Sherlock blinked. He looked away from the screen then back again and pressed pause. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He shouldn’t be watching this. He really shouldn’t be watching this. It wasn’t right, and even he knew that. He should quietly backtrack and delete it from his mind. (And his browser history.) Actually watching it would make things awkward. It would fuel the heated fantasies he had no way of fulfilling.
John wasn’t interested.
John wasn’t gay.
But if Sherlock was going to delete it anyway, there wasn’t really any reason he couldn’t watch it first. That’s what he told himself.
Sherlock had already been thinking of John when he clicked on this page, but this was nothing he had ever been able to deduce, nothing he even dreamt of finding. Actual porn. With John.
It wasn’t a good idea, wasn’t what a good friend would do. But he had no delusions of good. He couldn’t help himself and if he was honest with himself, he barely even tried. With a rare pang of guilt, (Interesting. Examine later.) Sherlock restarted the video.
John sat back on the cheap bed, his back against the equally cheap wallpaper. Sherlock recognised the hotel. His old dealer often had a room there. The kind of place where no one cared what went on in the rooms so long as the hourly fee was paid and the police didn’t arrive.
There for anyone to see, John H. Watson wore nothing more than a pair of bright red pants and a smile. His sparkling blue eyes untouched by the horrors of war, his chest and shoulders were smooth, not marked by the ravages of the bullet wound and subsequent infection that had sent him home from Afghanistan. His body was leaner, though muscular even then and his shoulders weren’t quite as broad as the John Watson of 221B. As Sherlock’s eyes travelled downward, his eyes widened. He had deduced, of course, but wasn’t fully prepared for the sight. John’s bulge was impressive and he wasn’t even hard yet. That shouldn’t be surprising, given the site he had been scrolling when this vid turned up. A site chosen specifically with John in mind. And, yet, it still made Sherlock draw in an awed breath.
John’s smile broadened for the camera as he rubbed the heel of his hand against his Y-fronts. He moaned as the fabric began to stretch taut. Continuing to rub himself, he trailed a hand up over his chest, looking at the camera through half lidded eyes. He licked his lips, not tauntingly as porn actors were wont to do, but in an unconscious gesture he’d watched John make a hundred times. Nothing felt staged or rehearsed. More like walking in on an intimate moment and having him let you watch. John’s eyes slipped shut, he threw his head back, and stopped looking at the camera altogether as his fingertips brushed lightly over the glans.
It was less than a full minute in and Sherlock was already achingly hard. He palmed himself through his trousers. Why he was still wearing them considering what he came into the bedroom to do, he wasn’t quite sure. He drew down the zip, and palmed himself once more, this time just through the silk of his boxers, his eyes fixed on the screen before him.
Onscreen, John adjusted himself, so his hard cock stood straight toward his navel. He hadn’t removed or even lowered his pants yet, but now the tip of his cock was visible above the elastic waistband. Sherlock moaned as he watched John slide the tight circle of his thumb and pointer down, drawing back the foreskin to expose the flushed head. He ran his index finger over the glans, spreading a bead of precome around, then licked his fingers with a cheeky wink.
Sherlock mimicked John’s movements, alternately picturing touching John or John touching him. By the time John finished onscreen, Sherlock was close, but not quite there yet. He almost restarted it when his eyes fell on the suggested titles at the bottom of the screen, some just other solo men, but two were suggested because it was the same actor. This time, John wasn’t alone. Holding his breath, Sherlock pressed play.
It had been a long day with case after case of the flu. One charming child sicked up all over the room and, as bad as he felt for the kid, it had just been the cherry on top of shit sundae of a day. All John wanted in the whole world was a cuppa and some mindless telly. Of course life couldn’t be that easy. Not for Dr. John H. Watson. Not today.
Sherlock cornered him as soon as he’d stepped through the door.
“How did I miss this? We’ve lived together for ages. How did I miss this?”
What the seven hells was Sherlock on about now? John sighed, trying to at least hang up his coat and toe off his shoes while Sherlock closed into his personal space and hounded him. Taking in Sherlock’s face, his body language, and… oh.
“So who sent them to you, then?” John said, bypassing the actual question, which by rights should have been rhetorical, though one could never tell with Sherlock.
Sherlock looked at him quizzically for a moment. “John, no one sent me anything,” Sherlock began, but John didn’t let him get any further.
“I’m not ashamed, you know. Not of this. Kept me fed and off the streets. Besides which, it was fun. I enjoyed it.”
