Fic for radialarch: Full View, 1/4

[holmesticemods]

Title: Full View
Recipient: radialarch
Writer: pandoras_chaos
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Janine, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: Explicit
Warnings, kinks & contents: Unhealthy Relationships, Emotional Masochism, Angst, Anger, Infidelity, Adultery, Sexually Explicit Content, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Finger Fucking, Dub-Con, Drug Use, Graphic Depictions of Drug Use, Jealousy, Unsafe Sex, Missing Scenes, S3E2: The Sign of Three, S3E2: His Last Vow
Length: 30,500 words
Author’s note: My dearest radialarch, thank you for the incredibly brilliant prompts that sparked this ridiculous monstrosity. Everything you asked for was right up my alley, so I hope you enjoy reading this story just as much as I enjoyed writing it :D

Epic thanks to my incredible beta team, especially to thesmallhobbit who managed to keep my writing from wandering and who is a constant source of information and inspiration. Thanks also to arianedevere, without whom I could never have gotten through all the dialogue between these boys. Title borrowed from the lovely Sara Bareillis.

Summary: Sherlock can already feel the creeping guilt swallowing him from the inside out; all of his jealous, malicious thoughts coagulating into one harsh, brutal reality: whatever is going on between John and the future Mrs Watson, it has absolutely nothing to do with him, and wishing Mary ill will do nothing but distance himself from John.

If he forces John to choose, the likely outcome will not be in his favor.



Sherlock can’t quite recall exactly how it began. He vaguely remembers the client with the missing date, claiming to have had dinner with a ghost, and then the poor bloke’s flat, and he has hazy recollections of being threatened by the landlord, the distant sound of sirens and then he and John were out in the street, racing clumsily along as they tried to outrun their own stumbling inebriation.

Somehow, John had ducked into an alley, snatching at Sherlock’s coat sleeve and tugging him along; pulling him all the way towards the dead end and behind a thankfully not too revolting skip. John had found a piece of cardboard and tossed it to the ground, collapsing down onto it and yanking at Sherlock’s trouser leg until he had reluctantly followed, back braced against the cool brick wall with John leaning heavily against his side. Sherlock remembers fighting for breath, choking on the taste of vomit in his mouth and the uncontrollable chuckles that wouldn’t seem to stop, no matter how hard he had tried to repress them.

“Here,” John finally says around a mouthful of breathless giggles. He digs around in the pocket of his jacket and produces a miraculous bottle of water, twisting open the cap and taking a swig before passing it over to Sherlock. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but takes the drink gladly; sloshing the clear, cool liquid around his mouth and spitting out the residual taste of last night’s curry before tipping back the bottle and swallowing half of it in one.

“Oi,” John laughs, reaching over and tugging at Sherlock’s fingers until he relents and allows John to drag the bottle away. “I only managed to nick one. We’ll have to share.”

“You nicked it?” Sherlock slurs, watching with perhaps too much intensity as John’s mouth wraps around the top of the bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, his thin lips pressing along the plastic just where Sherlock’s had been mere seconds ago.

“Yeah,” John says finally, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and offering the last few swallows to Sherlock with a mischievous grin. “Tosser had them just out on the worktop, didn’t he. I figure if he’s really a ghost, doesn’t matter who drinks his posh water, eh?”

Sherlock cannot help it. He bursts into laughter: the low, gasping one that splits his face into an uneven smile, tears of mirth streaking down his face as he takes in the wonderfully unpredictable man before him. He feels loose and carefree, the lethargy from earlier evaporating into the rush of camaraderie and genuine, baffling amusement. John’s answering grin is beatific and he reaches forward to pull something no doubt disgusting out of Sherlock’s hair, but his fingers pause, lingering along the side of Sherlock’s temple, the grin sliding off his face as the very air between them seems to crackle and vibrate with renewed tension.

Sherlock feels his laughter fade, his own face suddenly hot and tight, John’s fingers in the side of his curls a steady, burning pressure. He feels his breath catch, all the alcohol and adrenaline buzzing through his veins suddenly vanishing as John tentatively leans forward, his expression fierce and intense.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, feeling John’s breath ghost over his suddenly dry lips. He can taste the acrid tang of whiskey as John exhales shakily, his dark blue gaze focused on Sherlock’s bottom lip as he licks his own. Sherlock swallows nervously, afraid to move lest he shatter this moment completely. John’s eyes dart up to his, and the question lurking there is too much.

Sherlock leans in and finally, finally closes the gap between them, brushing his lips gently across John’s mouth, every single nerve tingling with a long-repressed yearning. John is still for one breathless heartbeat before he lunges forward, mouth open and curious, tugging Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting down gently.

Sherlock cannot help the deep groan that shakes itself loose from his chest, spilling up through his mouth and across his tongue, into John’s lips like an offering. He feels his chest clench tightly, part of his brain screaming that this is more than a bit not good; that allowing this to happen now, after so many wasted years of fierce longing and brutal denial will only end in heartbreak, but it’s a futile thought. John’s tongue flicks out against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock opens gladly, sliding his own tongue out to caress against John’s teeth, tasting the bitter ale and whiskey along with desperation and testosterone and it’s all too much and not nearly enough.

John sighs into his mouth, all wet tongue and biting teeth, and Sherlock can’t breathe. John shifts forward, practically climbing into Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock gasps wetly as his body rages out of control. He smoothes his hand up the back of John’s shirt, slipping his fingers beneath layers of cotton and wool to finally touch the impossibly hot skin along John’s spine. John moans against his tongue, and the sound goes straight through Sherlock’s gut, pooling hot and dangerous in the pit of his abdomen. It’s suddenly overwhelming, and Sherlock bites at John’s mouth, demanding and probably too hard, but Sherlock could not stop himself now if his life depended on it. It’s like dying and being reborn, like sunbursts and thunder and every other cliché he can possibly think of, and when John rocks his hips in a torturously slow slide, Sherlock feels as though he’s shattering apart completely.

“John,” he breathes, fingers tight and numb, sensation zinging through every nerve until all he can see, taste and feel is John against him, around him, burning straight through him like wildfire.

