from the back of the chair and feeling instantly contrite. “Sorry. Here, just...hang on…let me...”

Sherlock gingerly lifted himself from John’s lap, John shuddering a bit as his penis slipped free from Sherlock’s arse and fell wetly against his thigh. He let his head fall back again.

Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair and stood before walking around and kissing John on his upturned forehead. He attempted to walk to the bathroom, but wobbled on his second step, prompting John to abandon his post-coital bonelessness and quickly come to his lover’s side. “You OK there?”

“Actually, I think I might need a minute.”

“Have you finally worn yourself out?”

“Never.” Sherlock smiled. “Just a bit of pins and needles.”

“Come on. We’ll clean up in a bit. Let’s lie down for a while.”

Sherlock looked longingly at the bathroom door.

“Just for a minute, love. You can wash later. I can barely stand.”

Together they limped their way to the bed, where they wriggled in under the covers facing each other. John, feeling dopey and lovestruck, leaned forward and rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s.

“Stop that,” said Sherlock.

“You love it.”

“Do not. Tickles.”

“Do too.” Sherlock made a show out of tolerating the nuzzling before flopping over onto his back.

“I’d ask you where you learned how to do that,” said John, nodding in the abused chair’s direction. “But I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Books,” shrugged Sherlock.

John raised his eyebrows. “Pornography?”

“Manuals. Beginner’s guides. Sex for Dummies.”

John snorted a laugh. “You wouldn’t read that if you were paid to. And that was undoubtedly not beginner’s sex.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I find printed text more stimulating than visual media. The brain is the biggest sex organ,” he added.

John couldn’t disagree. Yet if Sherlock’s brain were his biggest sex organ, there was no way for John to compare. He wasn’t stupid, not even close, but next to Sherlock…it wasn’t a fair comparison. Sherlock’s brain was his most powerful sex organ, and John wondered how he’d stimulate it. Dirty talk? Erotic letters? Explicitly describing his erections in purely medical terms? He felt doubt and apprehension crawl through him, poisoning his earlier happiness.

“Your breathing changed,” said Sherlock, rolling back toward him again. “Did I upset you?”

John swallowed against unfounded hurt. “I’m not intellectually stimulating to you,” he said.

“No,” Sherlock replied frankly. “Not in the same way I find a mystery stimulating, or the way chemistry intrigues me.”

A hot rush of disappointment coursed through John’s veins, even though he knew it was irrational.

“But that doesn’t mean I find you boring. You have never once been boring to me.”

John blamed the ache in his chest on the upcoming emotional move and tried to push it down.

“I’ve chosen you, John. I chose you as my friend. I chose you as my flatmate. I’ve chosen you as my lover. Decisions that were not come by lightly, might I add. To be honest, John, I’m not even sure loving you is a choice anymore. I’ve given you my heart. I can tell you I’ve been assured by many people that I don’t even have one. It was mine, and mine only, and I have never once wanted to share. Until you. You’re more than adequate; I never settle for anything. You are exceptional. He stopped talking and swallowed hard.

“Shut up,” said John, blinking back tears. “You’re making me cry.”

“It’s just fatigue,” Sherlock said, drawing him close, both of them knowing it was much more complex than simply being exhausted.

John allowed himself a good cuddle before remembering they were both rather sticky, the remnants of their liaison drying tacky on his thighs.

They washed slowly in the shower, taking turns standing under the hot spray, soaping each other’s backs, and gently washing sensitive genitals. By the time they were clean, dried, and in their pyjamas, it had gone midnight.

John lay there in bed, trying to fall asleep and failing spectacularly. His mind was still awake, lingering on the different events of the past year that brought him to his current lot in life. Now he was supposed to say goodbye to it, and it was proving harder than he’d anticipated.

How does one say goodbye to a house? That was the problem, though, now, wasn’t it? Holmes Hall wasn’t just a house. It was a bloody grand house, bigger and more beautiful than anything he’d ever lived in. He liked his room, the tall windows that overlooked the wide, green expanse of lawn, the fireplace, the general cosy feel of the place. He would miss sitting at the table in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen and the way the sun slanted in the windows in the morning. He thought of the library, with its generous furniture and old, leather-bound volumes lining the shelves, the feel of the oriental rug under his bare feet. And the pool, where he had taken up swimming.

