John sighed as he looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t believe it had come to this.
He snatched his wallet, keys, phone, condoms, and the lubricant off his dresser with slight discomfort – well the condoms and the lubricant were snatched with discomfort at least – but he pushed it out of his mind. It had been discussed and this was what was going to happen.
He made his way downstairs to say goodbye to Sherlock, finding him in the sitting room, still seated, unmoved from his armchair and where John had left him hours ago, still contemplating the current case. John smiled, taking in the lanky form draped over the seat as he made his way into the room.
Sherlock was deep in contemplation, staring at nothing in particular with his hands pressed together just under his chin, hiding his long, elegant neck from John’s view, which John thought was probably a good thing. He’d probably jump on Sherlock if he saw more than an inch of that beautiful, pale throat.
Sherlock hadn’t noticed John’s presence, so the doctor cleared his throat, gaining him still no reaction.
‘Sherlock?’ he called.
‘What?’ Sherlock snapped back, narrowed gaze sliding over to him. ‘I’m busy.’
‘What do you think?’ John asked, indicating his choice in clothes.
Sherlock looked back to the spot he had been staring at on the opposite wall. ‘What do I care?’
John sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Why am I doing this again?’
‘Because you woke up hard and insisted you needed sex.’
‘And you were a bastard and told me to go find it somewhere else.’ There was venom in John’s voice.
‘I’m on a case, John. I can’t afford a distraction.’
‘I still don’t understand why you won’t let me take care of it myself.’
‘Yes, I know you don’t like it when I masturbate, but seriously, Sherlock! How exactly is me sleeping with someone else better?’
‘It just is.’ Sherlock glared at him as if daring John to defy him. ‘Besides, you want a fuck, wanking is hardly going to satisfy you.’
John sighed. ‘It hurts, Sherlock,’ he said, ‘making me go out and find someone because you’re too busy.’
‘It’s just sex, John. It doesn’t mean anything.’ Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss the matter.
‘Yeah, you’re right, we’ll probably survive,’ John said, deadpan. ‘So I can sleep with whoever I like?’
‘As long as it isn’t Anderson.’
It was John’s turn to cringe.
‘Use protection and don’t get anyone pregnant,’ Sherlock told him offhandedly, making John sigh because one; he was a doctor and already knew the dangers of unprotected sex; and two; the hell he could even look at a woman anymore thanks to Sherlock – girls with long legs and nice thighs always turned into Sherlock in a slutty dress in John’s mind.
‘You’re lucky I love you,’ John mumbled, leaning in to kiss Sherlock on the forehead. Sherlock swatted him away and then proceeded to ignore him in favour of a call from Lestrade with new evidence on the case. John reminded himself that Sherlock was married to his work and that he was just his mistress, and left, shrugging off the bad feelings weighing on his shoulders. Sherlock was right; it was just sex. He was sure their relationship would survive.
The clue was a paper trail that Anderson had discovered (which meant Sherlock had to put up with Anderson thinking he was smart for a good ten minutes) and led them to a local pub at which the killer seemed to be a regular.
‘It must be where he picks up his victims,’ Anderson said all too confidently and Sherlock thanked the Gods for giving him an opportunity to knock the twat down a couple of pegs.
‘Can you seriously be that stupid?’ Sherlock asked. ‘How are you even alive? Surely it is too much for your tiny little brain to cope with standing up and breathing at the same time. This man is smart, he has to be; he’s had me on the run for three weeks now. Don’t you think, considering there have been fifteen victims to date, that someone would've have noticed that every girl this man took home ended up dead the next day? Besides, there’s no way he would leave such damning evidence behind. It’s either a trap or inconsequential; my money is on the latter. Expect a letter taunting the Yard’s incompetence, or a piece of evidence that leads nowhere, but nothing more.’
With Anderson put effectively back in his place, Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan headed down to the pub. Lestrade and Donovan started to question the patrons making Sherlock roll his eyes at their obviousness as he headed straight to the bar. Despite how large and popular the pub was, it took Sherlock less than ten seconds to locate the murderer’s usual seat – made easy by the cleaner’s overlooking the mud on the rung of the bar stool, the same mud as on the killer’s driveway.
The fact that the garage was attached to the house and yet there was mud on the killer’s boots told Sherlock the man didn’t own a car. Public transport was the key, buses far more likely than taxis, but the tube was also a possibility.