“You,” John growls, and there’s something dark and possessive in his tone. Sherlock tips his head back against the brick wall, feeling the cool roughness against his scalp through the thick tangle of his curls and tries to remain upright as John’s teeth skim along his throat to his collarbone, tearing the buttons of his shirt open and grunting into his skin. Sherlock’s hands splay out across John’s back, pulling him closer and arching against him, feeling the hard line of John’s body twist and writhe against his own thighs. John’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his face forwards and devouring his mouth, his other hand dropping down to wrestle with his own belt buckle. The clink of metal seems overly loud, and the realization of what they’re doing suddenly washes over Sherlock like a douse of icy water.

“John, stop,” he gasps, pulling his face to the side and trying to ignore the way John’s teeth latch onto his carotid instead, no doubt leaving vividly purple bruises for everyone to see. The thought is not unappealing, and Sherlock has to grind his teeth together in order to jerk his mind back into some semblance of control. “John,” he tries again, but the word ends on a moan as John’s palm rubs firmly across the front of his straining trousers.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John growls, slightly unsteady fingers curling around Sherlock’s cock through the wool and squeezing. “For once in your life, just shut the fuck up.”

Sherlock bites back a scathing retort, teeth sinking into his own bottom lip as John’s hand pulls firmly at his length, the rasp of his pants grating and sticky against the sensitive head of his prick. Sherlock’s hips buck upwards of their own volition and John’s answering grin is distinctly predatory. He takes Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss full of so much heat and desire, Sherlock feels it all the way down to his toes. Sherlock can feel the tenuous control on his own restraint cracking with each desperate rock of John’s hips, each low groan against his skin. He feels greedy and powerful, and wonders vaguely why he’s been holding back at all. John is clearly willing and right here and why exactly isn’t Sherlock allowed to have precisely what he wants?

Giving over to his own desires, Sherlock lashes out, catching John around the waist and pushing him back and over, chasing him down as he lands heavily onto the edge of the cardboard. He slides one knee between John’s legs and pushes, feeling John’s cock thicken and jerk against his thigh, a high-pitched, keening whine escaping his lips as Sherlock falls forward with a grunt. Sherlock can feel the heat of arousal curling through his veins, every instinct he has shouting at him to mark, to bite, to claim. He braces himself on one elbow, his right hand pushing up under John’s jaw and tilting his face back, baring his throat to Sherlock’s insistent teeth. He can feel John’s heated groan as it rumbles up through his chest, along his larynx and into the night air.

Sherlock settles his weight fully against John’s body, their hips aligning and crashing together as John arches instinctively up, rubbing himself shamelessly against Sherlock as lust and longing visibly chase through his skin. Sherlock is mesmerized by the high flush staining John’s cheeks, the subconsciously submissive tilt of his head, the way his eyelids flutter every time Sherlock rocks forwards against him.

“Fuck,” John gasps, his hands finally scrabbling across the filthy ground and landing on Sherlock’s arse, pulling him down and squeezing tightly, the added pressure sending Sherlock’s already-spiking libido spiralling into overdrive. He groans against John’s mouth, fingers dragging across cotton and skin until he reaches the button on John’s trousers, yanking and wrenching until he manages to get his hand in, squirming under the elastic band of John’s pants and finally wrapping tightly around the incredibly hot, thick length of him, smearing the sticky moisture leaking from the tip along his palm as he squeezes and pulls.

“Jesus Christ,” John pants, his head falling back in supplication against the grimy cardboard. “Sherlock, oh my god.”

Sherlock grins, sharp and possessive, and swallows John’s moan against his tongue, his own cock digging and dragging across his wrist as he begins to fist John quickly, all thought of artfulness lost in the heat and frenzy of the moment. He can feel the knuckle of his thumb drag along his own frenulum as he speeds up, John’s cock pulsing and jerking in his fingers. He can feel his head spinning: oxygen deprivation and alcohol making everything hazy and frantic and he rips his mouth away just as John hitches his breath, one leg spasming to the side as his cock throbs suddenly thicker and then Sherlock’s hand is slick and warm, John’s orgasm bursting out of him like a supernova. Sherlock is captivated, staring down in fascination as John’s face contorts in pleasurable agony, his penis pulsing twice more as he rides out his climax. Sherlock can taste his own rapidly approaching orgasm, heavy and metallic on the back of his tongue and he leans in to capture John’s mouth, soft now and pliant with sated satisfaction.

“You now,” John pants, shoving his hands into the back of Sherlock’s trousers and pulling him in, wrapping one leg around Sherlock’s hips and rocking up against him. Sherlock can feel his cock harden further, feel the way John’s body squirms and shifts until he’s suddenly there, rutting into the crease of John’s arse, trousers pulled taut against the swell of his bollocks. John is impossibly hot and tight, the seam of his trousers riding high into the damp furrow between his arsecheeks and Sherlock pushes himself into the space there, feeling John’s muscles give, the head of his cock catching along fabric and wishing desperately that their clothes would just magically melt away, and then he could be inside John; irrevocably connected to him in ways nobody could ever dispute.

The implication of the movement shoots straight through to his spine and he feels his muscles clenching, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until he flashes over into white-hot sensation. He comes with a groan, teeth digging harshly into John’s cotton-covered shoulder, writhing and panting as it seems to go on and on; his cock pumping sticky semen into the ruined cotton of his boxer briefs. Sherlock groans and pushes his hips down, keeping his hand curled gently around John’s softening prick and feeling each twitch as the aftershocks shudder through his smaller frame. John blinks his eyes open and stares up at Sherlock with a lazy smile, and Sherlock feels his throat tighten with unwelcome emotion.

“Yes,” John says, as though Sherlock had asked a question. He feels suddenly and horrifyingly uncertain, the ramifications of their admittedly drunken encounter abruptly flooding through him like an icy tide. He slowly extracts his hand, trying not to smear John’s already rumpled and filthy clothing with irrefutable evidence of what they’ve just done. John catches his wrist and drags his hand forward, wicked tongue darting out to chase along his knuckles, grimacing a little at the taste and chuckling at Sherlock’s dumbfounded expression.

