Work Text:
“—come on, just—work, damn you!”
John mashed his laptop’s touchpad with an index finger that was starting to hurt, actually, aware that this whole endeavour was futile but too stubborn to stop. It was a battle of wills going on here, man versus machine, and John was determined to fight to the last. No matter that his irritation was mounting to the point where he actually wanted to scream at an inanimate object—he had to persevere, and show that damn computer who was boss. Plus, he’d already waited for the program to unfreeze for three whole minutes—three! He’d counted them!—so at this point it was a matter of diminishing returns. Or sunk cost fallacies, or whatever. John was no economist.
“Christ’s sake,” he murmured darkly under his breath, glaring at that perpetually-cycling blue circle. “It’s mocking me, I swear it is.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” came Sherlock’s voice from behind. The man himself flopped on the other end of the sofa, the puffy cushions sagging comfortably under his weight. “You need a new computer.”
“Yeah, thanks, mate. I never would have gotten that idea on my own! I’ll just scrounge up a few spare hundred quid—ugh, probably more than that, isn’t it, these days—you know, like one does, and get myself a Christmas gift! Who cares about things like rent and, oh, having food on the table?”
“Hmm,” Sherlock said eloquently, clearly unimpressed with John’s rant. “All that doesn’t change the fact that you need a new computer.”
John's laptop chose that moment to freeze completely, the entire screen coloured in the depressing shade of white that meant a crashed program. “Right, you know what?” John announced to no one, having officially reached his limit. “Screw this.” He slammed the laptop closed and slid it away on the table, sitting back on the sofa with his arms crossed. “I can do the editing later.”
Sherlock declined to respond to this. In the silence that followed John’s annoyance curdled into a shame-faced sort of embarrassment, and he turned to look at his housemate, eager for a distraction. Sherlock was sprawled out like a lanky marionette with its strings cut, his arms spread grandly over the sofa’s back, his bare feet peeking out of his well-worn pajama bottoms. He was staring unseeing into space with his eyes half-closed, his finger tapping on the armrest—but not in his usual strummed up way, the result of too much unspent energy overflowing out of his body. This movement was slower, more distracted. As if he had a melody stuck in his head and he was keeping time with the rhythm. In his other hand was a slim vape pen, smoke still barely visible.
“Wait, are you smoking?” John demanded, his doctor side rising up in professional indignation. “I know you do lots of drugs and stuff, but smoking? Come on, you know better than that.”
“Not nicotine,” said Sherlock, his diction somehow still crisp and proper even when he was lying about like a half-stuffed scarecrow. “Tetra-hydro-cannabinol.”
“Ah.” John glanced quickly at the microphone sitting innocently on the table, making double sure it wasn’t recording. “I see. But why are you in the lounge, then? I thought you only partook in —ah—relaxation techniques in the privacy of your own room. ‘Lack of unknown stimuli’ and all that, isn’t that what you said? Don’t tell me it’s for the pleasure of my company,” he added, chuckling at his own joke.
Sherlock turned to look John, then, his gaze still too intelligent despite the dilated pupils. “As a matter of fact, Watson, that’s exactly why I'm here.”
“...Oh,” John said, surprised and touched in equal measure. “Thank you, Sherlock, that’s very—”
“To be more specific,” Sherlock interrupted, unrepentant, “it wasn’t just your company I wished for, but your participation as well.” He raised his arm, vape pen on his open palm like an offering from the world’s most polite waiter, his bright eyes staring unblinkingly at John. “I thought you might enjoy it.”
John felt a flurry of emotions too jumbled to name, and settled—out of self-preservation, perhaps—on defensiveness. “What, because I have PTSD? Sorry—alleged PTSD? Will this cure me now? Or are you implying I need to—to loosen up?”
“Watson,” Sherlock said with a sigh that communicated a martyr’s patience, “when have I ever chosen to imply rather than state something?”
“That… is a fair point, actually.”
“So.” Sherlock bobbed his arm, once, an encouraging gesture even a dog would understand. “Do you want this, or not?”
John stared at the vape. In truth, this wasn't as surprising a gesture as it might have sounded to the uninitiated. John knew Sherlock could be heartwarmingly generous at times, not just with his money—well, with money too, of course, buying tickets and picking up the bar tab without complaining or making a big deal out of it. (Or, indeed, without remembering to keep the receipt.) But he was open-handed with so many other things, little things, daily things—offering a bite of his food whenever John eyed a plate with too much interest, or his take-away coffee when John had been too distracted hauling his equipment to get one of his own. Not just a sip, either; Sherlock would offer the whole cup, wordlessly, his gaze calm and all-knowing. As if it was nothing to him. As if his possessions were immaterial, easy to forgo in the face of John’s need.
Just a sip, John would say, more often than he liked, unable to resist the caffeine-shaped temptation. It was fine, if it was just one sip. He could take that much without feeling guilty.
Still, there was a pretty big difference between accepting a drink and accepting weed. “Uh, well,” John stalled, intrigued by the idea but also too aware of the risk of a bad trip, of anxiety levels rising instead of fading away. “I’m—I’m good, actually. Thanks for the offer, though.”
