It was Sherlock’s fault. It was all Sherlock’s fault. He’d finally managed to get under John’s skin and seep into his sanity, tearing the latter apart piece by piece until John couldn’t take it anymore.
The argument was pointless, the subject matter unimportant, and yet John couldn’t stop shouting at Sherlock and Sherlock wouldn’t stop shouting back. Until Sherlock did stop shouting back, and then John started shouting at him because he wasn’t listening. Sherlock simply picked up his violin and flung himself on the couch, shooting John a look that said: I’m going to ignore you until you stop being boring, before bringing his bow up to the instrument.
Sherlock started to scratch away at his violin, playing random piercing notes that John knew wouldn’t stop until he dropped the matter and walked away. But John wouldn’t drop the matter and walk away. Sherlock had pushed him too far this time and John was a ticking bomb, ready to explode.
Sherlock hit a particularly high note and that’s all it took.
John yanked the bow out of Sherlock’s grasp and snapped it across his knee, the wood breaking in two. The crack rang out through the room accompanied by Sherlock’s startled gasp and then...
Complete and utter silence.
John’s hands were shaking, his knuckles white from his death-grip on the bow as he held the two pieces attached only by the hair at a 45-degree angle from each other. Sherlock was staring wide-eyed at his broken bow, his mouth agape and an expression plastered on his face that resembled complete and utter shock. If John wasn’t so full of fear and guilt he might have thought it a point to him that he’d finally done something Sherlock hadn’t expected. All he thought now was that Sherlock was going to kill him.
‘Sherlock...’ John said tentatively, his voice wavering slightly. He didn’t know what to do. Should he apologize? Surely he wasn’t allowed to be angry anymore. Should he run? Yes, possibly running was the best option here.
Long seconds drew out and Sherlock and John stayed frozen, their harsh breathing breaking through the intense silence and making John’s heart pound in his chest.
Then it happened. Sherlock snapped out of his shock and glared at John. Placing his violin safely behind the couch, he leant towards the coffee table. John saw what Sherlock was going to do and attempted to warn him against it, but he only got as far as ‘Don’t you...’ before Sherlock picked up John’s favourite mug and smashed it against the edge of the table, shattering into a million pieces that scattered over the floor.
John scowled. ‘That was just childish.’
Sherlock replied by picking up John’s medical journal and ripping out a good handful of pages.
The war began.
John threw the broken bow away and made a lunge for Sherlock’s violin, but Sherlock caught him before he got there, jumping on him with enough force to send them to the floor. John managed to escape Sherlock’s grip with a – not entirely accidental – kick to the stomach, and shot to his feet. Sherlock was blocking his violin so John tried a different tactic, moving over to the bookcase where Sherlock kept his notes – in alphabetical order – and pulling all the thick leather bound books to the floor, messing up the arrangement and throwing loose sheets – and there were quite a number of them – across the room, some ending up in the fireplace and sparking up the dying flames. Sherlock gasped again and flung himself towards John, punching him hard enough to almost have him falling to the floor.
One of John’s jumpers was draped over the armchair closest to the fire, drying off from being caught in the morning’s downpour on the way back from Tesco’s. Sherlock calmly took a pair of scissors to it and started to hack it to pieces.
John threw the volume he had been attempting to pull pages out of at Sherlock, hitting him square in the back in a way that looked like it would have hurt, but Sherlock didn’t stop. He cut one of the arms off the jumper and merely flung it over his shoulder. John waltzed right up to him and grabbed him roughly by the hair, yanking his head back and forcing him to drop the scissors. Sherlock cried out and twisted his arms behind him, grabbing John around the chest and squeezing. He had John in a vice-like grip and John could have sworn he heard one of his ribs crack. He pushed Sherlock hard in the back and sent him crashing into an armchair.
John crossed to the mantlepiece and picked up the skull.
‘Don’t you fucking dare, John Watson!’ Sherlock screamed at him, scrambling to get to his feet to take the skull out of John’s grasp. John smiled evilly, dropping it a second before Sherlock got to him and they both watched as it fell, almost in slow motion, to the ground. It bounced once and lost its mandible, the cranium rolling away to some distant corner of the room.
