Fic for beenghosting: Thumbprint - Part 2
Jun. 10th, 2013 09:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: Thumbprint - Part 2
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
beenghosting (teahigh)
Author:pandoras_chaos
Beta/Brit Pick:aki_hoshi and thesmallhobbit
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word count: ~23,500
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: unhealthy relationships, emotional masochism, explicit sex, anal sex, rimming, unsafe sex, angst
Summary: It seems he’s just around these days out of sheer familiarity. Sherlock doesn’t need him for money, he doesn’t need him on cases (if he ever really did in the first place), he doesn’t listen when John tries to tell him to eat or sleep or take care of himself in any way whatsoever and he certainly doesn’t seem to need him for sentimentality. In fact, the only thing John seems to be good for these days is sex, and that is just not good enough.
Author’s Note: Dearbeenghosting, I’m really hoping this is up to snuff. I’m not going to lie, I was a little intimidated when I got your name in my prompt, but I’m hoping I did your ideas justice. It kind of turned into a monster of a story and John and I have gotten rather close because of it. Enjoy, love :D
Epic thanks to my lovely betas for their lightnight-fast work and for putting up with my constant demands for attention and opinions. Title borrowed from the wonderful and talented Jason Mraz.
By mid-afternoon, his agitation wanes into something much more resembling despair. He’s just so tired of it all. Sherlock’s mood swings have never been more apparent, and though they affected John’s life before, they weren’t actively aimed directly at him. He feels lost and confused, hurt and rejected and incredibly used. It’s not something John is used to and he’s uncomfortable with the implications. He can’t believe he let himself fall so unabashedly when he knows Sherlock better than anyone.
He knows what Sherlock is like: how the work will always take precedence over anything else in his life, how any sort of vulnerability makes him shrink back and overanalyze everything, how even the barest brush of emotion will send him into a tailspin of insecurity masked as hostility. John knows all of this, and yet he cannot help but feel hurt by Sherlock’s blatant rejection.
The worst part is, John feels himself to blame for at least part of the situation. If he’d just had even a modicum of self-control, none of this would ever have happened. He knew what he was getting into and he’d still fallen head-over-heels with the one man on earth destined to drive him absolutely mad. Sherlock hadn’t exactly asked permission that first time, but John hadn’t stopped him either. Guilt by omission is still guilt and John hates that he doesn’t actually regret anything. Sherlock is impossible and unrealistic and practically inhuman in his demands, but he’s also incredible and brilliant and gorgeous and John isn’t entirely sure when the situation got quite so out of hand.
Sighing, John leaves the surgery in the late afternoon, taking the 74 bus instead of the tube if only to play for a bit more time. He’s unsure what he’ll walk into when he gets to Baker Street, but all scenarios in his head are pointing towards another row and he’s not exactly keen on negotiating anything while he’s this on edge.
He is therefore completely flabbergasted when he trudges up the stairs to find Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa in nothing but a pair of charcoal grey boxer briefs and a cheeky smirk. John pauses at the door, hand grasping the handle a bit too hard and leaving creases in his palm where the metal grates against his skin. Sherlock’s eyes are dark and smoldering, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and he stretches when he sees John watching, all long lines of pale skin and sinew arching against the brown leather in a way far too enticing to be allowed. John feels his heart rate speed up, blood pumping through his veins and heading south with a rush of fresh arousal. It takes a solid thirty seconds before the remembered offence from the morning stings back into his consciousness and he finds himself trembling.
“I’m not doing this,” John states plainly before turning on his heel and moving back out into the hallway.
Sherlock is up at once, catching the door before it swings closed and crowding into John’s space. “Come now, John,” he whispers against the shell of John’s ear. “I’m apologizing.”
John huffs out a laugh, a little on the wrong side of hysterical and feels himself shiver involuntarily as Sherlock trails his long fingers up the back of John’s arm, no doubt feeling the tension radiating off him in waves.
“Really? Apologizing?” John says a bit too loudly. “This is not apologizing, Sherlock. This is seducing me out of a well-deserved argument.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, lips a hairs breadth away from contact with John’s skin. His clever fingers have begun plucking at the buttons of John’s shirt, the fabric parting and sliding across John’s oversensitive skin as Sherlock finally lowers his mouth to the scar tissue on his shoulder.
“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock murmurs into his skin. John’s head falls back of its own accord and he hears the pathetic whimper that seems to be torn from his throat without his permission. This is not at all how this afternoon was supposed to go and John hates how weak he feels in the shadow of Sherlock’s wake.
“Sherlock,” he starts, fully aware of the tremor in his voice. “I can’t do this right now.” He can actually feel the sting of tears at the back of his eyes and suddenly realizes just how far into this he’s fallen. The realization hits him like an ice bath and he freezes in Sherlock’s arms.
“John,” Sherlock purrs, voice smooth as silk gliding down John’s spine and making him shiver.
“No, Sherlock,” John says, tugging his shoulder out of Sherlock’s spidery fingers and secretly pleased at the steely note his voice managed to produce. He holds on to his anger like an anchor, grounding him amongst the sweet seduction pouring out of Sherlock’s very being.
Sherlock runs the back of his knuckles up the side of John’s neck and it takes all of his strength not to lean into the touch. Instead he wrenches his shirt back up his shoulder, shielding himself from the onslaught of pheromones singing through the air. He can feel Sherlock’s breath against the back of his neck and knows he’s fighting a losing battle. Doggedly, he clings to his resolve and turns to face the man.
Sherlock’s eyes are heavy lidded and dark. As John watches, he drags his obscenely wet tongue over the sinfully full curve of his bottom lip. John feels his breath catch and knows he’s lost. Sherlock is the most beautiful thing John’s ever seen and he feels bits of his stance crumble at the movement. Sherlock quirks his eyebrow, clearly reading every subtle shift on John’s face and John finds himself at a loss.
After a very pregnant pause, Sherlock’s demeanor shifts from aggressively sexual to calculating. His eyes narrow and John can practically feel their gaze travel over his tensed shoulders, his creased brow, his rapid pulse and his clenched teeth. John can see the wheels spinning, Sherlock deducing everything as though spread out on a great map in his head. He knows the precise moment Sherlock comes to some kind of conclusion, his gaze focusing into an intensity that John’s come to associate with crime scenes and particularly caustic experiments.
“I’m certain that it hasn’t slipped past your notice that although you and I have participated in many sexual acts, penetration has not yet come into play?” Sherlock asks, eyebrow cocked in calculated indifference. John feels the flush rising up his neck and refuses to admit that he’s somewhat cowed by the thought. Nobody has ever dared try to fuck him and although the idea has some appeal, it’s not something John had ever even considered. Until now.
He can feel the fury rising again at the unbelievably conceited assumption and grasps at it desperately, hoping for some kind of anchor to tether him to his own mind. He refuses to acknowledge the seed of heated arousal that seems to be blossoming low in his abdomen at the idea of Sherlock inside him and instead focuses on the infuriatingly calm man in front of him.
“I’m not just going to bend over and take it, for Christ’s sake,” John bites out.
“Of course not, John. That would be boring.” Sherlock’s voice is slightly disdainful, though there’s a hint of hunger to it now bordering on lewd and John’s pulse quickens at the thought. Of course it would be this man, this impossible man who would attempt to break him first.
“I’ll have you begging for it,” Sherlock rumbles, voice full of possessive heat and John stiffens immediately, hating how much that thought turns him on but not willing to go down that easily.
“I’m hardly one to beg for anything, Sherlock,” he replies, allowing a bit of edge to his words and knowing Sherlock will hear it clearly.
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is dangerously low and full of dark promise and John finds himself leaning almost imperceptibly towards him, “That’s precisely the point, Captain.”
John shivers, pleasant sparks of anticipation mingling with the lingering hesitation of anger and causing gooseflesh to rise up his arms. John has never thought of himself as particularly submissive and it rankles his military background a bit to be challenged quite so overtly. He’s also still hurt and confused, reeling from this morning’s blatant dismissal and Sherlock’s complete about-face. He’s not sure where he stands at all and that is shaking him more than any physical threat ever could.
Sherlock moves towards him slowly, closing the small distance between them in measured steps and practically radiating authority. His hand on the back of John’s neck is firm, tilting John’s head back before devouring his mouth in a kiss so laced with desire John can feel the tremors running all through his skin. John moans, giving in a little in the face of such blatant possession and knows it to be a mistake the minute he feels Sherlock’s growl of triumph rumbling through his chest.
He feels as though he’s drugged, head so full of confusion and arousal that he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears. Sherlock’s hands are quick, tugging at clothing and pushing fabric aside until John stands in the middle of the hall in nothing but his pants, shaking slightly and completely overwhelmed.
Sherlock abruptly moves back, breaking all contact and John shamefully feels himself sway on his feet before catching himself and blinking his eyes open. Sherlock’s cock is so obviously hard in his pants that it’s nearly laughable. His slim abdomen is heaving with barely controlled breath and his pale skin seems to shine with a thin sheen of sweat. John realizes he’s staring a moment too late and snaps his mouth closed with an audible click of teeth. Sherlock’s predatory grin is disconcerting and John feels himself turned towards the stairs, a surprisingly gentle, but firm hand on the small of his back.
He allows himself to be guided up to his bedroom, feeling the haze of too many emotions warring with the curl of real fear in the base of his spine. How had this happened again so quickly? His body seems to have agreed with whatever Sherlock’s desires are without even consulting him and he’s not exactly prepared for the onslaught of trepidation reminding him that he’s never actually done this before. Hand jobs in the hall, in the sitting room, or even that one time at the morgue are not precisely considered normal for flatmates or even friends and shameless rutting against another person would produce orgasm in anyone with a working cock, but sex, real penetrative sex with Sherlock will mean more to him than it will to his friend and John already knows he’s in too deep.
He tries valiantly to find his earlier anger, to ground himself in any way against the rise of chemicals in his brain telling him this is exactly what he wants. If he’s honest with himself, he does want this. He wants Sherlock in any and every way he can have him. He wants to feel Sherlock against him, over him, on top of him, inside of him, craves the feeling of completion sex usually brings to a relationship. He knows he’s treading very dangerous waters, but John is desperate for some kind of commitment from this, for something to prove that he means more to Sherlock than just a convenient fuck buddy.
John is so immersed in his own thoughts that he almost misses it when Sherlock tugs gently on the waistband of his pants, sliding the cotton down over his legs and onto the floor. It feels like the beginning of something new and John can practically taste the anticipation in the air as Sherlock moves behind him, just close enough that John can feel the heat passing between them and sinking into his skin like fire.
John can feel Sherlock’s breath soft against the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder blades. He’s still not touching John, merely invading his personal space, forcing John’s nerves to stand at attention. The air is heavy and dense with want and every labored lungful is thick with the taste of desperation. John’s fingers twitch against his thighs, unable to keep still while adrenaline runs fast and harsh through his veins.
He’s vaguely aware of the soft keening and whimpering noises escaping from his throat, but he’s unable and frankly unwilling to stop them. Every time Sherlock exhales, gooseflesh runs like wildfire across his skin, the twitching becoming nearly violent in its vehemence.
The atmosphere seems to shift and John’s heart rate speeds up, pulse heavy like honey on the back of his tongue. When Sherlock’s lips finally, finally brush across the nape of his neck, John jerks so violently he staggers and manages to stay on his feet by the sheer force of Sherlock’s arm moving tightly across his abdomen. He is weightless and feels his mind go blissfully blank, safely cradled against Sherlock’s lean body. The man is so hot, skin burning against John’s back; a veritable inferno belying the alabaster tone of his impossibly smooth skin.
When he is idle, John likes to find all the flaws in Sherlock’s skin; noting with glee all the freckles dotting along his narrow shoulders, pressing kisses to all the dark beauty marks speckled up his long neck like constellations. If John is honest, he finds all of Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies and physical flaws comforting in a way. It makes him more human and that grounds John somehow.
Sherlock’s mouth moves against his skin again and John is pulled back into the moment, feeling the tight band of Sherlock’s forearm pressing insistently into his diaphragm. His other hand is wandering up John’s chest, smearing perspiration across flesh and bone, sliding up John’s pectorals, following the tendons of his neck until he finally buries those long, clever fingers in John’s hair and tugs his head back.
John’s gasp is loud and he lets his head fall back to Sherlock’s shoulder, pressed tightly against all the long lines of sinew and muscle. His hands are still hanging idle at his sides, but his hips are moving; grinding back into the cradle of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock’s rumbling growl is low and dark, making the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up and he can feel the noise as it travels out through Sherlock’s chest and up John’s spine.