Even though he knew better, John braced himself for some kind of social bullying—he could just imagine the lads from uni jeering goodnaturedly at him, pressing and pressing until John gave in with a laugh and took a drag—but of course Sherlock would never follow social convention. Without even a shrug he retracted his arm and brought the pen to his lips, taking a full-lunged pull that left a cloud of smoke on the exhale.
Well, that was that then. John should probably get up and leave Sherlock to his drug-fueled peace, but something kept him to his seat. The urge to observe the man who observed everything, maybe. He rarely saw Sherlock this mellowed out, his gaze so heavy-lidded his long eyelashes brushed his cheeks. He had crossed his legs at one point, ankle over knee, shaking his foot to that same unconscious rhythm as before. His bare sole was facing John, and the skin there really was remarkably smooth, unblemished and uncalloused. As if the man had never worked a day’s labour in his life. Even his toes were well-shaped, the big one a slim oval and right, okay, this was getting weird. John was being a total creeper.
“Alright!” John said with false exuberance, slapping his thighs. “Time for me to uh, vamoose and skadoodle out of here! I think the weed fumes are getting to my head.”
“The ‘weed fumes’?” Sherlock drawled. “Come now, doctor.”
“They might as well be fumes,” John grumbled. “And why is it always doctor-this, doctor-that with you, huh? It feels mocking when you do it. How about you use my actual name for once?”
“I do use your actual name.”
“That’s—okay, fair enough, but you know what I mean. My first name. John. Hello? I know you know my name is John.”
Sherlock pressed his lips together, and he actually looked discomfited for a second—a first since this conversation started. “I like calling you Watson.” He fidgeted with his thumb on the vape, sliding a careful glance John’s way. “Does that bother you?”
“Well. It doesn’t bother me, not really, just—it would just be nice if you called me John sometimes. Sprinkled it in every now and then.”
“Why would it be nice?”
“Because,” John said, floundering at the face of Sherlock’s incomprehension, “it feels more intimate”—oh god, that was entirely the wrong choice of words, abort, abort—“I, I mean, more friendship…y. More friendship-y.”
“More… friendship-y,” Sherlock repeated doubtfully, and christ, it sounded even more ridiculous in his voice.
Still, John would persevere. “Yep! Just a pally word two pals would use. Pally pal blokes.”
“...Right.” Sherlock was openly looking at John by this point, his gaze clear and steady. “I think we’re already being intimate, though.” Then, miraculously, his mouth split into a grin, his expression turning unprecedented impish. “After all, what’s more intimate than watching you shove a hand up a goose’s arse?”
“Oh god, don’t remind me of that!” John groaned as he half-laughed, half-winced at the memory. Sherlock was laughing too, in that softer, quieter way of his, and John’s chest suddenly filled with warmth. This was nice. It was more than nice.
“Actually, I changed my mind,” John said, the words out before he had a chance to stop them. “Gimme some of that.”
Sherlock dutifully handed over the vape, and John took a reckless pull—which promptly made him start coughing. “Christ, that’s potent. Jesus.” After a phlegmy throat-clearing John took another hit, just for the principle of it, then handed it back.
And yeah, okay, maybe John really did need this. Had his shoulders always been so tense? He consciously lowered them down from his ears and lay back, melting into the sofa cushions. Intellectually he knew there was no way the weed affected him that instantenously—it was placebo, that was all—but his body didn’t care. It loosened up, all his muscles unclenching.
Quiet settled in the lounge, mellow and comfortable. John let his head loll to the side, idly gazing at Sherlock. No reason for it, just—something to look at. Sherlock was fiddling with the vape, his fingers long and dexterous. Violinist fingers, those, the nails short and buffed smooth. An unexpected sign of care, considering Sherlock’s hair could charitably be called a bird’s nest. A few flyaway strands curled over his ears, at the base of his nape. He needed a trim.
Just when John was about to ask for another pull, Sherlock broke the silence. “I consider us friends, Watson. Close friends.”
John couldn’t help it—he smiled, dopey and pleased. “Aww. I think we’re friends too, mate.”
“You’ve been more patient and understanding than I could have ever expected or hoped for. I want you to know that I appreciate it.”
“Oh, stop,” John protested over the warm glow in his heart. “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of good friends before me.”
“Mm, no, never someone like you. You’re my first real friend.”
“What! What do you mean—” John moved instinctively across the sofa to get closer, a sloppy, halfway drunk slide-crawl that left him with one knee touching Sherlock’s hip, his whole body corkscrewing to look Sherlock in the face, at his sharp profile. “What do you mean, I’m your first real friend! That can’t be right.”
“And yet I assure you it is. No one else ever made the effort.”
