holmestice | Fic for scifric: Surprise

Title: Surprise
Recipient:

scifric
Author:

koshartu
Verse: BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John + Greg Lestrade
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: None.
Summary: John’s birthday is memorable in more ways than one.
A/N: Dear scifric,

I was writing a magic fic, but I didn't like how it was coming out, so instead I wrote this, trying to honor your request for some humor and unfiness. It turned into a sort of-kind of thematic PWP more than anything else….......

I hope you enjoy.

Also on AO3: Surprise

John’s not one to make a to-do about his birthday. Never was. He doesn’t like the attention, the fuss, but Greg had insisted on taking John out tonight. If he hadn’t been so adamant, it would’ve just been another day; maybe he and Sherlock would’ve ordered takeaway, eaten and watched telly, then John would’ve read a bit in bed until he fell asleep. Maybe he would’ve simply had some leftovers then turned in early like the old man he’s rapidly becoming.

Spending time with Sherlock and Greg, together, without the presence of a corpse or blood or various bits of organ around will be interesting—it’s a rare thing, to have Sherlock tag along on nights out like this, and John thinks it won’t be a boring night, to say the least.

They go for Lebanese on Edgware Road, first. As they're entering the restaurant, Greg murmurs, “Fucking paps."

"Where?" John growls; he loathes the paparazzi, and there have been a lot of them lately, skulking about anywhere John (or Sherlock) was.

“Behind us, across the street. Ignore them, don’t give them what they want,” Sherlock says. And they do.

After dinner, they go to Greg’s local.

For the better part of the evening at the pub, they reminisce about old cases. John, since he has a few drinks in him, is pronouncedly garrulous as he recounts one of the more amusing stories about a criminal who’d been caught in the act; the man had been hilariously horrified seeing Sherlock for the first time.

Near the end of the recount, Sherlock’s honest-to-god giggling into his pint while Greg’s wiping away a welling tear of mirth from the corner of his eye.

“—I love that Sherlock scares the shite out of worthless lowlife scumbags by simply walking into the same room as them. It’s a gorgeous thing. I bet criminals are thinking twice these days. They’re probably thinking, ‘Hm, but that Sherlock Holmes bloke might catch me. Should I even take the chance?’” John takes a dramatic swig of his pint, and nudges Sherlock. “I think you have my blog to thank for some of that.”

"I have myself to thank for that, thank you very much,” Sherlock drawls. “Not your stupid blog.”

“You do realise it made you famous,” John points out. “You’re a household name.”

“Do you think I care? I never wanted to be a ‘household name.’"

"I'm just saying,” John ploughs on. “You wouldn’t have nearly as many cases as you do without my blog.”

Sherlock scoffs. “My blog is perfectly sufficient for—“

“Mate,” Greg cuts in, tone placating. “Mate, listen. I tried reading through that one monograph on…something about biodiversity—

“Biodegradable and Sustainable Fibres,” Sherlock announces proudly.

“Yeah, that. Wasn’t really—it’s not exactly a crowd pleaser. Not the kind of stuff the general public would want to read. John’s stuff is accessible, you know? Digestible. And yeah, honestly, he’s done you some bloody good PR. You’re like a superhero to people. Untouchable.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock says ostensibly with dismissal, but he’s practically preening.

“People like to see that you're human, I told you,” John adds. “That’s what my blog does. People like to know you're relatable."

"I am not relatable," Sherlock says resentfully.

"Nor human," Greg adds, grinning cheekily.

Sherlock glares at him. "And I think my blog provides substance, while each and every one of your posts are overwrought romance novellas." John isn't even offended--the case write-ups are undeniably, fundamentally odes to Sherlock. "People should care about the cold, hard facts of case--not the fanciful twists and turns."

"That's just not what people care about, and that's the reality," John says, shrugging. Sherlock merely harrumphs.

Later, after a few more drinks, Greg makes a suggestion. “How about we play a bit of a drinking game? ‘I Have Never?’”

