Music floated down the stairs when he first opened the door, a rhythmic tune with a sultry voice singing a love unreturned.
‘Don't play these games here with me
Don't make me run around
In circles I cannot escape
Tryin' to chase you down...’
John shut the door as quietly as he could and tip toed upstairs, avoiding the creaking steps as he ascended up to 221B; the music amplifying. The door was ajar when he reached the top, he pushed the door open, and the detective was stretched out in his own chair, head lolled back, eyes closed, hands on either side of the armrest, a silver remote dangling in his right hand; he didn’t sense him coming home then.
‘I'm going out of my mind trying to read you,
Trying to understand where you are
Where your heart is, where your mind is, where your soul is…’
John looked around and found the detective’s phone rigged up in a music docking station, playing as it charged.
“Nice song.” John said, and he didn’t expect the detective to jerk up to attention, eyes wide; he looked frightened, “Hey, it’s just me.”
‘I'm going out of my mind trying to be with you
Trying to hold your hand and pull you close…
Don't play these games here with me
Don't make me run around
In circles I cannot escape
Tryin' to chase you down…’
“John.” Sherlock whispered, and with a click of the remote, he turned the music off, silence stretched in 221B, “You’re home early.”
John cleared his throat and shrugged off his coat, hanging it behind the door, “Well, thought I’ll come home and see how you’re doing. You were a little edgy this morning.”
Sherlock made a forlorn expression, and as soon as it appeared it was gone, “I’m fine.”
John pursed his lips, “You clearly aren’t. Want to tell me about it?”
“I’m fine,” Sherlock stressed, pulling himself up and into a sitting position, “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
John flopped down in his chair, “I’m starting to think there is.”
Sherlock bristled with irritation, “I said-”
“Nothing is wrong with you, I know. But, these few weeks you seemed shut off, weeks of melancholy, you barely speak, it doesn’t happen much, unless you’re in your mind palace, and there were times you wouldn’t shut up even if I asked you to. So why now? Clearly there’s something weighing on your mind. I’m concerned for you, Sherlock. Are you really alright?”
All the anger seeped out of him at the concern in John’s words and gaze, Sherlock looked down at the remote in his lap, rubbing the smooth silver surface with his thumb, “John…”
Does he want me around? Evidence shows favorable results.
John is always nice to me. He praises me when others scorn. He defends me when others attack. He makes tea without me asking. He buys me little trinkets when he goes out on his own which meant he thinks about me when I’m not there.
He tolerates me.
He has killed for me. Surely that meant something.
What if he doesn’t? What if it’s all platonic? He has corrected everyone that he’s not gay on several occasions when others assumed we were a couple.
Maybe he really is.
I can’t bear to see John’s expression when he rejects me, maybe he’ll leave, and I’ll…I should leave.
“I think…I have to move out.” Sherlock whispered softly.
John felt his heart beat faster at those words, flexing his left hand subconsciously, he tried to keep the panic from his voice, “What? Move out? ”
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.” Sherlock replied, the feelings he lived with for a year, accumulated to the brink of his limits, pouring out of his person at the corners of his eyes, “I can’t.”
John watch a tear fall onto Sherlock’s hand, and then a second, and a third, the detective was still, his head bowed, he didn’t shake, but his voice trembled.
Sherlock is crying.
Sherlock never cries, not in his presence.
John didn’t like this. He didn’t like it when Sherlock got hurt, it makes him vengeful, and most of the time, the person who hurt Sherlock received punishment for the detective’s pain in terms of his fists or his gun.
This time, he wasn’t sure he could do anything. He couldn’t save him; Sherlock’s heart. The song of a love unreturned, the melancholy weeks, the shut off periods, the silence; the detective was heartbroken, and now he’s leaving. The thought of Sherlock being rejected by someone made him angry. Angry that that person is blind to not see the detective’s brilliance, his tender heart, his rare soft smiles. Angry at himself for feeling this way, jealously for that faceless person, the regret of not proclaiming his affections sooner, and the depressing question of ‘why not me?’