John spluttered, trying to wrap his mind around that statement. Everyone deserved friends! And sure, Sherlock could be abrasive, and particular, and he had a way of slackening his facial muscles when tired of socialisation that made him look like a dead-eyed killer robot, but—but he was Sherlock, for goodness sake! He was bloody brilliant, and fascinating, and never, ever boring. When he got passionate about something—and he did get passionate, deeply and fully, whether about a case or whatever incomprehensible detail he’d logged in that big brain of his—his whole face lit up, his eyes bright and intense. He was fearless, and unexpectedly cool when the situation demanded it, and he grasped adventure by the throat without a second thought. How could anyone not like that? Even on a personal level Sherlock could be a decent enough bloke, patient where it counted and surprisingly accepting. Caring, even, in his own way. You just had to learn how to speak his language.
“You know what, mate?” John said with a snort, getting increasingly offended at the world, at the teeming masses of humanity that were apparently too blind to appreciate a good thing when they saw it, “you know what? Screw all those people. They just don’t know what they’re missing out, do they? Well their loss, I say!”
Sherlock’s smile showed in the subtle curl of his lips, in the amusement dancing in his eyes. “This spirited defense is hardly necessary—but thank you. Again, I do appreciate it.
John felt his own grin tug at his cheeks, wide and goofily toothy. He didn’t care. This felt nice—it felt nice, damn it, and John wanted to take this moment and save it, to have it stretch forever and ever—
The phone started ringing.
Of course. When did John ever get to have what he wanted? Ever? Fuck, he thought, and it was a struggle not to say it out loud.
Sherlock, meanwhile, turned sharp and alert. His eyes were wide as he looked at John, the pupils still dilated. “Watson,” he said, with a gravitas deserved for royal decrees. “The phone.”
“Yeah, I can hear it.”
“Well? Go get it.”
“Okay, but—but if we didn’t get it? Just this once?”
“What? Why on earth wouldn’t we get it?”
“Because”—John scrambled for an excuse—“because you’re still high! You can’t talk to a client like that.”
Sherlock actually snorted. “Please, I’ve endured social interactions under much more strenuous conditions. If anything the marijuana makes things easier.”
“Yeah, but—okay listen just, wait, wait—”
And then it happened: John, without making the conscious decision to do so, had reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock froze like a deer in the headlights. John told himself to let go—he really, really needed to let go, Sherlock didn’t like being touched without warning, John knew that—but somehow he couldn’t move. The phone kept ringing, and ringing, until it finally stopped. The silence it left behind was deafening, echoing.
Sherlock’s skin was cool to the touch, John’s mind informed him, but not in an unpleasant way. The result of bad circulation probably, and John wondered if Sherlock got cold feet in the winter. He wondered how his own hand felt right now, if it was too hot, if it was warming Sherlock up from the point of contact to the rest of his body—
That damned phone started ringing again, and the moment shattered. Sherlock rose in one swift, retreating motion and went to answer it. “Sherlock Holmes speaking,” he said confidently, sounding adult, sounding competent. Always so competent.
John wilted against the sofa and buried his face in his hands, groaning. Jesus, John. Pull it together.
—
“Sooooo,” John said with faux casualness one morning, busying himself with cooking breakfast—which had inevitably turned into breakfast for two, as always. “Victor Trevor.”
Sherlock was hunched over the kitchen table, his elbows on its surface and his posture atrociously goblin-like. He cradled a cup of tea in his hands—John’s cup of tea, technically, but who was counting—and taking dainty little sips like an invalid grandma, his gaze bleary-eyed and distant. It was late enough in the morning that he was no longer groggy and non-verbal, but making eye contact was clearly too much stimulation still. “What of him?”
“Well.” John stirred the eggs on the pan, lowering the heat to medium-high. “You never mentioned him.”
“I saw no need to.”
“Right. But, um—he was—” John turned to look over his shoulder, trying to imbue the words with the right emphasis. “He was your friend. Apparently.”
“...Yes?”
“Right. Well. It’s interesting, that’s all. Preeetty interesting.”
Sherlock actually raised his head to stare at John, a wrinkle of a frown on his forehead. “Watson, what on earth are you talking about?”
“I just mean!” John exclaimed, turning fully with his hands in the air like some kind of tosser, “I thought you said I was you first real friend. Back when we were, uh, hanging out on the sofa together, remember? Not that I mind,” he added, because he did not mind, no sir. Sherlock could have as many friends as he liked. He could befriend the whole bloody phonebook if he wanted to, and John would very emphatically Not Care. “But I’m just saying. I made certain—assumptions. That are not true anymore. Or were ever true.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said, gaze and frown clearing with the dawning light of realisation. “You think I lied to you.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, raising his cup again. “No, I would characterise that as more of a misrepresentation. You see, were I to be asked, I wouldn’t consider Victor Trevor my friend at all.”
“Whoa,” John said, doing a double-take. “That’s a bit harsh. And—come off it, I was there, you’re obviously friends. You certainly seemed happy enough to see each other to me!”
“You misunderstand me again. I said I wouldn't call him a friend.”
“What would you call him, then?”
“A former lover.”
John chocked on his own spit. “Wha—ahah—whu—what do you—you mean,” he stammered, suddenly too warm, “the two of you were—you were… involved? In college? Together?”
“Indeed we were,” Sherlock said serenely, obviously unaware of the verbal bomb he’d just thrown to John’s psyche. “An entirely different form of classification, as I said.”