“That,” John says with extreme conviction, dropping Sherlock’s hand and arching his back in a deep stretch, “was incredibly hot.”

Sherlock just blinks down at him, confused and incredulous and still slightly drunk. His head is full of an unpleasant buzzing sound, and he can feel the dread and panic starting to take over as the endorphins dissipate.

“John,” he says tentatively, his voice sounding wrecked even to his own ears. John just smiles softly and shakes his head, tangling his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s curls and pulling him in for a gentle kiss. Sherlock leans into it, unable and unwilling to let this go; helpless against his own desire as John’s tongue slides along his own with almost unbearable sweetness.

There’s the sharp sound of crunching gravel and a single, piercing siren as the police car rolls up to the end of the alley, and Sherlock can practically see the moment shattering around them as reality comes violently slamming back into full view. John’s face blanches and he visibly snaps out of the daze of pheromones, shoving and wrestling with Sherlock until he can squirm his way back into his trousers, hastily re-fastening his belt and looking as comically conspicuous as possible. Sherlock backs away slowly, wiping his hand onto the cardboard and smoothing his own clothing down into what he hopes resembles some form of propriety. John is looking panicked and nauseous, and Sherlock feels his stomach sinking further and further with each passing second.

“Let me handle this,” Sherlock murmurs, catching John’s wrist and squeezing it once. John nods and clenches his jaw, staggering to his feet as the copper comes ambling down the alleyway, torch blazing through the fog.

“Evening, boys,” comes the startlingly familiar lazy drawl. Sherlock narrows his eyes against the infuriatingly bright glare of the torch and feels the dread deepen.

“Gregson,” Sherlock nods tightly, wondering what on earth he did to deserve this level of punishment. John is looking quickly between them, clearly realizing something is wrong, but too drunk on alcohol and residual endorphins to make the connection.

“Heard you lot got into a spot of trouble,” Gregson declares, all smug superiority and condescension, and Sherlock remembers vividly the thorough dressing-down he’d given the man not two weeks previously. He can feel John tense beside him, feel the way his protective instincts rear out of his control, feel the patronizing words bubbling up behind his teeth...

And the world goes suddenly, violently dark.

: :

Sherlock gasps into consciousness, the shout that woke him echoing through his brain like gunfire. He jerks upright with a wince, confusion and disorientation clouding his vision for one horrible moment before he remembers where he is and why. His mouth tastes foul and his head is pounding, and he vaguely registers Lestrade’s voice, loud and unfairly shrill in the harsh morning light. It takes an unnatural amount of concentration to focus, and by the time he manages to get himself into a sitting position, John has already slouched through the door, posture miserable and practically radiating discomfort.

Lestrade smirks at him and follows suit, leaving Sherlock alone in the holding cell, head spinning and body unaccountably wobbly. His back aches and his muscles feel tight, and he chokes back the bile that threatens up his esophagus. He stands gingerly and feels the unmistakable scrape of dried come graze across his bollocks, the full reality of last night’s many indiscretions slamming into his consciousness like a runaway lorry. He staggers and sinks back against the thin mattress, his head throbbing with panic and dehydration. Christ, what has he done? He stands again, gravity wavering for one terrifying moment before he regains his balance and pads carefully out of the room.

John is waiting at the desk, collecting their belongings and studiously avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock can feel a lump begin to form in the back of his throat; unspoken emotion and horrifying doubt making his hands shake as he pulls on his coat.

“Well,” John starts awkwardly as they turn to leave. “Thanks for a... you know, an evening...” he trails off, and Sherlock tries hard not to wince as he can feel the resentment and regret rolling off of John in thick waves. He swallows back his own suddenly uncontrollable emotions and grits his teeth.

“It was awful,” Sherlock states flatly, pretending not to notice the way John’s shoulders seem to slump in relief as he realizes Sherlock is not about to make a scene.

“Yeah,” John sighs, his voice blank and hesitant and so utterly, horribly wrong. “I was gonna pretend, but it was. Truly.”

Sherlock feels his breath hitch, John’s blatant rejection shooting through him like a physical blow. It hurts, and Sherlock grasps for something neutral to focus on, something normal to ground himself.

“That woman, Tessa,” he says, voice sounding remarkably steady and cold. John blinks at him for a split second before he huffs out a muffled: “What?”

“Dated a ghost. Most interesting case for months.” Sherlock can see John’s incredulity out of the corner of his eye and feels a small thrill of malicious triumph. “What a wasted opportunity,” he finishes with emphasis, realizing his double entendre moments after it tumbles out of his still-unsteady mouth.

“...Okay,” John says slowly, clearly unsure and trying to navigate Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock can feel the hard shell of protective instinct beginning to reform around himself as he strides out of the police station, John struggling to catch up as always. The hard knot of rejection is sharpening and curdling into a thick swell of resentment, and Sherlock can feel the contemptuous comments bubbling up the back of his throat, threatening to spill out between them with as much vitriolic spite as he can muster.

Lestrade is standing on the pavement, leaning casually on the open door of the taxi and regarding them both with blatant amusement. John surges past him and ducks into the cab, uncharacteristically cowardly and visibly irritable. Sherlock sighs and glides forward, plastering on his most plastic of fake smiles and dodging around Lestrade’s extended arm.

Lestrade pulls his hand at the last moment and snags the very edge of Sherlock’s shoulder, hauling him back out of the cab and leaning in conspiratorially. “I squared things away this time, but don’t tell John I know about the public indecency charge as well, yeah?” He gives Sherlock a pointed look and drops his voice to a low whisper, “And do try to remember he’s getting married in a month. I know you two have been gagging for it for years, but try to get it out of your system before then and for god’s sake, don’t go getting arrested again.” He winks cheekily and thumps Sherlock twice on the shoulder before turning and walking away, a disgustingly cheerful spring in his step.

Sherlock closes his eyes in mortification and tries to keep the nausea at bay for the time being. He rallies his remaining strength and slides onto the leather seat, avoiding John’s searching look and staring out the window as the taxi pulls away, ignoring the throbbing pain in his temples and trying to find something–anything–to say amid the unbearably awkward silence.

