For someone who valued brainpower above all else, Sherlock was a very physical man. He took up a lot of space, especially when he was thinking. It was as if his thoughts generated kinetic energy, sending him spinning around a room, vibrating and striking sparks off the walls. When he was bored he paced and fumed and shot at random targets. When the game was on, he'd dance and hug himself in sheer delight, then speed off like a motorboat cutting across a lake.
And if John followed too slowly, he was pushed and shoved at and manhandled into his jacket and ruthlessly towed along.
So John had always imagined that if (or when, as John hoped) Sherlock finally realized that marriage to his work wasn't everything, he'd come straight to the point -- swiftly, single-mindedly -- catching John up into his usual manic whirlwind, only this time with John at the centre of it. John didn't expect much in the way of courtship, or even courtesy. He wasn't foolish enough to expect romance from Sherlock Holmes. But neither did he expect to be dragged into an alley and shoved up against a wall. In the dark. In the cold. On the way home, where there were beds and heating and where the walls were private. Or at least as private as a flat allowed.
"Sherlock -- wait -- this isn't--"
Sherlock put a finger across John's lips as he unzipped John's jeans. "You masturbate once a night -- sometimes twice. You lie on your bed, fully dressed, with your hand down your trousers and you think of me. Doing this." His own fly was open; he ground his hips slowly against John's. Bare cock against bare cock.
John clutched at Sherlock and tried to say something intelligent.
"What? No. I don't -- you're guessing."
"John." Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around their two cocks together. Squeezed, not gently.
"Yes. All right. Yes."
"Better." Sherlock ran a thumb across John's cheek; his other thumb pressed against the base of John's cock. John felt the shock of pleasure all the way down to the atoms of the cells of the marrow of his bones.
"If you knew --" he managed to say. Of course he knew. "Why did you wait?" He struggled for coherence as Sherlock's thumb stroking him. "So -- so -- long?"
Sherlock tilted his head. "Why did you?"
"Why? Because I -- 'married to my job?' 'I'm flattered, but not looking for any?'"
Sherlock kissed the corner of John's mouth, softly, almost experimentally. "Thank you."
Thank you? John kissed Sherlock full on the mouth. He'd been wanting to do this for months. Thank you? He grabbed Sherlock by his lapels and pulled him closer, kissing him with furious passion.
Sherlock's answering kiss knocked John's head against the brick wall. Lips, tongue -- hands, oh yes.
People passed by the entrance to their little zone of public privacy. A woman walking a dog. A man pushing a pram. A drunk who raised a beer can and cursed the sky. Two businessmen talking, not to each other, but into mobile phones.
"Bit public, isn't it?" John winced at the hitch of excitement in his voice. "I mean, fantasies are one thing, but--"
Sherlock smiled, and with a fluid, imperious movement, folded John into a wing of his coat. It covered what they were doing, though it would hardly leave anything to the imagination of anyone watching.
"Right. That works. Just like being at home." John, all involuntary reflex, was thrusting against Sherlock's hand.
It was tight in John's jeans. Sherlock dug his fingers deeper down, trying to make room. "Legs apart," he said brusquely, sounding so much like a policeman -- like Lestrade, in fact -- that John let out an involuntary giggle, cut short when two of Sherlock's long fingers slipped under his balls.
There was a sudden muffled sound of struggle nearby.
"We-- ah, we-- have company," John panted through barely parted lips. Sherlock leaned down and darted his tongue between them.
Shadowy forms grappled together in the darkness at the end of the alleyway.
"They're not paying us any attention," Sherlock murmured. "Ignore them."
"How can you tell? They could be-- be-- damn it, Sherlock, hang on!" Words fled him for a few moments as Sherlock's fingers did things to him he'd only let himself imagine in the deep hours of the night. "Acting," he managed. Spying.
"They're not," Sherlock said in a low voice, against John's neck. "There are three of them. Two of them are rather working over the third. Can't you hear? Would you like details?"
"Are they killing him?" Sherlock's hand stilled. They both listened.
A high, keening sigh of pure pleasure came from the shadows, and went straight to John's groin.
"No," Sherlock said.
That didn't mean no one was watching, John knew. Mycroft's minions, always lurking about, following him to work, noting down where he went for takeaway, and now, doubtless, watching Sherlock kissing him and humping him up against an alley wall. Well, to hell with them. Let them watch. It was warm inside Sherlock's coat. Sherlock's hand was-- Sherlock's hand was hot. He was leaning eagerly into the warmth of Sherlock's body when Sherlock pulled away suddenly, leaving John with altogether too much air around him. Sherlock dropped to his knees and before John could utter either protest or encouragement, he'd yanked John's jeans down around his thighs. As John felt the sweet warmth of Sherlock's mouth on his cock, several things happened at once: all of the air escaped from his lungs, all of his blood rushed to his head, he fervently wished his own coat was as long in the back as Sherlock's, and a tiny red light blinked in the darkness above them.