Yes, he was very keen to get to London, to move into the flat with Sherlock, but saying goodbye to the people he’d grown to know and appreciate in Burnett Thwaite had been more difficult than he had thought it would be, and he hadn’t counted on feeling so sentimental about leaving the hall itself. Sometimes it seemed just like yesterday he had lugged his duffle up the steps, cane in hand, a man with no friends, a man with very little fight left in him.

And then came Sherlock, and the garden, and a whirlwind of an unconventional romance. Here he was, nine months later, feeling more whole and solid than he had in ages. The anniversary of his being shot came and went. John finally told Sherlock the whole story, watched as his lover’s eyes darkened and grew flinty, saw how he swallowed with undisguised loathing for the man who had caused John so much pain and suffering. John would kill for Sherlock, and it was then that he knew that Sherlock would do the same. After John had managed to explain everything, finally shared how he’d felt during those dark days of rehabilitation, Sherlock had drawn him close and held him with such ferocity that John had to tell him to relax before he suffocated.

It was, John supposed, Sherlock that made Holmes Hall so dear to him. If John was struggling to say goodbye, surely Sherlock would be worse off. It was, after all, his childhood summer home, the place where he’d caught frogs and bred roses.

Sherlock must have been struggling with the same feelings, for he couldn’t seem to fall asleep either. He kept moving this way and that. He’d roll over, rub his feet together, roll the other way, flop on his back, spoon John only to kick the covers off again. After nearly an hour of it, John finally sat up and turned on the small bedside lamp.

Sherlock looked at him, one eye peeking out from under his fringe as he lay face-down on the pillow.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

“I know,” sighed John. “And honestly, I’m completely knackered.”

“It’s pointless just to lie here.”

“Maybe play the violin for a little while?”

Sherlock considered before shaking his head. “Not in the mood.” He breathed out loudly through his mouth. “There’s nothing to do.”

“Is your room completely packed?”

“I could barely walk in there, it’s so full of boxes. I left the sheets on the bed, though.”

“You’re going to miss it, aren’t you?” John asked, staring at the ceiling.

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock scoffed.

“I’m going to miss it,” John continued, ignoring Sherlock’s irritated tone. “Yorkshire is...”

“Boring.”

“...Peaceful. And this house is…”

“Drafty.”

“...Beautiful. I’ll miss the pool. And my room. I’m glad we’re taking this bed, by the way. Yours isn’t as soft. I’ll miss the way it smells here. I’ll miss the garden.”

John heard Sherlock swallow. He turned to face him. “You should say goodbye.”

“To what? The house? What a ridiculous notion.”

“It’s not a ‘ridiculous notion’. It’s cathartic.”

“Rubbish.”

“There’s something healing -- and I’m not insinuating you’re broken, so don’t even start -- about saying goodbye to the past, and hello to the future.” He chuckled to himself, a memory surfacing. “And christening the new place.”

Sherlock finally turned to face him. “Christening the new place,” he intoned, his eyebrows raised. “Please tell me we’re not naming the place on Baker Street. Or smashing a bottle of champagne against the front door or some such nonsense.”

“That’s for launching ships, love, so no champagne bottles. And I wasn’t talking about a name. I was thinking about sex.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Sex, in every room, on every surface.” John laughed to himself. “Maybe it’s a honeymoon thing. I like the appeal, though.”

“I can’t possibly believe people do that.”

“They do,” John affirmed.

There was a long pause as Sherlock processed this information. “So we ‘christen’ the new place. Are you suggesting we say goodbye to Holmes Hall in much the same manner?”

John chuckled. “God no. Just how many rooms are in this place? I don’t think I have the stamina.”

“Fifty-seven,” said Sherlock. “Not including the cupboards or utility rooms.”

“Exactly. But you know, I don’t think I’ve even seen all the rooms properly. Popped my head in once, maybe, but I’ve never really seen them.” He paused, an idea surfacing. “Hey, why don’t you show me all of the rooms? Give me one final tour.”

Sherlock looked wary. “Why?”

“It’s the last time you’ll ever see them. I’d like to know more. What you did when you were younger, what it was like living here, exploring around. It’s a child’s dream, growing up in a castle.”

“It’s hardly a castle.”

John thought of his own small and dingy childhood home. Holmes Hall was grander than anything he’d imagined as a boy. “Fine then. Do you have any better ideas?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

“I wonder if my brother has cleaned out his special reserve,” was his response.

