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Denier Dream

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Denier Dream


"Sherlock," John called into the flat, depositing the shopping onto the coffee table. The wind had kicked up, turning the persistent fog rolling off the Thames brutally cold and his shoulder ached. He also had the rather urgent need to piss.

"Sherlock?" He tried again, knowing the man was home. His Belstaff was hung on the usual peg in the hallway. "Your husband is calling."

Sherlock's head whipped out around the bathroom door, half his face obscured by a thick layer of shaving cream. "My husband, John?"

John allowed himself a small grin. Taking the piss out of Sherlock Holmes was one of his more indulgent activities. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's been texting you all day, apparently," John said, glancing at the increasingly alarming number if texts to his own mobile.

"Lestrade is not my spouse, John," Sherlock replied, disappearing back into the loo. "If anything you are."

John snorted in amusement, but subsided at the quelling look his flat mate shot back over his shoulder. John sighed and moved into the cramped bathroom. He really did need to piss. Sherlock was bent over the sink, gliding his ridiculously old fashioned and incredibly dangerous straight razor up the underside of his jaw. John waited until the blade was well out of reach of any expanse of absurdly pale skin before sidestepping the man's narrow hips and undoing his flies. Sherlock completely ignored him in favor of wiping a stray drip of cream off the sleeve of his ubiquitous blue silk dressing gown. He also ignored the pointed sigh of pained relief and the noise of liquid being drained into the toilet.

The first time they had done this had been out of necessity. Sherlock was undergoing an experiment involving caustic liquid in the bathtub and refused to budge, rendering the toilet completely unapproachable. After four hours of holding it, John sucked it up and pissed anyway, completely bemused. It's not like he hadn't shared barracks with countless men before and he'd certainly pissed in enough alleyways and public toilets to not be self-conscious about it. Sherlock didn't seem to mind at any rate.

He flushed and turned towards the sink, which Sherlock agreeably backed away from. John washed his hands and reached around Sherlock's back for the hand towel hung by the door. He was just setting out when the low rumble of Sherlock's baritone stopped him in his tracks.

"Why does it bother you?"

John looked confused. He met Sherlock's eyes in the mirror and was startled to see the genuine curiosity lingering there.

"Erm, why does what bother me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've had some kind of homoerotic sexual identity crisis exactly fifty three times that I've witnessed since you moved in here," he expounded, ignoring John's splutter of indignation. "Does it really bother you overmuch that people assume we're a couple?"

John stared. "Doesn't it bother you?" he shot back.

"No," Sherlock replied simply, lining up his razor again and tackling the difficult spot behind his ear. He looked back into the mirror to see John gaping over his shoulder, looking very much like a fish out of water.

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"It doesn't bother me in the least."

"But, Sherlock... you're not gay!" Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "You're not! You never go out with blokes!"

"By those parameters, I'm not straight either. I never go out with anyone, John. Except you."

John found this whole conversation a little hard to swallow. He quickly changed the subject, "Why do you use that dangerous thing anyway? You know you can use my electric if you want."

The sound of exceedingly sharp metal scraping over skin was the only noise for a few moments and John was certain Sherlock had regressed into ignoring him again.

"It was my father's," came the low murmur some minutes later. John was stunned. Sherlock never usually spoke about his family, and it was only ever Mycroft and Mummy.

"Sentiment, John," Sherlock's voice was harsh and loud in the still flat. "And stop prevaricating."
John shook his head in resignation. It seemed the conversation they had been hedging for the past six months was about to happen, in the bathroom, with only one of them fully dressed. Naturally.

He moved over to close the lid on the toilet and took a seat, knowing this wasn't about to be a ten minute discussion. He sighed, "It doesn't bother me, not really." Sherlock shot him a look in the mirror, but moved the razor against the other side of his adams apple, rendering him temporarily speechless.

"It doesn't," John persisted. "It makes dating a bit difficult, but honestly the kind of women I meet in the line of the fish and chip booth are not the sort who last anyway. And who could compete with you for my attention, really?" he finished wryly.

Sherlock's lips quirked into a brief smile before he ran the tap over the glinting metal, sliding the last of the cream off the blade and down the drain. Then he slid out of his dressing gown, dropping the garment to the floor before stepping into the bath, tugging the curtain closed and starting up the shower. The unmistakable sound of water hitting his slim shoulders made the whole scene ridiculously surreal. John's eyes had rounded to the size of saucers, he was sure. Pissing in front of your flat mate was one (rather unusual, if he were honest) practice, but flouncing into the shower, completely naked, was something else entirely.

"Sherlock!" he managed to splutter, trying for indignation, but sounding a tad too breathless.

"Oh John, please," Sherlock murmured, velvet smooth.

"Nudity doesn't bother you anymore than it does me," he finished, poking his head out from behind the curtain, curls damp and eyes shining in the steam.

"That's... that's hardly the point!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, yet again, and snapped the curtain closed. John tried valiantly to ignore the vague outline of lean muscles and impossibly long limbs as Sherlock began scrubbing his body down. The curtain was far too translucent and John suddenly realized the absurdity of the situation. He snickered dryly to himself and figured, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Alright, genius. I suppose if this conversation has to happen, at least one of us should be naked. It only seems fitting it should be you, you lithe bastard." Sherlock's dark chuckle did terrible things to John's resolve and he suddenly found it was too hot in the rapidly steaming room to be sitting in his overcoat. He stripped away the offending garment and discarded it to the floor with Sherlock's dressing gown.

Sherlock had gone still in the shower. "At least one of us, John?"