“Listen,” John finally begins after what feels like decades of increasing discomfort. “About last night...” he trails off, and Sherlock can feel the hateful hesitation hovering between them like a fog.

“What about it?” Sherlock says, going for detached disinterest and missing by about a mile. John shifts on the seat, clearly struggling to put an explanation together that won’t compromise his deluded sense of heteronormativity. Sherlock suddenly finds he has zero patience for it all.

“Well, I mean...” John starts again, clearly deciding to soldier on. He takes a deep breath and straightens on the seat, his entire posture suddenly military straight and determined. Sherlock hates it. “Look, what we did–it can’t happen again,” John says, firm tone brooking no argument.

Sherlock weighs his options. In one scenario, he challenges John’s stance on the matter, pointing out that they’ve been dancing around each other for years, the sexual tension between them so sharp and thick that it’s nearly tangible. And then John backs off entirely, retreating into his safe and comfortable life with Mary where Sherlock clearly has no place. Or he could ignore his own desires–and John’s as well–and pretend that nothing is wrong, allowing John to maintain his fantasy of a ‘normal life’ where Sherlock is just his best friend and they mean nothing more to each other than business partners.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, John,” Sherlock says coolly, keeping his face averted towards the window and surreptitiously watching in the reflection as John’s shoulders slump in relief. The metaphorical knife in Sherlock’s gut twists at the sight, but he steels his own resolve and directs his thoughts towards the next month and how he’s supposed to remain distant when all he can think of is the taste of John’s skin, the sound of his gasping breath, the feeling of him, hard and hot in Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock shifts and clears his throat, suddenly aware of the tightness in his own trousers, of the itchy, sticky feeling of congealed semen stretching and pulling as his penis begins to plump with blood. This is absolutely not the time for such thoughts, and Sherlock clamps brutally down on his own wayward thoughts.

“I’m going to need computers,” he says instead, pleased with how steady his voice sounds. John’s head whips around and he stares incredulously at Sherlock for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry?” John says, confusion clear in every syllable.

“Laptops. Many of them. Do try to be useful, John,” Sherlock bites out, pulling his coat imperiously around his hips and effectively hiding his embarrassing reaction.

“Computers. Right,” John says, sounding bewildered, but determined, as though he’s finally realizing that the disastrous row he was anticipating is no longer a threat. “I’ll need to go home first,” he adds quietly.

“No time, John,” Sherlock intones. John sighs and rolls his eyes, but Sherlock can see the slight quirk of his lips as he turns towards the opposite window. Sherlock takes it as a victory and tries not to think about the warm, contented feeling spreading unwelcome through his chest.

It doesn’t work.

: :

The sitting room at Baker Street is beginning to look like a bridal magazine explosion. There are seating charts and fabric swatches, flower arrangements and stationery, guest lists and flight plans, and one consulting detective-cum-wedding planner sitting in the center of it all among thirty-four perfectly folded table serviettes.

Sherlock sighs and shakes out one white swathe of fabric, pressing against the creases with his thumb until the wrinkles loosen their hold and concede to the pull of gravity. The pale square of material looks disturbingly like surrender, and Sherlock forcibly steers his thoughts away from the idea that he’s losing John in any way. John has been adamantly clear about sharing his time equally, and although the notion of sharing John at all makes Sherlock’s stomach turn, he’s not fool enough to push lest he lose John completely. Mary herself had agreed to let them go just yesterday–Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson: taking to the streets for adventure and mystery! It sounds like a cheap detective novel and Sherlock rolls his eyes at his own dramatics.

There are cases, and there is take-away, and there is wedding planning and RSVPs, and there is the constant strain of sexual tension between Sherlock and John. It used to be mostly ignorable, but there is no chance of that now. Not now that Sherlock can practically taste John’s heated sweat on his skin, can hear the breathy undertone every time their eyes catch; now that he cannot look at John without seeing his face twisted and damp, hear his pleading cries as Sherlock brings him closer and closer to orgasm.

Mary watches the two of them with an expression of mild amusement, and Sherlock tries valiantly to dismiss the air of smug perceptiveness she shoots at him whenever John’s back is turned. She corners him one morning, John in the sitting room and staring blankly at the seating diagram.

“So,” she starts, hitching a hip on the kitchen table and blocking his strategic exit. “What exactly happened at the stag do?” Her constant amusement is almost unbearable and Sherlock can feel the damning flush that rises slightly up the back of his neck. He turns to the kettle instead, filling it with precision before resting it gently on its base and clicking it on.

“I could tell you,” he says mildly, shooting her a sidelong glance and a smirk intended to be playful, and hoping dearly that he is projecting his usual suave grace, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

She scoffs and titters a cheerful laugh, but her eyes are sparkling dangerously with what Sherlock now recognizes is jealous understanding. “But seriously,” she says after it’s clear Sherlock is not going to continue on his own. “Ever since last week you two have been... off somehow.”

“Off where?” John cuts in, completely oblivious and stepping cleanly between them before moving towards the cupboard for some crockery. Mary stares hard at his back before turning her gaze towards Sherlock, an edge of something dark and threatening that Sherlock has never seen before, though her expression remains clear and pleasant.

“Off your rocker, you are,” Mary jokes, and John snorts out a little laugh, sliding his hand around her hip and drawing her in for a quick kiss before setting the three mugs down onto the worktop and heading towards the bathroom.

Sherlock feels his stomach drop at the show of simple domesticity. He turns back to the kettle, desperate to delete the image of John’s lips pressed against the corner of her mouth, but it remains stubbornly there: burned into the back of his retinas like a brand. He can feel the bile begin to rise up the back of his throat and hastily sets about making tea, clanging cups and spoons around on a tray, all the while feeling Mary’s eyes on the back of his head.

John pads back through the kitchen, grabbing the tray with a quick smile of thanks, catching Mary’s hand as he passes and pulling her through to the sitting room. Sherlock is left alone in the kitchen, fingers tingling as he grips the edge of the sink hard enough to bruise.