***

They had been sipping at a bottle of 1993 Chateau Margaux straight from the bottle as they bid their farewells to every room in Holmes Hall, beginning with Mycroft’s office. John had suggested giving every room its own toast, and somewhere between their exploration of the coatroom and the chase around the snooker table, they had crossed the line from being sober and fairly fatigued into tipsy and downright exhausted.

They were now in the main gallery hallway on the second storey, where a row of stern-looking men gazed at them from gilt-framed paintings.

“And this,” said Sherlock, lowering the now three-quarters-empty bottle of wine from his lips, “is Viscount Richard Holmes*. He had a rather alarming habit of performing suggestive dances at his annual spring ball. He inherited over £110,000 after the passing of his father, which he put to work buying the most extravagant clothing and jewellery he could get his hands on. He was most certainly a homosexual; his wife petitioned for an annulment to their marriage in 1900, stating that he’d never consummated it. Rumour had it that he forced her to lie naked while he covered her body with jewellery and then sketched her. He eventually found himself in debt. At the end of his life he found himself in Monaco, dying of syphilis.”

John furrowed his brow and stared at the man in the picture. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Sherlock licked the wine from his lips. “And this,” he continued, moving to the next portrait, “is Royston Holmes. He was a promising young playwright. But there was a scandal...he was packed off to Australia in the spring of 1925...and never came back.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. He was rather too fond of a music-hall singer named Tommy Timms. They had to get rid of him before the papers found out.”

“Right.”

“And now we come to my great-great uncle Ridgewell Holmes. Caused quite a stir when he broke off his engagement to Eugenia Wellington. As it turned out, Uncle Ridgewell was madly in love with Eugenia’s twin brother, Earnest.”

John gave him a look, but Sherlock moved on.

“Now this is Talfrynn Mandering Holmes, who married Imogen Vernon-Bassingthrope. Killed on the Titanic.”

“Not gay, then?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Sherlock held up his index finger for clarification. “Bisexual. Found loads of illicit Japanese male erotica in a steamer trunk in a locked room after his death.”

“I don’t believe you,” laughed John as they neared the end of the hallway and turned the corner to the east wing.

“You shouldn’t. I am a skilled liar.”

“Are you lying now?”

“Of course I am!” Sherlock yelled dramatically, his voice ringing through the dark hallway. “Although I did have an uncle who dressed as a woman every so often; as far as I know, I am only the second homosexual Holmes.” He frowned at himself and tested the words together again, amused by the alliteration.

“Who’s the first?” asked John.

Sherlock took one final swig of the bottle. “You have met my brother, have you not?” he said, as if it could not be more obvious. “Well, my...my…” --he searched for a proper descriptor and came up short-- “my John. I’m afraid it’s all gone,” he said mournfully, tipping the bottle upside-down. “Luckily, we have arrived at our final destination.”

John giggled. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock really was very tipsy or if he was just so exhausted that he’d gone loopy.

“This is a very important room,” continued Sherlock. He turned his head to the side and raised an eyebrow coquettishly. “It’s my bedroom. Would you like me to give you a tour of it as well?”

“The first night I met you, you told me to fuck off,” said John, leaning against the doorframe. “You had a fucking tapestry over your door. You’d been screaming your head off. Heard you all the way downstairs, you know.”

“Maybe I’ll do that again tonight.”

“Tell me to fuck off?”

“Scream so loudly they’ll hear me downstairs.”

John was so tired, God he was so tired. But even when his body clamoured for sleep, something about Sherlock’s voice sent shivers down his spine and heat into his groin.

“Is once a night not enough for you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock blinked lazily, as if his eyelids were not quite getting the message to reopen. John found Sherlock made the most adorable faces when he’d had a bit to drink: sometimes he squashed his lips together or tucked his chin down to his chest which had the effect of making that long neck comically fold in upon itself, making him have six extra chins.

“I’m inthatiable,” replied Sherlock, frowning when he realised his tongue wasn’t behaving. “In-sa-tiable,” he clarified. “Addictive personality.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” John chuckled as he opened the door. “After you, love.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and entered his room, making his way to the table to switch on a lamp.

John shut the door and nearly tripped over a stack of small packing crates. “Jesus,” he swore, looking around. With the exception of the packing crates, Sherlock’s room was as bare as he’d ever seen it; even the paintings on the wall had been removed, every book absent from its space on the bookshelves. All of Sherlock’s belongings had been packed up; stacks of cardboard boxes four or five tall turned the room into an obstacle course. A veritable blockade stood between him and the bed.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed his childhood room. “Bit of a mess,” he admitted. He wove his way through the boxes and disappeared from view; John followed round to find Sherlock pushing the heavy, brocade curtains away from the tall windows. He unlatched one and opened it, leaned on the casement, and took a deep breath of cool night air. John shivered and sidled up next to him.