‘Found anything?’ Lestrade asked, wandering over to where Sherlock was crouched.
Sherlock ignored him and stood up. ‘Can you tell me about the man who always sits here?’ The bartender barely looked up from cleaning his glass. That’s service for you.
‘What do you want to know?’ the bar tender grudgingly asked.
Sherlock held his tongue and resisted the urge to bite back. He was a right bastard sometimes, yes, but only ever after he got what he wanted. ‘Anything.’
The bartender finally looked up with suspicion in his eye that was terminated at the sight of Lestrade’s police badge. ‘He’s here most nights but I haven’t seen him for awhile,’ he replied. ‘He always sits there and drinks his pints slowly.’
‘What’s he look like?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Dunno. Never really paid that much attention to him. He always wore a cap anyway, made it hard to see his face.’
‘Did he always leave at the same time?’
‘No, always different.’
‘How long did it take him to finish a drink?’ Sherlock asked and Donovan and Lestrade looked at him strangely. The bar tender joined in on the look but answered him and also handed over the records of the tab from each night.
‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.’ Sherlock flashed his fake smile at him and turned back to Lestrade.
‘Now are you going to tell me what you have?’ Lestrade asked, slightly annoyed.
‘If I must,’ Sherlock sighed. ‘There was no car in the garage because he doesn’t have one. He frequents public transport and that’s where he picks up his victims. Always a different time, always a different bus, that way no one will ever recognize him. Now, with this,’ Sherlock said holding up the tab, ‘we can work out what time bus he caught each night.’
‘Oh wow,’ Donovan piped in sarcastically. ‘I’m sorry, but what exactly will that give us?’
‘I told you the evidence would be inconsequential,’ Sherlock shot back, ‘but it’s a start.’
‘What if he used a different bus stop every night?’ Lestrade asked. ‘Walking distance would be different.’
‘Ah, good point. Well done, Lestrade, you are moving up in the world,’ Sherlock smiled. ‘There are however several indications which contradict your point, but at least you’re using your brain.’ Lestrade sighed at the backhanded compliment but Sherlock kept going. ‘It took him roughly twenty minutes to finish a pint and he always got a fresh one within a minute of finishing his last, so we can work out about what time he left.’ Sherlock looked down at his phone. ‘Buses are too frequent in this part of town which means the margin of error is wider than I would hope, but that just makes it more interesting. Now shut up both of you I need to work out the code.’
‘Code?’ both Donovan and Lestrade asked.
‘There’s got to be a code to this,’ Sherlock replied, looking down at the tab sheet.
‘If you’re talking about how many drinks he had each night, it just looks like it’s random,’ Lestrade complained.
‘No, it can’t be.’
‘Because then I wouldn’t be able to solve it.’
‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade sighed, frustrated. Sherlock ignored him yet again and continued with his work.
‘Oi, freak. Isn’t that your boyfriend?’ Donovan asked, pointing over to a table in a dark corner. Sherlock barely glanced up from the piece of paper, settling on John for no more than a millisecond before returning his gaze to the evidence. But then Sherlock did something that was quite rare for him; a double take, because what his brain was telling him he saw couldn’t have been correct.
John was laughing and finishing off his pint while another man – read: a man who was not Sherlock – bit his ear and lavished his neck with kisses. Sherlock felt himself start to go red, and averted his gaze, swallowing hard to try and regain his self-control.
‘Christ. What is he doing?’ Lestrade muttered, his voice full of venom as he watched John turn his head to kiss the stranger.
‘It’s...’ Sherlock started, his voice breaking and dying away into the background. He ducked his head and cleared his throat, banishing the unwanted and unnecessary emotions before turning away from the scene. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, ignoring the raised eyebrows. ‘I knew it was going to happen.’ He said John could go and find someone to fuck and John went and found someone to fuck. Simple. No need for complicated emotions. John got what he needed and Sherlock could concentrate on the case. It was fine. It was all good.
‘Oh God, Sherlock, I’m sorry,’ Lestrade said, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock sighed because Lestrade, as usual, had gotten the wrong end of the stick, but he was cut off by Donovan before he could correct him.
‘Knew he had brains. I just wonder what took him so long to work out you were bad for him,’ she said harshly and for once Sherlock didn’t have a comeback. It couldn’t be true. John hadn’t actually left him, had he? No, it was just sex, it didn’t count because John still loved him... didn’t he?