: :

Two days later and Sherlock is still miserable and petulant, fighting off the urge to simply give in to distraction and text some of his long-silent acquaintances. There’s no case, nothing on, and the tedium of everyday life is chipping away at his calm facade like hail on a newly painted house. His flat is overrun with images and reminders of how much John Watson does not, in fact, belong to him, and Sherlock wonders at his own apparent masochism.

He dimly considers burning it all in a fit of melodrama, but decides that the aftermath would well outweigh the momentary satisfaction. Mary’s knowing gaze keeps haunting his thoughts, niggling at the back of his conscience like a mouth sore. Every time his mind pauses on her reactions, on her darkly possessive look from beneath her eyelashes, he forces himself to retreat, knowing that dissecting her person will only lead to doubt and ultimate loss of John.

He’s aware of the tension between them; the growing unease of two people who should be happily making plans for their bright future together, but it seems like every time he sees John and Mary in the same room, they’re either all hands and sickeningly sweet displays of saccharine affection, or abrupt, curt glances that speak volumes, but say nothing at all. It’s infuriating and absurd, but Sherlock cannot allow himself the luxury of hope.

He can already feel the creeping guilt swallowing him from the inside out; all of his jealous, malicious thoughts coagulating into one harsh, brutal reality: whatever is going on between John and the future Mrs Watson, it has absolutely nothing to do with him, and wishing Mary ill will do nothing but distance himself from John.

If he forces John to choose, the likely outcome will not be in his favor.

The bang of the outer door is entirely unexpected, and Sherlock is startled to realize it is now completely dark outside the windows. He listens for the telltale buzz of the doorbell, but hears the lock scrape instead. He sits up, expecting Mrs Hudson or even Mycroft, but the footsteps are too quick, too heavy and it takes him a full five seconds to realize exactly who is stomping up the stairs. He barely has time to brace himself before the door swings open, John’s agitated figure hulking in the doorway for a single heartbeat before he is across the room and on Sherlock without even a word of acknowledgement.

Sherlock reels back, John’s lips hard and demanding on his own, his muffled protest lost against the slide of John’s tongue, the scrape of his teeth. John’s hands are damp with rain, chilled with residual momentum and completely unapologetic as they push up under Sherlock’s shirt, causing gooseflesh to rise in their wake. Sherlock shivers and jerks back, pushing ineffectually on John’s shoulders as he tries to process what exactly is happening. John just growls and grabs him tighter; moving to Sherlock’s neck and trailing a series of increasingly hard bites down to his collarbone.

Sherlock tries to resist, tries to remind himself that he was not going to allow this to happen anymore; that being John’s second choice is not something he needs to tolerate, but John is overpowering and aggressive and Sherlock can feel his resolve crumbling with each lingering caress. John groans and pushes him back, fingers biting into muscle and tendon, and Sherlock feels himself falling, sucked into the chasm from which there is likely no return.

He goes down willingly, straight back onto the sofa, clutching at John’s shoulders like a drowning man, and that’s exactly how he feels. Sherlock’s head is spinning and his body is tingling, heart rate dangerously high and nearly suffocating from lack of oxygen as he tries to remember how to breathe around the tension in his chest. John lands on top of him, heavy and hard and Sherlock arches into him, afraid of his own reactions. He is worryingly close to losing all control and as John’s hips push down harshly, the hard ridge of his cock digging aggressively into Sherlock’s hip, something in the darkest corner of Sherlock’s brain finally snaps him back into awareness.

“John,” he gasps, trying to push John upright, to regain some farce of control. John just grunts and pushes at him harder. Sherlock can feel capillaries breaking, feel the damning bruises forming already, feel the way his skin is marking and coloring with irreversible proof of John’s adultery. He twists painfully and manages to get a shoulder under and against John’s sternum. He shoves, hard, and John stumbles back, barely missing the corner of the coffee table as he sprawls in an undignified heap onto the floor.

“What the fuck?” John demands, expression contorted in anger and confusion. Sherlock takes a deep breath and steels himself, feeling the adrenaline fade into something disturbingly like betrayal. He sits up slowly, pulling his rumpled jacket around his shoulders and putting himself back together as calmly as he can, though his hands are shaking incriminatingly and his breath is still coming in short, ragged pants. He can still feel John’s hands on him, still feel the way his pulse is racing, frantic and aroused and slightly, shamefully afraid. John is glaring at him in indignant confusion, his face flushed and belligerent, but Sherlock can see the cracks in the bravado; can see where anger and spite give way to hurt and turmoil.

“John, what’s happened?” Sherlock asks, absurdly proud of the way his voice comes out steady and reasonable. John just blinks at him from the rug, a myriad of emotions passing over his face as Sherlock watches with increasing tension. Finally, John stiffens and pulls himself upright, straightening his clothes as he manages to stumble to his feet.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking guilty and so lost Sherlock feels his own heart clench in empathy. “I just–I needed to get out, y’know?” John peers imploringly at Sherlock from beneath his eyelashes and Sherlock cannot stop himself from rising and going to him, enveloping him in long arms and steady strength, feeling all the pent-up anger and confusion seeping out of John’s shoulders as he clutches him tighter to his chest.

“She’s driving me mad,” John says eventually, words barely audible as they muffle against Sherlock’s sternum. Sherlock feels as though there’s an iron band squeezing ever tighter around his ribs, a tourniquet of emotion cutting off his usual reason and surety. It’s entirely unwelcome, but Sherlock is becoming strangely used to the feeling. It’s the same unsettled feeling he’d had for two solid years away; that sick, swooping sensation of missing a riser while racing down a staircase, of constant scrutiny and hostility because the one person he trusted was no longer there to watch his back.

John tenses for a moment longer before melting against Sherlock’s chest, his arms coming up around Sherlock’s back and clutching at him tightly. Sherlock can feel John shaking, and recognizes the tense, halted breathing of someone trying very hard to hold themselves together, and he feels his own emotions rise in sympathy. Without his permission, Sherlock’s hands begin gently stroking along John’s spine, rubbing at the bunched muscle until he feels them loosening, John’s hitching breath giving way to muffled gasps and Sherlock is startled to realize he feels a distinct wetness against his own collarbone.