“Drinking games are stupid,” Sherlock bites out.

John snorts. "You always say I overuse adjectives. I think you underuse them.”

Sherlock throws him an affronted look. “Ah, oui, tu es un wordsmith bon, un maître blogueur.”

“Excusez-moi?” John says in poor mimicry of a French accent.

“He said: ‘You’re a proper wordsmith, a master blogger,’” Greg translates, much to John’s surprise. John cogitates on this, decides it’s a jibe, and glowers at Sherlock. “Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate your sarcasm in any language.” He turns to Greg. “Since when do you speak French?”

Greg shrugs. “Mum’s French, lived in Paris for a few years when I was a lad. So, what do you chaps say about the game?”

“How old are you, Lestrade? Honestly,” Sherlock huffs.

“You’re deflecting because you’re afraid of losing.”

“I don’t lose,” Sherlock says threateningly.

“I think the real winner’ll be whoever can hold their liquor best,” John says coolly, patting Sherlock on the back. “And I can drink you two under the table.”

“Don’t think so, mate. We won’t go easy on the birthday boy, will we, Sherlock?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock says, smirking.

“Good. I like it a bit rough,” John says, squeezing Sherlock’s thigh, and winking.

The table falls silent. Sherlock stares at the spot John had touched on his thigh and blinks at it.

Greg whistles, low. "All right, John," he says approvingly.

John chugs back his beer, burps, then stands up fumblingly and says, “More alcohol. Stat.”

“No, no, I’ve got it. You’re not paying for anything,” Greg says hurriedly. He buys them a round of shots. “Cheers to the birthday boy!” he announces, holding up his shot. “May your every wish come true.” Greg looks between Sherlock and John, and waggles his eyebrows comically. “Maybe even tonight.”

Sherlock furrows his brow in deep thought at that, and John smothers a smile. “Thanks, mate."

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but is this 'mate-talk' that I'm simply not meant to understand?" Sherlock says pettishly.

John places his elbows on the table, buries his face in his hands, and sighs in frustration.

"What?" Sherlock says, clueless.

"You're a numpty," Greg says disappointedly, then jabs his shotglass in the air, liquid sloshing over his hand. "Come on."

They clink glasses (Sherlock does so suspiciously), drink, and Greg proclaims that the games have begun.

By the end of the night, they’re all blotto thanks to the game, which had morphed from “I Have Never” to John watching Sherlock and Greg try to (hilariously) out-deduce each other.

When all is said and done, John’s the most sober of the three of them, which isn’t saying much, so he sees Greg home safely by corralling him into a cab and giving the cabbie his home address.

Sherlock’s the most gone of the three of them, having lost miserably at Greg’s game and not really being able to hold his liquor all too well to begin with. John has to keep him upright and bodily haul him into a cab.

In the cab, Sherlock gets a bit handsy with him, reaching out to poke at John’s bicep, squeezing it experimentally.

“Gained some arm muscle. You’ve been lifting weights before work for the past four—“ he pokes the bicep again. “No, five weeks.” His hand slides down John’s arm, pauses, then drops down to his thigh and squeezes. “Squats?”

“Stop it!” John chides between embarrassing high-pitched giggles. Sherlock squeezes again, and John pushes his hand away. “Be decent, we have company.”

“You’re so far away,” Sherlock says, reaching over to grab at John’s arm again, tugging him sideways, hard, almost causing him to topple over.

“Oi!” John protests half-heartedly, righting himself and giving Sherlock a hard, but amicable, shove in retaliation. Sherlock is jostled against the cab door and glares at John, affronted. “We’re almost home. Keep your bloody hands to yourself until then,” he says. John looks in the rear-view mirror and meets the cabbie’s judgmental eyes, and winces. “Sorry about him,” he apologises on Sherlock’s behalf.

“Rude,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Decorum,” John corrects.

"Hey, do I know you two?" the cabbie interjects.

"God, I hope not," John replies.