John felt the flush rise up his neck and into his cheeks, but he could easily blame that on the rising temperature as Sherlock's scalding showers tended to produce enough steam for a sauna. He cleared his throat. "Ok, so it does bother me a little that all the women I've dated since starting up with you have, at some point--usually while chucking me, alluded to the fact that I'm actually your boyfriend. I would, in fact, like to get laid sometime in future," he grumbled.

Sherlock made a scoffing noise from behind the curtain. "Really, John, if that's your only argument, the situation can be easily remedied."

John almost hated to ask, "How exactly?"

The water had ceased and the curtain was suddenly and violently ripped back, exposing Sherlock in all his heat-pinked glory. It was John's turn to roll his eyes as he passed the man a towel.

"Look at the facts, John. All the facts, not just the pleasant ones you'd like to consider. We already live together, your jobs and relationships so far have failed because of your commitments to me and I work better with you. I need you, John. Everyone already assumes we're in a relationship based on these facts and your uncanny ability to tolerate me where everyone else would have stalked off in a strop by now. Besides sex, what would change if we make the assumptions true?"

John's mouth was gaping open in probably the most unattractive face he could imagine. He shut his eyes and massaged his temples for a moment, trying to make sense of everything his ridiculous and still quite naked flat mate was spewing this time. "Sherlock," he started in what he hoped was a calm and decisive tone. "I know you're not exactly the authority on relationships. As far as I know you've never actually had one, but this is certainly not the way to begin with anyone, especially your best friend. Hell, your only friend. Then there's that tiny little insignificant detail of the fact that I'm not gay."

Sherlock huffed, "Irrelevant."

"Excuse me?" John was actually getting angry now.

"Really, John, for such a liberal and open minded individual, you're not making much sense. What does it matter if you're homosexual or not?"

John choked a little on that comment. "It matters, Sherlock, because even if I went along with this ridiculous idea of yours, there's the simple fact that you are a man."

“Oh John,” Sherlock said and it sounded a bit too much like amused chiding for John’s liking. “Clearly my being a man hasn’t hindered your attraction to me yet, so why should it matter now?”

John gaped at him. Attraction? Sherlock was rolling his eyes again, toweling his hair vigorously and finally stepping into a pair of black cotton boxer briefs. John closed his mouth with an audible snap and began racking his brains for signs of attraction. Alright, fine. So he’d noticed blokes before, but only in an abstract way. There was nothing wrong with admitting someone else was fit, regardless of their gender. And if he were completely honest with himself, he knew Sherlock was particularly fit. There were times, usually when he was bent over his microscope or fishing through the lower cabinets for some doubtless illegal acid when John found himself wondering exactly what it would feel like to run his hands over the smooth planes of Sherlock’s suit jacket. What would it be like to simply give in to the impulse and lick the faint line of perspiration across the back of his neck? He had the abrupt urge to know what sounds Sherlock made when he came, and that thought alone was heady enough to send a shiver down John’s spine, making his trousers unaccountably tight.

 John was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the ringing silence between the two of them in their overcrowded toilet. Sherlock was looking at him with a glint in his eyes that John had never seen before. It was beyond the usual intensity; it had heat and something distinctly carnal to it. John cleared his throat, not glancing down at Sherlock’s pants, which certainly didn’t look like they didn’t fit properly now.

“Alright fine. I concede,” John sighed. Sherlock looked momentarily surprised, but his lips quirked slightly at the edges.

“I’m impressed, John,” he said instead, picking up his dressing gown and shaking the worst of the wrinkles out before sliding it around his shoulders. “I had seven other arguments lined up in case you needed further persuasion.”

 “Seven?” John asked, his brain still trying to catch up with the monumental step they had just taken in their relationship. Sherlock chuckled, but stepped out of the loo and into the hallway. John found his feet following of their own accord as Sherlock turned into his bedroom and began rooting around in his closet.

“Seven, John. Not the least of which was your blatant jealousy of The Woman.”

"I was not jealous of Irene Adler," John ground out, a bit more forcefully than he intended.

"Really, John. I'm entirely disinclined to believe you. It was abundantly clear that your possessiveness made any contact I had with her unbearably strained." Sherlock emerged from his closet with one of his skin tight button ups in hand and proceeded to dress more quickly and efficiently than John had ever seen anyone move.

“You’re getting dressed?” John asked, and mentally kicked himself. Of course Sherlock was getting dressed. Did he expect the man to shag him right now for god’s sake? John’s stomach dropped a little at the thought. Jesus, he certainly seemed to get over his most recent bout of questionable sexuality rather quickly. John was well aware of how ridiculous he sounded, even to his own ears and Sherlock’s smug expression certainly wasn’t helping matters.

“Of course, John. The case,” Sherlock smirked, twirling into his suit jacket with a flourish.

“Alright, you’ve made your point, you bloody tosser,” John grumbled and went to go retrieve his coat from the bathroom floor.

: :

They didn’t broach the subject again until nearly a week later. The case Lestrade had been hounding Sherlock about had been intense to say the least and when he and John finally did stumble up the steps of 221B on Friday evening, their collective exhaustion was paramount.

Sherlock flopped gracefully onto the sofa, not even bothering to remove his shoes. John moved wearily towards the kitchen, intending on making a strong cup of tea for them each. There was a worrying moment when the criminal they were after had a long and evil looking blade placed precariously along Sherlock’s carotid that made the skin on the back of John’s neck crawl. He shivered involuntarily at the thought again and cursed as the electric kettle banged slightly against the side of the sink.

