Sherlock jerks back from the microscope, surprised by the sound of the familiar tread on the stairs. He turns just as John slinks in through the entrance to the kitchen, standing there with one hand grasping the doorknob and the other clenched into a white-knuckled fist at his side, his jacket and hair dripping with rainwater.
“John?” Confused, Sherlock rakes his eyes over his friend, taking in the slumped shoulders (dejected; fight with Mary), the bags under his eyes (exhaustion; hasn’t slept in 2 - no, 3 - days), and the tight set of his jaw (anger/determination). Slowly, John lifts his head, meeting Sherlock’s gaze with dark eyes, his lips pulled into a thin line. Sherlock swallows, heart leaping at the intensity in John’s eyes, something primal and desperate and desolate looking out at him, and it makes his knees shake with…trepidation? Lust?
There is a deliberate slowness to John’s motions as he releases the doorknob and shuffles forward, his fingers uncurling from their tight fist to run along Sherlock’s jaw with an aching hesitancy, the wet skin cold against the sudden heat in Sherlock’s cheeks. John leans forward, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, pausing just before their mouths meet, his breath hot and tantalizing, teasing the seam of Sherlock’s lips and he feels his stomach flip, his lashes flutter, and he leans forward to bridge the gap between them. He kisses John hesitantly, unsure of himself in a way that’s unfamiliar and unsettling, but the warmth of John’s mouth against his own, the slick heat of John’s tongue teasing his lips and coaxing him into a deeper embrace makes something small inside his chest unfurl, spreading through his limbs until he’s filled with a pleasant tingling that makes his toes curl. John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, tangling one hand there as he pulls Sherlock closer, holding him with a gentleness that makes Sherlock’s head spin. He guides Sherlock to his feet, tugging him down the hallway to the dark hovel of Sherlock’s room, pushing him down to sprawl on the mattress, limbs splayed, lips swollen, curls in disarray. His face twisted into something both tender and tormented, John hovers over him, not touching, not kissing, just watching, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face with an intensity that makes Sherlock squirm.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, reaching up and pulling John down for a heated kiss, body arching up to meet him, the damp from John’s jacket leaving wet patches on Sherlock’s flimsy cotton t-shirt, making him shiver. John sits back on his heels, shucking his jacket and shoes, letting out a soft moan when Sherlock slides careful fingers under the hem of his jumper to peel it off over his head. Fascinated, Sherlock sits up, tracing his hands over the planes and angles of John’s torso, the downy hair of his chest tickling Sherlock’s palms. He leans forward, pressing his mouth with careful precision to the very centre of John’s scar, lingering on the chilled skin, the keloid ragged under his lips. John cups the back of his head, bending to press his forehead to Sherlock’s temple. He shifts his weight, hands creeping under Sherlock’s shirt and freeing him from the loose fabric, guiding him onto his back to press kisses to every inch of him. Sherlock gasps as John kisses a wet path from sternum to navel and back again, nipping along his collarbones and brushing over his nipples with a teasing lightness that has Sherlock making soft, desperate noises in the back of his throat. The world narrows down to the erratic path of John’s hands on his skin, the wet trail of John’s mouth, the brush of his damp fringe against Sherlock’s belly. He can feel himself getting closer, his cock full and heavy between his legs, tenting his sleep trousers obscenely, John’s chin bumping against him every so often as he kisses across Sherlock’s hips.
“John.” Sherlock throws his head back, hips hitching upwards as John licks at the head of his prick through the cotton of his sleep trousers, the fabric wet with saliva and precome, clinging to Sherlock’s heated skin. Clever fingers work the stretched out waistband over the swell of his arse and the jut of his cock, tossing the damp cotton off into the shadows. The metallic clink of a belt buckle and the wet slap of soaked denim hitting the floor pulls Sherlock from his haze of bliss, head lolling to see John crawling over him, arms flexing, cock bobbing between them, the shaft brushing against Sherlock’s. Sherlock lets out a choked sound, hands spasming on John’s shoulders. John soothes him softly, pressing kisses to his lids, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, sliding down his body and licking up the shaft of Sherlock’s erection, swirling his tongue around the tip before taking the head into his mouth. Sherlock bites his fist when John tongues at the frenulum, lips sliding lower, head bobbing with a deliberate slowness. One hand slides back to press at his perineum, the spark of pleasure making his prick twitch against John’s tongue. John pulls off with a wet pop, leaning over to fish around in Sherlock’s bedside drawer, coming back with a tube of lubricant and a condom that Sherlock had filched from John wallet for an experiment. He pauses, head tilted to the side in an endearingly inquisitive manner. Sherlock’s mind grinds to a halt and his groin throbs.