They arrive at Baker Street shortly afterwards. Sherlock leads the way to the flat, stumbling up the steps like a newborn colt.

Once they’re in the sitting room, Sherlock has to feel his way to his bedroom, hand trailing the hallway walls for support, nearly knocking over a framed painting of Sir Robert Peel. John follows him, concerned.

“You shouldn’t...be alone,” John says.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, whips around too quickly and stumbles over his feet. John rushes forward to catch him but Sherlock manages to steady himself, even pushes John away. “Wait, no.” Sherlock shakes his head, clearly regretting his decision to push John away, grabs a handful of John’s shirt and flings him into his bedroom.

“What the fuck, Sherlock?” John slurs, stumbling backwards, head spinning for a moment, holding out a steadying hand before him.

Sherlock points. “Sit.”

“What?” John says, looking around helplessly. “Sit where?”

Sherlock jabs his finger in the air. “On the bed, you idiot.”

John purses his lips in thought. “But why?”

“Bed.”

John shrugs and seats himself on the edge of Sherlock's bed, grateful not to be standing anymore. The room had gone a bit blurry.

Sherlock nudges himself between John’s legs, not a question, a declarative statement, and John parts them, obliging, looking up at Sherlock’s towering form in awe. Sherlock bends over and nuzzles against the top of John’s head like an oversized cat.

"John, you're so soft," Sherlock murmurs, then chuckles at himself, low and deep, the sonorous sound reverberating in John's skull. John feels Sherlock’s face turn, his nose burying into his hair. He inhales deeply.

“Mm. You smell like…,” Sherlock purrs, considering. “You smell like a man.”

John’s cock twitches enthusiastically at that.

"Yeah?" John says, hands running up Sherlock's thighs and resting on his waist. Sherlock nods, or at least John can feel him do so with a quick up-down-up-down rub of his cheek in his hair. "Bit awkward, this." John means their current configuration but he realises it could refer to the current tenuous state of their friendship.

"Mm-hm," Sherlock agrees, stepping back, tottering a bit, hand blindly searching for the wall behind him, finding it and bracing himself against it. He stares at John's shoes for a moment, seemingly contemplative, then flicks a look back up to John's eyes, swaying. He blinks slowly.

John holds his eye, and they remain that way for several moments, staring at each other, until John’s mobile vibrates.

Another birthday wish, probably. John is acquainted with a lot of people, but he’d been constantly surprised today by how many people actually knew his number…and his birthday.

John sighs loudly, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the mobile.

Hello John. I hope you’re doing well. Wishing you a happy birthday.

John squints at the screen. The name says Sharon, but he can’t quite put a face to the name. “Who?” John thinks aloud. He types out, one-handed, "Cheers hope u good too" then places the mobile aside, on the night table.

“All of those people hate you, you know,” Sherlock points out. “Everyone who texted you today. I plan on writing a monograph on it—on you and your so-called ‘friends.’ ‘Suppressed hatred in close…in close proximity.” Sherlock smirks. “Perhaps…hm. Perhaps it is your level of celebrity—quite D-list, but it’s enough to, you know, galvanamize…galvanize the fair-weathered types.”

John huffs out a wry laugh. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his head lolling sideways, eyes glassy and fixated on John.

“All right?”

“Oh, yes, quite well. Very well. Tickety-boo. Are you staying?”

John has whiplash from the non-sequitur and looks around, like he’s only just realised where he is. “Honestly, I'd like to.”

"And I'm asking you to."

"It's a resounding yes."

“Can I?” Sherlock asks, gesturing vaguely at John.

“Yeah,” John says, not entirely sure what he’s allowing.

Sherlock moves forward, drops to his knees by John’s legs. John’s heart thrums excitedly, and he’s almost certain he knows what Sherlock’s about to do, it makes the most logical sense, so he opens his legs wider, accommodating, and Sherlock shuffles forward until he’s soundly between them.

But Sherlock doesn’t make any further movements, just looks up at John, a picture of drunken innocence, a question in his eyes.

John doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but he reaches out and runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock’s expression softens.

“More,” Sherlock urges.

John does it again.

“Keep doing it.”

He ends up essentially petting Sherlock, and feels absurd doing it. But Sherlock seems to enjoy it, nuzzles into his hand, and that’s all that matters. If this is all that happens tonight between the two of them, John may be a bit disappointed, but not as much as he would’ve been if nothing had happened.

After some time, Sherlock speaks up. “Mmm…John?”

“Hm?” John says softly, feeling calm and at ease.

“Are we going to have sex?” Sherlock asks in a tone more suited for a curious schoolboy, directed at his teacher.

John's mouth goes dry, and his cock's fully erect now thanks to Sherlock's forthright and needlessly-asked, almost innocent question. He obviously wants to but Sherlock and this—sex—is not something John has ever associated with him, knows nothing about Sherlock’s desires, experiences. He’d very much like to find out, but he doesn’t know if he needs to tread lightly to get there.

“I mean—is that what you want?”

Sherlock leans back and sits on his haunches. "I want to hear you say you want it.”

It's ridiculous they're having this conversation; surely, it's clear. Surely, Sherlock, of all people, sees it.

And John's convinced Sherlock wants it too, which is almost too good to be true.

“Haven't I been obvious today? Not that I thought it'd go anywhere. Was a lark. But, yeah, it's really what I want. More than anything, really.”

Sherlock’s now staring at him in wide-eyed awe. “Before. For the past four years there’s not been any--you’ve never made any indication—“

“Yeah, I'm aware. I didn’t want to, you know, scare you away."

Sherlock looks affronted. “I am not as ignorant about sex as you’ve been led to believe."

“I'm getting that, yeah, but I thought you didn’t do it at all. Didn't care. But you have to know I want you,” John says desperately. “I really, really want you.”

Sherlock is worringly quiet.

John loses his nerve, and the words fly out of his mouth without any meaningful consideration: “But I don't want to, um. Do you—I mean I do want to do you, but do you?“

“Yes, of course, absolutely." Sherlock rests his head on John's inner thigh, and looks up at him with his verdigris eyes, glassy and intense and earnest and provocative. "Look at me."

John doesn't waste any more time. He takes Sherlock’s chin in hand, then leans down to kiss him, soft and sensuous.

It’s nice for the first few seconds but soon his back hurts. “This is highly uncomfortable,” John murmurs once they’ve pulled apart. Sherlock looks hurt. “The position, I mean. Not--just the position."

“Ah.” Sherlock stands up gracelessly. He stands in the space between John’s legs, looking completely lost about how to proceed.

John helps him out, reaches up and unbuttons his shirt, which Sherlock wriggles out of. He unzips Sherlock's trousers, and Sherlock, inspired, shoves John’s hand away and pushes them down, pulls them off. He's wearing tight black boxer-briefs, which he also pulls down and off, revealing his long, thin, flushed cock, nestled in a wild nest of dark hair, which bobs attentively against his nearly concave stomach.

John leans back on his elbows, licks his lips, drinks all of Sherlock in. "Jesuswow."

Sherlock looks atypically embarrassed to be on display and admired as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

John starts quickly removing his shirt, and jerks his head to indicate the bed. “C’mere, you.”

Sherlock steps forward carefully, John shucks off his shirt and reaches out to take hold of Sherlock’s arse, pulling him in closer yet. Sherlock smells of sweat and musk, and John presses a kiss to his protruding hip bone, causing Sherlock’s cock to twitch excitedly at the teasingly close proximity.

“John, please,” Sherlock begs.

“Do you have—“

"I do," Sherlock says quickly, falling over himself to open his side table drawer and remove a bottle of lube.

"--condoms?" John finishes.

Sherlock freezes, looks comically guilty. "Stupid--stupid!" he admonishes himself. "I—damn. Bugger. Damn it all to hell. Perhaps Mrs Hudson could get us some, as we're not really in the right state to do so."