“John?” Sherlock called, concern evident in his voice.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I just need some sleep.” He sighed and shifted his weight, leaning his hip against the worktop as he waited for the kettle to boil. Sherlock was silent in the other room and John briefly wondered if Sherlock was as obviously shaken as he felt. He poured the scalding water into two mugs and stirred in milk and sugar for himself, just milk for the other. The aftereffects of the case were wearing on them both and the strain was palpable in the living room. Usually when a case was solved, Sherlock shone like the sun, high on adrenaline and the complete wonder of proving himself clever. Tonight, however, the brutality of the murder and the sadistic way the man had carved apart the seven year old girl, not to mention Sherlock’s own brief encounter with the man himself had them both wired with tension and beaten with fatigue.

Sherlock was unusually silent as John handed him his cup and hovered over him protectively. The paramedics had seen to the thankfully shallow incision on Sherlock’s neck, though John could see a small drop of crimson bleeding through the layers of gauze and medical tape adorning Sherlock’s collar. He’d have to clean and redress the wound in the morning, John thought. Hopefully Sherlock could be persuaded to sleep a little. He certainly looked like he might drop off any minute.

“Come on,” he sighed, offering his hand. Sherlock just blinked up at him, but allowed himself to be maneuvered across the leather until they were sitting side by side, leaning slightly into each other.

“John, I… may have miscalculated tonight,” Sherlock finally said. John could feel the tension seeping through Sherlock’s shoulders and carefully began kneading the muscles at the base of his neck. Sherlock’s hands were cupped around his hot mug and he bent his head forward at the contact, leaning his elbows on his knees and closing his eyes. John had never seen him looking so defeated and the thought alone made his decision for him.

Carefully, as though afraid the man might bolt, John pressed his lips into the dark curls. Sherlock shuddered a little, but his breath huffed out on a sigh that took a bit of the stiffness with it. “I almost lost you tonight,” John whispered, closing his own eyes against the vision of Sherlock’s throat splitting open under the silver of a curved blade.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, leaning further into John’s hand and rubbing his face with one of his tea-warmed palms.

“We both need sleep,” John said, feeling the pull of exhaustion over anything else. Reluctantly, he withdrew his fingers from Sherlock’s curls and forced his legs to take his weight. Sherlock stayed where he was, slumped forward and looking very small.

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” John asked, trying to keep the painful tremor out of his voice. This thing with Sherlock had gotten far too serious far too quickly and John felt like he was trying to catch up. Sherlock shrugged, sipping his tea and staring at the floor. John nodded, aware Sherlock wouldn’t see him, but feeling he might know regardless.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard the door creak behind him. Sherlock was leaning uncertainly against the doorframe, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. John’s unease kicked up a peg. Anything that could shatter Sherlock’s constant unflappable concentration was not to be taken lightly.

Smiling around the sudden ache in his chest, John extended his hand again. Sherlock stared at his outstretched fingers for a moment, his eyes focusing on John’s for a half second before he nodded and padded up the stairs behind him.

Falling into bed together seemed like the most natural thing in the world. John was honestly too knackered to fully appreciate the lithe muscles in Sherlock’s back as he peeled back the slightly bloodstained button up, but he caught himself staring as Sherlock’s trousers slid down his impossibly long legs. John folded himself into the left side of the bed, lifting the corner of the quilt and waiting patiently for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock was all awkward angles and bony elbows, but with a considerable amount of shifting, they settled into comfort, Sherlock’s pale arms winding around John’s chest and pulling him into a loose embrace. There was a tentative sense of calm descending on the room, but John was restless. He could tell Sherlock was still awake, breath uneven against the back of his neck.

John sighed and tried to relax, but every time he closed his eyes, the image of Sherlock with a knife to his throat made his stomach roll.

“Sleep, John,” Sherlock murmured in his ear and John felt himself shiver as the damp air slid across his neck.

“Easier said than done, I’m afraid,” John whispered with a wry grin. Sherlock’s fingers were trailing lightly across his arm under the sheets and despite the intensity of the evening, John felt himself relax marginally. Ridiculous as it sounded, John felt safe in Sherlock’s arms, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why. Sherlock was the absolute opposite of safety and caution, but thinking about it made John’s head hurt. Sometimes tactile senses were stronger than brain function, at least for mere mortals not named Sherlock Holmes, and John felt his eyelids grow heavy with the steady beat of Sherlock’s heart against his back and the soft touch of his long fingers against his wrist.

He was just drifting into stillness when he felt Sherlock’s lips caress his nape briefly. Smiling into his pillow, John felt the pressure ease a bit from his chest and he allowed himself to sleep.

: :

Waking up in bed with Sherlock Holmes was a bit like waking up tangled in farming equipment. Sherlock was sprawled completely across the bed, one knobby knee digging painfully into one of John’s kidneys and trapping him completely under six feet of solid weight. John tried to shift, but Sherlock just slept on, right arm flung over the small of John’s back and effectively pinning him to the mattress. Sherlock’s toes were curled against John’s calf and Christ, even the man’s ankles were sharp and pointy. John knew his left arm was completely asleep, successfully stuck between his torso and the mattress, but Sherlock’s bony chin was pushing into his shoulder and when he tried to move, Sherlock just mumbled incoherently and clutched him tighter. John chuckled softly when he heard a distinct snore rattle against his neck and with a bit more wiggling, managed to extract himself enough to displace any wayward joints threatening his organs.

Sherlock, as it transpired, did in fact sleep. Like the dead.  John tried to drift back off himself, but between Sherlock's frankly alarming snores and his bladder's incessant demands, he finally rolled himself out of bed, noting with amusement that Sherlock immediately stole his pillow. Stretching on his way back up the stairs, John felt the stress of last night returning minutely. He glanced at his watch and found it was only nine in the morning; plenty of time to get a bit more sleep.