“You can still smell it, can’t you?” John said softly. “The garden.”

“I’ve never been here this late into the autumn,” Sherlock mused. “We always left in August. I’d open this window at night and the herbs in particular became fragrant as they cooled in the evening air. Lavender, too; there’s some directly below the window. Mummy sometimes dried it. You could smell our garden from her room--the roses, in particular. Sometimes, when I was very little, I’d go into their room at night. When it was windy -- the wind howled, you’ve heard it -- I’d lie between them in the bed. That’s not the garden, though, what you smell. It’s heather.”

“It’s nice. Pretty, too.” John had never fully appreciated the scrubby brush on the moors until it all burst into colour the week prior.

“May I leave it open?”

“Sure.” John gazed out into the dark. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” he mused. “Saying goodbye to all of this. Leaving a legacy.”

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his forearms on the casement and clasping his hands together. He shook his head. “A legacy, yes. But it’s not our legacy. That’s out there, yet. London calls. Baker Street. Not here.”

John raised his eyebrows, considered the implications of such a statement. Our legacy, he’d said. John wondered what their legacy would be, what Sherlock imagined it to be. Would they grow old together, then? The two of them, arthritic fingers and reading glasses? What would they leave behind? Years’ worth of blog posts, criminals behind bars, lives saved?

Whatever their future, John hoped that at the end of it all there would be love. That, he hoped, would be their legacy. That he could look back and say, “Yes, we loved each other, and well,” that those whom they loved would remember and say, “together they were more,” and “they were true partners.”

They stood there, leaning against the open casement and staring out into the dark, the playful mood of moments ago given way to quiet solemnity. Eventually, John yawned.

Sherlock turned, put his arm around John’s shoulders, drew him in for a hug. “I think I’m tired. Do you think we can sleep now?” he asked softly.

John sniffed and checked his watch: it was just after 3am. “Yeah. Just let me use the loo.”

When John returned, Sherlock was pushing a stack of boxes out of the way just enough so they could get to the bed.

“You’ve made a fortress,” said John as he climbed under the duvet and Sherlock turned off the table lamp.

“It’s our own walled garden,” Sherlock replied, peeling off his t-shirt and slipping out of his pyjama pants before climbing into the bed himself. “Are you chilled?”

“No. I like it. To be all warm under the covers when it’s cold outside. Feels cosy.”

John turned to let Sherlock spoon up behind him. They lay quietly for several moments. “Would it be…” Sherlock paused. “Would it be too much if I asked you to take off your clothes? I’m feeling… I’m not really....I just would like…” he trailed off and breathed out sharply through his nose.

Connection, thought John. He wants physical touch, wants to feel loved. Their lovemaking earlier had been exotic and fueled by lust, but it hadn’t fulfilled whatever Sherlock needed. John shimmied out of his own clothes and tossed them toward the foot of the bed before returning to his position as the little spoon. Sherlock embraced him from behind, wrapping his own lanky, warm body around John’s smaller frame. “Better?” he asked.

“Hmmm, yes. Thank you. Your skin is very soft. I find it comforting.”

Of course he did, thought John, who had read the research on the healing benefits of skin-to-skin, how infants stabilised after the trauma of birth simply by being held against a parent’s flesh. Miracle cases, too, babies being brought back from the brink. Sherlock, in many ways, John mused sleepily, was just like that. He was still learning how to love, how to be physical, to be intimate. John felt immensely proud and fortunate to be his teacher. Or maybe they were learning together, rather, if he were honest with himself.

John was nearly asleep when he realised Sherlock’s breathing had picked up, felt his heart hammering away through his back. He’d barely noticed his erection, having grown used to the bulk of Sherlock’s genitals pressed against his bum as he slept.

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmured against his back when John moved a bit, slotted their bodies together even tighter. “I didn’t mean to get…” He pressed a kiss to John’s back. “...aroused.” He let out a tiny laugh. “Again.”

John smiled to himself, his eyes still closed. “That is something you should never, ever apologise for,” he said, his voice sleep-rough. “Honestly. You’ve done wonders for my ego.”