“John, “ he purrs, whisper soft against the back of John’s neck. The sound that comes out of him in that moment is completely involuntary and probably the most honest noise to ever emerge his vocal chords. It’s raw and feral and laced with so much need and relief it feels like a catharsis.
He goes down willingly, face down onto the bed, allowing Sherlock to place his limbs as he likes. He would let Sherlock mold and shape him into anything he wished right now, so supine and compliant, completely trusting. Sherlock’s hands are both gentle and demanding, bowing his back and spreading his knees wide. John feels a momentary tic of embarrassment, vulnerable and displayed as he is, but it quickly fades at the sound of appreciation Sherlock mumbles behind him. Elbows bent against the sheets, John buries his face into the cotton, inhaling the intoxicating scent of Sherlock. He’s not sure when it saturated his bed sheets, but he’s not sorry for it right now. John lets it fill his lungs feeling somehow more complete than he ever has in his life.
Sherlock’s long fingers are skimming along his thighs now, raising gooseflesh in their wake and causing the muscles to tremble at the light touch. He is teasing along the ridge of hipbones, dipping into the shallow indents of vertebrae and running tantalizing nails down over the swell of John’s arse. John’s pulse is racing, heart pumping blood thick and fast through his veins and making his cock twitch with every solid beat.
“John, “ Sherlock says again, deep and low, tongue caressing the letters with almost obscene precision. He brushes his lips lightly across John’s spine making John arch backwards for more contact, but Sherlock pulls away with a small huff of amusement. John’s nerves are on fire and he’s finding it increasingly hard to breathe.
Just as he’s actually about to beg, John feels Sherlock’s thumbs dig harshly into the muscles of his arse, pulling them apart and exposing his tightly furled hole. John gasps, the instinct to pull away fighting the languidly sexual need in his limbs. He settles for trembling, hooked on the edge of oblivion as he feels warm, moist air brush across the skin of his perineum.
“Christ. Oh, Christ, “ John groans, grinding his face into the cotton. Sherlock’s tongue is flicking delicately against the wrinkled skin of his hole, twitching and sucking and licking and pushing and John is a mess. It’s so undeniably filthy and the thought is making John’s face flush with heat and confused arousal. Every nerve ending he has seems to be hard wired to the skin currently slick and wet with Sherlock’s saliva, making his arms shake worryingly hard.
His breath is coming in quick, sharp pants and he feels lightheaded and giddy. Belatedly, he realizes he’s howling in the most undignified way into the now soaking sheets that somehow made their way between his clenching teeth. Sherlock is doing his utmost to thrust the length of his tongue as deep into John’s arse as he possibly can and John is caught up in the dizzying space between more aroused than ever before and cringing away from the utter dirtiness of the act. He’d never considered it before. Hell, he hadn’t even thought about what it would feel like to have someone else’s (Sherlock’s, his mind supplies helpfully) tongue anywhere near that area.
The fact that it’s Sherlock taking him apart so effectively is more overwhelming than John could ever have imagined. That tongue, so barbed with comments, so derisive with condescension, so quick with wit and deductions, the articulation of that posh accent, elocution and vocabulary rolling off of it with such velvet ease, the fact it’s that tongue currently pushing and licking and thrusting and grinding into John is enough to make pre-come leak from the length of his rigidly hard cock. The idea that Sherlock’s impossible mouth is currently occupied with the act of thoroughly debauching John has the good doctor reaching between his legs for his sadly neglected erection. Before he even manages one rough tug, however, Sherlock’s hand whips out of nowhere and slaps it away, catching John’s wrist and pinning it down to the mattress just as he licks a trail of filth and promise up the crease of John’s arse to the small of his back.
Sherlock is panting, moist air spreading across John’s iliac crest like wildfire. His face is positively drenched with saliva and as he rubs his impossibly hot cheeks against John’s skin, all the air in the room seems to disappear completely. Sherlock is breathing like a man lost in the throes of a passion John didn’t really think existed in the real world. It’s harsh and hot and heavy and wanting. John whimpers and feels his cock twitch again, another bead of thick pre-come dripping down the length of his shaft into his pubic hair.
John is soaking wet from the unconscious tears of yearning leaking out of his eyes to the spit-slick skin between his legs; from the sweat rolling down the back of his neck to his pulsing, leaking erection. His body is in constant movement, hips stuttering and thrusting in the air in desperate need for something to rut against. He can feel the heat rolling off of Sherlock in waves, though their skin is barely touching.
John feels frantic, and he’s fairly certain he’s never been this hard in his life. He’s startlingly aware that he was only moments away from an earth-shattering orgasm and the giddy feeling of denial is causing his breath to stutter. He’s uncomfortably conscious of the pathetic little mewling noises coming out of his mouth, but completely unable to stop them.
For long minutes, they just sit there, breathing in the moist air and John tries valiantly to calm his racing pulse. The very air in the room seems to prickle his skin, oversensitive and flushed as it is. Sherlock is quaking against him, arms trembling with the force of his arousal and John nearly comes as he realizes that this act, the solitary effort of licking out John’s arse has Sherlock on the brink of his own stunning orgasm.
John can feel his defenses crumbling in the face of such provocation and before he can stop them, the words tumble from his lips like rain: “Please, Sherlock. Oh god, please.”
Sherlock’s answering chuckle is all sharp seduction and rumbling heat. John feels it rush against his skin, licking trails of fire in its wake and before he can respond, he feels fingers digging into his hips, jerking him backwards and over, limbs sprawling useless against the sheets as Sherlock crawls between his legs.
“Begging, John,” he says, the wicked gleam in his eye overshadowed by the look of pure, unadulterated lust and John swallowing audibly. Sherlock looks as though he could devour John whole, pupils so dilated the irises are mere crescents in the dim light. His face is flushed, a pale pink staining his impossible cheekbones and his hair falls across his forehead in a riot of dark curls. He is all pale skin and sharp angles, lithe grace and commanding presence, and John has never seen anything more beautiful and thrillingly terrifying in his whole life.
He leans forward, burying his face in John’s neck and simultaneously bringing his hips down to rub tantalizingly against John’s groin. John’s head tilts back, neck arching into lips and teeth. His chest feels tightly constricted as though there is an iron band clenching systematically around his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The air is thick with Sherlock’s scent, overpowering and intoxicating, much like the man himself. Sherlock lets his weight drop, effectively pinning John to the bed beneath six feet of writhing, hard detective. John feels every single inch where their skin brushes together burn, his body in constant motion, begging without words and pleading with broken sighs and gasps. He’s absolutely certain he’s never been so hard in his life and he practically sobs against Sherlock’s neck when he feels the slick, silky head of Sherlock’s cock drag along his hole, catching on the loosened muscle.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moans, completely unable to keep his hands still, nails dragging up the pale skin of his back and leaving harsh red lines in their wake. Sherlock’s teeth dig into the underside of John’s jaw, surely leaving purple marks for everyone to see, claiming him in a completely unapologetic, unequivocal way that has John gasping with the yearning to be owned.
John feels utterly wrecked; debauched and helpless caught up in the tide of subconscious emotion and need seeping from every pore of Sherlock’s skin. A heady sense of power rushes through John, despite his prone position. Of all the people in the world, Sherlock chose him and surely that means something.
He feels the subtle shift of weight, hips slightly tilted and then Sherlock’s cock is pushing insistently at his hole, stretching and urgent. John winces at the friction; hot, sharp pain flaring up through his lust-induced haze. He isn’t even aware he’d squeezed his eyes closed until he feels Sherlock still above him, hips resting solidly against John’s arse.
“John,” he rumbles, fingers surprisingly gentle against John’s cheeks, swiping at tears he hadn’t even known he’d shed. “John, look at me.”
Chest heaving, John blinks his eyes open. Sherlock’s gaze is boring into him with such intensity and focus, John feels heat rise to his cheeks, which is ridiculous considering his current position. Sherlock’s lips brush tenderly across his cheekbone, tongue swiping out to taste his tears, cataloguing and assessing each one individually no doubt. He is shaking, John realizes. The thought breaks through the sharp sense of pain and burrows into the tender parts of John’s heart that he thought were lost long ago, spilled across sand and stone.
“Kiss me,” John whispers into the shell of Sherlock’s ear. He watches Sherlock’s tongue dart across his lips once before he leans in and presses an almost chaste kiss delicately against John’s mouth. It isn’t enough and John lunges forward, biting at his ludicrously full lower lip until Sherlock’s mouth opens on a gasp. He pulls back instinctively, and John suddenly realizes why. It’s almost sweet and in anyone else, John would have called it sentiment, but it is, in essence, inherently practical. Of course Sherlock is keeping his distance, given exactly where his tongue had been moments before.
“No,” John grunts and drags Sherlock in further. He tries not to think about how indisputably filthy it is to want to taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue, and settles for groaning loudly at the first tentative swipe of the slick muscle against his own. All restraint is lost in the clash of teeth and lips and Sherlock licks into his mouth, immediately overwhelming. John feels as though he’s drowning, chest heaving with labored breath. He’s so full; Sherlock in him and around him and it’s glorious. Hips twitching, Sherlock pulls back until the tip of his cock rests just inside John before pushing insistently in again. John gasps, pain radiating through him and taking the edge of desperation with it. Sherlock’s eyes narrow briefly, but before John can say anything he’s already stretching up, reaching to the bedside table and tugging at the half-empty bottle of lubricant.
He cocks one eyebrow at John, a small smile tilting the left side of his mouth, but John is beyond words, desire and pain warring for his attention. Without preamble, Sherlock’s cock slides abruptly out of John’s arse and he replaces it with two slick fingers in one smooth movement. John’s back arches, heels skidding across the sheets.
“Oh fuck,” he gasps, hands fisting painfully in the sheets. Sherlock leans forward, forearm sliding smoothly under his left thigh and pushing his hips open wider. He runs his tongue along the inside of John’s knee, fingers fucking slowly into him and taking him apart at the seams. John’s legs are shaking, cock jerking every time Sherlock’s long, clever fingers rub tantalizingly against his prostate. It’s good, Christ so good and John knows he’s falling. His body is wound tight, heat coiling along his ribs and he feels himself unraveling, breaking apart, but right before he shatters, Sherlock pulls back, fingers sliding out of him to trap his hips against the mattress.
“Sherlock,”John tries to say, but it comes out a broken sob. His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, orgasm just out of reach. John’s eyes flutter open to find Sherlock staring at him, arousal shining hot and heavy in his gaze, absurdly full bottom lip trapped between his teeth.
“God, John. Do you have any idea what you look like,” he purrs, voice so low it’s practically subsonic.
“Please,” he whines, so far beyond dignity it’s almost laughable. If he doesn’t come right now he may just go mad.
Sherlock’s fingers close around his knee, bringing it up and over one bony shoulder before he leans forward to capture John’s mouth with his own. His tongue dips between John’s lips, drinking him in just as he pushes his cock back into John’s body in one slick, smooth slide of delicious friction and heat.
John’s head thumps back against the mattress, spine arching and fingers clawing at pale skin. It only takes two quick thrusts before he is coming, cock jerking and painting white stripes across his abdomen, limbs quaking with aftershocks and vision blurring around the edges.
Sherlock is panting above him, jaw clenching and tendons straining all along his elegant neck. His hips snap brutally forward, fucking into John in quick, deep strokes. He seems to be lost in sensation, sweat rolling down his neck to pool in the sharp hollow of his clavicle. John breathes deep, purposefully squeezing his muscles around Sherlock’s cock, holding tight and creating an almost vice-like grip. Sherlock’s low groan is completely satisfying and John finds himself grinning up through his lashes, face slick with sweat and endorphins, excruciating pleasure still humming along his nerves.
Sherlock’s grip on his hips is almost painful, fingers digging vivid bruises into the soft flesh. He’s losing control, John can see it. Face flushed and eyes bright he slams into John hard enough to bounce the headboard against the wall. God, he’s gorgeous, John thinks taking in the tight lines of sinew and tendon, the high flush along his impossible cheekbones, the sweaty curls hanging in ringlets around his forehead, the too-plush lips open and panting with exertion. John tightens his muscles again and Sherlock is lost. Head thrown back and teeth clenched, he thrusts hard into John’s arse, hips pumping through his orgasm, the slick feeling spreading as semen eases the friction around his cock. He huffs out a long sigh, tension easing from his back as John’s leg slips off his shoulder, sliding instead to tangle around his waist as he collapses forward.