But then, Sherlock remembered the pained look in John’s eye when he told him to go and find someone else, and actually started to panic. He turned back to the table in the secluded corner in time to see the stranger slide his hand up John’s thigh and over his clothed erection.
Something inside Sherlock snapped and he lost control of his own body, his hands shaking with rage as he made his way over to the man that was touching his John, with every intention of ripping him apart. He managed to catch himself at the last second, grabbing John by the scruff of his collar instead and drawing him forcefully to his side.
‘What the...? Sherlock?’ John asked, confused as Sherlock gave the two-finger salute to the man he had been snogging.
‘Sherlock?’ John asked again as Sherlock dragged him though the pub and out the front door. ‘Sherlock, what...?’ Sherlock cut John off, pushing him into the nearest alley, shoving him up against the wall, and crushing their lips together. He forced his tongue past John’s lips and tasted the beer the other man had kissed into his John’s mouth. It was foul and had to go and Sherlock made damn sure there was nothing of the other man left in John’s mouth before he allowed either of them to breathe again.
‘Sherlock, what...?’ John attempted again but faltered as Sherlock slipped his hand up and under his shirt, long possessive fingers stroking him and making his knees tremble.
‘Mine!’ Sherlock growled, forcing a thigh between John’s and stretching his body against him. ‘No one but me is allowed to touch you like that,’ he hissed.
‘What? But Sherlock, you’re the one...’
‘Mistake,’ Sherlock cut in. ‘I don’t like it. Don’t let it happen again!’
Sherlock sucked John’s tongue into his mouth, teasing it with his own as he led them in the messy kiss, the hint of teeth enough to make John buck his hips.
‘He’s still on you,’ Sherlock breathed harshly, narrowing his eyes at John. ‘I can smell him on your skin.’ He buried his face into John’s neck and bit down. John moaned and grabbed Sherlock’s head, pulling him closer as Sherlock flicked out his tongue.
‘I can taste him,’ Sherlock seethed, pressing his hips harder into John. John was pretty much panting by now and Sherlock was finding it hard to concentrate over the heat pooling in his groin.
‘Wh... what are you going to do... do about it?’ John moaned, provoking Sherlock’s newfound possessiveness. Sherlock growled again and pinched one of John’s nipples, rolling it between his thumb and finger before racing both hands to John’s belt and trying to rip into his trousers.
‘Fuck, Sherlock,’ John gasped, trying to wriggle away as Sherlock grabbed him roughly through the material. ‘Not in an alley... Sherlock, wait... not... not here. Sherlock ! ’
Sherlock ignored him and grabbed a fistful of John’s shirt, slamming him firmly against the wall as he crushed their lips together again, hard enough to steal John’s breath from his lungs.
‘Sher-lock,’ John gasped, clearly defining the break in the syllables with a desperate moan. Sherlock took it as consent, too much in need to reclaim his John to hear the half-hearted protests murmured between gasps and curses.
Sherlock finally managed to undo John’s belt and snake his hand into John’s underwear. ‘Sherlock!’ John went bright red and tied to cover himself, protesting as best he could with Sherlock’s tongue down his throat as his trousers plunged to the dirty alley ground. Normally Sherlock would wrap his coat around John to offer at least some privacy but tonight he was too desperate to get inside him, fuck him hard, make him scream, and if someone happened to look into the alley while he was doing just that, well then they would know that John was his.
John’s leg hooked around Sherlock’s waist with very little prompting as John steadied himself against the wall, breathing heavily and frankly looking glad for the second to catch his breath while Sherlock tore his own trousers open. John winced slightly as Sherlock ripped the fiddly button clean off the fabric, sending it flying to some unknown corner of the alley. The zip survived but only by pure luck, Sherlock too desperate to undress to care about the state his clothes would be in after.
Sherlock had, of course, spied the bottle of lubricant John had stashed away in his hidden jacket pocket, but had no intention of using it. Jealousy had taken over him and he couldn’t bear the thought of using the lubricant that had been intended for someone else, hated the idea of something that was not either him or John being involved whatsoever in this exchange. The desperate need to put his mark all over John wouldn’t allow it.
Sherlock contemplated just thrusting in. He knew he wouldn’t be denied but also knew John would be sore and possibly grumpy for weeks so he decided against it. No other option available then but to use spit. Sherlock always felt so dirty spitting, but John always looked at him like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen and that look was what Sherlock wanted; the look of desire and need and hunger complimenting the trust and love that was always there, but which Sherlock had always taken for granted. Well he’d never make that mistake again.