Slipping out of his chair and onto the floor, he knelt before the detective and touched Sherlock’s arm, “It’s alright. It’ll be alright.”
“You don’t know...” Sherlock whispered brokenly, “You don’t even know.”
“Who is it?” John asked, pulling the detective into his arms in an awkward hug, but Sherlock melted into his embrace, tucking his face into the crook of his neck. Warm puffs of breath brushed his neck, and moisture seeped into his shirt; his heart hurt.
“John…” Sherlock’s voice hitched, “John…”
“It’s okay,” John wrapped his arms tighter around the lean form, rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock’s back, and felt ribs and bones, “You’ll have to eat more, Sherlock.”
The detective laughed a breathy sob, “I’ll miss this.”
John tightened his arms around the detective, “You don’t have to move out, there’s always a way. Who is it? Someone we both know? I’ll talk to them.”
Sherlock laughed again, an exhale of breath; empty.
“Sherlock…” John sighed, “Even if I can’t help, don’t close yourself from me.”
Sherlock sucked in a trembling breath, and closed his eyes, “It’s you. It always has been you.”
John stilled, and he felt Sherlock stiffen in his arms, starting to pull away, he refused to budge and pulled the detective back, and arms came round him, wrapping themselves around him loosely; unsure.
“I-I wasn’t expecting that.” John started, and when Sherlock started to pull away again, “Listen to me; I’m not going to run away. Now is almost as good as a time to say it.”
“W-what?” Sherlock asked, peering up at the doctor, “Do you even-”
“I adore you, Sherlock.” John smiled softly, looking down at the tear streaked face that is always dear to him, “Always have. So don’t leave?”
Tears welled up in his eyes again, and Sherlock hid his face in John’s shirt, “Johnn…”
“No more crying.” John said, pushing Sherlock away from him, and for a second the same frightened look crossed Sherlock’s face, but flickered away when he smiled at the detective, brushing tears away with a thumb, “Let me make it up to you?”
Red lips quivered in a pout, and John smiled, swiping a thumb across, he met Sherlock’s celadon eyes and leaned in, pressing their lips together lightly. He leaned back and Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted.
Sherlock pulled away from him and slipped out of his chair, backing himself to John’s chair, “Not enough.”
A frisson of warmth tingled through him at those words, he knows where this will lead, and John couldn’t be more willing. Palming Sherlock’s cheek, he leaned in again and pressed their lips together, parting Sherlock’s lips with his tongue, he almost groaned when Sherlock shyly returned the kiss.
Slipping his hand through thick curls, he tilted Sherlock’s head back and deepened the kiss, pressing the form beneath him against his chair. Sherlock turned his head away, and the contact was broken, he has already parted his lips to ask what was wrong when the detective unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off, but he forgot his cuffs so it hung at his wrists in disheveled folds of white.
“John, I’m stuck.” Sherlock said, peering up beneath his tear clumped lashes. John’s blue eyes lit with a bloom of fervour, and moist lips quirked in a smile.
“Stay like that,” John leaned down and placed a kiss at Sherlock’s collarbone, hands roaming down the bare chest to the flat stomach, “I like it.”
Sherlock flushed pink, eyes fluttering shut at the light chaste pecks, “You’re teasing me.”
“It’s called foreplay.” John remarked with one of his boyish grins that made Sherlock flush red, looking away embarrassed, “You’re so cute.”
Sherlock huffed, “I’m a fully grown male, I do not like being called cute.” John smiled at him, and he turned his head away, heart racing.
“What would you like me to call you then?” John whispered resuming his light pecks and kisses, he flicked a thumb over a pebbled nub, and place a open mouth kiss at Sherlock’s neck, “Darling?”
Sherlock shivered, fingers twitching, he turned to John, lips jutting in a pout, “Again?”
John smiled, placing another kiss on those full lips, “Darling.”