“Brilliant,” John murmurs, voice muffled against a tangle of sweaty curls. He feels Sherlock chuckle into his neck and revels in the feeling of the deep tones resonating through his bones. He tentatively runs blunt fingers down the length of Sherlock’s spine, touch ghosting over prominent ribs and vertebrae. Sherlock shivers pleasantly against his chest, arms bending at the elbow to rest his palms flat against John’s sternum. Gently, he disentangles John’s fingers from his hair and rests his pointy chin on his own hands, staring intently at John as though working through a particularly complex puzzle.
His lips stretch into a lazy grin, and he leans forward to press his lips along John’s jaw. When he reaches John’s ear, he gives it a quick swipe, capturing the lobe briefly between his teeth before gracefully flopping back down. His cock is still buried inside of John and the sensation of the flesh softening is odd yet not entirely unpleasant.
After long minutes, Sherlock’s face splits into an expansive yawn, body stretching and cock finally slipping from John’s arse. John feels strangely bereft without the heat and press of him, but he gets over it quickly as Sherlock rolls to his side and pulls John with him. John ends up sprawled across Sherlock’s chest, sticky and sated, come seeping slowly from his arse to smear merrily on the sheets. He finds himself strangely content, ear pressed against the solid beat of Sherlock’s heart.
“I must apologize,” Sherlock finally intones, voice soft and deep. John instantly tenses, fear of rejection hardening his muscles and turning his face grim. He swiftly moves to shift off, but Sherlock’s arm is like an iron band, holding him firmly in place with surprising strength. “Don’t be dull, John. I must apologize for the discomfort I caused. I got a bit... carried away.”
Relief floods through John in waves.
“It’s nothing,” John murmurs, sleepy contentment washing back through his system and leaving him sated and decidedly boneless. Sherlock snorts, but runs his hand up the back of John’s neck and through his hair.
John feels like an overgrown cat, petted and purring at the attention. He hadn’t banked on this kind of affection from Sherlock and he’s strangely reluctant to break their tentative peace. Almost subconsciously, he nuzzles in closer, wrapping his shorter arms around Sherlock’s too-thin torso and letting his weight drop fully onto the other man. Sherlock doesn’t even flinch, just tightens his hold and sighs deeply, pale eyes closing in what might have been a post-coital kip were it anyone else.
“This was extremely informative,” he says instead, eyes still closed. John shifts to look at him, ethereal and practically glowing with drying sweat in the lamplight.
“Sorry, informative?” John asks, not bothering to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“Mmm, indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, still not opening his eyes. He stretches again and suddenly sits up, dislodging John, who flumps back against the bed, sprawled undignified and more than slightly annoyed. Sherlock’s already halfway across the room, ubiquitous blue dressing gown tugged around his shoulders and fingers flying over his mobile.
John suddenly feels naked, which is completely ridiculous as he’s spent the last hour without a stitch of clothing. As Sherlock flounces out the door with a flourish of blue silk and distracted tapping, John once again reassesses this little arrangement they have.
When he finally gathers enough mental strength and energy to find his discarded denims and trot down the stairs to the sitting room, he’s only mildly surprised to find it completely vacant. Sherlock’s not in his room, nor in the toilet, so John checks the hall and finds his coat is missing and there’s the distinct scent of cigarette smoke hovering vaguely outside the door.
“Wonderful,” John says to nobody. “Just bloody marvelous.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and types a quick text, erasing the first few choice words before settling on the obvious:
Where are you?
It only takes a few seconds before his mobile pings, just long enough for John’s legs to carry him back up the stairs to his room. He rummages in the laundry for a reasonably clean vest while glancing at the screen.
Taxi to Scotland Yard. SH
John’s teeth clench so hard he’s liable to crack one soon.
And you were going to tell me this when?
Honestly, John. This will only take an hour or so. Your presence is unnecessary. SH
And oh, isn’t that just the understatement of the bloody century. He takes a deep, calming breath and counts to ten before typing again:
Fine. Pick up milk on your way home.
He doesn’t get a response, but then again, he wasn’t really expecting one. He’s so angry he can taste it, hard and metallic on the back of his tongue. He’s loathe to sit around waiting on his completely inconsiderate flatmate-slash-lover, so he tugs on a pair of trainers and heads out, intending to clear his head a bit before Sherlock makes his way home. The last thing he needs is another sodding row tonight.
He ends up in the local pub, sipping his fourth lager and arguing with the barman about the latest rugby scores. When the curvy, blonde twenty-something sidles up next to him and puts her newly manicured fingers on his forearm, he doesn’t even hesitate before asking her home. She’s just as drunk as he is, if not more so and for some reason that doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should. He flirts shamelessly with her all the way back to Baker Street, running his hands up under her shirt at her waist in obvious pretense of steadying her on her tottering heels. She lets him and when he stops outside 221 and presses her back against the bricks, she gasps prettily and wraps her arms around his neck.
It’s so different, yet familiar and John is ignoring the anxious confusion clamoring for his attention. He doesn’t even know her name for Christ’s sake, but the feeling of finally being in control of something is making him rash and uncharacteristically bold. She giggles into his neck, running her hands up under his jumper and along the heated skin of his back while he fumbles for his keys.
Just as he’s about to open the door, she freezes in his arms, suddenly rigid as a board. He’s about to ask her what’s wrong, but he can practically feel her gaze travel up his neck to the horrendously purple bite mark just on the underside of his jaw. He’s suddenly uncomfortably aware of the stiffness in his back, reminiscent of his spine curving hotly against the mattress, the soreness in his legs from muscles wound too tight for too long and the rather telling wet smear at the back of his pants. He certainly hadn’t showered before he stormed from the flat earlier and he self-consciously realizes he probably still smells of sweat, come and Sherlock.
Her eyes are wide and suddenly far too knowing. She looks as though she’s sobered up a good bit in the past few seconds and before he can say anything, she pulls out of his clumsy embrace.
“Erm,” she says, clearly trying to look anywhere but the sodding love bite on his neck and failing miserably. “I should actually probably go. Early morning, you know?”
“Right,” John says, half relieved already. He hails her a taxi because despite all appearances, he is still a gentleman, and doesn’t ask for her number as he helps her into the seat. He watches the black cab pull away and sighs again, scrubbing at his face with his palms.
Trudging up the stairs feels like a fresher hell than usual, the buzz of the alcohol still in his system, but fading from overzealous flirtation to unnatural melancholy in the space of a few heartbeats. He doesn’t even pause at the sitting room, but continues on up the second flight to his bedroom.
It’s probably a good thing he didn’t end up bringing Whatshername in anyhow considering the state of his room. The bed is a complete disaster: still damp sheets pushed all the way to the foot of the mattress, slick bottle of lubricant staining the cotton where it’s been discarded and forgotten about, pillows flung about the room like a small hurricane. The scent alone would have stopped her in her tracks had she even made it past the sight. The distinct aroma of testosterone, pheromones and sex still hangs heavy in the room, mixed with the unmistakably male scent of overpriced aftershave and semen.
It smells undoubtedly of Sherlock, and John shamefully feels his heart clench a little at the thought. Clearly the alcohol had been a mistake if he’s getting this upset over the pungent scent of come for fucks sake. He doggedly tugs the sheets off the bed, rolling them into a ball and shoving them into the laundry in his wardrobe. He’s too bone-weary to do anything more than strip down to his pants and fall against the bare mattress, barely summoning enough coherence to grab for a pillow before allowing the alcohol to lull him into the safety of unconsciousness.
: :
John wakes with a start, heartbeat thudding heavy and fast through his chest. He’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon and he realizes, probably too late, that his mouth his gasping open. He closes it with a snap and lets out a sound that’s half-hum, half-moan, whimpering as he sags back onto his elbows. Images of blood soaked soldiers, limbs and faces blown apart, but all crying out his name echo blindly behind his eyelids and he swallows heavily against the tide of bile rising dangerously up his throat.
Cool fingers wrap gently around his wrist and he jerks away with a gasp. The previous night comes flooding back to him in snatches of sensation and flashes of images, along with the pounding headache born of too much beer and not enough forethought to balance alcohol with water.
Head falling forward, he closes his eyes against the spinning room, breathing slowly through his nose to abate the nausea. His tongue feels like old leather and tastes about the same. He’s really getting far too old for this kind of ridiculousness.
The fingers are back, pushing the sweaty hair off his forehead this time and feeling blissfully cold in the overheated room. John pushes his head into their soothing touch, an unconscious hum of appreciation escaping from the back of his throat before he can stop it. The fingers instantly disappear and John feels their loss like a physical blow.
“Sorry,” he whispers into the dark, cursing how unsteady his voice sounds, cracked and raw with unguarded emotion.
“Here,” comes the gravelly response, Sherlock’s voice soft and deep from slumber. John’s fingers are wrapped around a wonderfully cool glass of water and two pills are dropped covertly into his other palm. John’s eyes blink open of their own volition, staring helplessly down at the paracetamol for a full ten seconds before Sherlock’s small huff of amusement brings him back to the moment. He swallows the pills gratefully and gulps down the rest of the water as slowly as he can make himself.
Sherlock’s hand brushes against his as he takes the glass back and sets it on the bedside table. It feels far too familiar and John curses himself yet again for allowing himself to become so fucking vulnerable all the time. The water is at least helping with the nausea and John feels the room settle a bit into a more steady space. Sherlock’s long fingers climb up his back and settle in his hair, rubbing small circles into the back of his neck and causing a shiver of pure pleasure to run down John’s spine. The tension is fading from his shoulders, despite his emotional confusion and for the moment at least, he just allows himself to be soothed.
“Come here,” Sherlock murmurs into his shoulder blade, lips catching on skin and causing a completely different shiver to form half-heartedly in the base of John’s abdomen. One long arm wraps tightly around his chest and John allows himself to be pulled back against the bed, bare mattress rubbing slightly against his clammy skin.
Sherlock shifts around, tugging the quilt up from where John kicked it off in his dreams and covering them both before wrapping his lean body around John’s, one knee tucked between John’s legs and wiry arms wound tightly around John’s chest. It’s so heartbreakingly intimate that John feels the hot prickle of alcohol-induced tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. He takes a deep breath for calm and lets himself sink further against Sherlock’s chest, refusing to acknowledge the warning bells screaming for attention in the back of his mind.
After a few minutes, Sherlock seems to relax, melting all along John’s back like a giant bony duvet, left arm sliding up the mattress to cushion John’s head and right hand tracing small patterns against his abdomen. John finally lets his eyes close, lulled into sleep by the thick beat of Sherlock’s heart against his back and the soft huffs of breath along the side of his jaw.
Just as he’s drifting off, John can swear he hears Sherlock whisper, “I’m sorry, John,” into the nape of his neck, but before he can respond, he’s swept away into the black of a perfectly dreamless sleep.
: :
It’s been a very long day. He’d stayed an extra four hours at the surgery to relieve a sick colleague, his shoulder aches with strain and the rising humidity of an oncoming storm and there were absolutely no taxis to be had on the way home, so John had found himself walking from the overcrowded tube stop in the ever-present London rain. He’s tired, wet, cranky and in absolutely no mood to deal with Sherlock’s antics at the moment.
To his immense surprise, there’s a new carton of milk sitting innocently in the refrigerator when he rummages through for Tuesday’s leftover lo mein. The sight of it is so startlingly normal that John just stands there staring at it for a solid ninety seconds before he realizes his fingers are getting cold.
He really shouldn’t be this baffled by a carton of milk. He’s just so used to Sherlock completely ignoring basic common courtesy that one container of milk has him halting in his tracks. John munches on his leftover noodles while waiting for the kettle to boil and wonders idly when his life became so complicated.
The silence in the flat is strangely oppressive. It’s unnerving, sitting in his armchair and trying to complete the crossword without the ever-present tapping and chiming coming from whichever mobile Sherlock’s commandeered at the moment, and he notices himself glancing towards the closed bedroom door more and more frequently until he finally moves to the table to stay out of sight lines.
This is utterly ridiculous. John’s perfectly capable of entertaining himself after all and he resolutely turns back to the paper, firmly ignoring that part of his brain that’s thinking a bit of violin music wouldn’t go amiss right about now.
An hour later, when the bedroom door finally swings open, the creaking hinges seem so loud it’s almost deafening. John’s wound so tight his shoulder aches and he’s gotten precisely six words written into the tiny boxes, despite staring at the paper for longer than he can ever remember before.