“Right. Riiiiight.” John fidgeted with his too-empty hands, glancing around the kitchen for a distraction, any distraction. But it was no use; his morbid curiosity drew him back to the flame, like a suicidal moth bypassing the fire and throwing itself right off a cliff. “How did it all happen, then?” He gave Sherlock a considering glance, trying—and failing—to imagine him as a horny teenager. “Was it your idea?”
“No, his.”
“So—what did he say to you? How was the great Sherlock Holmes seduced?” John joked, his chuckle forced.
“I believe his exact words were, ‘how about we snog for a bit then, yeah?’”
John laughed more freely at that, honestly amused. “That’s all it took then, was it? Ah, the romance of youth.” After a moment’s hesitation—should he push it?—John kept going. “I’m surprised you went for it.”
“Why?”
“Well… you don't strike me as someone who goes for casual relationships, that’s all.”
“We were hardly strangers at the time, though. He and I—huh,” Sherlock interrupted himself, frowning in thought. “Actually, I think perhaps we were friends at the beginning. What do you call it when two people are both shunned by the surrounding social group for not conforming to the norm—Victor for his sexual inclinations, me for my atypical mannerisms—and find common ground in one another, creating a refuge in each other’s company?”
“Yeah, I’d call that friendship, mate,” John said with a fond smile.
“Right. But our relationship eventually changed, hence—” Sherlock gave a graceful little flourish, a magician unveiling a transformation. “The different characterisation.”
“Right,” John echoed. And he really should just end things there—the mystery was solved, the misunderstanding cleared—but John’s burning curiosity wasn’t quenched. If anything, things were worse than ever before. “So, are you—are you gay, then? Bi?”
Sherlock’s face scrunched up in disdain. ”Please, Watson,” he said, and… that was it. No further elaboration incoming. What did that even mean?
“Um.” John squirmed, dithering with the hem of his pajama shirt. Christ, why was it so hot in here? “I was just—you know—just… just wondering. And obviously it’s fine, whatever you are—or, or aren’t, that is, it’s all fine—”
“What is fine?”
“You know.” John helplessly, uselessly gestured at the air. “...This. Whatever it may-or-may-not be.”
“Your blatherings make even less sense than usual.” Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, training on John. “Your heartbeat is elevated. Are you uncomfortable?” He raised his cup in front of his mouth, his eyes watchful. “Are you perhaps homophobic, Watson?”
“What?! No, of course not—if anything I’m the opposite of homophobic—wait. Oh god, am I recording this?” John felt a surge of pure panic as he patted his pockets. “Where’s the microphone?”
“In your room. By the way, your eggs are burning.”
“What? Oh, shi—”
—
The thing was, John did have a sense of self-preservation buried somewhere deep inside. He had common sense, and he could recognise a catastrophically, stupendously bad idea when it was staring him right in the face. You didn’t get involved with your housemate who was also your coworker who was also the main and only source of your income, you just didn’t. John should just shove all inconvenient thoughts into a tiny box in a recess of his mind, lock it up, and throw away the key. That was what a smart, responsible person would do.
So, naturally, John was doing the exact opposite. Like a Pandora’s box opened by the confirmation of sexual compatibility, his horny thoughts spread out and infected the rest of his brain like evil little imps. He kept noticing things, little things he’d always been aware of but now had new dimensions to them—the way Sherlock’s throat bobbed when he hurriedly downed a drink, for example, or how strong his grip could be when he got carried away by excitement. How ironic that John had lived through months and months inside barracks full of fit blokes—actually, genuinely fit blokes, with pecs and abs and broad, manly shoulders—and given them no more than the occasional appreciative glance, only to be laid down low by an antisocial detective who kept pigs’ heads next to his chemicals. The man wasn’t even that attractive, for crying out loud! (Except for the height. And the hands. And the eyes.)
But the most treacherous trap was the potential of it all. The plausibility. They really could have passed as a couple, easily, without changing even that much of their habits. John had realised with belated embarrassment that he’d been acting sorta like a boyfriend to Sherlock the entire time, even back when his thoughts had been pristinely platonic. All that worrying and fussing, bringing him unprompted cups of tea and doing his laundry. John used to do the exact same things with Carrie too—except she never appreciated it, did she, just accused John of being a busy-body who couldn’t get his own life sorted out and micromanaged hers to compensate. Well! Sherlock never complained about it! He was always appreciative—verbally appreciative, even, once John taught him how to say thank you—and knew he’d pass out from malnutrition one day without John. Probably. On some level.
Case in point: Sherlock was currently fast asleep, his head heavy on John’s shoulder. The train back from Dartmoor was near-empty at this time of night, silent but for the hypnotic rattling of the rails, not loud enough to drown out Sherlock’s steady breathing. He’d get like this in the aftermath of a case sometimes, all that manic energy keeping him afloat disappearing in an instant. John let his eyes gaze idly out the window, the total darkness somehow soothing, the spreading warmth over his left side comforting. He didn’t even mind that Sherlock was drooling into his jacket.