“John,” he breathes into sandy grey hair, and he can feel John shudder against him. Sherlock is momentarily lost, adrift in uncertainty and hesitation, feeling powerless as this strong, capable man is breaking apart in his very hands.

“Christ, I missed you so much,” John whispers, his fingers digging into the back of Sherlock’s jacket as though he’s looking for some way to anchor himself. Sherlock holds him tighter, his own emotion rising infuriatingly to match John’s obvious distress.

“I’m here, John,” he murmurs, trying to convey calm and soothing, though he knows he is the world’s least appropriate person to be comforting John in this scenario.

“You were gone,” John gasps, his hands fisting hard enough to tear. “You were gone, and I loved you, and I was so alone and there she was like an angel from heaven, and all I could think of was how alone I felt and how much I missed you and how I didn’t want to do this anymore.” John is splitting apart at the seams and Sherlock can do nothing but hold on and listen, so he buries his fingers in John’s hair and rubs gentle fingertips along his scalp, feeling every second of those two years stretching and widening between them, but John doesn’t seem to be able to stop. “And she was sweet and kind, and she didn’t mind my occasional temper, and she loved me without reservation or judgment and she was different, so different, and I thought I could do it. I really thought I could, but now you’re back, and I want you just as much as I always have, and it’s not fair.”

The words seem to dry up and peter off in the end, John just mumbling half-formed curses and garbled explanations, and Sherlock feels empty and caved in; as though his chest has expanded and crashed again like a dying star, leaving behind something cold and small and utterly desolate.

“I’m sorry, John,” he stutters out, knowing the words are insufficient, but unable to think of a single thing to say. John is shaking in his arms, trembling like a leaf on a dead tree and Sherlock knows it is utterly shit timing, but he cannot help but brush a small kiss to the warm skin of John’s forehead, loving him with such ferocity that he’s honestly worried that his heart will explode within his chest. John blinks up at him through damp lashes, and he looks so beautiful in that moment that Sherlock knows he is well and truly fucked in every sense of the word.

He dips his head and presses his lips to John’s in apology, in sadness, in overwhelming need and desire and benediction. John kisses him back, and it feels like a promise, like hope and love and connection and everything Sherlock’s been missing in his life and more. John’s hands slide up his shoulders and neck, bracketing Sherlock’s jaw between his palms and he deepens the kiss, coaxing out sounds Sherlock didn’t think himself capable of. John huffs a small chuckle into his mouth, but Sherlock is so beyond dignity it doesn’t even register. He kisses John desperately, trying to communicate without words how he felt for those terrible years on his own.

Sherlock recalls dank alleyways, bleeding from wounds he didn’t have time to patch up, utterly lost without his doctor. He remembers derelict rooms where the echoing silence was nearly deafening, his words trailing off as he realized there was nobody there to tell him he was brilliant or amazing or to nag him to eat or sleep. He remembers waking up in empty, miserable buildings with loneliness so acute, all he could do was curl in on himself and pray to a god he didn’t believe in that John would be safe for one more day. He thinks about seeing John again; finally for the first time in what felt like generations, only to find him entirely moved on, about to be engaged to Mary Morstan, the woman who took his place when he wasn’t even around to defend it.

John groans against his tongue, fingers scrabbling across cotton and wool, tugging at Sherlock’s clothing and effectively bringing him back to the present, where John is here and his. He reaches for John’s belt, wanting nothing more than to be naked and pressed as closely to John as humanly possible; to lose himself in the slide of skin, in the give of John’s body, in the achingly wonderful feeling of John in and around him.

“Take me to bed, John,” he murmurs, the words making his already-flushed face heat with embarrassed arousal. John’s eyes are dark and heavy with unspoken sentiment, and he studies Sherlock for what seems like an eternity before nodding once and reaching forward to tug Sherlock across the sitting room and into his bedroom.

He folds Sherlock gently onto the mattress, peeling away clothing and doubt; replacing fabric and trepidation with lips and tongue. Sherlock can feel himself falling, feel the way his entire universe seems to shatter and reform around John’s presence. Sherlock arches and writhes, helpless in the tide of emotion as he drowns in John.

When John finally slides against him, skin to skin with no barriers in between, Sherlock knows his poor, stilted heart is irrevocably given over. “John,” he pants, choking back the mortifying tears that are threatening up the back of his throat.

“Shh,” John soothes, lips reverent and soft against the pale skin of his neck. “I’ve got you. I’ll never let you go.” And Sherlock believes it.

John’s fingers are gentle and exploratory, ghosting over Sherlock’s sensitive skin with clear intent. Sherlock shivers and allows himself to fall, knowing John won’t let him crash. He nods wordlessly and shifts, spreading his legs and feeling nothing but exhilaration as John settles between them, all hard muscle and soft skin and Sherlock is lost. John rocks carefully, hesitation and wonder etched all along his weathered face, and Sherlock reaches up to trace the lines of worry and regret, smoothing them away with acceptance and forgiveness. John’s breath hitches and he moves again with steady purpose, rubbing his cock along the sweaty crease of Sherlock’s groin, and it’s suddenly not enough.

Sherlock reaches over to the bedside table and rummages for a moment, picking his way through the usual detritus until his fingers close around the cool plastic bottle of lubricant. John’s face clears into obvious disbelief for a few breathless heartbeats before his eyes glaze over into hunger and need. He devours Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss laced with so much heat and yearning, Sherlock feels it all the way down into his toes.

“Please, John,” Sherlock whispers, half afraid of his own need, of the consequences of wanting something this badly when he knows John is not entirely his to take. John kisses him fiercely, all the pent-up arousal and heated longing sparking between them like a lit fuse.

“You’re sure?” he asks lightly, trailing wet kisses down Sherlock’s jaw and across his Adam’s apple. Sherlock nods, unable to form a coherent thought beyond yes and here and now. John’s fingers are tentative and careful, slipping against his skin already slick with lubricant and sweat. Sherlock arches into them, feeling as John’s index skims along the tightly furled skin of his anus, wanting to push himself down, to impale himself on John’s thick fingers; to have John take him and claim him so they can never be separated again.