John taps his biro against the table, trying valiantly to ignore Sherlock’s half-open dressing gown as he waltzes into the sitting room, upsetting the mug of tea balanced precariously on a stack of old case files. John barely manages to catch it, a bit of tea sloshing over the side and onto his half-completed crossword.
“Oi,” he grumbles, wiping a drop of PG Tips off of 24 down and smearing the ink a little. Sherlock completely ignores him, instead flopping elegantly across the sofa in his usual melodramatic way. John can feel the tension seeping from his neck. Business as usual then.
The air still seems inexplicably charged and John can feel tingles running up his arms as he gives up on his crossword, consigning it to the bin before draining his tea and moving towards the kitchen. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he rummages around for another clean mug.
“Tea?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Please,” Sherlock’s says from right behind him. John jumps and nearly drops the cup, but Sherlock’s hand darts forward and steadies him.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John breathes, skin prickling at their close proximity. His libido seems to have gotten over their argument rather quickly at least. Images of the previous night instantly assail him: of Sherlock’s long, pale neck extended in ecstasy, of the feeling of his hot, wet tongue licking obscenely into John as he wound tighter and tighter towards his orgasm. John can feel the blush as it rises up his neck, staining his ears a dark and unflattering pink.
Sherlock’s arm is at his waist, long fingers tugging lightly on the mug in John’s death grip. He’s essentially trapped against the counter, immovable between the hard formica and Sherlock’s body pressed tightly along his spine. John hates how his knees seem to melt at the feeling of Sherlock’s breath dancing through the small hairs on the back of his neck.
“I got the milk,” he rumbles, voice smooth and sinful, coiling through John and making his chest ache. Sherlock places the cup gently on the counter and moves his fingers across John’s abdomen in lazy trails of desire and need. John can feel his defenses crumbling, lust winning out over his more rational brain, pheromones responding and perking his body into heightened awareness.
Sherlock’s large hands span easily across his hip bones and he rocks forward letting John feel his arousal in no uncertain terms. Part of John knows this way lies madness, but his cock has very different plans. Pushing back with his hips, John manages to dislodge Sherlock enough to turn in his embrace, bringing their mouths together in a searing kiss full of pent-up frustration and a bit of lingering anger. It’s all teeth and spite mixed with a heady sense of dominance and John is nearly lost in the sensation.
Despite Sherlock’s frequent mockery, John is not actually an idiot. He knows how easily this game he plays with his flatmate can turn into an overwhelming inferno and he’s familiar enough now with the sensation of Sherlock’s amazing pull to walk the edge of just far enough to befuddle Sherlock’s senses while holding a tenuous control over his own.
Sherlock licks into his mouth with a precision born of frequency and a hint of arrogance that makes John smile, his lips stretching against Sherlock’s.
It feels so wonderfully familiar in a way that it probably shouldn’t: like sinking into a warm bath after a long day of questionably legal gunfire. Sherlock is warm and solid, hands sliding down John’s back to cup his arse through layers of denim and cotton and John momentarily forgets that he’s supposed to be resisting this. The hint of comfort is folded gently in between sensual layers of danger and lust, all warring for attention as Sherlock’s hips press John’s firmly into the worktop.
John sinks into the kiss, allowing his defenses down for a tiny moment, savoring the taste of Sherlock in his mouth, the feel of his smooth skin beneath his fingertips, the slightly spiced scent of his aftershave wrapping around them both like a cloak. He deliberately slows his frantic movements, one hand drifting up to tangle into dark curls, the other wrapping around a too-slim waist to draw Sherlock closer. He’s trying to remember why he was quite so angry and comes up short, the overtone of resentment lingering far longer than his flash of temper. John can feel the exact moment he reaches solemn melancholy and knows full well Sherlock can feel it as well.
Genius that he is, Sherlock senses the change in atmosphere and he lightens the kiss to match John’s mood, sliding his tongue over John’s in a slow seduction that has John clinging to his resolve like a drowning man on driftwood. He gently breaks the kiss, tongue swiping delicately over John’s lower lip before pulling back entirely.
John takes a deep breath, feeling his head swim as the heady cocktail of serotonin, endorphins and pheromones runs thick and fast through his veins. He feels dizzy and far too warm. Sherlock’s teeth graze up the side of his neck and he hears himself groan, his body vying for control. Sherlock seems to take the involuntary noise as consent, because he’s back to frenzied want: long fingers tugging at John’s denims with a speed and efficiency that’s frankly alarming.
The abrupt movement causes John to pause. Suddenly, he remembers he’s meant to be talking to this impossible man and his head snaps back, breaking contact with Sherlock’s plush lips.
“Sherlock, stop,” he gasps, hating how shaky his voice sounds. Sherlock completely ignores him, dipping back down to mouth at John’s jaw. Through the haze of hormones, John drags his eyes open, musters his strength and physically pushes Sherlock back.
John has to bite back another groan at the completely debauched look in Sherlock’s eyes. He’s breathing heavy, a high flush painted across his sharp cheekbones, lips swollen and red, mouth almost obscenely wet. As John watches, his dark pink tongue darts out and lingers across the wide expanse of his incredibly plush lower lip. It’s all John can do to keep himself from launching himself bodily forward, but the remembered ache in his chest holds him back.
Sherlock’s eyes narrow as his focus changes from sexual gratification to deductive observation in the blink of an eye.
“You’re still angry,” he says, deliberately slow as though by enunciating each syllable, he will be able to make better sense of the matter.
“A bit, yeah.” John’s finding it increasingly difficult to look Sherlock in the eye. It feels like betrayal, even though he’s the one constantly getting fucked over in this scenario.
Sherlock’s gaze flicks rapidly over his face, clearly observing every little nuance of expression John has to offer. His eyes keep narrowing and clearing, as though he’s finding solutions and dismissing them one by one as they become more and more ludicrous in his understanding. Finally, brow creased with apparent incredulity, he says, “You’re angry about last night.”
John huffs a little, unable to find an easy way out of this, but he never was one to back down from a fight. He grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, bracing his hands against his thighs to ground himself to reality. “Last night was Not Good, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “I certainly didn’t hear you complaining.” He licks his lips with a lasciviousness that would ordinarily be alarming. At the moment, however, it’s all John can do to hold back his groan. The effect is not lost on Sherlock, sharp eyes no doubt picking up John’s elevated heart rate and dilated pupils. “In fact, I distinctly remember you begging me for more, writhing on my tongue like a common tart. Honestly, John, if you’re about to tell me you didn’t enjoy it, I might actually be impressed with your acting abilities.”
He takes a step in closer and John can feel his resolve crumbling, his limbs trembling with remembered pleasure, neck arching of its own volition. He bites down hard on his own tongue to relieve the need to whimper. He can feel Sherlock’s breath tickling along the side of his neck, so close now the small hairs around his ear quiver with each exhalation.
“But really,” Sherlock purrs, lips so close to John’s ear they brush the flesh with every syllable, “if you require more proof, I’d be happy to oblige. I can show you just how good I am, John.”
John’s head tilts back and Sherlock immediately seals his lips around the already bruised skin, sucking and pulling more blood to the surface. John can practically feel the mark darkening, staking claim on him without any effort whatsoever. Sherlock’s cock is grinding tantalizingly into his hip and muscle memories begin to take over: John’s arms, shaking and helpless as he braces himself against the head board, Sherlock’s cock thrusting hard and deep inside of him as he comes, the feeling of completion and connection holding them together like a tether.
The ache in his chest redoubles and John pulls himself away, shoving his hand against Sherlock’s sternum and holding him at arm’s length. “This is exactly the problem, Sherlock,” he pants, willing himself to calm and clinging to his momentary flash of hurt and anger. “You can’t just take what you want without asking. I’m in this too, you know, and I should have a say in how far we go.”
Sherlock blinks at him, momentarily stunned into disbelief. John finds his hand is shaking, tremors running through his muscles where they curve against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s expression darkens into something harsh and he spits out, “Are you accusing me of forcing you, John?”
John’s hand spasms against Sherlock’s chest and he balks under Sherlock’s rage. “No. God, no. Of course--“
“Good,” Sherlock hisses. “I may be many things, John Watson, but a rapist is not one of them.”
John recoils at the word, but tries desperately to cling on to his crumbling stance. “I wasn’t... Christ, that’s not at all what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying, John?” Sherlock’s voice is tight and low, barely controlled anger simmering through each syllable. John’s own rage rises to match and before he can stop himself, his ire explodes between them like a lit fuse.
“God, you’re completely impossible, you know that? It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it? I can’t read you at all! One day you’re crawling into my bed in the middle of the night and the next you push me so far away I can barely get my head on straight before you’re diving for my pants and fucking the bloody life out of me.” Sherlock’s face is entirely blank, and John feels his own rage deflating, sinking further into an infuriatingly wounded melancholy that doesn’t suit him at all. John takes a deep breath, teeth clenched against the wave of sadness and resignation that crashes over him when his anger fizzles.
“I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock. I can’t keep guessing. It’s tearing me apart.” John’s voice breaks, barely audible in the stunned silence that follows his outburst.
“John,” Sherlock starts, voice low and wary, an edge of anger still clinging to the words. “You knew who I was the day you moved in here. You know me better than anyone. Are you honestly surprised with what’s become of us?”
“Christ, I don’t even know,” John mumbles. He can feel the sharp prickle of frustrated tears beginning to form at the back of his eyes, but forces his face to harden when he looks up. “I just... I just need something to go on, Sherlock. Something. Anything.” His shoulders slump in defeat and he can hear the pathetic whinge in his words, but he’s completely unable to stop them. “What do you want from me?”
Sherlock groans, fisting his hands in his hair and throwing his head back in exasperation. “Why must you make things so difficult? Feelings and sentiment, John. Really? Why can’t we just fuck and get on with it?”he opines, emphasizing the k and the t with an obnoxious click that shoots through John like miniature bullets.
John blinks, completely taken aback and honestly hurt. Sherlock has never been one to dwell kindly on other peoples’ emotions, but some small part of John had hoped he might be an exception. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I didn’t think--”
“No. You never do,” Sherlock says, dismissive and callous.
John’s temper flares; all the rejection from the last few weeks balling up inside of him and creating a hot knot of resentment burning at the base of his spine.
“You know what?” he says, teeth gritted in anger, “You’re right. Absolutely right. It’s not like you listen to me anyway. I’m sorry to muddle all of your scientific brilliance with my unwelcome and clearly unwanted feelings. I might just as well move out and spare you the idiocy of my tiny little plebian mind.”
Shocked silence rings through the flat, both of them breathing hard. Sherlock’s hands are clenched tightly at his sides and there’s an angry red flush creeping up his neck. John wishes he hadn’t seen the momentary flash of panic that crossed over his face in the split second before it contorts into an ugly sneer. His eyes narrow and his mouth twists into a grimace. John braces himself, knowing full well what’s coming and completely unable to stop it.
“Yes, John. Why don’t you leave? Now that your psychosomatic limp is cured and your taste for danger has been sated, I’m certain you could find yourself a wife easily enough. One who appreciates your sentiment and who doesn’t mind your abysmally slow little brain. You’re nothing but a distraction. I don’t need this and I certainly don’t need you.”
John’s jaw is clenched so hard he can practically feel the enamel on his teeth groaning in protest. Flayed open again, sliced through to the bone by Sherlock’s purposefully malicious intent, but this time it’s John on the receiving end of his vitriol and he can feel all the emotions Sherlock hates rising like a tide through his body: hurt, anger, embarrassment, shame and resentment warring for the top spot, but it’s the sadness that finally wins out.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice broken and searching.
“Don’t presume to know me, John. I thought you were different. I thought this might work, but you clearly don’t know me at all. I won’t fit in to your happy little boxes of subdivided labels. I won’t be sectioned and quartered and molded into something less than what I am. You won’t change me, John; you can’t. If you won’t understand that, then perhaps you’d better leave.” Sherlock’s words tumble thick and fast, each one tearing through John and leaving him gaping open and bleeding on the kitchen floor.
Sherlock shakes his head briefly, hands balled into fists before breathing sharply through his nose, squaring his shoulders and turning on his heel. John hears the slam of the outer door rocket through the flat like a cannon blast. Pain shoots through his right thigh and he crumples to the floor, broken again and finally, for the first time since he was small, giving in to tears.
: :
Find Part 3 of the fic here.