When it was time to wake Sherlock up John did it almost reluctantly, shaking him as gently as he could. “Okay mate, time to get up,” he told a groggily blinking Sherlock, helping him get up. “Come on then, up we go.”
The rest of the journey home was a bit more complicated. They’d missed the last bus cutoff, and a cab was out of the question—twelve pounds for a ten minute ride? No bloody thank you—so walking it was. Sherlock looked like an exhausted wraith, humming when John offered him his bag but completely failing to be any bit useful. In the end John heaved a sigh and both their bags over each shoulder, keeping a hold on Sherlock’s elbow in case he sleepwalked right into traffic.
“Home sweet home!” John announced when they finally, finally reached the flat. “Civilisation, we have returned!”
Sherlock followed, squinting at the hallway light, and—and up close he really did look pretty bad, actually, his eyes dull, his skin wan and waxy.
“Hey,” John said, a worry he couldn't help colouring his voice, “Sherlock, are you alright?”
“Yes, fine—“
“Let me check your bruise again—”
“I said I’m fine, Watson—”
“Just for a second. Okay? Please.”
Sherlock acquiesced with a sigh, letting John herd him to a chair. He was being suspiciously obedient, moving quietly like a well-behaved child, and that more than anything was proof he wasn’t all there. John carefully lifted up Sherlock’s face, palms cupping his cheeks.
“Ow!”
“Sorry, sorry,” John said, and swept his thumb more softly, feeling the broken blood vessels with his touch. The wound was healing well, considering everything, but the bruised flesh still looked black and brutal. It made Sherlock’s features seem more delicate in comparison, more vulnerable. His eyelashes flickered butterfly-like as he blinked. John touched the edge of the bruise, thumb on sharp cheekbone. He wished he could take away the pain just like that, could erase the mark until healthy skin emerged underneath his hand, tender and brand new.
It was so quiet. Sherlock was gazing up at John, calm and trusting, and John felt—he felt the symptoms of his own exhaustion, perhaps, because his heart was beating hard and his brain was supplying a mad, mad idea, utterly daft, don’t even consider it, John, just don’t…
“Sherlock.” John swallowed, his belly squirming. “Have you ever thought…”
“Hm?”
“I mean, have you ever considered…”
“Considered what?”
How to even say it? Words were so fallible, so inadequate when it came to this. John wasn’t good at conveying them and Sherlock wasn’t good at receiving them. Maybe John could just show him, offer one self-evident gesture that would clear everything up. They were already so close to each other, their breaths mingling. John’s head moved, reaching down—
He never got to finish the motion. Sherlock flinched back with a half-vocalised sound, jerking right out of John’s grasp. His surprise was obvious in his wide-eyed stare, and so was his confusion, and his—god, his distress, he looked distressed, pale and uncomprehending, and John was horrible, he was awful, just the biggest arsehole in the whole entire universe.
“S—Sorry,” John stammered, pulling back. He cleared his throat, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. Stupid, stupid. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”
Sherlock said nothing. He kept staring, and staring, all expression wiped clean from his face.
“Right, um,” John continued, unable to keep his voice from wobbling, “I’m just going to—let’s just pretend this never happened, yeah? I’m going to bed. Keep that bruise iced.”
Still no response. John fled to his room, refusing to look back.
—
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Gah! Jesus, Sherlock, don’t sneak up on people like that!”
“Sorry.” Sherlock took a step to the side, letting the light hit him fully. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have not been avoiding you,” John lied, his gaze averted.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying!”
“You are lying.”
“I’m not—okay, look, can we not do this? Can we not turn this into a whole thing?”
“A ‘whole thing’,” Sherlock repeated, treating the words like foreign objects in his mouth. “And yet I feel like this is, indeed, a ‘whole thing’.”
John sighed. “I’m sorry, okay? I already said I was sorry. I never should have put you in that situation, or made you uncomfortable, and I’m—”
“I never said I was uncomfortable.”
“Come off it,” John said, a tinge of something—anger?—entering his voice. Self-preservation. John had always had it. “You don’t have to do this.”
“But I mean it, Watson,” Sherlock said seriously, his nervousness visible in the jerky twitching of his hands, a fidgeting motion aborted. “You just—surprised me. I didn’t know how to react.”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have had to react in the first place,” John muttered, ready for this conversation to be over now, please and thank you. “I did something stupid—the long day was getting to me, I don’t know—but it doesn’t have to change anything between us. Let’s just pretend nothing happened, okay? It will be better for everyone.”
Silence. John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him—no, studying him, peering into him, the full force of a detective’s penetrating gaze upon him. “You want to pretend it never happened,’ Sherlock said slowly. “This is what you want?”
“Yep, yeah, that's right,” John said, not letting himself think about it. “Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go do… stuff. With things. Editing things. Yeah. So I’ll just—”
“John.”
John stopped; he couldn’t help it.
Sherlock’s intensity didn’t waver. He took a step forward, then another, a hunter closing in on a kill. Confirmation of a hypothesis. “Was that the truth?”
The response John should give was obvious. He remained frozen nevertheless, caught between impulses.