Sherlock was spread-eagle on his bed now, every inch of the mattress apparently at his disposal. He was still completely out and John decided to give him a little extra time to lie in. After all, he felt rested enough and he could use a shower and some coffee himself.

John sighed in contentment, allowing the hot water to dissolve some of the tension in his shoulders. He was pretty sure the tingles in his left arm would recede the longer he was under the spray and he rotated the muscles, aiding in the redistribution of blood flow. If this shared bed regimen was going to become a more permanent thing, they'd have to find a better position to sleep in. There was an odd sort of feeling fluttering in his chest at the thought of sleeping with Sherlock on a more regular basis. Waking up with him might take some getting used to, but John only had a double bed, after all. Perhaps he could invest in a larger mattress.

He was just soaping shampoo into his hair when the curtain was unceremoniously ripped back. John jumped and nearly slipped to his watery death when long, pale fingers caught him around the elbow and steadied him.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John spluttered, trying and failing to wipe the soap painfully out of his eyes. “A bit of warning next time?”

Sherlock was blinking at him, hand still wrapped around his elbow. He was completely naked, John suddenly realized and before he could resist the urge, he ran his eyes down miles and miles of long limbs and sinewy muscles. Without preamble, Sherlock stepped into the shower and snapped the curtain shut.

“Sherlock! What—“ John started, torn out of his very nice appreciation of Sherlock’s lazy morning hair.

“I was getting cold, John,” Sherlock rumbled, his voice an octave lower after sleep. John was suddenly aware he was standing in the shower, completely nude with his mouth hanging open in shock. He clicked it closed and startled a bit when he felt Sherlock pull him close under the hot spray. The effect was both mildly alarming and incredibly arousing as he was now pressed bodily from slippery toes to waterlogged chest. Apparently explanations were either boring or obvious in Sherlock’s opinion, because he nicked the soap from the wall hanging behind John and began unceremoniously sudsing his skin.

John could feel his pulse thudding thick on the back of his tongue and tried valiantly to remain as still as possible, but Sherlock was sliding his skin across John’s in a way that was far more distracting than it had any right. Tipping his head back, Sherlock allowed the spray to soak through his curls, plastering them onto his forehead and making his eyelashes stick together in harsh spikes. John realized a split second too late that he was staring, gaping really, and Sherlock knew it. The corner of those absurdly full lips was quirking up in an undeniable smirk and John could feel his body’s reaction becoming dangerously apparent in their close proximity. Taking a hasty step back, John tried for distance, but there was only so far he could go in the tiny cubicle. The tiles were cold and clammy against his back and he felt himself shiver for a completely different reason than the chilled porcelain warranted.

Sherlock was still grinning at him wickedly, slowing his movements to sensual lines of muscle. The water dripped down his chest in rivulets and before John could stop and think, his fingers were trailing after the soap bubbles, catching a thumbnail on Sherlock’s left nipple as he went. The resulting moan was startlingly loud and resonant in the small space and John felt his own grin tugging at his lips. Oh, this was going to be too easy.

Feeling much more confident, John allowed his other hand to move up from Sherlock’s waist, the soap making the slide that much easier. He circled Sherlock’s other nipple before plucking at it lightly and nearly moaned himself when Sherlock’s head fell back, stretching his neck into a long line just begging to be kissed. John pressed his lips against his pulse point, catching on the ragged edge of the already half-healed wound and felt the blood pounding through Sherlock’s veins faster than he could have imagined. Sherlock seemed to be holding back, his hands fisted at his sides, arms trembling. John smirked against the expanse of pale skin and allowed his teeth to graze against flesh, moving his palms across Sherlock’s chest as he did so.

All restraint vanished and Sherlock’s hands flew to John’s biceps in a punishing grip. The low rumble of his groan seemed to come from his very soul before his hips rocked forward and John froze. Sherlock’s cock was against his hip. Sherlock’s hard, leaking cock, because Sherlock was most definitely a man.

John’s brain seemed to short circuit. Sherlock was nothing if not observant and even with his eyes closed under the spray of hot water, he could feel the tension through John’s body.

“Really, John. Now is not the time to be questioning your sexuality. Again,” the last word was practically dripping with distain and John felt his hackles rise at the challenge in Sherlock’s tone. Something about the phrasing was bothering him, though. There was an undercurrent of tension belying Sherlock’s harsh words and John took the in as he saw it. He narrowed his eyes.

“My sexuality, as you so eloquently put it, is not at question here, Sherlock. I’m clearly willing to try this with you, so why do you keep bringing it up?”

Sherlock’s breath huffed out in irritation and he reached for the curtain, as if to pull it away and flee. John grabbed his wrist firmly before he could move, however, and tugged him around, causing Sherlock to slip a little against the wet linoleum. Sherlock was avoiding his eyes, instead staring intently at John’s fingers, wrapped strongly around his wrist.

“What is this, Sherlock?” John demanded, tightening his grip a little to draw the attention back on himself. Under his index finger, John inexplicably felt Sherlock’s pulse speed up, just a flicker of rapid beating, but it was extremely telling. John peered at his flat mate, taking in his averted pale eyes and the flush rising from his chest up into his neck.

John didn’t have the incredible deductive skills Sherlock possessed, but he knew the telltale signs of arousal when he saw them. He let go of Sherlock’s wrist and he let it fall limply at his side, huffing out a breath that sounded suspiciously like annoyance. John sighed.