"Oh my god," John says hysterically. "Imagine? ‘Hey Mrs H, Sherlock and I want to shag really rather terribly. Would you be a doll and pop over to Tesco's and pick up some johnnys? Chop chop.’"

"She wouldn’t mind," Sherlock says, sounding a touch wounded by John's sarcasm. “She might even—she might even be pleased about it.”

John bursts out laughing. "Well, sorry, today’s not her lucky day. I have some; was just asking to save me a trip upstairs. I’ll get them." John stands up, suddenly aware of how constricting his jeans are; he makes a quick work of them, throws them aside.

John, on his way out, looks back at Sherlock, standing helplessly beside the bed. John blinks slowly, and the room does a bit of a spin.

“Get ready for me, yeah?” John says, throwing a wink at Sherlock before leaving the room. He stumbles up the stairs to his room.

When John returns, Sherlock’s wasted no time, has a finger knuckle deep inside his arse, and his eyes are shut tight.

John watches silently, in abject admiration, for a few moments, before asking, "Have you, before?”

Sherlock opens his eyes, and looks vaguely guilty. "Alone.” John watches, rapt, as Sherlock pours more lube into his hand and pushes two spindly fingers, slowly, inside himself.

“A lot?” John asks distractedly.

“Loads of times,” Sherlock agrees, fingers pumping steadily in and out of himself.

John watches until he can't stand it anymore, and pushes his boxers down and off. Sherlock’s eyes snap to John’s groin, his fingers still, and his breath hitches.

“John,” he breathes.

“Fuck,” John hisses. He strokes himself a few times, face burning under Sherlock’s heady, awed stare. He lies supine on the bed beside Sherlock, tears open the condom packet and rolls it onto himself, then snatches the lube and slathers it over the condom.

In a flash, Sherlock pulls his lubed fingers out, turns his back to John, throws a leg over John’s hips and sits, leans forward so his torso is resting on John’s stretched-out legs, his knees by John’s elbows. Now, John’s line-of-vision is full of Sherlock pretty, plump arse and his long, scarred back; John’s cock is unbearably rock-hard now, already leaking pre-come.

“Fucking hell,” John whispers with reverence, reaching out. He spreads Sherlock’s arsecheeks apart, thumbs ghosting feather-light against Sherlock’s perineum, which flutters at the touch. “Happy Birthday to me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock purrs. He starts rutting ever-so-slightly, pressing back into John’s hands, hungry for more contact.

“You should see yourself. God.” As he says it, he’s stricken with an idea; he reahes over toward the night table and slaps the surface searchingly until he’s clutching his mobile.

“John,” Sherlock whinges, sliding backwards, his cock-shaft meeting John’s; the friction sends a shot of pleasure up John’s spine.

John bites his lip hard. “Oh, Christ. I want to remember this.” With shaky hands, he gets the camera on screen, points it down the length of his body at Sherlock and takes a few photos. “You should see how fucking hot--beautiful you look.” John opens up his contacts and does exactly that—he send off the photos to Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock whinges. “Come on.”

“Yeah, all right,” he says, throwing the mobile aside. He reaches out to knead Sherlock’s firm arsecheeks, while one thumb dips inside, retrieving a glob of lube. He uses it to slickly massage Sherlock’s perineum.

“Please,” Sherlock begs, arching his back wantonly.

John takes hold of his cock and guides it to Sherlock’s entrance; he pushes up, leaving a smear of pre-come, but it doesn’t yield.

Sherlock groans in frustration, reaches behind himself to spread an arsecheek pointedly. “Put it in, John.”

“I’m trying, Sherlock,” John snipes. John smacks Sherlock’s arsecheek, because he can, and says, “Shite angle. Sit up.”

Sherlock sits up obediently. John cups Sherlock’s arsecheeks and says, “More.” Sherlock raises himself up so he’s hovering over John’s groin. John holds onto Sherlock's hip with one hand and his cock with the other, aligns himself, then pushes up as Sherlock pushes down and, slowly, John breaches in, and Sherlock sinks down until he’s fully seated.