Sherlock kept advancing, merciless. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“I…” Just lie. Just do it. “I’m…”
One last searching, piercing look, and Sherlock nodded to himself. He was so close—his eyes were so bright—his hands were being raised, his palms cupping John’s cheeks. “Can I try something?”
John stopped breathing. “Sherlock—”
He was being kissed. He was being kissed, here in reality, cool lips pressing against his. Sherlock was keeping the kiss slow, careful and gentle, almost chaste. John still felt heat flare out from his belly, his skin tingle all the way to his fingers. He exhaled, shocked.
Sherlock ended the kiss, his eyes half-lidded, and—and something in John’s brain just snapped, turned off all thought. He cupped the back of Sherlock’s head and pulled him in for a real kiss, open-mouthed, tongues touching. It was perfect. John couldn’t stop—wouldn’t stop—going deeper until they were both panting, struggling to breathe. He only eased up when Sherlock pulled back with a gasp, flushed and wide-eyed.
“Too much?” John asked, heartbeat drumming at his ears.
“Ah.” Sherlock licked his lips, still breathing quickly. “A little bit. But not—not unpleasantly so.”
John laughed in delight, in relief, in shining, uncomprehending joy. “Yeah?” He pressed kisses to Sherlock’s mouth, his cheek, his jaw. “We can go slow. As slow as you want. You want this, right?” He paused to make sure, searching for Sherlock’s gaze. “Right, Sherlock?”
“Yes, Watson.”
John grinned, overwhelmed, disbelieving. “John,” he reminded him in between kisses, but he didn’t mind, not really, not ever.
Sherlock nuzzled John’s temple, his ear. “John,” he murmured, and oh, that sent a jolt straight to John’s core, desire pulsing in his belly. John grabbed Sherlock and kissed him, blindly and greedily, feeling almost half-feral.
He lost track of time over this particular kiss, his body instinctively trying to push Sherlock’s against a wall that didn’t exist. For all that talk about taking it slow John was getting a bit hot and bothered, he had to admit, and Sherlock’s hands gripping his hair weren’t helping matters.
“Hey, do you,” John said, his voice so hoarse it was barely recognisable, “do you want to maybe—turn this horizontal? Go to a bed?”
Sherlock’s brow slightly furrowed. “Whose bed?”
“I don’t know, mine, yours. Wherever. Or—or the sofa, if you want. Sofa sounds good.”
“Sofa does sound good,” Sherlock said oh-so-agreeably, as if they were about to go have a cup of tea in front of the telly. “Yes, let’s do it.”
John laughed, again—it seemed like he couldn’t stop laughing, so giddy he still felt like this was some kind of dream. He took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the sofa, pulling him down. Sherlock was so wonderfully pliant, kissing John, taking off his shirt then helping John with his. How very adolescent, John wanted to tease, except he was in no position to judge. The excitement he was feeling right now put his teenage escapades to shame.
A quick, delightful tussle later Sherlock ended up on top, both palms pressing down on John’s chest. He paused to gaze down at John, clever eyes taking in everything.
“Trying to peer into my soul?” John joked, an effort to hide his burgeoning self-consciousness. “Finding any secrets?”
In response Sherlock traced one elegant finger on John’s collarbone, drawing a line under it. “You were injured here once. Badly enough to need stitches. I want to say ten—no, over twenty years ago. A childhood accident, perhaps. Fell off a tree?”
“Wha—” John gave a breathless laugh, and this feeling never left, this shocked admiration at Sherlock’s extraordinary mind. “Crashed my bike. How did you—there’s not even a scar!”
“The body remembers, Watson,” Sherlock intoned, his voice taking the cadence of a speech as he stroked John’s skin. “The flesh heals and the mind forgets, but the body—the body retains all, deep in its cells, in its unconscious habits. The collarbone is an awkward area to injure; it affects shoulder movement, arm extension; it hurt, pulling at your muscles when you used your right side. Your body learned to tense up to compensate, and you carry that ingrained strain with you still—a subtle discrepancy, but there if you observe closely.”
“And you’ve observed closely, have you?” John said, emotion roughening his throat.
“Yes, I have,” Sherlock said simply, and bent down to kiss John’s chest.
John immediately shut up, goose-bumps spreading all over his skin. It had been so long since he’d been touched like this—god, so long—that his body felt extra sensitive, reacting to the slightest sensation. Sherlock pressed a kiss to the underside of John’s nipple, then moved to his ribs, his stomach, over his belly button, lower—he—oh god—was he—was this—John’s brain was short-circuiting, nothing but static.
Before John could embarrass himself by coming in his pants without even being touched, Sherlock changed direction and kissed up John’s chest again. It was even odds on this being a disappointment or relief—then John abruptly stopped caring because Sherlock was undoing John’s jeans, and reaching down, and—fuck—taking John’s cock in his grasp.
“God.” John gripped a cushion for stability, his entire body bucking up eagerly. “Fuck, Sherlock, that’s—fuck.”