John’s finger slips in on a heavy exhale, and Sherlock feels it like a brand: hot and searing and utterly brilliant. Sherlock’s back twists, his chest feeling too tight, his heart pounding so hard he’s worried it will simply beat directly out of his chest, tearing ribs and muscle apart to lay itself spent at John’s feet.

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking beautiful,” John growls, reaching into him again, with two fingers this time, and Sherlock can feel all of his carefully constructed walls crumbling to dust. John stretches and opens him, gently working his body with a skill Sherlock doesn’t want to acknowledge, only allowing his mind to still, for his body to feel.

John’s lips trail soft, glorious kisses down his collar bone, over the swell of his pectoral, tongue flicking out to circle around one taut nipple, and Sherlock can feel his body throbbing with sensation; unfamiliar emotion and pleasure releasing into his bloodstream on a heavy rush of endorphins.

“John, god,” Sherlock pants, his voice shaky and ruined. John smiles up at him through darkened eyes, closing his lips around Sherlock’s nipple and pulling. Sherlock’s back arches off the bed, John’s teeth grazing along his flesh and it feels like fire racing all down his spine. Sherlock becomes uncomfortably aware of his stiffened erection, sticky fluid leaking from the tip, and he’s fairly certain he’s never been this hard in his life.

He rocks his hips up in involuntary invitation and feels the groan as it rumbles up through John’s chest, across his ribs and into his very core. John curls his fingers, brushing intently across Sherlock’s prostate and it feels like an electric current; shocks of liquid pleasure sparking all along Sherlock’s skin, his spine twisting and writhing as he tries to get more contact.

“Easy,” John whispers, lips blazing trails of fire down Sherlock’s abdomen and Sherlock becomes abruptly aware of his own hands fisted tightly into the bed sheets, his fingers cramping and sore where he’s twisted the material into sweaty ropes. He releases them slowly, feeling as the blood rushes back into his hands, the tingling, searing sensation of circulation nearly distracting him from the feeling of John’s lips grazing over the trail of dark hair that leads from his navel.

“John–!” he gasps, teetering on the brink of oblivion. John just grins up at him, fingers still moving lazily in and out of his body as he breathes a steady stream of hot air across the exposed glans of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock can feel himself spiralling out of control, his orgasm curling dangerously close at the base of his spine. John’s tongue snakes out, licking a warm, wet stripe from his testicles to his frenulum, and Sherlock chokes back a heavy moan.

He finds his fingers curled tightly into the back of John’s hair, pulling probably too hard as he wavers between pushing John’s mouth down and yanking him away. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to regulate his breathing, feeling John’s exhale brush across the slick skin of his penis and knowing if he doesn’t get John inside him soon, this will all be devastatingly over before it actually begins. He blinks his eyes open to regard John and finds him smiling up at him, mouth poised over the head of his cock and he nearly loses it right then and there. He watches as a thick bead of pre-come seeps up out of his slit and rolls heavily over the side of his shaft, John’s tongue darting out to chase it across his skin and it’s too much.

“Don’t–” Sherlock says tightly, every single muscle clenched against his impending climax. John’s eyes widen in understanding and he licks his lips obscenely, relenting with a wicked smirk and crawling up Sherlock’s body to claim his mouth instead. Sherlock sinks into the kiss, pouring all of his desire into the slide of his tongue against John’s, nipping at John’s bottom lip as he pulls away.

John shifts his weight, slipping his fingers out and away, and Sherlock feels momentarily bereft, but he tamps the feeling down in favor of arching forward, rubbing his body all across John’s in a slick slide of promise and heat. John groans and shifts again, and Sherlock can finally feel the blunt head of John’s cock: thick and heavy and almost unbearably hot skimming along the stretched skin of his hole. It feels deliciously dangerous, and Sherlock wraps his long legs around John’s hips, encouraging him to slide forward and finally take what he wants.

“Sherlock,” John groans, and Sherlock can feel the very tip of John push into him slowly before he pulls infuriatingly back again. The truly embarrassing keening noise that comes out of Sherlock’s throat is entirely involuntary and he can feel himself cringing away from the mortifying knowledge that he’s laid so incredibly bare before this man, but there’s a desperation tinging everything with red-hot need and he’s startled to realize he doesn’t particularly care as long as John just moves.

“Sherlock,” John says again, and he sounds about as wrecked as Sherlock feels himself. “I don’t have a condom.” Sherlock freezes entirely; a cold, horrible feeling sinking down into his gut. He’s dimly aware that he’s stopped breathing and heaves in a lungful of air, gasping around the devastating realization that he doesn’t have any either.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, curling a hand around the back of John’s neck and bringing their foreheads together, closing his eyes around the monumental grief he can feel sliding through his very skin. “Please, John. I’m clean, I promise. I don’t care. Just–please.”

John visibly wavers, his whole body twitching and shifting subconsciously forward until he grunts a ragged “fuck it” against Sherlock’s lips and pushes inside in one glorious, stretching slide. Sherlock cries out and arches back, his entire body clenching down and squeezing around the intrusion. John huffs an absurd apology into his neck and begins to pull away, but Sherlock locks his ankles around his iliac crest and pulls him in tighter, ignoring the pain in favor of the delicious friction and the knowledge that John is finally, blessedly inside him in this most primal of ways. Sherlock revels in the stretch, in the mild discomfort as pain laces up through the pleasure, John’s cock far thicker than two of his beautiful fingers and he holds John there, cradled within his body as he forcibly relaxes his muscles into compliance.

John huffs a parody of a laugh into his mouth and shakes his head fondly, holding remarkably still as Sherlock’s body adjusts. “God, you’re incredible,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer. “So tight and gorgeous, and entirely mine.”

Sherlock feels a thrill of arousal shudder down his spine at John’s clearly possessive tone, his own desire reflected in the heat of John’s gaze. He swallows back half a dozen embarrassing admissions and draws John forward for a kiss instead, feeling his own desperation countered by the way John’s teeth dig into his bottom lip and pull.