John looks heavenward, overwhelmed by the sensation; it’s tight and hot and incredible. “Good god; you feel so good.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, just sits there, panting, hands braced on the bed, head bowed.

“All right?” John asks, reaching over and stroking softly down Sherlock’s flank.

Sherlock nods, then gives an experimental forward-thrust. “Oh,” he says, sounding slightly pained. “That’s…a lot.”

John’s stomach drops. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I’ll—“

“No, stop. Just allow me to, um, adjust.”

“Sherlock, please, if it hurts—“

“Give me one damn second, for god’s sake, John!”

John falls obediently silent.

Sherlock doesn’t move for a few moments, then begins to rock himself on John, thoughtfully slow at first, experimenting, then picks up his pace and rides him with newfound enthusiasm. Eventually John joins in, bucking his hips up wildly to meet Sherlock as he seats himself to the root.

John gets tired quickly, lies back, and watches hazily, incredulous and smitten (fleetingly and manically thinking of love, how much he loves Sherlock, endorphins singing in his veins), as Sherlock fucks himself until completion, then takes care of himself and falls asleep almost immediately afterwards.

The next morning, John awakes, yawns, stretches, and looks over to find Sherlock fast asleep on his stomach, head turned in his direction, hair sticking out every which way, mouth open, a pool of drool on the pillow. John feels a burst of warmth bloom in his chest at the sight.

He reaches over for his mobile to check the time, and he notices he has five new text messages, all from the same person: Sharon.

He scrolls through the text messages with increasing horror:

I hope you’re VERY happy with her.

Very classy. Fuck you, John Watson.

You know, since we ended on bad terms, I thought I’d be the bigger person by reaching out to you first. I remembered today was your birthday, so I thought it’d be a good time to do it. But then you go and send me THAT. WOW. You’re disgusting.

OMFG WTF???????

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The texts just after Sharon’s birthday wish are three photos of the head of John’s achingly hard cock peeking out from underneath Sherlock’s arse.

“No,” John breathes. The photos were sent at 12:20 am, 12:21 am, 12:21 am, respectively. “Oh my god,” John hisses, staring down at his mobile in disbelief. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock doesn’t stir. John flicks Sherlock’s forehead. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyelids fly open. “What!” he shouts, scrambling to sit up, staring wide-eyed at John.

“We’ve got a problem,” John says numbly, pushing his mobile into Sherlock’s chest and holding it there.

Sherlock glares daggers at him. “That was dramatic and unnecessary.” Then he grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut. “Ugh. My head.”

John’s voice is hoarse and frantic as he says, “Look at the fucking phone!” He pushes his mobile harder against Sherlock’s chest as punctuation.

Sherlock’s nostrils flare as he tears the mobile from John’s hand and looks. Angrily, he scrolls down through the message. He freezes.

“I’m such an idiot, oh my god,” John grouses.

Sherlock cocks his head, considering the photos. “I do look to be lit rather well.”

“Sherlock!” John scolds. “This is serious!”

Sherlock sighs. “So, she was clearly an ex-girlfriend, this Sharon. Was she the boring accountant or the waitress with the clucking laugh?”

“She wouldn’t show anyone, would she?” John asks, frenetic.

“Why in the world would she show anyone?” Sherlock cringes, touches his fingers to his temples. “I have never had a headache this intolerable.”

John throws his hands in the air, defeated. “Because, oh, I don’t know, she hates me?”

Sherlock breathes loudly out of his nose, annoyed. “She obviously doesn’t hate you that much. She took the pains to write out an entire birthday text message.” Sherlock drops his hands, and narrows his eyes at John, crossing his arms over his chest. “When she says you ended on ‘bad terms’—how bad?”