“What is it you want, Sherlock?” he asked, weary of the head games and starting to get cold.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed dangerously and he crowded John back against the tiles, forcing his way into John’s space just like he’d forced his way into his life, dominating and controlling and so bloody infuriating.

“Why don’t we discuss what you want, doctor?” he asked, his voice darkly menacing and causing the solider in John to suddenly pay attention. Sherlock’s eyes flicked over his face and a decidedly predatory gleam suddenly infused them, making the pale irises seem to glow. “Or should I say, Captain?

John’s breath rushed out of him in a great wave, his shoulders squaring almost imperceptibly and his head tilting up. Sherlock’s eyes were still boring into his, taking in the subtle changes in his stance and smirking. God, that smirk. John wanted to punch it right off his overly pompous face.

Sherlock leaned in closer, bringing his lips right against John’s ear and breathing in the scent of him before purring, “Why don’t you stop asking me what I want and just take it?”

With deliberately slow movements, John pushed his hips forward and rolled them slowly. Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked, but he licked his lips and leaned back an infinitesimal amount. That wouldn’t do at all. Sliding his left hand up the center of Sherlock’s chest, John pushed his fingers up under Sherlock’s jaw, tipping his head back and flexing his grip slightly. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and his pulse jumped another few beats.  John felt his lips stretch into a predatory smile as he circled his hips again, adding a small snap on the upstroke. He watched in satisfaction as Sherlock’s adams apple bobbed in an audible swallow.

Using his grip on Sherlock’s throat, he backed them slowly up against the opposite wall, aware that the position had the taps digging painfully into Sherlock’s lower back. Moving his middle finger and thumb up to Sherlock’s jaw, he pressed inward, forcing Sherlock’s mouth open and the resulting gasp of desire was satisfyingly loud. John’s primal urge to dominate this man was racing through his veins like fire, startlingly clear and overwhelmingly intense. He hadn’t even been aware of it, but now that it was out in the open, John had a suspicion he always knew. Sherlock had obviously figured it out, picked apart in subtle hints and normal every-day movements of their daily life. Chasing after danger was par for the course in life with Sherlock Holmes, but John was becoming increasingly aware that he was not the only one who needed the danger as a release.

Sherlock was panting now, the pressure on his windpipe and the spray of water from the shower into his open mouth making his breath labored and harsh. His body was in constant movement now, hips rocking forward slightly and hands clenching rhythmically into fists at his side, as though he desperately wanted to touch, but didn’t dare. He was waiting for permission, John abruptly realized and the thought sang through his veins like honey, slow and sweet.

“We need to get out of here,” John murmured, licking the clean line of water dripping down Sherlock’s pale neck. He suddenly had a flash of Sherlock’s impossibly long limbs wrapped around his hips and he felt his own groan vibrate against Sherlock’s collar bone.

“Why?” Sherlock panted, the sound low and constricted as John’s fingers dug in a little deeper.

“Because,” he purred instead, hands slicking down Sherlock’s back and fingers digging into the surprisingly plump swell of Sherlock’s arse. “If we don’t move, I’m going to fuck you right here and I rather think proper lubrication should be a part of this little plan, don’t you?”

Sherlock shuddered in his arms, hands gripping painfully into the short hair at the back of John’s scalp. With all the agility of a cat, Sherlock slammed the taps off and ripped the curtain open, not even bothering to dry himself off before he sprinted from the room, John’s dark chuckle following him up the stairs. John took his time toweling off, enjoying the heady sense of anticipation and just knowing that Sherlock was lying impatiently in his bed, dripping all over his sheets.

The primal part of his brain was screaming at him to chase Sherlock up the stairs, bend him over the nearest surface and just have at him, but John was determined to take his time. If he was honest with himself, this wasn’t the first time he’d fantasized about his gorgeous and enigmatic flat mate, and Sherlock clearly knew it. John was getting tired of constantly chasing after Sherlock’s coat tails, jumping into whatever scenario Sherlock asked of him without question and bending to his every whim.

Sherlock was larger than life, hiding behind all that frightening intellect and callous nature. He had pretty much controlled John’s life since the moment they had met and John had been perfectly happy with their arrangement as it was. Or so he’d thought. When he’d allowed himself to think on it, shamefully wanking under his covers like a bloody teenager, he’d always assumed Sherlock would be predominantly forceful when it came to sex and the fact that he could have Sherlock straining and gasping at his touch, begging him to take what he wanted, made the transition from shameful fantasy to incredible reality that much easier.

When he finally reached the top of the stairs and flung his bedroom door open, all thoughts of restraint flew spectacularly out the proverbial window. Sherlock was stretched out on his bed, head thrown back in nimble grace as his ridiculously long fingers stroked his cock from base to tip. John’s breath caught at the sight of Sherlock’s wiry body heaving against his sheets, still wet from the bath and seeming to glow with sexual repression.

John was on him in an instant. He snatched at Sherlock’s wrist and dragged it up over his head, pinning it to the mattress with probably too much force. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, though, by the way his head tipped back and the broken moan that fell from his lips.

“Did I say you could touch?” John growled in his ear, reveling in the shudder that ran down Sherlock’s entire body at the sound.

“You were taking too long,” Sherlock panted, voice unsteady and an octave lower than usual. “Had to start without you.”

John sank his teeth into the side of Sherlock’s neck in response and felt Sherlock’s moan against his lips as it reverberated through skin and bone. He caught Sherlock’s other wrist and brought it up to meet the first, forcing Sherlock’s thighs open with his knee and laying bodily on top of him. The writhing mass of pheromones beneath him seemed to be a constant undulating mess. Half choked sobs and wordless groans were falling steadily from Sherlock’s mouth, a relentless litany intertwined with John’s name and the word please.