“I love you,” said Sherlock softly. John could feel the sandpaper of his chin brush against the skin of his back as he spoke. “I love you so much. Sometimes I simply cannot believe that you return the sentiment. That you want me to touch you, that you want to touch me. That you honestly want to live with me.”

John felt for Sherlock’s hand and held it. “Yeah, I know. And I love you too.”

The wind blew, carrying with it the faint scent of the moors. The wall of boxes kept most of the chill from directly hitting the bed, and the heat of Sherlock’s body was enough to make John feel comfortable -- warm, even.

“It’s a strange physical feeling,” continued Sherlock. “Love. I’d never actually believed that love manifested itself physically. But I can feel it now. In my chest. In my groin.” He swallowed. “It makes me feel...possessive. And, strangely, simultaneously giving.”

“Bit paradoxical, that.”

Sherlock manoeuvred himself so his head rested on John’s shoulder. John could smell his breath, still perfumed from the wine. “I know you’re tired. We don’t have to. I thought… maybe I could convince you, though. I want to have you, here, one last time. Be inside you. In my bed. Please. May I?”

John stifled a yawn, inhaled deeply, and stretched his legs out, tilting his pelvis forward as he pushed Sherlock’s hand down to his groin. “God, Sherlock. I have no idea why my cock thinks it’s nineteen again. I don’t think you’re going to have to do much convincing.”

“I love the way you feel in my hand,” Sherlock murmured into his ear.

John had initially been shocked when he’d seen his own cock in Sherlock’s large palm; he was used to seeing it in his own, where it seemed proportionate. In Sherlock’s hand, however, he’d felt particularly small. That was until Sherlock marvelled at it, took it in his mouth, demanded it up his arse, worshipped it, and proclaimed it perfect. He’d waxed poetic about it once, describing it to John in precise anatomic detail, claiming he’d committed it to memory. John was sure that he had, too. Could probably pick him out of a lineup on penile anatomy alone.

“You have lovely hands,” replied John. “You really do.”

“May I touch your arse?”

John sighed with a sleepy laugh. “I don’t know if I can come again, but you may do whatever you damn well please with my arse.”

Sherlock hummed appreciatively against his back, then tapped his hip and presumably went off to find the lubricant, wherever he’d stashed it. Sherlock bashed into a few boxes on the way; John heard him curse under his breath.

“You want the light on?”

“No,” said Sherlock, returning to their boxed-in bed. “Not tonight. We’re both tired, and I think I’d just like to...rely on my other senses. They’re more connected to memory. Touch.” He climbed under the duvet and ran his hand down John’s chest. “Sound. Scent.” His hand delicately reached between John’s legs to give a gentle squeeze to his cock, spread his legs a bit and fondle his balls. “Taste.”

John sighed, relaxing. He loved it when Sherlock played with his testicles; they were just as sensitive as his cock, and he loved them fondled, rubbed, and, sometimes, gently pulled. He loved the feeling of Sherlock’s on his when they’d simply lie on one another and move, or when he was behind Sherlock, fucking him, the way their bollocks would slap together before they grew high and tight in preparation for orgasm.

“Whatever you want, Sherlock. That feels lovely.”

“I want to make you feel good. Give you something to remember. Our last time here. This room. The place where I met you, where you gave me something to live for.” Sherlock moved his hand up, placed it over John’s heart.

“Come here, you,” John whispered, and turned to his side so they could kiss. Sherlock liked kissing far more than John had originally thought he would. Clearly Sherlock was no novice, and he learned what John liked and disliked immediately. Cunning deductions and rapid-fire insults were not the only things that Sherlock could do with that mouth: his plump lips were made for nibbling and sucking, his teeth for gentle nipping, his tongue for gliding, thrusting, teasing. His kisses now were already urgent and wet, the way they were before John usually gave up trying to hold back and began seeking orgasm in whatever expedient way they could think of. Sherlock liked when John became impatient, liked being manhandled and put into position; he’d honestly whimpered once when John had demanded that he get on his hands and knees. But their lovemaking was not at all routine. While their individual preferences became known over time, they didn’t seem to fall into specific roles or patterns. John wondered if they would, over the course of time, but for now, sex was still novel, still raw and full of discovery.

John took a break from the kissing to push Sherlock’s hair out of his face, kiss his brow. The dark let the words come easier. “You want my arse, don’t you?”

“Desperately.”