Sherlock moved his stuck arms, and shifted up to loll his head back against John’s chair, “John, I don’t like this foreplay thing.”
John hummed, placing another kiss on Sherlock collarbone, “You don’t like it? Then let me get your heart rate up.”
Unbuckling the detective’s belt and unzipping his fly, he tugged at the fabric and the detective lifted his hips to ease it off, “You’re not wearing any pants inside.”
Sherlock made a soft sound, “No good?”
“Easier for me to touch you though, “John palmed, and rubbed the thick head with a thumb, spreading the beading pre-cum around, “You’re already leaking.”
Sherlock moaned, parting his legs, “John, quick.”
“Why so fast?” John murmured, shifting down to lick a stripe up the erect prick, the detective jerked and keened, “See, you enjoy this.”
Sherlock rolled his head side to side against the fabric of John’s chair, “No, no, no, John, I need you. I’ve waited for so long. John, John, John.”
John blushed, heart thudding, “How long?”
“Long enough,” Sherlock kicked his pants off his ankles, “Please, you can touch me all you want later, but now, I need-”
John groaned, swooping up to capture those lips, then pulled back to shed himself of clothes, “Turn over.”
Sherlock shrugged his dangling shirt up to his elbows and flipped himself over, arms bended, he placed his hands over John’s seat for support as he looked towards John, seeing the doctor rip apart a lube packet, “You always have that on you.”
John sensed the glumness in Sherlock’s words and stilled, looking at the detective he approached the subject cautiously, “Well…in the past it was for…now...it’s for you.”
Sherlock turned away without a word.
Sherlock interrupted, “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
“Alright, alright,” John placated, placing a light kiss on Sherlock’s exposed spine as he rubbed a lubricated thumb against the tightly clenched entrance. He felt Sherlock shudder and then slump down against his chair, head bowed in his arms. Exerting a little more pressure, he pressed a finger inside, rubbing gently, and coaxed arousal back into the silent detective with light pumps to his cock, Sherlock pressed back against him, his breaths coming out in soft pants, “Good?”
Sherlock made a sound as a yes, and rocked back against the doctor’s finger, he stilled when John joined another inside him, “I won’t break, John. You can be rough.”
“I don’t want to be rough.” John pulled his fingers out and used the excess lube from the packet on his erect member, pressing up against the soft rosebud; he rubbed his cock against the lubricated entrance, nudging, not entering.
Sherlock panted softly, his cock hanging between his legs, hard and painful. Reaching down with a hand, Sherlock pumped his cock to the slide of John’s cock over his entrance, moaning quietly at the cumulating sensation.
John quickened his rubs, the blunt head of his cock sliding up and down against Sherlock’s perineum, focusing his attention to the twitching relaxed entrance, he nudged his cock over the slippery rosebud, making short firm rubs, doing it again and again till Sherlock’s breaths came out faster, louder and more frantic, then with a hitched breathy moan, he trembled and came, spilling his release onto the carpet.
John worked his cock over the smooth firm globes, panting as Sherlock leaned back against him, pressing his entrance against his cock head, John quicken his short fast pumps, and with a groan, he shot his release over the exposed rosebud, biting his lip as his cum dripped down Sherlock’s perineum in a filthy mess.
He met Sherlock’s gaze and he growled, those lidded eyes were misted over in a veil of prurient longing, redden lips parted and a pink tongue licked that full bottom lip, challenging him to give him more. Spreading those firm globes apart, John leaned down and licked a wet stripe up Sherlock’s perineum, licking his cum up and into the twitching entrance. Pressing his tongue against the relaxed muscle, he waggled his tongue firmly against the sloppy rosebud, tongue fucking the detective till Sherlock cried out in a shaky voice, trembling.
John teased with his tongue, and rubbed firmly with his thumb, pressing the digit in, stretching the muscle open, and flicked the surrounding with his tongue, he did it again and again till Sherlock was panting, eyes moist from pleasure and desperation.