John clears his throat, and waves Sherlock’s question away. “Not important. What if she shows people. What if the press—“

“You do realise there’s no way she can prove it’s you,” Sherlock points out. He glances at the photos, and his lips quirk up. “However, I’m sure your throngs of ex-girlfriends will be able to recognise you by one outstanding feature.” Sherlock eyes John impishly. “These photos don’t quite do it justice.”

Blood immediately rushes southward. This is Sherlock, stone cold sober, complimenting his cock. John stares at Sherlock, agog; for Sherlock's part, he’s watching him, somewhat amused.

John huffs out a laugh, buries his face in his hands. “This is unbelievable.”

“Which part? Having sex with me or sending those photographs to the wrong person?”

John stares at Sherlock, and Sherlock stares back for a long, interminable moment.

John breaks first. “I…didn’t know. Since when did you—with me—”

“Always,” Sherlock says decisively.

“Really?”

“Yes, in fact.”

John considers this, then says, “Seriously?” because he needs to hear Sherlock confirm it again.

“John, did I put any doubt in your mind last night that I didn’t want this?”

John concedes his point. “I had no idea. No fucking idea. Jesus Christ.”

“Well, unlike you, I had many fucking-ideas. For many years.”

John says nothing, just gawps.

Sherlock’s confidence quickly fades, and he says, almost robotically, “I suppose I should say: If this is something you feel you will regret, or do regret, then you just say the word and I will delete it, and we will go on.”

“No,” John says quickly. “No, god no, of course not. Frankly, this’ll be the most memorable birthday I’ve ever had,” John says, and smiles. Sherlock beams, and John, heart thudding in his chest, leans over to give Sherlock a kiss, sour breath be damned. “It was so good,” he says, low, against Sherlock’s lips. “You were incredible--I loved it. ”

Sherlock’s eyelids are hooded, and he gives John a peck on the lips. “I really quite loved it too.”

“Believe me, I know,” John says playfully, then kisses Sherlock again. John can feel that Sherlock's lips stretched into a smile.

When he pulls away, reality crashes down on him. “Though, I don’t think you’d be able to delete it anyway, what with evidence in Sharon’s hands and probably now all over the news.”

Sherlock’s smile quickly disappears and he grimaces, index and middle fingers pressed against his temples.

“I want to kill myself,” he grits outs.

John flops back onto the pillow, and scrubs a hand down his face. “If I ignore it maybe it’ll just go away, and we won’t have to worry about it at all. Who’d care about it anyway? Do people really care? People shouldn’t care.” John shakes his head hopelessly. “People will care. They love watching other people’s lives crash and burn. Makes them just a bit better about themselves, you know?”

“You’re being overdramatic. Those photos are hardly indicative of your life ‘crashing and burning.’ In fact, quite the opposite.”

“Right, okay, but it’ll be a scandal. If we were nobodies, no one would gives a toss.”

“I daresay it’s your doing that we aren’t nobodies,” Sherlock says smugly.

John’s stomach sinks. “My professional life is over. I’ll never be able to work in the medical field again. I’ll never be able to show my face in public again—”

John cuts himself off after he feels Sherlock place his large hand over his mouth. “John,” Sherlock says calmly.

John takes Sherlock's hand by the wrist, raises his hand so it’s hovering over his mouth, then leans up to kiss the palm of his hand. “Sherlock?” he says uncertainly, hanging on Sherlock’s next words: he needs the reassurance.

“It’ll be fine. What could she possibly do with the photos without any proof?"

EXCLUSIVE: Friend and supposed lover of famous detective Sherlock Holmes John Watson sends GAY SEX photos to ex-girlfriend

Watson and Sharon Reynolds, a 38-year old waitress, dated for several months and their break-up wasn’t “particularly peaceful” —Reynolds says she broke up with Watson because he was too “obsessed” with Holmes

Watson, long suspected to be Holmes’s lover, sent sex photos to spite Reynolds

Speculation abounds about participants in photos, but widely speculated to be Watson and Holmes