John set out to take Sherlock apart, piece by piece. If he could get Sherlock’s giant brain to stop functioning, even for a half second, it would be worth it. Slowly, he rocked his hips forward and felt himself grow even harder at the slick slide of skin on skin. Sherlock arched his back and rolled his hips forward, enticing John to rut harder against him. John’s brain failed him momentarily, caught up in the feeling of Sherlock’s milky skin gliding along his own and rubbing up against him in all the right places.

Sherlock was thrashing his head now, muscles straining against John’s grip on his wrists, so John leaned forward and put a little more pressure into the grasp. Sherlock moaned and his hips bucked forward causing John to swear under his breath and capture those absurdly full lips with his own. Sherlock’s mouth fell open immediately and John licked into him, sliding his tongue along teeth and gums, too desperately aroused to focus on technique.

Sherlock kissed back with enough repressed desire to fill John’s brain with endlessly filthy suggestions. He tasted of soap from the shower and the musky, dense fog that rolled over London, mixed with a hint of Nicotine (bad man) and a thrill of danger. John knew instinctively that he would never get enough of this. Sherlock’s wicked tongue was doing horrible things to his resolve, tracing along the edges of his teeth and sucking John’s own tongue into his mouth. With a groan, John pulled back, moving his mouth down the elegant line of Sherlock’s jaw and sucking hard at his pulse point.

Shifting his weight, John pulled his hands back, just catching Sherlock’s wrists again as they immediately sprang forward. He slammed them back against the pillows, feeling the bones scrape painfully together and growled in his ear, “Do not move.” The commanding tone was clear and Sherlock whimpered, but nodded, curling his fingers around the base of the headboard instead.

John slowly leaned back, taking in the gorgeous sight before him: Sherlock’s eyes were glassy, pupils dilated to outrageous proportions. His chest was heaving with uneven breath, face and chest flushed with arousal. His muscles were twitching, tensing under John’s appreciative gaze, all long lines of lean sinew, tendons straining. John had to close his eyes for a moment, breathing in the heavy scent of sex in the air and trying to dampen his own arousal.

When he felt again in control of his body, John leaned forward, brushing his cock against Sherlock’s hip and leaving a long trail of precome against his skin. Sherlock trapped his bottom lip between his teeth and breathed heavily as John loomed over him to rummage in his bedside table for lubricant and a condom. Sherlock was trembling now, his cock thick and red, leaking copious amounts of fluid. On a whim, John ducked his head and licked at a particularly viscous drop of come as it slid down Sherlock’s shaft and into his pubic hair.

Sherlock let out a gasp and his hips snapped up, almost colliding with John’s jaw. John glared up at him and was about to bark out something harsh, but Sherlock’s eyes were pressed tightly closed and he was panting a steady stream of, “Sorry, I’m sorry, John. Please, John, I’m sorry.” John felt his irritation melt away on a tide of self-satisfaction. He hadn’t really even started yet and already Sherlock was begging.

Dropping the condom and bottle of lube onto the sheets, John slid his hands slowly up Sherlock’s legs, thumbs digging painfully into his inner thighs. Sherlock’s muscles were flexing rhythmically, jumping when John breathed hotly over the faint dusting of hair below his navel. John had never done this before, but he knew exactly what it felt like on the receiving end, and Sherlock was too lust-addled at the moment to care about lack of experience. Wrapping his right hand around the head of Sherlock’s cock, John eased back the foreskin and licked a long trail from base to tip.

Sherlock let out a string of profanity worthy of military praise. John smirked and licked at the newly formed bead of precome, rolling the flavor across his tongue and finding it to be not nearly as bad as he’d expected. Salty and a little bitter, but not wholly unpleasant. Sherlock’s legs were twitching, left heel skidding along the damp sheets as he tried to push his hips forward. John’s left hand dug harshly into his pelvis and he ceased immediately, but bit his lip so hard John could see a bead of crimson against his teeth. Taking pity on him, John opened his mouth and slid the first few inches of Sherlock’s prick in as far as he could.

“Stop! Stop, god John,” Sherlock shouted and John immediately pulled back. He rested his hand at the base of Sherlock’s cock and just held him there, allowing the man to calm down.

“Too much?” John asked, voice darker and rougher than usual. Sherlock nodded, eyes still firmly shut and breath still ragged. When Sherlock’s breath had evened out a bit and John was sure he could take it, he slid his hand back up and down once. Sherlock shuddered and his back arched, but he kept himself in check, fingers holding the headboard so hard, his knuckles strained white.

The sound of the lubricant bottle clicking open was almost deafening. Sherlock’s eyes snapped wide and he panted under John’s heated gaze. Their eyes locked and held as John tipped the liquid over his left hand and rubbed it between his fingers. Sherlock’s mouth was slightly open, breath stuttering out in gasps and John couldn’t help but lean forward and lick at the drop of blood clinging to his bottom lip. Sherlock turned his head and tried to capture John’s mouth, but John moved away, tsking softly with a grin full of dark promise.

Holding Sherlock’s pleading gaze, John slowly trailed his middle finger over Sherlock’s scrotum and along his perineum. Sherlock’s hips were making unconscious circling movements, drawing deep tremors and panting pleas from the man. Digging his right hand into Sherlock’s hip, John slowly eased the tip of his finger past the tight ring of muscle. John actually felt Sherlock’s sharp gasp as it travelled down his spine and he pressed in a little farther. Sherlock’s body was hot and tight, Christ so tight. John’s hips were canting in sympathy, while he never broke eye contact. He could feel the all the fluttering muscles clamping down on his finger as he began to pull slowly out and push back in. Finally, Sherlock tipped his head back and let out a low, rumbling groan, closing his eyes in supplication and his body seemed to melt into the mattress.  