“Christ,” John grunts, his hips twitching as Sherlock’s body instinctively tightens. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I need to move.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, his body already craving more. John pulls back slowly, and Sherlock cannot help the curl of his spine as every inch of John’s cock slides tantalizingly against the stretched rim of his anus. It feels deliciously filthy and Sherlock arches again, chasing John’s cock as it retreats from him before pushing forward just as carefully. It’s too slow and too gentle, John clearly trying to make up for his earlier instinctive carelessness, but Sherlock is through with being careful. He slides his hands down John’s sweat-slick back to grip at two lush swells of arsecheek and pulls, guiding John into a deeper, faster rhythm.

John grunts against his sternum, hips already following Sherlock’s guide seemingly without John’s consent, but he nips approvingly at Sherlock’s clavicle and Sherlock can feel that his own grin isn’t entirely tame. He bucks up against John’s hips, fucking himself farther and faster on John’s cock, writhing in pleasure as John’s thrusts brush accidentally against his prostate.

“God,” John groans and speeds up, each thrust jarring and forceful, and Sherlock allows his head to fall back to the mattress with a muffled thunk, every nerve in his body seeming to contract and expand in tandem with his racing pulse. John smoothes one hand up, lacing their fingers together and pushing their joined hands up over Sherlock’s head to brace against the pillows. The feeling is shockingly intimate, and Sherlock feels the unwelcome swell of emotion threaten up in his chest again.

Sherlock arcs his neck up and takes a kiss, sliding his tongue along John’s in an achingly tender move completely incongruous to the rest of their bodies’ frantic gallop towards completion. He breaks away on a gasp as John angles his hips up, nudging at Sherlock’s knee until he slides it up over one sturdy shoulder, the change in angle perfect as John strokes against his prostate with every brutal push.

Sherlock releases the headboard and slides his hand down over his own heaving abdomen to curl tightly around his cock, tugging and jerking in time with John’s increasingly rough thrusts.

“You,” John pants into his mouth, “Always you.”

And it’s finally enough. With one great, heaving breath Sherlock starts to come. His skin feels too tight, too hot, his limbs locking up as pleasure seizes him; heat like fire licking up his muscles as they clench in rhythm with each throbbing pulse of ejaculate. John fucks him through it, his pace slowing a little to allow for Sherlock’s thrashing body to calm before he sinks in further, pulling his body upright and physically yanking Sherlock down onto his cock three more times before he stills completely; tendons straining all along his neck as his teeth clench on a hard exhale.

It’s the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen, and he feels his cock jerk feebly once more, a small dribble of come leaking out of his swollen slit to join the rest of the mess spattered across his heaving diaphragm.

They pause there, panting for a few seconds, John’s eyes shut tightly in agonized bliss before he blinks his eyes open and gives Sherlock a lazy smile full of self-satisfaction and satiation. Sherlock feels his own face split into answering grin and clenches his exhausted muscles down, causing John to jump as his overstimulated cock is squeezed again. Sherlock bites his bottom lip and smirks, feigning innocence as John huffs out a breathless, incredulous laugh.

“You,” John pants, “are bloody impossible.” Sherlock just grins wider, feeling entirely sated and calm for the first time since he’s returned. He arches his back in a deep stretch, disgruntled when John’s softening penis slides out of him in a slick rush of come and lube. He grimaces slightly, but settles again as John draws back carefully, extracting himself from the tangle of Sherlock’s overlong limbs before crawling up the bed and flopping gracelessly down.

Sherlock finds his mind is completely quiet, for once; the constant buzz of endless activity drowned out by sexual release. It’s wonderful and terrifying and completely novel, and he turns his head to stare at John’s profile, relaxed and drowsy next to him in what will now and forever be known as their bed. The thought makes something warm and tentative uncurl beneath his solar plexus, and Sherlock feels his lips stretch into an easy, honest smile.

John shifts closer, grinning and rolling onto his side, sliding an arm over Sherlock’s skin only to pull back with a look of comical horror as his hand smears through the mess on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock begins laughing, and once he starts, he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. John looks mildly chagrined for a moment longer before his high-pitched giggles join in with the rumbling tenor of Sherlock’s low chuckles.

“I’ll be right back,” John huffs out finally, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and making his way to the toilet on shaky legs. Sherlock watches him go, his heart brimming with so much emotion he’s worried he might actually be leaking all over the sheets. John returns moments later with a damp flannel, kneeling on the side of the bed and dabbing gently at the come on Sherlock’s abdomen, placing small, lingering kisses on every inch of newly-cleaned skin. Sherlock can feel his body responding, mild arousal beginning to seep through his veins again, but exhaustion is pulling at the edges of his consciousness.

John licks a path up to his neck, teeth gently scraping at an already purpling bite mark. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, catching John’s soft expression as he gazes down at Sherlock’s sated form and returns the look with interest. John smiles down at him for a few more seconds before his face falls a little, regret and apology etching its way across his brow.

“I should probably...” he trails off, glancing down at where his hand is splayed possessively across Sherlock’s left pectoral.

“Stay,” Sherlock says, quiet and satiated and horribly, honestly vulnerable. John smiles a little and dips his head for a gentle kiss, lips moving with careful deliberation. He relaxes back onto the sheets, tugging the duvet up from the foot of the bed before curling around Sherlock and sliding a heavy arm across his middle, and Sherlock feels like his chest is expanding exponentially; each soft sigh a promise, each brush of lips a vow.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock says quietly, reaching out a long arm and clicking off the lamp. He gets a soft snore in response, and allows his own eyes to finally close as he sinks gently into sleep.

::

Comments

[ruth0007.livejournal.com]

"Sherlock tries to resist, tries to remind himself that he was not going to allow this to happen anymore; that being John’s second choice is not something he needs to tolerate, but John is overpowering and aggressive and Sherlock can feel his resolve crumbling with each lingering caress".

Oh, this is wonderfully painful. John's actions are dueling understandable and hateful. I feel very protective of Sherlock and just want to keep him in a hug. Not sure where this will lead, but I'm following.