“J-john! Please!” Sherlock cried, tears rolling down the corners of his eyes, pushing back against the doctor, he trembled, shoulders shaking as he struggled to hold himself upright, “Please! I can’t-!”
The rest of his sentence died in his throat in a strangled sound when John penetrated him, he keened, head dropping in a bow as the thick erect cock slid inside him, stretching him open with a slight burn, filling him in full. He panted, sucking in short breaths as John gave him a moment to adjust, he shifted his arms, and the shirt hanging at his elbows tightened across his back. Sherlock knows how he must look like to John, disheveled, and curls in a mess, his cheeks were burning so he must be blushing, his intimate place being penetrated and breeched by John, and he is on his hands and knees, exposing himself, accepting, so filthy, so arousing.
He moaned and rocked back against John in soft slaps of flesh, calloused hands grabbed his hips and Sherlock sobbed a cry as the doctor started to thrust, slowly, then faster, and faster, till his moans mixed with the loud slapping of flesh, the wet squelching of the place they were joined.
Sherlock arched his spine and pushed back against the quicken thrusts, choking a strangled cry when the thick cock in him grazed his pleasure spot, he body tingled with pleasure and the cool sensation of perspiration drying, “M-more! J-john! Oh! What are-”
John paused, pulling out from the tight warmth and maneuvered Sherlock to hike his right knee onto his chair, spreading those firm cheeks apart where he could easily see the twitching rosebud slippery with lube, and the erect member hanging between pale thighs, leaking translucent white. The detective was pliant, and John gently pressed Sherlock to lean over, the detective grabbed the armrest for support and waited, anticipating in a lewd position.
John got behind the detective and pushed his cock back inside, Sherlock keened and curled his fingers into the armrest, bending lower to accept him deeper inside, pressing back against him as he rocked into him.
Sherlock panted, head bowed as he was fucked into John’s chair, fingers curling, he hiked his right knee higher up onto the soft chair, further exposing his entrance to John, his other knee planted on the carpeted floor. This vulnerable position, he likes it, each flex of John’s hips sent a tingling shot of pleasure up his spine, the thick cock in him rubbing all the right places, grazing his pleasure spot again and again. His orgasm build higher and higher, and he reached down to grasp his cock, pulling at the rhythm of John’s thrusts, he moaned and keened, urging the doctor to go faster, rougher, and John did.
Grabbing Sherlock’s slim hips, he pulled the detective back against him as he thrust forward, the slapping of flesh mixing with Sherlock’s arousing moans, he knew the detective is jerking himself off to his thrusts, clenching around him with hitched mewls. With a rough thrust forward, Sherlock came with a shuddering cry, jerking forward as he spilled ribbons of white onto the red fabric, he felt John do the same inside, filling him with spurts of warmth.
He was still trembling from his climax when John pulled out of him, and when he felt John wrap his arms around him, he let the doctor ease him down towards the floor where their clothes lay in a pile.
John murmured endearments and kissed the detective tenderly, “Alright?”
Sherlock moved slowly, shrugging his shirt back onto his shoulders, “I feel thoroughly…”
“Debauched?” John finished, Sherlock flushed red, and glared at the doctor, “It’s a compliment.”
Sherlock huffed, buttoning his shirt and pointed towards his chair, “Pass me my trousers.”
“Not gonna clean up first?” John asked as he reached to grab the detective’s tailor made pants.
Sherlock paused, then started to unbutton his shirt again, this time he remembered the cuffs, “I’m going to take a bath.”
“And I’m coming with you?” John asked, and Sherlock smiled softly.
“You’re embarrassing.” Sherlock remarked and struggled to stand, wincing when his bum throbbed.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” John said as he grabbed their clothes off the floor, accidentally pressing the silver remote on the floor.
Music filled 221B again, and Sherlock stalked forward towards the bathroom where John followed, the volume of the music drowning out the soft laughter of them in the bathroom. The sultry, melodic tunes finally matched their atmosphere.