Recipient:
beenghosting (teahigh)Author:
pandoras_chaosBeta/Brit Pick:
aki_hoshi and thesmallhobbitPairing: Holmes/Watson
Word count: ~23,500
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: unhealthy relationships, emotional masochism, explicit sex, anal sex, rimming, unsafe sex, angst
Summary: It seems he’s just around these days out of sheer familiarity. Sherlock doesn’t need him for money, he doesn’t need him on cases (if he ever really did in the first place), he doesn’t listen when John tries to tell him to eat or sleep or take care of himself in any way whatsoever and he certainly doesn’t seem to need him for sentimentality. In fact, the only thing John seems to be good for these days is sex, and that is just not good enough.
Author’s Note: Dear
beenghosting, I’m really hoping this is up to snuff. I’m not going to lie, I was a little intimidated when I got your name in my prompt, but I’m hoping I did your ideas justice. It kind of turned into a monster of a story and John and I have gotten rather close because of it. Enjoy, love :DEpic thanks to my lovely betas for their lightnight-fast work and for putting up with my constant demands for attention and opinions. Title borrowed from the wonderful and talented Jason Mraz.
By mid-afternoon, his agitation wanes into something much more resembling despair. He’s just so tired of it all. Sherlock’s mood swings have never been more apparent, and though they affected John’s life before, they weren’t actively aimed directly at him. He feels lost and confused, hurt and rejected and incredibly used. It’s not something John is used to and he’s uncomfortable with the implications. He can’t believe he let himself fall so unabashedly when he knows Sherlock better than anyone.
He knows what Sherlock is like: how the work will always take precedence over anything else in his life, how any sort of vulnerability makes him shrink back and overanalyze everything, how even the barest brush of emotion will send him into a tailspin of insecurity masked as hostility. John knows all of this, and yet he cannot help but feel hurt by Sherlock’s blatant rejection.
The worst part is, John feels himself to blame for at least part of the situation. If he’d just had even a modicum of self-control, none of this would ever have happened. He knew what he was getting into and he’d still fallen head-over-heels with the one man on earth destined to drive him absolutely mad. Sherlock hadn’t exactly asked permission that first time, but John hadn’t stopped him either. Guilt by omission is still guilt and John hates that he doesn’t actually regret anything. Sherlock is impossible and unrealistic and practically inhuman in his demands, but he’s also incredible and brilliant and gorgeous and John isn’t entirely sure when the situation got quite so out of hand.
Sighing, John leaves the surgery in the late afternoon, taking the 74 bus instead of the tube if only to play for a bit more time. He’s unsure what he’ll walk into when he gets to Baker Street, but all scenarios in his head are pointing towards another row and he’s not exactly keen on negotiating anything while he’s this on edge.
He is therefore completely flabbergasted when he trudges up the stairs to find Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa in nothing but a pair of charcoal grey boxer briefs and a cheeky smirk. John pauses at the door, hand grasping the handle a bit too hard and leaving creases in his palm where the metal grates against his skin. Sherlock’s eyes are dark and smoldering, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and he stretches when he sees John watching, all long lines of pale skin and sinew arching against the brown leather in a way far too enticing to be allowed. John feels his heart rate speed up, blood pumping through his veins and heading south with a rush of fresh arousal. It takes a solid thirty seconds before the remembered offence from the morning stings back into his consciousness and he finds himself trembling.
“I’m not doing this,” John states plainly before turning on his heel and moving back out into the hallway.
Sherlock is up at once, catching the door before it swings closed and crowding into John’s space. “Come now, John,” he whispers against the shell of John’s ear. “I’m apologizing.”
John huffs out a laugh, a little on the wrong side of hysterical and feels himself shiver involuntarily as Sherlock trails his long fingers up the back of John’s arm, no doubt feeling the tension radiating off him in waves.
“Really? Apologizing?” John says a bit too loudly. “This is not apologizing, Sherlock. This is seducing me out of a well-deserved argument.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, lips a hairs breadth away from contact with John’s skin. His clever fingers have begun plucking at the buttons of John’s shirt, the fabric parting and sliding across John’s oversensitive skin as Sherlock finally lowers his mouth to the scar tissue on his shoulder.
“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock murmurs into his skin. John’s head falls back of its own accord and he hears the pathetic whimper that seems to be torn from his throat without his permission. This is not at all how this afternoon was supposed to go and John hates how weak he feels in the shadow of Sherlock’s wake.
“Sherlock,” he starts, fully aware of the tremor in his voice. “I can’t do this right now.” He can actually feel the sting of tears at the back of his eyes and suddenly realizes just how far into this he’s fallen. The realization hits him like an ice bath and he freezes in Sherlock’s arms.
“John,” Sherlock purrs, voice smooth as silk gliding down John’s spine and making him shiver.
“No, Sherlock,” John says, tugging his shoulder out of Sherlock’s spidery fingers and secretly pleased at the steely note his voice managed to produce. He holds on to his anger like an anchor, grounding him amongst the sweet seduction pouring out of Sherlock’s very being.
Sherlock runs the back of his knuckles up the side of John’s neck and it takes all of his strength not to lean into the touch. Instead he wrenches his shirt back up his shoulder, shielding himself from the onslaught of pheromones singing through the air. He can feel Sherlock’s breath against the back of his neck and knows he’s fighting a losing battle. Doggedly, he clings to his resolve and turns to face the man.
Sherlock’s eyes are heavy lidded and dark. As John watches, he drags his obscenely wet tongue over the sinfully full curve of his bottom lip. John feels his breath catch and knows he’s lost. Sherlock is the most beautiful thing John’s ever seen and he feels bits of his stance crumble at the movement. Sherlock quirks his eyebrow, clearly reading every subtle shift on John’s face and John finds himself at a loss.
After a very pregnant pause, Sherlock’s demeanor shifts from aggressively sexual to calculating. His eyes narrow and John can practically feel their gaze travel over his tensed shoulders, his creased brow, his rapid pulse and his clenched teeth. John can see the wheels spinning, Sherlock deducing everything as though spread out on a great map in his head. He knows the precise moment Sherlock comes to some kind of conclusion, his gaze focusing into an intensity that John’s come to associate with crime scenes and particularly caustic experiments.
“I’m certain that it hasn’t slipped past your notice that although you and I have participated in many sexual acts, penetration has not yet come into play?” Sherlock asks, eyebrow cocked in calculated indifference. John feels the flush rising up his neck and refuses to admit that he’s somewhat cowed by the thought. Nobody has ever dared try to fuck him and although the idea has some appeal, it’s not something John had ever even considered. Until now.
He can feel the fury rising again at the unbelievably conceited assumption and grasps at it desperately, hoping for some kind of anchor to tether him to his own mind. He refuses to acknowledge the seed of heated arousal that seems to be blossoming low in his abdomen at the idea of Sherlock inside him and instead focuses on the infuriatingly calm man in front of him.
“I’m not just going to bend over and take it, for Christ’s sake,” John bites out.
“Of course not, John. That would be boring.” Sherlock’s voice is slightly disdainful, though there’s a hint of hunger to it now bordering on lewd and John’s pulse quickens at the thought. Of course it would be this man, this impossible man who would attempt to break him first.
“I’ll have you begging for it,” Sherlock rumbles, voice full of possessive heat and John stiffens immediately, hating how much that thought turns him on but not willing to go down that easily.
“I’m hardly one to beg for anything, Sherlock,” he replies, allowing a bit of edge to his words and knowing Sherlock will hear it clearly.
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is dangerously low and full of dark promise and John finds himself leaning almost imperceptibly towards him, “That’s precisely the point, Captain.”
John shivers, pleasant sparks of anticipation mingling with the lingering hesitation of anger and causing gooseflesh to rise up his arms. John has never thought of himself as particularly submissive and it rankles his military background a bit to be challenged quite so overtly. He’s also still hurt and confused, reeling from this morning’s blatant dismissal and Sherlock’s complete about-face. He’s not sure where he stands at all and that is shaking him more than any physical threat ever could.
Sherlock moves towards him slowly, closing the small distance between them in measured steps and practically radiating authority. His hand on the back of John’s neck is firm, tilting John’s head back before devouring his mouth in a kiss so laced with desire John can feel the tremors running all through his skin. John moans, giving in a little in the face of such blatant possession and knows it to be a mistake the minute he feels Sherlock’s growl of triumph rumbling through his chest.
He feels as though he’s drugged, head so full of confusion and arousal that he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears. Sherlock’s hands are quick, tugging at clothing and pushing fabric aside until John stands in the middle of the hall in nothing but his pants, shaking slightly and completely overwhelmed.
Sherlock abruptly moves back, breaking all contact and John shamefully feels himself sway on his feet before catching himself and blinking his eyes open. Sherlock’s cock is so obviously hard in his pants that it’s nearly laughable. His slim abdomen is heaving with barely controlled breath and his pale skin seems to shine with a thin sheen of sweat. John realizes he’s staring a moment too late and snaps his mouth closed with an audible click of teeth. Sherlock’s predatory grin is disconcerting and John feels himself turned towards the stairs, a surprisingly gentle, but firm hand on the small of his back.
He allows himself to be guided up to his bedroom, feeling the haze of too many emotions warring with the curl of real fear in the base of his spine. How had this happened again so quickly? His body seems to have agreed with whatever Sherlock’s desires are without even consulting him and he’s not exactly prepared for the onslaught of trepidation reminding him that he’s never actually done this before. Hand jobs in the hall, in the sitting room, or even that one time at the morgue are not precisely considered normal for flatmates or even friends and shameless rutting against another person would produce orgasm in anyone with a working cock, but sex, real penetrative sex with Sherlock will mean more to him than it will to his friend and John already knows he’s in too deep.
He tries valiantly to find his earlier anger, to ground himself in any way against the rise of chemicals in his brain telling him this is exactly what he wants. If he’s honest with himself, he does want this. He wants Sherlock in any and every way he can have him. He wants to feel Sherlock against him, over him, on top of him, inside of him, craves the feeling of completion sex usually brings to a relationship. He knows he’s treading very dangerous waters, but John is desperate for some kind of commitment from this, for something to prove that he means more to Sherlock than just a convenient fuck buddy.
John is so immersed in his own thoughts that he almost misses it when Sherlock tugs gently on the waistband of his pants, sliding the cotton down over his legs and onto the floor. It feels like the beginning of something new and John can practically taste the anticipation in the air as Sherlock moves behind him, just close enough that John can feel the heat passing between them and sinking into his skin like fire.
John can feel Sherlock’s breath soft against the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder blades. He’s still not touching John, merely invading his personal space, forcing John’s nerves to stand at attention. The air is heavy and dense with want and every labored lungful is thick with the taste of desperation. John’s fingers twitch against his thighs, unable to keep still while adrenaline runs fast and harsh through his veins.
He’s vaguely aware of the soft keening and whimpering noises escaping from his throat, but he’s unable and frankly unwilling to stop them. Every time Sherlock exhales, gooseflesh runs like wildfire across his skin, the twitching becoming nearly violent in its vehemence.
The atmosphere seems to shift and John’s heart rate speeds up, pulse heavy like honey on the back of his tongue. When Sherlock’s lips finally, finally brush across the nape of his neck, John jerks so violently he staggers and manages to stay on his feet by the sheer force of Sherlock’s arm moving tightly across his abdomen. He is weightless and feels his mind go blissfully blank, safely cradled against Sherlock’s lean body. The man is so hot, skin burning against John’s back; a veritable inferno belying the alabaster tone of his impossibly smooth skin.
When he is idle, John likes to find all the flaws in Sherlock’s skin; noting with glee all the freckles dotting along his narrow shoulders, pressing kisses to all the dark beauty marks speckled up his long neck like constellations. If John is honest, he finds all of Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies and physical flaws comforting in a way. It makes him more human and that grounds John somehow.
Sherlock’s mouth moves against his skin again and John is pulled back into the moment, feeling the tight band of Sherlock’s forearm pressing insistently into his diaphragm. His other hand is wandering up John’s chest, smearing perspiration across flesh and bone, sliding up John’s pectorals, following the tendons of his neck until he finally buries those long, clever fingers in John’s hair and tugs his head back.
John’s gasp is loud and he lets his head fall back to Sherlock’s shoulder, pressed tightly against all the long lines of sinew and muscle. His hands are still hanging idle at his sides, but his hips are moving; grinding back into the cradle of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock’s rumbling growl is low and dark, making the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up and he can feel the noise as it travels out through Sherlock’s chest and up John’s spine.