Sherlock hummed, pumping his hand with remarkable shamelessness, setting a quick and dirty rhythm. He stopped only to swipe over John’s cockhead before continuing with a wetter palm—and god, where did he learn this trick?—nuzzling at John’s cheek, his long torso bent over him. John was actually getting lightheaded from the pleasure, a litany of fuck and god and whatever other word he babbled spilling from his mouth with every groan.
It felt so good. It felt too good, John’s entire nervous system lit like a Christmas tree, and he was—he was already so close, so soon, his impending climax hurtling upwards with shocking speed, and he had to—he had to do something, had to pull himself together. John threw his head back and pressed against whatever resistance he could find, biting the inside of his cheek as he begged his body to resist for a little more, just a little more.
“Oh, well done,” Sherlock praised, because he must have noticed—of course, of course he noticed. “You’re doing very well,” he kept encouraging, that voice going straight to John’s belly, to his cock, burning him up.
“You’re not helping,” John gasped, his voice half-laughing, half-strangled. His thighs tensed up as all of John’s self-restraint evaporated and god, he was dying, he was going to die right here in Sherlock’s arms.
But Sherlock was pitiless. “Very good,” he said, quickening his rhythm without remorse, demanding the foregone conclusion. “That’s very good, John.”
That was all it took. John let out a sharp cry as his orgasm crashed into him, a cannonball right to the gut, a thunderbolt leaving him breathless. He thrust up into the air as his cock shuddered, once, twice, the pleasure overwhelming. All the while Sherlock’s bright eyes bore into him, his hand pumping at him roughly until John was a wreck, emptied-out and whimpering.
“God,” John said shakily once the power of speech returned to him. “Oh my god, that was—stop, stop, enough,” he laughed, feeling like his whole body had been electrocuted. He couldn’t manage to catch his breath. “That was—that was bloody amazing.”
“Mm, yes,” Sherlock said, exuding an aura of smugness. He gave one final, chaste little kiss to John’s lips, then collapsed to the side. Except instead of flopping down he wedged himself between John’s body and the sofa’s back, squirming into place.
“Sherl—ow—mate, do you know how cuddling works?” John asked, because this was a legitimate question, apparently.
“Yes, I know how cuddling works.”
“Well, can you start doing it properly, please? I’m gonna end up on the floor at this rate.”
“I would, but there’s an obstruction.”
“What? What obstruction?”
“That,” Sherlock said primly, pointing at—yep, pointing at the jizz on John’s chest. “I’m not letting that touch me.”
“You were literally just touching it. With your actual hands.”
“That’s different.”
“How is that—actually, you know what, never mind,” John said, giving up on understanding Sherlock Holmes’s infinite intricacies. “Not a big fan of creampies then, I take it.”
Sherlock frowned. “Not particularly, but I fail to see the connection.”
“No—it’s—forget it, the joke was stupid anyway. Here, let me just—” John fished his shirt from somewhere on the floor and started wiping himself off.
“Watson! That’s disgusting.”
“Eh, it’s not that bad. Sometimes you just gotta wipe yourself off with a shirt. It happens.”
“It’s going to crust,” Sherlock warned darkly.
“Well, what do you care? I’m the one who does the laundry.” John finished up and tossed his shirt carelessly to the side, out of sight and out of mind. “Can we have a proper cuddle now?”
Sherlock sighed and settled down, letting more of his weight rest on John. It felt nice—cramped, but nice. Naked chest on naked chest, their breaths soft and synchronized. John ignored the awkward angle to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s back, playing with the damp hair at his nape. He turned to kiss Sherlock’s temple—and felt an erection digging into his hip.
“Hello, what do we have here?” John said in a teasing tone, palming Sherlock’s cock over the cloth. “Want me to take care of that for y—whoa, or not,” he added quickly when Sherlock winced.
“Sorry, I—” Sherlock cut himself off, biting his lip. “It just—it would be too much stimulation, right now. If someone else touched me.”
“Right. Right, of course,” John said, as soothingly as he could. “Whatever you want.” He rubbed Sherlock’s arm, hoping it made him a little more comfortable. It seemed terribly unfair, though, to just leave Sherlock up and hanging like that. John felt like a cad.
“Hey,” he said as an idea started to form, “how about you do it yourself, then? You could teach me how you like it. Show me how you—heh— jerk the gherkin? Choke the ol’ chicken?”
“Do what to a chicken?” Sherlock lifted his head just so he could frown at John. “You’ve been using a lot of food-related words, Watson. Are you hungry?”
John bit back a laugh. “Just… can you touch yourself for me? Please? I want to see it.”
“Fine, but I doubt this will be all that interesting for you,” Sherlock said, reaching down to lower his pants. John’s gaze zeroed in.
Sherlock’s cock was tall and lean like its owner, prettily flushed in his long-fingered grasp. John felt his mouth water at the sight—he suddenly, desperately wanted to suck it, to get on his knees and take it in one mouthful, wanted to feel hot, salty flesh on his tongue. But he had to be patient; he would be patient, always, for Sherlock.
So instead John made himself look up at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was breathing rapidly, eyelashes fluttering, a vivid blush spreading from his cheeks down to his throat, his slim chest. His arm was moving fast, a no-nonsense, workmanlike rhythm—yet even as he dry-swallowed Sherlock was oddly quiet, not making a sound. John felt a sudden surge of protectiveness.