That had apparently crossed some line and Sherlock grabbed John by his shirt and pushed him very roughly against a wall. John was winded as his head and shoulders left indents in the plaster, pain shooting across his back that was forgotten as soon as Sherlock landed a blow to his jaw. John’s head snapped to the side and he tasted the blood that spilt from his lip.
John stamped on Sherlock’s bare foot – serve the lanky twat right for never wearing any shoes – and kicked him in the shin. Sherlock hissed through the pain and rewarded John with a rather hard and powerful back handed slap and a knee to his stomach. John doubled over but not before throwing his own punch into Sherlock’s solar plexus and bringing him down with him.
John recovered first and something about having Sherlock gasping for breath in front of him possessed him.
He had imagined their first kiss would be hesitant, a matter of them not really knowing what they were doing, and him not even being sure if Sherlock would reciprocate. Maybe it would have happened sometime after a case when they were laughing and falling against each other, or during a (Boring! Predictable! Honestly, John, why are we even watching this drivel?) movie. He’d never expected it to be like this, hard and biting in the middle of an all out war, but hey, living with Sherlock made things unpredictable.
Sherlock was still in pain, still trying to get his breath back when John grabbed him by his collar and pulled him roughly against him. The material tore in his grip, but any comebacks Sherlock may have had for that were stolen as John crushed his lips to his. There was no time to consider that they shouldn’t be doing this, that it was the adrenaline and the red mist of rage that had control of the entire situation. There was just time to act, to bite back and gasp and hiss and growl into each other’s mouths.
Sherlock dominated John’s mouth, forcing his tongue inside and biting on John’s when he tried to gain the upper hand. Eventually they split for air, choking it down like they couldn’t get enough, before falling back in to the absolutely bruising kiss.
‘You’re too short,’ Sherlock growled, trying to tilt John’s head up at an impossible angle.
‘No... fuck... you’re too tall,’ John panted back, returning the glare Sherlock was shooting him.
‘Shall I fix the height problem, then?’ Sherlock asked harshly and John had no chance to reply before Sherlock hooked his feet up with his ankle in a swooping motion, forcing John to the ground, on his back with Sherlock on top of him. John’s head throbbed where it hit the floor – Sherlock having grabbed his hands so he couldn’t catch himself – and the pain in his back flared up again. However, Sherlock’s placed his teeth on John’s throat, bitting down hard on his Adam’s apple, forcing all other pain into the background.
‘Fuck, Sherlock!’ John cried, trying to buck the man off him and being rewarded with a sharp elbow in his side and a bony knee to his thigh. John dug his nails into Sherlock’s back almost hard enough to make him bleed through the material and fought for dominance.
Sherlock was heavier that he ought to have been considering how thin he appeared, but John finally flipped them so Sherlock was the one pinned to the floor. John dove back to Sherlock’s mouth and demanded that Sherlock submit to him with harsh bites to those cupid’s bow lips. Sherlock was bleeding by the time he finally let John in; the metallic tang of blood, mixed with their sweat, was all John could taste and it drove him wild.
John appeared to have won that particular battle, but then Sherlock fought dirty and kneed John right where it hurts the most. Not hard enough to do any serious damage, but hard enough to send John crashing off of straddling Sherlock’s hips to the ground. John could hear Sherlock moving into the kitchen between gasps for breaths as he tried to get over the pain. It wasn’t easy but the sound of Sherlock smashing every piece of crockery they owned was enough to get him to his feet. He was unsteady though, which was probably why he was unable to stop himself getting a face full of kettle the second he walked into the kitchen.
The appliance bashing didn’t stop there, and John had to dodge the toaster and random other utensils such as the wooden spoon and handheld cheese grater until Sherlock ran out of ammo. John made a dash for the table, trusting Sherlock hadn’t been experimenting with any corrosive chemicals lately, and pushed the expensive chemistry set to the floor. Test tubes and beakers smashed on the ground and any Petri dish or Agar plate that survived the fall cracked under John’s shoe as he made a point of jumping on them.