“John, “ he purrs, whisper soft against the back of John’s neck. The sound that comes out of him in that moment is completely involuntary and probably the most honest noise to ever emerge his vocal chords. It’s raw and feral and laced with so much need and relief it feels like a catharsis.
He goes down willingly, face down onto the bed, allowing Sherlock to place his limbs as he likes. He would let Sherlock mold and shape him into anything he wished right now, so supine and compliant, completely trusting. Sherlock’s hands are both gentle and demanding, bowing his back and spreading his knees wide. John feels a momentary tic of embarrassment, vulnerable and displayed as he is, but it quickly fades at the sound of appreciation Sherlock mumbles behind him. Elbows bent against the sheets, John buries his face into the cotton, inhaling the intoxicating scent of Sherlock. He’s not sure when it saturated his bed sheets, but he’s not sorry for it right now. John lets it fill his lungs feeling somehow more complete than he ever has in his life.
Sherlock’s long fingers are skimming along his thighs now, raising gooseflesh in their wake and causing the muscles to tremble at the light touch. He is teasing along the ridge of hipbones, dipping into the shallow indents of vertebrae and running tantalizing nails down over the swell of John’s arse. John’s pulse is racing, heart pumping blood thick and fast through his veins and making his cock twitch with every solid beat.
“John, “ Sherlock says again, deep and low, tongue caressing the letters with almost obscene precision. He brushes his lips lightly across John’s spine making John arch backwards for more contact, but Sherlock pulls away with a small huff of amusement. John’s nerves are on fire and he’s finding it increasingly hard to breathe.
Just as he’s actually about to beg, John feels Sherlock’s thumbs dig harshly into the muscles of his arse, pulling them apart and exposing his tightly furled hole. John gasps, the instinct to pull away fighting the languidly sexual need in his limbs. He settles for trembling, hooked on the edge of oblivion as he feels warm, moist air brush across the skin of his perineum.
“Christ. Oh, Christ, “ John groans, grinding his face into the cotton. Sherlock’s tongue is flicking delicately against the wrinkled skin of his hole, twitching and sucking and licking and pushing and John is a mess. It’s so undeniably filthy and the thought is making John’s face flush with heat and confused arousal. Every nerve ending he has seems to be hard wired to the skin currently slick and wet with Sherlock’s saliva, making his arms shake worryingly hard.
His breath is coming in quick, sharp pants and he feels lightheaded and giddy. Belatedly, he realizes he’s howling in the most undignified way into the now soaking sheets that somehow made their way between his clenching teeth. Sherlock is doing his utmost to thrust the length of his tongue as deep into John’s arse as he possibly can and John is caught up in the dizzying space between more aroused than ever before and cringing away from the utter dirtiness of the act. He’d never considered it before. Hell, he hadn’t even thought about what it would feel like to have someone else’s (Sherlock’s, his mind supplies helpfully) tongue anywhere near that area.
The fact that it’s Sherlock taking him apart so effectively is more overwhelming than John could ever have imagined. That tongue, so barbed with comments, so derisive with condescension, so quick with wit and deductions, the articulation of that posh accent, elocution and vocabulary rolling off of it with such velvet ease, the fact it’s that tongue currently pushing and licking and thrusting and grinding into John is enough to make pre-come leak from the length of his rigidly hard cock. The idea that Sherlock’s impossible mouth is currently occupied with the act of thoroughly debauching John has the good doctor reaching between his legs for his sadly neglected erection. Before he even manages one rough tug, however, Sherlock’s hand whips out of nowhere and slaps it away, catching John’s wrist and pinning it down to the mattress just as he licks a trail of filth and promise up the crease of John’s arse to the small of his back.
Sherlock is panting, moist air spreading across John’s iliac crest like wildfire. His face is positively drenched with saliva and as he rubs his impossibly hot cheeks against John’s skin, all the air in the room seems to disappear completely. Sherlock is breathing like a man lost in the throes of a passion John didn’t really think existed in the real world. It’s harsh and hot and heavy and wanting. John whimpers and feels his cock twitch again, another bead of thick pre-come dripping down the length of his shaft into his pubic hair.
John is soaking wet from the unconscious tears of yearning leaking out of his eyes to the spit-slick skin between his legs; from the sweat rolling down the back of his neck to his pulsing, leaking erection. His body is in constant movement, hips stuttering and thrusting in the air in desperate need for something to rut against. He can feel the heat rolling off of Sherlock in waves, though their skin is barely touching.
John feels frantic, and he’s fairly certain he’s never been this hard in his life. He’s startlingly aware that he was only moments away from an earth-shattering orgasm and the giddy feeling of denial is causing his breath to stutter. He’s uncomfortably conscious of the pathetic little mewling noises coming out of his mouth, but completely unable to stop them.
For long minutes, they just sit there, breathing in the moist air and John tries valiantly to calm his racing pulse. The very air in the room seems to prickle his skin, oversensitive and flushed as it is. Sherlock is quaking against him, arms trembling with the force of his arousal and John nearly comes as he realizes that this act, the solitary effort of licking out John’s arse has Sherlock on the brink of his own stunning orgasm.
John can feel his defenses crumbling in the face of such provocation and before he can stop them, the words tumble from his lips like rain: “Please, Sherlock. Oh god, please.”
Sherlock’s answering chuckle is all sharp seduction and rumbling heat. John feels it rush against his skin, licking trails of fire in its wake and before he can respond, he feels fingers digging into his hips, jerking him backwards and over, limbs sprawling useless against the sheets as Sherlock crawls between his legs.
“Begging, John,” he says, the wicked gleam in his eye overshadowed by the look of pure, unadulterated lust and John swallowing audibly. Sherlock looks as though he could devour John whole, pupils so dilated the irises are mere crescents in the dim light. His face is flushed, a pale pink staining his impossible cheekbones and his hair falls across his forehead in a riot of dark curls. He is all pale skin and sharp angles, lithe grace and commanding presence, and John has never seen anything more beautiful and thrillingly terrifying in his whole life.
He leans forward, burying his face in John’s neck and simultaneously bringing his hips down to rub tantalizingly against John’s groin. John’s head tilts back, neck arching into lips and teeth. His chest feels tightly constricted as though there is an iron band clenching systematically around his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The air is thick with Sherlock’s scent, overpowering and intoxicating, much like the man himself. Sherlock lets his weight drop, effectively pinning John to the bed beneath six feet of writhing, hard detective. John feels every single inch where their skin brushes together burn, his body in constant motion, begging without words and pleading with broken sighs and gasps. He’s absolutely certain he’s never been so hard in his life and he practically sobs against Sherlock’s neck when he feels the slick, silky head of Sherlock’s cock drag along his hole, catching on the loosened muscle.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moans, completely unable to keep his hands still, nails dragging up the pale skin of his back and leaving harsh red lines in their wake. Sherlock’s teeth dig into the underside of John’s jaw, surely leaving purple marks for everyone to see, claiming him in a completely unapologetic, unequivocal way that has John gasping with the yearning to be owned.
John feels utterly wrecked; debauched and helpless caught up in the tide of subconscious emotion and need seeping from every pore of Sherlock’s skin. A heady sense of power rushes through John, despite his prone position. Of all the people in the world, Sherlock chose him and surely that means something.
He feels the subtle shift of weight, hips slightly tilted and then Sherlock’s cock is pushing insistently at his hole, stretching and urgent. John winces at the friction; hot, sharp pain flaring up through his lust-induced haze. He isn’t even aware he’d squeezed his eyes closed until he feels Sherlock still above him, hips resting solidly against John’s arse.
“John,” he rumbles, fingers surprisingly gentle against John’s cheeks, swiping at tears he hadn’t even known he’d shed. “John, look at me.”
Chest heaving, John blinks his eyes open. Sherlock’s gaze is boring into him with such intensity and focus, John feels heat rise to his cheeks, which is ridiculous considering his current position. Sherlock’s lips brush tenderly across his cheekbone, tongue swiping out to taste his tears, cataloguing and assessing each one individually no doubt. He is shaking, John realizes. The thought breaks through the sharp sense of pain and burrows into the tender parts of John’s heart that he thought were lost long ago, spilled across sand and stone.
“Kiss me,” John whispers into the shell of Sherlock’s ear. He watches Sherlock’s tongue dart across his lips once before he leans in and presses an almost chaste kiss delicately against John’s mouth. It isn’t enough and John lunges forward, biting at his ludicrously full lower lip until Sherlock’s mouth opens on a gasp. He pulls back instinctively, and John suddenly realizes why. It’s almost sweet and in anyone else, John would have called it sentiment, but it is, in essence, inherently practical. Of course Sherlock is keeping his distance, given exactly where his tongue had been moments before.
“No,” John grunts and drags Sherlock in further. He tries not to think about how indisputably filthy it is to want to taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue, and settles for groaning loudly at the first tentative swipe of the slick muscle against his own. All restraint is lost in the clash of teeth and lips and Sherlock licks into his mouth, immediately overwhelming. John feels as though he’s drowning, chest heaving with labored breath. He’s so full; Sherlock in him and around him and it’s glorious. Hips twitching, Sherlock pulls back until the tip of his cock rests just inside John before pushing insistently in again. John gasps, pain radiating through him and taking the edge of desperation with it. Sherlock’s eyes narrow briefly, but before John can say anything he’s already stretching up, reaching to the bedside table and tugging at the half-empty bottle of lubricant.
He cocks one eyebrow at John, a small smile tilting the left side of his mouth, but John is beyond words, desire and pain warring for his attention. Without preamble, Sherlock’s cock slides abruptly out of John’s arse and he replaces it with two slick fingers in one smooth movement. John’s back arches, heels skidding across the sheets.
“Oh fuck,” he gasps, hands fisting painfully in the sheets. Sherlock leans forward, forearm sliding smoothly under his left thigh and pushing his hips open wider. He runs his tongue along the inside of John’s knee, fingers fucking slowly into him and taking him apart at the seams. John’s legs are shaking, cock jerking every time Sherlock’s long, clever fingers rub tantalizingly against his prostate. It’s good, Christ so good and John knows he’s falling. His body is wound tight, heat coiling along his ribs and he feels himself unraveling, breaking apart, but right before he shatters, Sherlock pulls back, fingers sliding out of him to trap his hips against the mattress.
“Sherlock,”John tries to say, but it comes out a broken sob. His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, orgasm just out of reach. John’s eyes flutter open to find Sherlock staring at him, arousal shining hot and heavy in his gaze, absurdly full bottom lip trapped between his teeth.
“God, John. Do you have any idea what you look like,” he purrs, voice so low it’s practically subsonic.
“Please,” he whines, so far beyond dignity it’s almost laughable. If he doesn’t come right now he may just go mad.
Sherlock’s fingers close around his knee, bringing it up and over one bony shoulder before he leans forward to capture John’s mouth with his own. His tongue dips between John’s lips, drinking him in just as he pushes his cock back into John’s body in one slick, smooth slide of delicious friction and heat.
John’s head thumps back against the mattress, spine arching and fingers clawing at pale skin. It only takes two quick thrusts before he is coming, cock jerking and painting white stripes across his abdomen, limbs quaking with aftershocks and vision blurring around the edges.
Sherlock is panting above him, jaw clenching and tendons straining all along his elegant neck. His hips snap brutally forward, fucking into John in quick, deep strokes. He seems to be lost in sensation, sweat rolling down his neck to pool in the sharp hollow of his clavicle. John breathes deep, purposefully squeezing his muscles around Sherlock’s cock, holding tight and creating an almost vice-like grip. Sherlock’s low groan is completely satisfying and John finds himself grinning up through his lashes, face slick with sweat and endorphins, excruciating pleasure still humming along his nerves.
Sherlock’s grip on his hips is almost painful, fingers digging vivid bruises into the soft flesh. He’s losing control, John can see it. Face flushed and eyes bright he slams into John hard enough to bounce the headboard against the wall. God, he’s gorgeous, John thinks taking in the tight lines of sinew and tendon, the high flush along his impossible cheekbones, the sweaty curls hanging in ringlets around his forehead, the too-plush lips open and panting with exertion. John tightens his muscles again and Sherlock is lost. Head thrown back and teeth clenched, he thrusts hard into John’s arse, hips pumping through his orgasm, the slick feeling spreading as semen eases the friction around his cock. He huffs out a long sigh, tension easing from his back as John’s leg slips off his shoulder, sliding instead to tangle around his waist as he collapses forward.