John knew what it was like to desperately want arse. He rolled over, pillowing his head on his arms. “It’s all yours.”

Sherlock sat up, letting the duvet fall and the cooler air creep in, and then crawled over John and back under the duvet, wiggling himself down to the foot of the bed. John himself didn’t like to be trapped under the covers (hot and claustrophobic), but Sherlock often did. John presumed it had to do with his sense of smell, the way everything was trapped under layers of cotton and wool, the ripe and heady odours of sex. He had been known to give an entire blowjob under there, from start to finish.

Sherlock tapped John’s hip. “Up?” John heard him ask, voice muffled by the covers.

John complied, too tired to feel the thrill of dirtiness that usually came when he put his arse on offering.

He felt Sherlock’s slender fingers dipping between his cheeks, petting the soft hairs, gently rubbing over the sensitive pucker of his anus. Sherlock had slotted himself behind John’s body and was gently mouthing at the small of his back, running his other hand over John’s front, caressing his abdomen, occasionally reaching down to his cock and balls.

John responded instantly, the muscles of his arsehole twitching in anticipation. Sherlock had taught him how to relax there, how to prepare for penetration, and while he took a bit more preparation than Sherlock did, he no longer needed more than a few minutes of foreplay and gentle touch before his hole loosened enough to take fingers or cock.

After a few minutes of simple, gentle touch, Sherlock shifted behind him, took his arse in those big hands, parted the cheeks, felt with his nose and lips along the cleft until his tongue found what it was looking for. John sighed into the pillow, shivering not from the chill but rather from the still-illicit feeling of Sherlock’s tongue against his hole. It was filthy and perfect, and from somewhere under the blankets, Sherlock groaned too.

John allowed himself to relax even more, to concentrate on the heat of Sherlock behind him, the way he kissed his hole much like he kissed his mouth: he licked and nibbled, nipped and lipped, darted his tongue out, swiped it up and down, massaged in small circles, and went all out, fucking John’s arse with it. It was wet and messy and utterly sexual, especially with Sherlock moaning away under there. They were much alike that way: both got off on getting his partner off.

Sherlock was particularly fond of rimming and was stunningly good at it. John had done it a dozen or so times with his previous female lovers, and the few times one of his partners had been kinky enough to reciprocate didn’t last for very long. Sherlock, though. Sherlock would keep licking and sucking for ages --until his jaw had to ache and his face was covered with saliva-- and enjoy every moment. And God help him if it wasn’t the sexiest, most thrilling thing they’d done in the bedroom so far.

John didn’t keep track of how long Sherlock was at it this time around, but it was long enough to make him hot enough to abandon his blankets, for he threw them off himself violently. John shivered at both the loss of contact and the cool air hitting his wet backside.

“God, I want you,” Sherlock growled, wiping his face on his arm before reaching for the floor beside the bed. John lay there lazily, arse still in the air, smiling to himself. He heard the flip-cap of their pricey (and preferred) silicone lube and the crinkle of a condom wrapper.

“You don’t need that,” he mumbled into his pillow.

“You’ll thank me tomorrow,” Sherlock replied.

John supposed he was right. Ever pragmatic, his lover.

“Is your shoulder all right?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah.”

“Is from behind OK? Do you want to lie down?”

They’d experimented with different positions; but John could tell, right now, that Sherlock wanted to move. How the man had the energy John would never know.

“I’m fine like this.”

Then Sherlock’s fingers were back, wet, adding lubricant to his already soaking arse. “You’re so soft and open already,” Sherlock whispered in awe. “Just from my tongue.”

And the fatigue and the wine, thought John.

Sherlock gently worked the lubricant around his entrance before applying more to his fingers and pushing it carefully inside.

“You need my fingers for a while?” Sherlock usually loved playing with John’s hole first, touching it, stretching it, rubbing his own cock across it, reveling in the sensation.

“Hmm? No, I don’t think so. Just let me adjust.”

“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispered, lined up, and pushed in gently.

John’s breath left him as his anus stretched around the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock, yet there was enough lubricant and he was relaxed enough for Sherlock to slide in easily. John felt the flared tip of the corona pass through and then the rest of his length follow. Behind him, Sherlock ran his hands soothingly up and down John’s torso.

“Is this what you wanted?” John asked.

“Oh. Oh yes, John. I’m...It’s just. I…” He swallowed. “Overwhelming.”

“Shhh. Yes, I know. Just stay still for a moment. Be still.”