John pulled his finger from Sherlock’s hole with an indecently slick noise and moved backward, ignoring Sherlock’s pointed glare at the loss of contact.

“On your knees,” he ordered, slapping Sherlock’s thigh when he didn’t immediately move. Sherlock’s eyes widened at the harsh noise, more a sound than an actual sting of pain and he scrambled to comply, long legs tumbling through the air and getting caught in the sheets tangling around his ankles.

Swiftly tearing the packet open and fumbling slightly with his overly slick fingers, John rolled the condom onto his sadly neglected erection. At Sherlock’s whine of arousal, John moved swiftly behind him again, shoving his finger right back in to the knuckle and licking at the sweat pooled at the base of Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock’s body bowed forward, tilting his arse up and burying his face in the mattress. John pumped his finger a few more times before pulling back and adding a second. At the stretch of two fingers, Sherlock cried out, fucking himself backwards until John’s fist slapped against arse with a filthy grunt of exertion.

Please, John,” Sherlock whimpered, hips snapping in an uncoordinated rhythm.

John watched as his fingers were swallowed greedily into Sherlock’s body, slick with lubricant and pulsing with need. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “What is it you want, Sherlock?” he asked sweetly, crooking his fingers to rub against Sherlock’s prostate and causing the man to sob brokenly into the cotton sheets.

“Please, John. Please,” he panted, frustration and pent-up arousal causing his voice to crack.

“Please what, exactly?” John teased, adding a third finger and watching as Sherlock’s hole stretched obscenely to accommodate the intrusion. Sherlock turned his head and glared at John over his shoulder, pupils blown wide and face slick with perspiration.

“God, John, fuck me already,” Sherlock bellowed, shoulders heaving and body writhing.

That one final obscenity, flung between them like a challenge finally tipped John over the edge. He tugged his fingers back and yanked Sherlock’s hips up, angling him downward on the bed so his face was buried in John’s pillow and his arms were spread wide, fingers scrambling across the mattress in search of purchase. John lined up his cock and pushed, sliding forward in one long glide of delicious friction and heat.

“Oh Christ, you’re tight,” John groaned, and Sherlock bucked his hips in response, seemingly too far gone to say anything but “John! Oh, John.” John pulled out nearly all the way before slamming his hips forward, causing the headboard to knock against the wall with a dull and resounding thud. Sherlock’s head tipped back and he howled in triumph, bracing his hands against the wood and shoving his hips back to meet every deep thrust.

John’s fingers were digging hard into Sherlock’s narrow hips, leaving crescent-shaped bruises in their wake, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. The overwhelming need to own this man was slightly disconcerting, but John’s dominating instinct held him suspended somewhere between want and take. On a particularly brutal thrust forward, Sherlock’s head banged painfully into the headboard. John hadn’t noticed when the force of his hips had pushed them up the bed, but Sherlock was too far gone into the grips of endorphin-fueled pleasure to mind. Tangling his fingers into dark curls, John jerked Sherlock’s head back, causing his spine to curve into an obscenely beautiful ark and a filthy moan to escape his vocal chords.

The flash of pain tipped Sherlock over into the abyss. Trembling all over, Sherlock began to shatter, fingers curling into claws against the bed sheets, back arching and hips slamming backward. John unwrapped his still-slick left hand from Sherlock’s hip bone and reached around, managing to stroke Sherlock’s leaking cock once before he convulsed. With an inhuman cry, Sherlock’s back bowed impossibly forward, head thrown back and muscles tense, coming hard on a great sob of pleasure in the shape of John’s name.

John felt his own orgasm building slowly in the base of his spine, heat licking at his straining muscles. Sherlock had all but collapsed onto the bed, but John jerked him roughly back onto his knees and he braced himself, arms trembling with aftershocks. John could feel Sherlock’s hole clenching around him as the afterglow set in, milking his cock in tight coils. Hips speeding up, he leaned forward and wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s chest, pulling him upright so he ended up sitting in John’s lap, arse bouncing with every pump of his hips and sweat sliding between their skin. Sherlock moaned again, overstimulated and raw, but his arm came up and grabbed at the back of John’s head, dragging his mouth forward into a messy kiss. Sherlock’s nails dug into John’s neck as he rocked his hips harder, sending jolts of pleasurepain through John’s nerve system and causing everything to feel brighter.

John felt Sherlock’s nails break skin and the momentary flash of pain drew his orgasm out of him with thundering force. His vision seemed to white out around the edges and he sank his teeth hard into the back of Sherlock’s neck, muffling his cry of completion as he came in shuddering gasps. The whole world seemed to narrow into a precise point, and for a moment John was actually worried he might pass out, but he pulled his mouth away from Sherlock’s flesh and took a heaving breath of air, clearing his head slightly.

Sweaty and sated, he rested his forehead against the set of already purpling teeth marks at the top of Sherlock’s spine. He felt Sherlock’s lazy chuckle rumbling up through his back and joined him in a breathless laugh. They were leaning against each other now, propped up by sheer force of will, Sherlock sagging back against John’s chest. He tipped his head back, resting it on John’s good shoulder for a moment, lacing their fingers together across his still heaving abdomen.