"Cameras," John whispered. Security cameras. Remotely controlled. Mycroft's cameras? Wouldn't he have them discreetly turned away, focusing on nothing, leaving his wayward brother's peccadilloes to the cover of night? John leaned forward, thrusting urgently into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's body was moving rhythmically under his coat, and John realized that he was getting himself off. That's good, then, he thought inanely, happy that Sherlock was enjoying himself -- of course he was, he was very enthusiastically -- God, John was standing in a public street with Sherlock's mouth around his --
"Cameras," he said more loudly. Sherlock looked up, their eyes met, and John's thoughts shattered into a thousand pleasurable pieces. As John came, Sherlock butted him against the wall, sucking with total, wanton, unbridled hunger. As John stood gasping, holding on to Sherlock's hair with both hands, Sherlock moaned against John's thighs and shuddered all over.
"Oh, yes," Sherlock panted against John's skin. "Yes."
John stroked Sherlock's hair. Yes, indeed. So what if there were cameras? If Mycroft wanted a bloody video of his brother sucking off his flatmate in an alley -- well, that was between them.
Two women careened by the entrance to the alley, arms wrapped around each other, trying to sing Satisfaction. "I can't GET no--"
"What an utterly stupid song," John muttered.
Sherlock looked up at him and smiled.
After a moment, John remembered how to breathe.
"Up," said John unsteadily, tugging at the shoulders of Sherlock's coat. They leaned on each other, buttoning and zipping themselves back into respectability. Sherlock formally offered John his arm as they left the alley.
"Thank you," John said, interlocking arms with Sherlock. "Nice night for a stroll. Romantic."
"Are you a romantic man, John?" Sherlock looked unbearably smug.
"Oh yes. Very romantic. Chocolates, candlelit dinners, alley blowjobs. Hearts and flowers stuff. Can't get enough."
Sherlock gave him that lopsided smile he craved and John grinned back, feeling like a teenager. "I think you've ruined those trousers," he pointed at Sherlock's ragged and muddied knees.
Sherlock didn't bother to glance down. "Worth it, I think."
"Very much worth it," John agreed. "All the same, best not let Donovan get a look at your knees."
They laughed and ran. All the way home.
In the back of a very expensive black saloon car, Mycroft watched a grainy video on a small laptop, a bluish light from the screen flickering across his face. His eyebrows rose.
"Interesting," he said.
Anthea briskly pressed keys on her Blackberry. After a pause, she said, "I'm sorry, sir. What's interesting?"
"Sherlock. And his Doctor Watson."
Another pause. Anthea pressed keys. "Oh."
Mycroft's hands hovered over the keypad. Twice he pressed a key, leaning over to carefully inspect the image frozen on the screen.
-- Sherlock, on his knees, looking up, his face glowing with -- what? Love? Gratitude? A trick of the light? Mycroft pressed a key and screencapped it.
-- John, his hands deep in Sherlock's hair, gazing down at Sherlock with all the tenderness in the world.
Mycroft stared at this picture for a long time. He pressed the key to save it, the shadow of a whisper of a smile on his face. He deleted the video file, zipped the two pictures together and encrypted them, using a method he himself had developed, and known only to him. He closed the folder. Then, on an impulse, he opened his email and sent the encrypted file to Sherlock. A gift. I trust you'll be able to open it. MH. He snapped the laptop shut with an air of satisfaction. Anthea glanced over at him and smiled, then returned to her Blackberry. Mycroft sighed and settled back into the seat, fingertips pressed together over his chest.
Sherlock smiled at his phone.
"A new case?" John felt a pang of disappointment. Before they'd even closed the door of the flat, Sherlock had started undressing John, manhandling him out of his jacket and not stopping there. John pressed close to Sherlock, loving the angles and bones and unexpected softness of Sherlock's naked body against his, reveling in the warmth, the privacy. The walls of the flat had never looked so inviting.
Sherlock tossed the phone aside. "Not important."
John felt both transfixed and utterly free under the full force of Sherlock's undivided attention. It was terrifying. It was such a bloody relief. He touched Sherlock's chest and gently backed him against the wall. "My turn," he said.
Sherlock took John's face between his hands and just-- looked at him.
Oh, yes. John thought. A new game is on.
Above their heads, a strategically placed and well-hidden camera silently went dark.