“Sherlock… you can be loud if you want,” John said, rubbing a palm over Sherlock’s flank, going down to his hip, round to his belly. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. It’s just me. You can let go.”
There was no outpouring of moans at his words, but Sherlock locked eyes with him, his gaze focused. Sherlock’s breath hitched, stuttered.
“Like that, just like that” John murmured, kissing Sherlock’s open mouth. “Look at you, you beauty. Gorgeous.”
Sherlock was making tiny noises at the back of his throat, muffled and plaintive. John kissed him properly, deep and dirty, his hand resting on the back of Sherlock’s—not to push, just to encourage. To feel.
“God, yeah,” John kept saying, unable to choose between talking and kissing, “yeah, like that, like that—come on, let go for me, love, let go, show me—”
Sherlock came with a harsh jerk and a sharp little whine, spilling in their combined grasp. John never stopped kissing him, feeling every twitch and motion in Sherlock’s body until he slowed, and slowed, and stopped.
They lay together in the aftermath, knees and chests touching, a messy embrace full of elbows. Their breathing eventually started to ease up, their heartbeats calming. John enjoyed the moment; he could spend eternity right were he was, not moving an inch.
“Watson.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s touching me.”
John sighed through his smile. “Okay, here’s an idea: how about we ignore whatever, uh, stickiness is happening, just for a bit, and focus on enjoying this moment? Have a little snuggle time? That sounds rather nice, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Sherlock said dubiously, wedging deeper into his spot. All was tranquil for a moment, two… then Sherlock was scrambling upright. “No, actually, I need to wash up.”
“Sherlock!” John laugh-groaned, but—nope, yeah, he was gone. Ah, well. John settled back on the now empty sofa with a contented sigh. His body felt pleasantly used, loose and mellowed out, and John literally couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this much at peace. He luxuriated in the sensation—and his cock’s growing interest in a potential second round, maybe soon, quite soon—for a while more, before finally getting up to follow Sherlock.
When John entered the bathroom Sherlock was already cleaning himself up with a wet hand towel, head bowed to look at his own stomach. His body looked beautiful like this, all sharp angles and lanky leanness, his bottoms slung dangerously low over his hipbones. The muscles on his arms were thin and wiry, serviceable rather than robust, not an excess of fat upon them. John made a mental note to start cooking more nutritious meals.
“Here, let me help,” John offered, going to him. “Oh, geez, why are you doing this with cold water? Come here.” He switched the faucet to hot and soaked the towel, then gently patted Sherlock’s chest, applying careful little wipes. He kept going until Sherlock was nice and clean, then kept going for a bit more, just to make sure. Just because he wanted to.
Once he was done John tossed the towel on the sink and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, an impulse he didn’t bother stopping. Sherlock did the same, and there they both were in a loose embrace, swaying slightly from side to side. It all felt so natural, as easy as breathing.
“So,” John said, gazing up at Sherlock.
“So.”
“Thoughts?”
“It seems the experiment was a resounding success,” Sherlock said with satisfaction, and smugness really had no right looking this attractive on him.
John huffed a laugh, trying and failing to hide his smile. “Mmhm. Yeah, I’d say so too.” He rubbed a thumb on Sherlock’s skin, at that intimate spot on his lower back. “So… shall we keep doing this?”
“I’d like that,” Sherlock said more quietly, now serious. “I like you, Watson. John. I like you quite a lot.”
“I like you too,” John said, and—really, John? Blushing? At this point? But never mind; John pushed past it, determined to actually use his words this time. “I want this. Us.”
Sherlock hummed, pressing his forehead to John’s, nuzzling like a cat. “Excellent. I believe we are in agreement.”
”Good to know,” John said with a grin, reaching up to kiss him. He pulled back after a moment, one last worry niggling at him. “Sherlock, one other thing… I don’t want this part of our life to be in the podcast. It just seems too—I don’t know, personal? I’d rather not mention it, at least not when we’re working.”
Sherlock nodded without protest. “A sensible idea. Provided you can manage it, that is.”
“Wha—hey, I can definitely manage it, alright? I’m a goddamn professional, I am.”
Sherlock’s hum sounded distinctly doubtful this time. “We’ll see.”
“I am! You—seriously? Are you serious right now?”
“All I’m saying is that you to talk into that microphone too much, for too long, with too much freedom and stream-of-consciousness involved for someone who claims not to have a parasocial relationship with his own audience—”
“—There is no parasocial relationship—”
“—and I suspect sooner or later the listeners will start putting all the clues together.”
“Let them put them wherever they want,” John grumbled, “they won’t—I’ll edit things—whatever, it will be fine,” he concluded, shaking the worry away. He let his hands circle Sherlock’s ribs, feeling the fragile sturdiness of his body, the mild warmth of it. “Come on, let’s go order some takeaway or something. We need to put some food into you.”
“I knew you were hungry,” Sherlock said, deeply triumphant, and John laughed in pure, soppy happiness.