And so they did, connected in the most intimate of ways, still within the walled garden of their bed. John caught the briefest hint of heather as the wind blew, a faint perfume mingling with their own scents.

One of the most marvellous things about being penetrated, John thought, was that he could feel Sherlock inside him, his hard length, and if he concentrated, he fancied he could even feel his pulse through his cock. He wasn’t so accustomed to it that it wasn’t completely without discomfort, but the pressure eased quickly enough. Sherlock hit his prostate best like this, from behind, and while they couldn’t easily kiss or look at each other in this position, John found that he could close his eyes and just concentrate on the bright spark of pleasure that radiated every time Sherlock thrust in. Sherlock was controlled in his movements, too; John never felt as if he were getting jabbed, poked, or used, but rather like he was welcoming Sherlock into his body, that he was not simply allowing it, but offering it because it honestly felt good. Even now, as Sherlock was beginning to thrust forward, pulling out just an inch or so to push back in, John felt the pleasurable tug of his stretched rim, the lubricant letting them slide together as if they were meant to: a well-greased engine, a mechanical marvel.

“Is it OK?” Sherlock murmured behind him, running his hands over John’s back, down his chest to tweak his nipples, before sliding over his belly and back to his hips.

“God, yes, love.”

“You’re my everything,” Sherlock whispered then, voice becoming thick with emotion. “My all.”

“Yes.”

They continued to move together, slowly, reverently, their breathing becoming harsh and urgent.

One particular thrust caught John off guard; something had changed in the angle, and he moaned without restraint. It must have set something off in Sherlock, who groaned himself and increased his pace.

“Yeah,” John murmured, “that’s it, love. Make some noise for me. Let it all out.”

“Oh God,” gasped Sherlock, and then reached down to pick John up so they were both kneeling. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s torso to keep himself steady and began to thrust in earnest.

John opened his eyes wide in the dark, the pleasure coming now hard and fast. He reached for his own cock and began to jerk himself off to the rhythm of Sherlock’s thrusts. He was too tired to form cohesive sentences anymore but sound escaped his lips nonetheless, meaningless syllables of drawn-out vowels and half-formed curses mingling with Sherlock’s own rhythmic grunting. The antique bed frame creaked with their movements like clockwork.

His orgasm hit him. He honestly hadn’t expected to have another, but it was happening, his bollocks drawing up and penis jerking as the climax shuddered through him. “Fuck!” he yelled as he began to spurt over his fingers. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s waist and groaned, long and loud. “I’m coming,” he moaned, “Oh, I’m coming too. Oh, John, I’m…”

John abandoned his dripping cock and flung his arms backward, clinging to Sherlock as they shuddered together. He turned his head back for a kiss; Sherlock’s mouth met his, their lips dry from panting.

Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulders before finally reaching down to hold the condom as he pulled out. John felt around for his discarded t-shirt and gave himself a quick wipe-down before handing it over to Sherlock, who must have deposited the condom on the floor before collapsing on the bed. They were both sweaty, sore, and beyond exhausted.

They lay there in the dark, flat on their backs, until Sherlock --wonder of all wonders-- yawned.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised, turning over to his side away from John. “I hadn’t meant to get so carried away.”

John cosied up behind him, pulling the duvet over them both. “That was lovely,” he said, kissing Sherlock between his shoulder blades.

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, pulled him closer. “That was the first time we’d done that,” he said. “Came together.”

“Mmm. A good memory then.”

“Indeed. Thank you.” Sherlock yawned again; John echoed it.

“Let’s sleep now, OK?”

Sherlock wiggled as he got comfortable. “The bed’s wet,” he complained.

“I could care less.”

“Hmm-mmm.” Then, “Love you.”

John smiled and closed his eyes. Soon he grew too warm. Sherlock had fallen asleep, his breaths coming long and slow. John kissed his curls and disentangled himself so he could actually sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.

Outside, the September wind blew through the heathered moors, whipped through the branches of the trees. It blew over the garden walls below; nothing stirred within. Sherlock’s roses, now heavy with scarlet-hued hips, slept on, undisturbed. Within the stone walls of Holmes Hall, in an upstairs room in a bed walled-in by their worldly possessions, two men did too.

*In my search for a proper scandal, I found the story of Henry Paget, the 5th Marquess of Anglesey. The scandal I wrote in this paragraph is essentially his, although I did add the homosexual bit.