‘I love you, John,’ Sherlock said, the words passing his lips for the first time. ‘You’re mine. How dare you let me suggest you give yourself to someone else?’ John tried to argue but Sherlock distracted him with a thrust against his crotch that made John’s eyes flutter close. ‘Look at me, John,’ Sherlock panted, spitting again to slick John’s entrance. ‘Never take your eyes off me. Watch me as I fuck you.’
The second John’s eyes flew open Sherlock entered him with a short, hard thrust that had John calling out and grabbing at Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock bent his knees slightly to compensate for the height difference before changing his mind and standing up tall, pulling John up so the man was only balancing on tiptoes, one leg still wrapped firmly around Sherlock as Sherlock started to pound into him. It would have been a brutal pace if that position hadn’t made John so tight, making it so damn hard for Sherlock to concentrate as he thrust John into the bricks.
‘Sherlock... Sherlock!’ John was still trying to protest about the public location of their chosen spot, but his moans were getting louder and his breath was coming out harder and it wouldn’t be long before he didn’t care if someone walked in on them, and would be begging Sherlock not to stop.
Sherlock’s thrusts increased in pace, covering any inch of bare skin he could reach with his mouth in bites and sucks, marking John with love-bites that would stand out a brilliant purple after a couple of hours, and even breaking his skin in a few areas to leave a trickle of blood behind. John had given up protesting and reverted to whimpering, barely able to keep his eyes open let alone on Sherlock. Sherlock forgave him for it, letting his own eyes slip closed as he concentrated on the sensation of his hard, hot length sliding in and out of John’s body.
John was as desperate and wanting as Sherlock, their desire burning them just right until John came, crying out Sherlock’s name, shaking and thrashing in his grip.
‘Ah, ah, ah, Sherlock,’ John panted, his over sensitised body still taking a pounding from Sherlock. ‘Sherlock! Oh God, Sherlock!’
‘Mine,’ Sherlock breathed, determined to get as deep as he could, as close as he could, needing so desperately to make John smell like him and sex and lust. ‘Mine.’
Panting, John locked his eyes with Sherlock’s. ‘Yours,’ he breathed and Sherlock came with a low growl.
John collapsed the second Sherlock let go of him, his legs shaking too much to keep him upright, barely managing to get his trousers back in place before his brick-burnt arse landed on the ground. Sherlock took a step back and set his clothing back in place, trying his best to ignore the sticky dampness that made his shirt cling to him as he smoothed out the creases in his trousers. He frowned at the missing button, feeling as though it was mocking him for being so out of control of his emotions enough to rip it off. Jealousy, Sherlock decided, was an emotion he never wanted to feel again.
‘Yours,’ John repeated, a smile touching his lips.
‘Good,’ Sherlock said, scratching the back of his head. ‘Glad that’s... er... settled.’ He cleared his throat and looked away.
‘Sherlock,’ John called, a grin on his face so big it was threatening to split his face in two. ‘I love you, too.’
‘Obviously,’ Sherlock said, feeling himself blush as he recalled his declaration of love. He cleared his throat again and ducked out of the alley, leaving John still panting as he returned to Lestrade.
‘Where were we?’ Sherlock asked once he got back inside. Lestrade just stared at him for quite some time.
‘Sherlock?’ Lestrade asked.
‘I’m fine, it’s fine,’ Sherlock assured offhandedly. ‘Now, back to the killer.’ He snatched the tab sheet out of Donovan’s hands and resumed his calculations as though there hadn’t been a break in between where he’d fucked John mercilessly into a wall.
John returned still supporting that ridiculous grin and slinked his way over to Sherlock.
‘Not now, John, I’m in the middle of a case!’ Sherlock complained, a smirk touching his lips as John glared at him.
‘Right, fine,’ John said before stalking off, straight back to his friend who was still sitting confused at the table. Sherlock felt the flare of jealousy rise within him once more, like a flame starting a forest fire.
‘I may be a while, inspector,’ Sherlock gritted through his teeth as he shoved the paper back into Donovan’s hands. ‘I need to reclaim my property.’ With that Sherlock stormed off in the same direction as John leaving both Lestrade and Donovan in want of less imaginative minds as to precisely what ‘reclaiming property’ entailed.