John turned his head and pressed a tender kiss against Sherlock’s sweaty temple, basking in the glow of Sherlock’s untamed and brilliant smile.

“That what you wanted?” John finally panted, trailing soft kisses along the edge of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock replied, grin still stretching his plump lips wide. “Could use another shower though,” he added sliding a sidelong glance at John. They both broke into another round of breathless giggles.

Finally, when John’s thighs felt like they were locking up permanently, he helped Sherlock ease himself off of John’s lap and they both collapsed onto the bed in a sweaty tangle of limbs. Sherlock looked a bit like a broken marionette, strings cut and bones limp with sated exhaustion. John couldn’t help the satisfaction he felt as he ran gentle fingers up the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock was gazing at him steadily, eyes piercing and focused again as though he were trying to memorize John’s post-coital face.

Leaning closer, John brushed his lips against Sherlock’s jaw before drawing the man towards him in an ungraceful pile. They lay like that for a while, kissing softly and murmuring nonsense until John’s stomach gave an animalistic rumble of hunger.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked, fingers skating along John’s ribs.

“Lunch, you mean,” John laughed, pulling himself upwards and tugging a reluctant Sherlock with him.

: :

They spent the rest of the day going over old case files, Sherlock flicking through them for missing content and John organizing them away in appropriate piles. John pretended he didn’t notice Sherlock staring at him more frequently than usual, but he felt his pulse flutter every time their eyes locked.

Sherlock didn’t complain of boredom once, although John could see a restless energy in him every time he chanced a glance at the man. John wondered if they should talk about this new facet of their relationship, but decided that he’d said everything he’d meant to last week and what he lacked in words, he clearly made up for in actions. Sherlock was definitely and unequivocally his now, marked and claimed and if he’d had a problem with that he shouldn’t have provoked John’s dominant side.

Still, he felt as though he should say something, just to be abundantly clear. They were stretched out on the sofa, Sherlock’s feet resting in John’s lap and John was subconsciously rubbing little patterns up and down Sherlock’s calf. He cleared his throat.

 “So,” he started, but Sherlock interrupted him.

“Yes, John.”

John’s eyebrows contracted. “Erm, yes what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the corner of mouth quirked up in an amusement. “You were going to try and start the relationship conversation. Allow me to skip through many minutes of awkward stuttering and leading questions and just answer you: yes, John. We are in a relationship, exclusively. I also don’t share what’s mine.” He raked his gaze up John’s body in an almost physical caress. “And you are most definitely mine, John.”

Well, that about covered it as far as John was concerned. Grinning back, he leaned forward and drew Sherlock’s lips into a sensual kiss, slowly reaffirming his possession and feeling heat coil low in his belly again.

“Care to prove it to me?” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear, catching the lobe with his teeth and drawing a sharp hiss from the man beneath him. John rose slowly from the sofa, lacing Sherlock’s fingers with his own and tugging him up the stairs.

: :

When John woke the next morning, it was to an empty bed.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, a cup of tea balanced precariously on a stack of papers. He didn’t even glance as John brushed past him en route to the refrigerator.

John’s fingers trailed down the back of Sherlock’s neck, rubbing softly at the dark bruise edging just along his collar. “I’ll have to be more careful next time,” he said, the casual intimacy of the gesture causing Sherlock to stiffen immediately.

“Don’t,” Sherlock breathed and John immediately froze. He began pulling his hand back as though burned but Sherlock mumbled, “Don’t be careful. I like you forceful.” John watched in fascination as a flush spread slowly up the back of Sherlock’s neck and fused onto his impossible cheekbones. He felt the tug on the corners of his lips before he even realized he was smiling. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he looked smugly pleased nonetheless.

John had to forcefully tamp down his arousal as he seated himself across the table, calmly shifting a petri dish with what looked like human tissue in it.  Sherlock looked as though he were trying to look busy, which amused John to no end. He’d never seen his flat mate (boyfriend? lover?) look so distracted and it was with no small amount of smug satisfaction that John munched silently on his toast, pretending nothing at all was amiss. He was well aware he was being scrutinized covertly from behind The Guardian, but he ignored Sherlock’s penetrating gaze in favor of his own section of The Times.

After ten solid minutes of increasingly tense silence, John cleared his throat and nearly laughed out loud at Sherlock’s obvious start. “So,” he said, casually turning a page of the paper, “What’s on today?”

Sherlock shifted and was too slow to fully conceal his wince of discomfort. John smirked.

“Bit sore, are you?” he intoned dryly, sipping his tea and feigning boredom.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed briefly before they narrowed in concentration. John endured the intense scrutiny, not once looking up from the paper. Eventually Sherlock said, “Nothing I couldn’t inflict on you. With interest.”

John snorted, but felt his cock twitch. “I’d like to see you try.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked and there was a knowing grin spreading across his lips. Deliberately, he placed his paper down on the table and flattened his hands to the surface, fingers spread wide and tensing against the wood.

“Is that a challenge, doctor?” he purred, voice rough and low.

John slowly raised his eyes, intentionally dragging them up Sherlock’s body, noting the way his breath had shallowed and the tense set to his shoulders. The man was practically vibrating and there was a gorgeous flush rising steadily up his neck and staining his absurd cheekbones a dull pink. When they finally made eye contact, John felt an electric jolt of pure lust and felt his own lips stretch into a feral grin. The charged silence was heavy with arousal and promise.

“The game is on then,” he breathed and bolted for the stairs.


I walk away asleep and chalk an outline round the scene

This shadow play of whiskey talk, a heavy denier dream

Oh let it be, I was lost in him and me

~Knots, Lisa Hannigan