Sherlock growled and grabbed John before he had the chance to get away, forcing him back onto the table and pinning him down. The glasswork left on the surface cut through John’s shirt and into his back.
‘That was uncalled for,’ Sherlock hissed, so close to John’s face that John could feel the rush of air on his cheek.
‘Oh, and everything else has been perfectly justified?’ John spat back, trying once more to buck Sherlock off of him. However, in this position their groins aligned and when John bucked his hips he ended up thrusting his and Sherlock’s erections together. They both moaned at the pleasure, taking a second to realize they should repeat the action.
Sherlock set the pace, rutting against John as fast as he could, all rushed moves and sloppy thrusts that didn’t always hit their target. John had never seen Sherlock this uncoordinated and tried to take the lead. Sherlock growled at him again but when John managed to twist a hand free from Sherlock’s death grip and start working on his belt, Sherlock quickly caught on and all but ripped John’s trousers off him. His own followed suit and then John’s underwear – Sherlock never wore any – before Sherlock raced to undo John’s shirt buttons, only to get bored halfway through the task and start grabbing at his hair and his arms and his chest and anything else he could as they fell back into a messy kiss.
Sherlock started thrusting again and the skin on skin contact was so much better that it had John writhing beneath him.
‘God, Sherlock!’ John cried out when he seriously couldn’t take anymore. ‘Just fuck me already!’ Sherlock growled and forcefully spread John’s thighs, exposing him and slipping a finger inside without lubrication. John hissed and punched Sherlock in the jaw hard enough to force him a step backwards, so he could reach for the olive oil that had somehow managed to stay on the table. It wasn’t ideal but he didn’t exactly have the chance to go up to his room and fetch the lube hidden in his sock drawer.
He quickly slicked his entrance and prepared himself, waiting until Sherlock had recovered from his punch to grab his cock and slick that up too. Sherlock groaned slightly as John worked his shaft before slapping John’s hand away and grabbing him roughly by the hips.
Sherlock entered John with one quick, rough thrust and froze. They both lost their breath as Sherlock fully embedded himself and for the first time since the fight started, they were completely still and silent.
John could feel the weight of reality threatening to crush him and awkwardness was creeping in around the edges of his mind. There were two options: let reality come in and claim them and make it unbearably tense and uncomfortable for both of them for the rest of their association, or do something to piss Sherlock off and get him to redirect his anger to fucking him.
John went for the second option and reached his hand out, arm flailing until it came across an empty volumetric flask. Expensive that, John knew, because of how terribly precise it was, but worth it if it got him a fuck. Thinking of nothing but revenge for his tea cups he picked it up and, ignoring Sherlock’s threats, smashed it against the surface of the table.
‘JOHN!’ Sherlock bellowed as they were sprayed with tiny shards of glass. Sherlock’s hands fidgeted and clenched almost as though he was seriously thinking about punching John again, until he suddenly realized he was inside of him and decided just to start pounding ruthlessly into him.
John cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, the position they were in ensuring Sherlock hit his prostate dead on, but too roughly for ecstasy to be the only result. John whimpered before regaining some control, gritting his teeth against the pain and wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s bony hips to control the speed of the thrusts. Sherlock clawed at John’s thighs but John wouldn’t relinquish his grip, even when Sherlock scratched him hard enough to break his skin. Sherlock started digging his long fingers into John’s bullet wound, breaking through the ex-army man’s pain threshold, and with a cry, John relinquished his hold.
Sherlock slipped free of John’s weakened grip and hoisted one of the man’s legs over his shoulder.
‘Fuck, Sherlock!’ John cried as Sherlock started up his ruthless pace again, pounding into him hard enough to slide the table across the kitchen floor and force it back against the counter.
‘Yes, there,’ John groaned, rising his hips off the surface to meet Sherlock’s thrusts. Sherlock hissed through his teeth and dug his nails deeper into John’s skin.
‘Faster!’ John panted. ‘Sherlock... fuck... faster!’
‘I am fucking faster!’ Sherlock spat back, barely audible over the constant banging as the table slammed into the kitchen counter.