Sherlock shot him a look that said, “obviously” as clearly as if he had uttered it aloud.
And then the penny dropped. He said no one had sent it to him, which meant he had found it on his own.
“Oh, God,” John glanced down and suddenly, it became difficult not to notice Sherlock’s obvious and heretofore unheard of… interest. “You were actually searching. Not for me, but for…” John trailed off feeling like ‘giant cocks’ wasn’t exactly something that needed stating. He brows furrowed for a moment. “You do have needs, then.” John gestured vaguely, “Not always just transport? And if you found me I have some indication of how your tastes run, because very few searches turn up those particular vids this many years later.”
Sherlock stared down at him, open and vulnerable, taking a slight step back, giving a little more space, just enough for John to neatly sidestep, and walk into the kitchen.
John poured out a finger of whisky and knocked it back. Christ, he was livid. He shouldn’t be. Fucking hell, if you had told him a week ago that he would have the opportunity to shag his mad flatmate, he would have doubted it, but been pleased at the prospect to say the least. God knew he’d imagined it often enough. But now? Maybe it was the wretched day he’d had. Maybe he was a bit defensive about this work and those days, because Christ he’d had a lot of ribbing for it through the years. But honestly, he was bloody fed up with people getting their interests piqued by something he had no control over.
An asset and a curse in turns, but overall it simply was. The sky was blue, the sun rose in East and John Watson had a huge cock. He learned long ago that women were either terrified or cautiously excited and that his God-given anatomy did not, in itself, a good lover make. Men on the other hand? Well, the men he’d been with had divided pretty neatly into those who were jealous and insecure (usually both), and those who were interested in his cock and that alone.
When Sherlock finding out had occurred to him at all, he assumed he might be mocked for engaging in something so banal, and publicly no less. Instead he was interested? Now? It stung. He had struck John as many things, arrogant and vain among them, but never shallow enough to get hung up on one little thing.
Well, one large thing, he supposed, but still...
As John banged about brewing the cuppa he needed even more now than he had 5 minutes ago, he knew he should try to just let it go. Sherlock would drop it eventually, surely. But he just couldn’t.
“Run across some new data that suddenly interested you, perhaps? You’d made the usual deductions, I’m sure. Short man, small hands. Good for surgery, not so good for what you’re seeking? People do tend toward proportional, on the whole. No real correlation between shoe size or anything else, but still, balance of probabilities, right? So I got an easy letdown. Downright civil for you, in fact. Ta. And I bought it. For years. Sherlock just doesn’t feel things that way. Asexual or something, right? Best not think along those lines. We’re mates. Best friends, yeah? Because he’ll bloody never want more no matter how you love him.
“Apparently, as it turns out most of the world just isn’t up to your,” he brought his hands up, wide apart like a fisherman describing the one that got away, “standards. Christ.” He dropped his hands and dunked the teabag repeatedly before casting it aside, too irritated to wait for it to properly steep. He took a swig. It was too much and too hot, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. He managed to swallow and set the mug down a little harder than intended. It didn’t break, but the noise it made was alarming and tea sloshed over onto the worktop.
“John,’ Sherlock began, but paused, taking everything in.
John was breathing hard, fists clenching and unclenching. His brain had barely even caught up with what he’d admitted in that little diatribe. Fuck. How had everything gone horribly pear shaped? John took another more manageable sip of the tea and winced slightly. Still, too hot.
“John, stop,” Sherlock continued, mildly. A simple directive, a suggestion really, but John was too worked up to listen. He pressed on. He needed Sherlock to say it.
“Why Sherlock? Just tell me that. ‘Married to your work’, you said. No interest. At all. Turned down flat the first night. What changed, hmm? Why is today suddenly different?” John huffed.
Sherlock looked less alarmed and more amused now. “Yes, and ‘not gay’ was your tireless refrain after my initial, foolishly broad, rebuff. I thought later that perhaps I had misjudged and you really hadn’t been flirting. There is always something, as you’ve seen. But I needed to be clear. I wasn’t looking for someone to date or to fuck. I needed you. I needed a flatmate, but I could already tell you were so much more. Perfect for helping with the Work, too. I needed you to stay. By the time I wanted more, it wasn’t a possibility, whether I was too late or you simply hadn’t been interested. You’d stated your position with crystalline clarity. We weren’t together, you weren’t gay. Obviously.” Sherlock laughed, only just a trace of bitterness, “You tried to shag half the ladies in London in the past two years. So save your lectures. I’m not a bloody size queen. Not averse, granted, but that wasn’t the revelation, you idiot.” There was no bite to it. If anything, he sounded fond.