“Yes. God, yes,” he murmurs, legs falling open as John settles between them, slicking his fingers and kissing along Sherlock’s inner thigh, nipping softly at the skin while he works Sherlock open. It’s tight, the burn just this side of painful, but the stretch is offset by the pleasure of John’s mouth on his thighs, his hips, his cock, his balls, keeping Sherlock panting with need. Practiced hands dance over his body, John shoving a pillow under his hips as he caresses along his flank, fingers crooking to brush over Sherlock’s prostate.
“Oh God, oh God. Now! John!” Sherlock’s voice sounds so small, so broken to his own ears that it takes him a moment to realize that it was him that had spoken, John’s fingers disappearing with the crinkle of a condom wrapper, replaced with the blunt head of John’s cock. Sherlock nods and bears down, breathing through the shift of his body stretching to accommodate John, one hand flailing when his arse comes flush with John’s hips. It feels too tight, too big, too much, too close, but not close enough. His transport clamours for release while his mind reels with sensation, leaving him feeling distinctly untethered. John catches his fingers gently, twining them together with his own and giving them a squeeze. Sherlock calms, burying his face in the crook of John’s neck and breathing him in. When their breathing slows, John begins to rock his hips, guiding Sherlock’s long legs to wrap around his waist, changing the angle enough to make the feeling pleasurable instead of painful. John kisses his temple propping himself up with their joined hands to pull back and thrust in, shifting his hips on each thrust until Sherlock keens, his body lighting up like a live-wire. A strong hand braces his hip, keeping him in place as John speeds up, bringing them both closer to release. Sherlock wriggles his free hand between them, stroking himself as John’s thrust push him closer and closer to the edge, his orgasm curling at the base of his spine, spreading through his pelvis and up into his belly, building and building until it crests and crashes over him, sending spots dancing in front of his eyes, making the world tumble end over end. He can feel John’s lips moving against his neck, his hips thrusting until John stills, trembling in Sherlock’s embrace as he comes undone. They pant against each other’s skin, bodies slick and shaking, holding each other until John begins to soften and pulls out, tying off the condom and tossing it in the bin by Sherlock’s bed. He snags a pair of pants from the floor, wiping off Sherlock’s belly before turning back to the room.
Sherlock watches the line of John’s shoulders as he moves, reaching out and tracing the flexing muscles of his back. John turns and looks down at him, flopping onto his side and pulling Sherlock to his chest, pressing soft kisses to his temple, his cheeks, his brow, Sherlock’s mouth traveling over his chest, his collarbones, his scar. They kiss each other gently until they fall asleep, blankets tangled around their waists, and Sherlock feels content.
Watery sunlight pulls him from sleep, making his eyes sting. He fumbles beside him for John’s form, touching nothing but empty space. Bolting upright, Sherlock looks around the room, finding no sign of John’s clothes from the night before, the room empty, cold. Something sharp and tight builds in Sherlock’s chest and he clutches the sheets.
Of course. How could he have been such an idiot? Sherlock presses a shaking hand to his mouth, breathing through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut against the burning sensation building at the corners. He blinks rapidly, turning to stare down at the pillow beside him, scooping it up and pressing it to his face, breathing in the scent of rain and sex and John, hugging it to his chest.
A soft gasp at the door pulls him from his abject misery, the crash of ceramic against the floor masking the sound of footsteps and Sherlock only has one brief second of astonishment before he’s being engulfed in strong arms and an over-sized tartan dressing gown hanging off a stocky frame.
“You idiot. I would never leave you after something like that!” John rocks him gently, hands smoothing over the scars on his back.
“Tea,” Sherlock murmurs dumbly, staring over John’s arm at the mess on the floor. “You made tea.”
“Of course I made tea. It’s all I really do around here.”
“But…why?” Sherlock leans back, looking up at John where he’s straddling his lap, looming over Sherlock with a soft smile.
“Because I love you, idiot.” John kisses him tenderly and Sherlock melts, pulling John down into the nest of sheets and curling around him.
“I know.” John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, scratching lightly at his scalp and Sherlock purrs. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” John cups his face with his left hand, the metal of his wedding ring conspicuously absent. Oh.
John clears his throat, schooling his sappy expression into something more serious. “I’d like to move back in. If you’ll have me, that is.”
“You will always have a home with me, John,” Sherlock whispers, pulling him down for a kiss, something soft and sweet and lingering that makes his heart twist in a pleasant way. “But I do have one stipulation.”
“And what’s that?”
“No more second bedroom.”
John laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course not,” he growls, flipping Sherlock onto his back and grinding their hips together, eliciting a delicious shiver from his lover. “We won’t be needing it.”