John could see stars and blackness was starting to creep in around the edges of his vision from the intensity of the sensations, but he fought it. The hell he was going to miss a second of this. There was sweat plastering Sherlock’s hair to his forehead and a trickle of blood glistening from a bite mark on his lip, and John knew how they were going to look the next day, black and blue and bleeding, and God, it made him rock back harder onto Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock groaned and bent down, curving his back so he could mouth at John’s nipples through what was left of his shirt.
John panted and whined, arching his own back in a vain attempt to get away from Sherlock’s sharp teeth. He felt pain flare up in his leg as Sherlock bent it up at an impossible angle so he could start nipping at John’s throat.
‘Sherlock! Just fuck me!’ John growled, shoving Sherlock away from his throat and wrapping his free leg around his waist to force him to go faster. Sherlock dug his nails once more into John’s hips and thrust for all he was worth, getting faster and faster until John was cursing and writhing beneath him, pulling at his half buttoned shirt and grinding against his every thrust.
Sherlock came with a groan, spilling himself deep inside John as his hips jerked helplessly through his orgasm. Sherlock was left trying to catch his breath as John pulled himself off and came, releasing his seed all over their stomachs. Sherlock finally collapsed on top of John and for a long moment they lay half on the table panting for breath.
‘You owe me a new bow,’ Sherlock panted, eventually. ‘And a new chemistry set...’
John just groaned.
‘And you must apologise to Horatio.’
John took a second to work out who Horatio was. ‘Yorick,’ he corrected.
‘What?’ Sherlock shot him a confused look.
‘It’s... Never mind.’ John took a deep breath and looked at the mess that surrounded them. ‘You owe me a new kitchen, including appliances and utensils.’
‘I don’t care,’ Sherlock groaned pulling out. ‘You owe me a new cock.’
John snorted. ‘Well in that case; you owe me a new arse,’ he said and Sherlock smiled. They looked at each other for a second and burst out laughing
‘We... seriously... did not... just do... that!’ John gasped between giggles. Sherlock just continued to laugh.
‘Sherlock, stop it!’ John cried. ‘We can’t giggle! We just destroyed the house!’
‘And fucked on the kitchen table,’ Sherlock added, making John giggle again.
‘I am serious about my bow,’ Sherlock said after the laughter died down in a tone that implied he meant it.
‘And I’m serious about my mug,’ John replied in the same manner, sizing Sherlock up with a hard look before letting a smile break across his face. Sherlock returned it and helped John off the table, grabbing some painkillers from the now conveniently close cupboards and handing them to John. John accepted because he knew how much he was going to hurt when he finally came back down to reality.
‘Um... take away for supper, I think,’ John said, looking around once more at the epic mess and Sherlock nodded, running his hand through his hair and dislodging several tiny pieces of shattered glass and ceramic. The blood was still dripping slightly from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and John unconsciously reached out to wipe it away.
‘Um...’ John coughed as he caught himself and Sherlock looked away, absently picking at a piece of glass that was lodged in his arm.
‘Sherlock, don’t,’ John said firmly, snatching his hand away from his sore. ‘Right, we’re going to need tweezers, sticking plaster and ice-packs.’
‘Sounds like a fun night, doctor,’ Sherlock said, sounding bored, ‘but I’d rather just have a shower and find somewhere to pass out.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ John mumbled.
‘Care to join me?’
‘In the shower, John, and then in finding somewhere to pass out.’
‘Honestly, John. We did just fuck on the table, I’m sure that constitutes for some kind of relationship.’ Sherlock smiled and left for the bathroom.
John stood for a moment before shrugging his good shoulder. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to walk much tomorrow so he might as well make it worth it. He pulled himself together and followed Sherlock, taking a detour into the sitting room to pick up Horatio – making a mental note to educate Sherlock on Shakespeare one day – and popping him back on the mantelpiece.
‘Sorry,’ John said, smiling before turning on his heel and walking gingerly through the debris to the bathroom, where he could already hear the taps running.
He passed Sherlock’s violin on the way and couldn’t help but twist all the pegs so it would be dreadfully out of tune the next time Sherlock picked it up.
Oh yes, John was definitely not walking anywhere or even sitting down for a long, long time.