“Brilliant,” John murmurs, voice muffled against a tangle of sweaty curls. He feels Sherlock chuckle into his neck and revels in the feeling of the deep tones resonating through his bones. He tentatively runs blunt fingers down the length of Sherlock’s spine, touch ghosting over prominent ribs and vertebrae. Sherlock shivers pleasantly against his chest, arms bending at the elbow to rest his palms flat against John’s sternum. Gently, he disentangles John’s fingers from his hair and rests his pointy chin on his own hands, staring intently at John as though working through a particularly complex puzzle.
His lips stretch into a lazy grin, and he leans forward to press his lips along John’s jaw. When he reaches John’s ear, he gives it a quick swipe, capturing the lobe briefly between his teeth before gracefully flopping back down. His cock is still buried inside of John and the sensation of the flesh softening is odd yet not entirely unpleasant.
After long minutes, Sherlock’s face splits into an expansive yawn, body stretching and cock finally slipping from John’s arse. John feels strangely bereft without the heat and press of him, but he gets over it quickly as Sherlock rolls to his side and pulls John with him. John ends up sprawled across Sherlock’s chest, sticky and sated, come seeping slowly from his arse to smear merrily on the sheets. He finds himself strangely content, ear pressed against the solid beat of Sherlock’s heart.
“I must apologize,” Sherlock finally intones, voice soft and deep. John instantly tenses, fear of rejection hardening his muscles and turning his face grim. He swiftly moves to shift off, but Sherlock’s arm is like an iron band, holding him firmly in place with surprising strength. “Don’t be dull, John. I must apologize for the discomfort I caused. I got a bit... carried away.”
Relief floods through John in waves.
“It’s nothing,” John murmurs, sleepy contentment washing back through his system and leaving him sated and decidedly boneless. Sherlock snorts, but runs his hand up the back of John’s neck and through his hair.
John feels like an overgrown cat, petted and purring at the attention. He hadn’t banked on this kind of affection from Sherlock and he’s strangely reluctant to break their tentative peace. Almost subconsciously, he nuzzles in closer, wrapping his shorter arms around Sherlock’s too-thin torso and letting his weight drop fully onto the other man. Sherlock doesn’t even flinch, just tightens his hold and sighs deeply, pale eyes closing in what might have been a post-coital kip were it anyone else.
“This was extremely informative,” he says instead, eyes still closed. John shifts to look at him, ethereal and practically glowing with drying sweat in the lamplight.
“Sorry, informative?” John asks, not bothering to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
“Mmm, indeed,” Sherlock murmurs, still not opening his eyes. He stretches again and suddenly sits up, dislodging John, who flumps back against the bed, sprawled undignified and more than slightly annoyed. Sherlock’s already halfway across the room, ubiquitous blue dressing gown tugged around his shoulders and fingers flying over his mobile.
John suddenly feels naked, which is completely ridiculous as he’s spent the last hour without a stitch of clothing. As Sherlock flounces out the door with a flourish of blue silk and distracted tapping, John once again reassesses this little arrangement they have.
When he finally gathers enough mental strength and energy to find his discarded denims and trot down the stairs to the sitting room, he’s only mildly surprised to find it completely vacant. Sherlock’s not in his room, nor in the toilet, so John checks the hall and finds his coat is missing and there’s the distinct scent of cigarette smoke hovering vaguely outside the door.
“Wonderful,” John says to nobody. “Just bloody marvelous.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and types a quick text, erasing the first few choice words before settling on the obvious:
Where are you?
It only takes a few seconds before his mobile pings, just long enough for John’s legs to carry him back up the stairs to his room. He rummages in the laundry for a reasonably clean vest while glancing at the screen.
Taxi to Scotland Yard. SH
John’s teeth clench so hard he’s liable to crack one soon.
And you were going to tell me this when?
Honestly, John. This will only take an hour or so. Your presence is unnecessary. SH
And oh, isn’t that just the understatement of the bloody century. He takes a deep, calming breath and counts to ten before typing again:
Fine. Pick up milk on your way home.
He doesn’t get a response, but then again, he wasn’t really expecting one. He’s so angry he can taste it, hard and metallic on the back of his tongue. He’s loathe to sit around waiting on his completely inconsiderate flatmate-slash-lover, so he tugs on a pair of trainers and heads out, intending to clear his head a bit before Sherlock makes his way home. The last thing he needs is another sodding row tonight.
He ends up in the local pub, sipping his fourth lager and arguing with the barman about the latest rugby scores. When the curvy, blonde twenty-something sidles up next to him and puts her newly manicured fingers on his forearm, he doesn’t even hesitate before asking her home. She’s just as drunk as he is, if not more so and for some reason that doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should. He flirts shamelessly with her all the way back to Baker Street, running his hands up under her shirt at her waist in obvious pretense of steadying her on her tottering heels. She lets him and when he stops outside 221 and presses her back against the bricks, she gasps prettily and wraps her arms around his neck.
It’s so different, yet familiar and John is ignoring the anxious confusion clamoring for his attention. He doesn’t even know her name for Christ’s sake, but the feeling of finally being in control of something is making him rash and uncharacteristically bold. She giggles into his neck, running her hands up under his jumper and along the heated skin of his back while he fumbles for his keys.
Just as he’s about to open the door, she freezes in his arms, suddenly rigid as a board. He’s about to ask her what’s wrong, but he can practically feel her gaze travel up his neck to the horrendously purple bite mark just on the underside of his jaw. He’s suddenly uncomfortably aware of the stiffness in his back, reminiscent of his spine curving hotly against the mattress, the soreness in his legs from muscles wound too tight for too long and the rather telling wet smear at the back of his pants. He certainly hadn’t showered before he stormed from the flat earlier and he self-consciously realizes he probably still smells of sweat, come and Sherlock.
Her eyes are wide and suddenly far too knowing. She looks as though she’s sobered up a good bit in the past few seconds and before he can say anything, she pulls out of his clumsy embrace.
“Erm,” she says, clearly trying to look anywhere but the sodding love bite on his neck and failing miserably. “I should actually probably go. Early morning, you know?”
“Right,” John says, half relieved already. He hails her a taxi because despite all appearances, he is still a gentleman, and doesn’t ask for her number as he helps her into the seat. He watches the black cab pull away and sighs again, scrubbing at his face with his palms.
Trudging up the stairs feels like a fresher hell than usual, the buzz of the alcohol still in his system, but fading from overzealous flirtation to unnatural melancholy in the space of a few heartbeats. He doesn’t even pause at the sitting room, but continues on up the second flight to his bedroom.
It’s probably a good thing he didn’t end up bringing Whatshername in anyhow considering the state of his room. The bed is a complete disaster: still damp sheets pushed all the way to the foot of the mattress, slick bottle of lubricant staining the cotton where it’s been discarded and forgotten about, pillows flung about the room like a small hurricane. The scent alone would have stopped her in her tracks had she even made it past the sight. The distinct aroma of testosterone, pheromones and sex still hangs heavy in the room, mixed with the unmistakably male scent of overpriced aftershave and semen.
It smells undoubtedly of Sherlock, and John shamefully feels his heart clench a little at the thought. Clearly the alcohol had been a mistake if he’s getting this upset over the pungent scent of come for fucks sake. He doggedly tugs the sheets off the bed, rolling them into a ball and shoving them into the laundry in his wardrobe. He’s too bone-weary to do anything more than strip down to his pants and fall against the bare mattress, barely summoning enough coherence to grab for a pillow before allowing the alcohol to lull him into the safety of unconsciousness.
: :
John wakes with a start, heartbeat thudding heavy and fast through his chest. He’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon and he realizes, probably too late, that his mouth his gasping open. He closes it with a snap and lets out a sound that’s half-hum, half-moan, whimpering as he sags back onto his elbows. Images of blood soaked soldiers, limbs and faces blown apart, but all crying out his name echo blindly behind his eyelids and he swallows heavily against the tide of bile rising dangerously up his throat.
Cool fingers wrap gently around his wrist and he jerks away with a gasp. The previous night comes flooding back to him in snatches of sensation and flashes of images, along with the pounding headache born of too much beer and not enough forethought to balance alcohol with water.
Head falling forward, he closes his eyes against the spinning room, breathing slowly through his nose to abate the nausea. His tongue feels like old leather and tastes about the same. He’s really getting far too old for this kind of ridiculousness.
The fingers are back, pushing the sweaty hair off his forehead this time and feeling blissfully cold in the overheated room. John pushes his head into their soothing touch, an unconscious hum of appreciation escaping from the back of his throat before he can stop it. The fingers instantly disappear and John feels their loss like a physical blow.
“Sorry,” he whispers into the dark, cursing how unsteady his voice sounds, cracked and raw with unguarded emotion.
“Here,” comes the gravelly response, Sherlock’s voice soft and deep from slumber. John’s fingers are wrapped around a wonderfully cool glass of water and two pills are dropped covertly into his other palm. John’s eyes blink open of their own volition, staring helplessly down at the paracetamol for a full ten seconds before Sherlock’s small huff of amusement brings him back to the moment. He swallows the pills gratefully and gulps down the rest of the water as slowly as he can make himself.
Sherlock’s hand brushes against his as he takes the glass back and sets it on the bedside table. It feels far too familiar and John curses himself yet again for allowing himself to become so fucking vulnerable all the time. The water is at least helping with the nausea and John feels the room settle a bit into a more steady space. Sherlock’s long fingers climb up his back and settle in his hair, rubbing small circles into the back of his neck and causing a shiver of pure pleasure to run down John’s spine. The tension is fading from his shoulders, despite his emotional confusion and for the moment at least, he just allows himself to be soothed.
“Come here,” Sherlock murmurs into his shoulder blade, lips catching on skin and causing a completely different shiver to form half-heartedly in the base of John’s abdomen. One long arm wraps tightly around his chest and John allows himself to be pulled back against the bed, bare mattress rubbing slightly against his clammy skin.
Sherlock shifts around, tugging the quilt up from where John kicked it off in his dreams and covering them both before wrapping his lean body around John’s, one knee tucked between John’s legs and wiry arms wound tightly around John’s chest. It’s so heartbreakingly intimate that John feels the hot prickle of alcohol-induced tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. He takes a deep breath for calm and lets himself sink further against Sherlock’s chest, refusing to acknowledge the warning bells screaming for attention in the back of his mind.
After a few minutes, Sherlock seems to relax, melting all along John’s back like a giant bony duvet, left arm sliding up the mattress to cushion John’s head and right hand tracing small patterns against his abdomen. John finally lets his eyes close, lulled into sleep by the thick beat of Sherlock’s heart against his back and the soft huffs of breath along the side of his jaw.
Just as he’s drifting off, John can swear he hears Sherlock whisper, “I’m sorry, John,” into the nape of his neck, but before he can respond, he’s swept away into the black of a perfectly dreamless sleep.
: :
It’s been a very long day. He’d stayed an extra four hours at the surgery to relieve a sick colleague, his shoulder aches with strain and the rising humidity of an oncoming storm and there were absolutely no taxis to be had on the way home, so John had found himself walking from the overcrowded tube stop in the ever-present London rain. He’s tired, wet, cranky and in absolutely no mood to deal with Sherlock’s antics at the moment.
To his immense surprise, there’s a new carton of milk sitting innocently in the refrigerator when he rummages through for Tuesday’s leftover lo mein. The sight of it is so startlingly normal that John just stands there staring at it for a solid ninety seconds before he realizes his fingers are getting cold.
He really shouldn’t be this baffled by a carton of milk. He’s just so used to Sherlock completely ignoring basic common courtesy that one container of milk has him halting in his tracks. John munches on his leftover noodles while waiting for the kettle to boil and wonders idly when his life became so complicated.
The silence in the flat is strangely oppressive. It’s unnerving, sitting in his armchair and trying to complete the crossword without the ever-present tapping and chiming coming from whichever mobile Sherlock’s commandeered at the moment, and he notices himself glancing towards the closed bedroom door more and more frequently until he finally moves to the table to stay out of sight lines.
This is utterly ridiculous. John’s perfectly capable of entertaining himself after all and he resolutely turns back to the paper, firmly ignoring that part of his brain that’s thinking a bit of violin music wouldn’t go amiss right about now.
An hour later, when the bedroom door finally swings open, the creaking hinges seem so loud it’s almost deafening. John’s wound so tight his shoulder aches and he’s gotten precisely six words written into the tiny boxes, despite staring at the paper for longer than he can ever remember before.