By PAULINA WATFORD for mailonline

PUBLISHED: 08:04 EST, 09 July 2014 | UPDATED: 09:44 EST, 10 July 2014

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Many have been following the famous duo Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H. Watson’s (also known as Hatman and Robin’s) rapid ascents to fame, but no one would have expected it to culminate in a sex scandal. Holmes, internationally admired and self-proclaimed consulting detective, is known for his infamous feud with jewel thief James Moriarty, alias Richard Brook, once-beloved children’s show host, and for a public stunt in 2012 in which he feigned suicide and was thought to be dead for two years, until he made a miraculous return earlier this year. Dr John H. Watson, a war veteran, doctor, and serial dater, is known as Holmes’s close friend and maintainer of true crime blog johnwatsonblog.co.uk, where Watson recounts Holmes’s cases; the blog has gained astronomical readership since Holmes’s return.

But after all the respect and adoration the duo has gained over the years, perhaps the public will now turn against them.

The Daily Mail spoke exclusively to Sharon Reynolds, a 38-year old waitress from Croydon currently living in London with her sister, who, in 2011, was Watson’s girlfriend of two months (a long time for Watson's standards). Watson used to be known for his serial dating habits until 2012, when he seemed to be settling down with a woman. They broke up just days after Holmes's return.

Yesterday, Reynolds was texted several unwarranted licentious photos involving Watson and an unknown partner. Reynolds posted the photos on her personal blog--which yesterday had 100 followers, and now has over 2,000. You can read her post here.

According to Reynolds, she broke up with Watson due to his “complete fixation” with his companion and possible lover, Sherlock Holmes.

“[Watson] spent literally no time with me,” Reynolds told The Daily Mail. “He forgot things [about Reynolds]. About dates. Sherlock and Sherlock’s work was always his priority.”

After the break-up, the ex-couple didn’t speak for months. But then, on July 7th, it was Watson’s birthday and Reynolds thought to reach out and mend fences.

“I wished [Watson] a happy birthday, wanting to maintain some kind of amicability between us, you know? When we broke up, it wasn’t particularly peaceful. And then he sent me those photos,” Reynolds explained. “I was astonished. I couldn’t believe it. I just thought to myself ‘What an absolutely spiteful man!’”

The photographs Reynolds received show male genitalia, and the back and backside of a man with scar-markings. Of the scar-marking, Dr Q, doctor to the stars, examined the photos and told The Daily Mail:

"Those are obvious signs of whippings. Perhaps he is a BDSM enthusiast."

Reynolds claims she knew it was Watson in the photos immediately, having been formerly intimately acquainted with him. As for the identity of Watson’s partner in the photos, Reynolds is uncertain.

“At first I thought it was a woman,” she told The Daily Mail. “But then someone pointed out it could be a man. Yeah, it could be, I don’t know. I don’t care about that, that doesn’t make a difference to me. I just care about the principle of the thing. It’s disgusting! How dare he? He just wanted to get back at me for breaking up with him, I know it. So petty.”

When asked if she thought Watson’s sexual partner could be his work partner and friend, Sherlock Holmes, she considered it to be a possibility.

“Yeah, maybe. [Watson] didn’t strike me as homosexual or anything when we were dating, but he definitely seemed to be in love with Sherlock. Who knows? I have no idea.”

Two days ago, Watson was spotted with Holmes and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard on a boy’s night out on the town, enjoying a Lebanese dinner, then heading to a Westminster pub. A source at the pub that night claims that Holmes and Watson seemed “extra chummy.”

Amateur commentators have taken to forums, blogs, and social media to try and determine who Watson’s mysterious partner could be. Johnwatsonblog.co.uk has been shut down temporarily, due to an influx of nasty (and some laudatory comments of a sexual nature) comments. The hashtag DeduceWatsonsLover is currently trending on Twitter in the UK, “deduction” being what Holmes employs when he’s working on cases.

Indeed, this sexy ordeal sounds like a job for the Great Detective himself. But, perhaps, this is a mystery he wouldn’t want to solve; perhaps, this time, Holmes is the guilty party.