John taps his biro against the table, trying valiantly to ignore Sherlock’s half-open dressing gown as he waltzes into the sitting room, upsetting the mug of tea balanced precariously on a stack of old case files. John barely manages to catch it, a bit of tea sloshing over the side and onto his half-completed crossword.
“Oi,” he grumbles, wiping a drop of PG Tips off of 24 down and smearing the ink a little. Sherlock completely ignores him, instead flopping elegantly across the sofa in his usual melodramatic way. John can feel the tension seeping from his neck. Business as usual then.
The air still seems inexplicably charged and John can feel tingles running up his arms as he gives up on his crossword, consigning it to the bin before draining his tea and moving towards the kitchen. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he rummages around for another clean mug.
“Tea?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Please,” Sherlock’s says from right behind him. John jumps and nearly drops the cup, but Sherlock’s hand darts forward and steadies him.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John breathes, skin prickling at their close proximity. His libido seems to have gotten over their argument rather quickly at least. Images of the previous night instantly assail him: of Sherlock’s long, pale neck extended in ecstasy, of the feeling of his hot, wet tongue licking obscenely into John as he wound tighter and tighter towards his orgasm. John can feel the blush as it rises up his neck, staining his ears a dark and unflattering pink.
Sherlock’s arm is at his waist, long fingers tugging lightly on the mug in John’s death grip. He’s essentially trapped against the counter, immovable between the hard formica and Sherlock’s body pressed tightly along his spine. John hates how his knees seem to melt at the feeling of Sherlock’s breath dancing through the small hairs on the back of his neck.
“I got the milk,” he rumbles, voice smooth and sinful, coiling through John and making his chest ache. Sherlock places the cup gently on the counter and moves his fingers across John’s abdomen in lazy trails of desire and need. John can feel his defenses crumbling, lust winning out over his more rational brain, pheromones responding and perking his body into heightened awareness.
Sherlock’s large hands span easily across his hip bones and he rocks forward letting John feel his arousal in no uncertain terms. Part of John knows this way lies madness, but his cock has very different plans. Pushing back with his hips, John manages to dislodge Sherlock enough to turn in his embrace, bringing their mouths together in a searing kiss full of pent-up frustration and a bit of lingering anger. It’s all teeth and spite mixed with a heady sense of dominance and John is nearly lost in the sensation.
Despite Sherlock’s frequent mockery, John is not actually an idiot. He knows how easily this game he plays with his flatmate can turn into an overwhelming inferno and he’s familiar enough now with the sensation of Sherlock’s amazing pull to walk the edge of just far enough to befuddle Sherlock’s senses while holding a tenuous control over his own.
Sherlock licks into his mouth with a precision born of frequency and a hint of arrogance that makes John smile, his lips stretching against Sherlock’s.
It feels so wonderfully familiar in a way that it probably shouldn’t: like sinking into a warm bath after a long day of questionably legal gunfire. Sherlock is warm and solid, hands sliding down John’s back to cup his arse through layers of denim and cotton and John momentarily forgets that he’s supposed to be resisting this. The hint of comfort is folded gently in between sensual layers of danger and lust, all warring for attention as Sherlock’s hips press John’s firmly into the worktop.
John sinks into the kiss, allowing his defenses down for a tiny moment, savoring the taste of Sherlock in his mouth, the feel of his smooth skin beneath his fingertips, the slightly spiced scent of his aftershave wrapping around them both like a cloak. He deliberately slows his frantic movements, one hand drifting up to tangle into dark curls, the other wrapping around a too-slim waist to draw Sherlock closer. He’s trying to remember why he was quite so angry and comes up short, the overtone of resentment lingering far longer than his flash of temper. John can feel the exact moment he reaches solemn melancholy and knows full well Sherlock can feel it as well.
Genius that he is, Sherlock senses the change in atmosphere and he lightens the kiss to match John’s mood, sliding his tongue over John’s in a slow seduction that has John clinging to his resolve like a drowning man on driftwood. He gently breaks the kiss, tongue swiping delicately over John’s lower lip before pulling back entirely.
John takes a deep breath, feeling his head swim as the heady cocktail of serotonin, endorphins and pheromones runs thick and fast through his veins. He feels dizzy and far too warm. Sherlock’s teeth graze up the side of his neck and he hears himself groan, his body vying for control. Sherlock seems to take the involuntary noise as consent, because he’s back to frenzied want: long fingers tugging at John’s denims with a speed and efficiency that’s frankly alarming.
The abrupt movement causes John to pause. Suddenly, he remembers he’s meant to be talking to this impossible man and his head snaps back, breaking contact with Sherlock’s plush lips.
“Sherlock, stop,” he gasps, hating how shaky his voice sounds. Sherlock completely ignores him, dipping back down to mouth at John’s jaw. Through the haze of hormones, John drags his eyes open, musters his strength and physically pushes Sherlock back.
John has to bite back another groan at the completely debauched look in Sherlock’s eyes. He’s breathing heavy, a high flush painted across his sharp cheekbones, lips swollen and red, mouth almost obscenely wet. As John watches, his dark pink tongue darts out and lingers across the wide expanse of his incredibly plush lower lip. It’s all John can do to keep himself from launching himself bodily forward, but the remembered ache in his chest holds him back.
Sherlock’s eyes narrow as his focus changes from sexual gratification to deductive observation in the blink of an eye.
“You’re still angry,” he says, deliberately slow as though by enunciating each syllable, he will be able to make better sense of the matter.
“A bit, yeah.” John’s finding it increasingly difficult to look Sherlock in the eye. It feels like betrayal, even though he’s the one constantly getting fucked over in this scenario.
Sherlock’s gaze flicks rapidly over his face, clearly observing every little nuance of expression John has to offer. His eyes keep narrowing and clearing, as though he’s finding solutions and dismissing them one by one as they become more and more ludicrous in his understanding. Finally, brow creased with apparent incredulity, he says, “You’re angry about last night.”
John huffs a little, unable to find an easy way out of this, but he never was one to back down from a fight. He grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, bracing his hands against his thighs to ground himself to reality. “Last night was Not Good, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “I certainly didn’t hear you complaining.” He licks his lips with a lasciviousness that would ordinarily be alarming. At the moment, however, it’s all John can do to hold back his groan. The effect is not lost on Sherlock, sharp eyes no doubt picking up John’s elevated heart rate and dilated pupils. “In fact, I distinctly remember you begging me for more, writhing on my tongue like a common tart. Honestly, John, if you’re about to tell me you didn’t enjoy it, I might actually be impressed with your acting abilities.”
He takes a step in closer and John can feel his resolve crumbling, his limbs trembling with remembered pleasure, neck arching of its own volition. He bites down hard on his own tongue to relieve the need to whimper. He can feel Sherlock’s breath tickling along the side of his neck, so close now the small hairs around his ear quiver with each exhalation.
“But really,” Sherlock purrs, lips so close to John’s ear they brush the flesh with every syllable, “if you require more proof, I’d be happy to oblige. I can show you just how good I am, John.”
John’s head tilts back and Sherlock immediately seals his lips around the already bruised skin, sucking and pulling more blood to the surface. John can practically feel the mark darkening, staking claim on him without any effort whatsoever. Sherlock’s cock is grinding tantalizingly into his hip and muscle memories begin to take over: John’s arms, shaking and helpless as he braces himself against the head board, Sherlock’s cock thrusting hard and deep inside of him as he comes, the feeling of completion and connection holding them together like a tether.
The ache in his chest redoubles and John pulls himself away, shoving his hand against Sherlock’s sternum and holding him at arm’s length. “This is exactly the problem, Sherlock,” he pants, willing himself to calm and clinging to his momentary flash of hurt and anger. “You can’t just take what you want without asking. I’m in this too, you know, and I should have a say in how far we go.”
Sherlock blinks at him, momentarily stunned into disbelief. John finds his hand is shaking, tremors running through his muscles where they curve against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s expression darkens into something harsh and he spits out, “Are you accusing me of forcing you, John?”
John’s hand spasms against Sherlock’s chest and he balks under Sherlock’s rage. “No. God, no. Of course--“
“Good,” Sherlock hisses. “I may be many things, John Watson, but a rapist is not one of them.”
John recoils at the word, but tries desperately to cling on to his crumbling stance. “I wasn’t... Christ, that’s not at all what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying, John?” Sherlock’s voice is tight and low, barely controlled anger simmering through each syllable. John’s own rage rises to match and before he can stop himself, his ire explodes between them like a lit fuse.
“God, you’re completely impossible, you know that? It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it? I can’t read you at all! One day you’re crawling into my bed in the middle of the night and the next you push me so far away I can barely get my head on straight before you’re diving for my pants and fucking the bloody life out of me.” Sherlock’s face is entirely blank, and John feels his own rage deflating, sinking further into an infuriatingly wounded melancholy that doesn’t suit him at all. John takes a deep breath, teeth clenched against the wave of sadness and resignation that crashes over him when his anger fizzles.
“I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock. I can’t keep guessing. It’s tearing me apart.” John’s voice breaks, barely audible in the stunned silence that follows his outburst.
“John,” Sherlock starts, voice low and wary, an edge of anger still clinging to the words. “You knew who I was the day you moved in here. You know me better than anyone. Are you honestly surprised with what’s become of us?”
“Christ, I don’t even know,” John mumbles. He can feel the sharp prickle of frustrated tears beginning to form at the back of his eyes, but forces his face to harden when he looks up. “I just... I just need something to go on, Sherlock. Something. Anything.” His shoulders slump in defeat and he can hear the pathetic whinge in his words, but he’s completely unable to stop them. “What do you want from me?”
Sherlock groans, fisting his hands in his hair and throwing his head back in exasperation. “Why must you make things so difficult? Feelings and sentiment, John. Really? Why can’t we just fuck and get on with it?”he opines, emphasizing the k and the t with an obnoxious click that shoots through John like miniature bullets.
John blinks, completely taken aback and honestly hurt. Sherlock has never been one to dwell kindly on other peoples’ emotions, but some small part of John had hoped he might be an exception. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I didn’t think--”
“No. You never do,” Sherlock says, dismissive and callous.
John’s temper flares; all the rejection from the last few weeks balling up inside of him and creating a hot knot of resentment burning at the base of his spine.
“You know what?” he says, teeth gritted in anger, “You’re right. Absolutely right. It’s not like you listen to me anyway. I’m sorry to muddle all of your scientific brilliance with my unwelcome and clearly unwanted feelings. I might just as well move out and spare you the idiocy of my tiny little plebian mind.”
Shocked silence rings through the flat, both of them breathing hard. Sherlock’s hands are clenched tightly at his sides and there’s an angry red flush creeping up his neck. John wishes he hadn’t seen the momentary flash of panic that crossed over his face in the split second before it contorts into an ugly sneer. His eyes narrow and his mouth twists into a grimace. John braces himself, knowing full well what’s coming and completely unable to stop it.
“Yes, John. Why don’t you leave? Now that your psychosomatic limp is cured and your taste for danger has been sated, I’m certain you could find yourself a wife easily enough. One who appreciates your sentiment and who doesn’t mind your abysmally slow little brain. You’re nothing but a distraction. I don’t need this and I certainly don’t need you.”
John’s jaw is clenched so hard he can practically feel the enamel on his teeth groaning in protest. Flayed open again, sliced through to the bone by Sherlock’s purposefully malicious intent, but this time it’s John on the receiving end of his vitriol and he can feel all the emotions Sherlock hates rising like a tide through his body: hurt, anger, embarrassment, shame and resentment warring for the top spot, but it’s the sadness that finally wins out.
“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice broken and searching.
“Don’t presume to know me, John. I thought you were different. I thought this might work, but you clearly don’t know me at all. I won’t fit in to your happy little boxes of subdivided labels. I won’t be sectioned and quartered and molded into something less than what I am. You won’t change me, John; you can’t. If you won’t understand that, then perhaps you’d better leave.” Sherlock’s words tumble thick and fast, each one tearing through John and leaving him gaping open and bleeding on the kitchen floor.
Sherlock shakes his head briefly, hands balled into fists before breathing sharply through his nose, squaring his shoulders and turning on his heel. John hears the slam of the outer door rocket through the flat like a cannon blast. Pain shoots through his right thigh and he crumples to the floor, broken again and finally, for the first time since he was small, giving in to tears.
: :
Find Part 3 of the fic here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-06-11 03:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-11 03:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-03 12:55 am (UTC)