John stalked back into the sitting room. He’d stopped blustering and sank onto the sofa. Instead of his usual chair. Everything was off kilter and he couldn’t bear to sit as they always had when everything was on edge. “Alright, I’ll bite,” he said quietly. “If that wasn’t the revelation, then, what was?”
Sherlock sat next to him, leaving a careful amount of space between them.
“You were with men. Unabashedly. On film, no less. And I thought, well, maybe there’s actually a chance that I had been right that first night and you’d just been saving face with the rejection and since then merely pointing out that we weren’t together so you could date or at least get a leg over elsewhere. A chance, just a chance, that you might actually want to be with me.”
Looking at Sherlock’s great doe eyed sincerity, John’s anger melted away. “So you’re not just...”
“John,” Sherlock said softly, meeting his eyes, “If I was just looking for a particular physical attribute, don’t you think I would have found someone for that? I don’t do this. I view porn on occasion. A release resets the system, allows me to ignore it for awhile longer. Do you know what possessed me to go out on that site in the first place? ”
John shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He’d been foolish enough with that already this evening.
Sherlock’s lips twitched up slightly, a twinkle returning to his eyes, “It would be hard to have lived together this long and not have noticed how you walk.”
John smacked him lightly on the arm.
Sherlock laughed, but his face sobered as he added quietly, “I am serious. It was you I was thinking about. And then I couldn’t think of anything else. I needed to clear my mind to get anything done, so I went searching for something visual to help focus my thoughts, and then it was actually you, and…” Sherlock trailed off, his cheeks actually coloring. “I shouldn’t have watched, but I couldn’t resist.”
It was John’s turn smile, then he licked his lips and leaned in, slowly, so Sherlock could have moved if he wanted to, although everything in their conversation suggested he wanted this. Still, John had made quite a prat of himself this evening. It would be understandable if this wasn’t the right time.
Far from moving away, though, Sherlock took in a small breath, his lips parting as he closed his eyes and tilted his head expectantly.
Their lips barely brushed at first, before John whispered, “All right?”
Sherlock slipped one hand up to the back of his neck, pulling him down for a deeper kiss in answer.
When they parted, both were breathless and more than a little starry eyed.
“You were right, you know,” John said.
“Of course I was,” Sherlock drawled, “but about what in particular?”
John chuckled, shaking his head slowly at the arrogant bastard in his arms. He should know better by now than to tell him he was right. “About that first night, I mean. I was flirting with you at Angelo’s. Not sure it was quite conscious, but I definitely was.”
Sherlock slipped from the couch and onto his knees with grace, looking up almost hesitantly at John, who spread his legs a little wider in invitation. ”All right?” Sherlock asked.
“Whatever you’d like, Sherlock. It’s all fine.”
Sherlock leant forward and unfastened John’s flies and pulled John’s cock free. He slid back the foreskin and swirled his tongue over the glans, savoring John’s moan and the heady scent of arousal. Sherlock mouthed over the shaft, getting it nice and wet before sliding his lips over the head and sucking gently.
John resisted bucking up into that plush mouth, but it was a near thing, as Sherlock sucked harder, taking more and more of the length.
“Jesus,” John breathed as Sherlock relaxed his throat and took him all the way in. It had been ages since he’d had anyone even try to deepthroat him, let alone succeed, and the sensation was sublime. Then Sherlock swallowed and John better understood what people meant when they said they saw stars.
John groaned when Sherlock found the perfect rhythm, curls bouncing as he sucked, then taking him deep again. John threw his head back in pleasure, his eyes shutting out any sensation other than Sherlock touching him, Sherlock’s lips and tongue and, fuckfuckfuck, that throat. He had trained himself to last, but not against something he had wanted this long and then, he heard the zip. He opened his eyes to see that Sherlock had taken himself in hand and was stroking himself off. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.
“Sherlock, I’m going to...” was all John managed, because at that moment, Sherlock hummed in satisfaction, and John couldn’t hold off any longer. He trembled and cried out, spilling down Sherlock’s throat.
“Christ, Sherlock.” John looked down at him with nothing less than awe. “That was incredible. You’re... Come here, love..”
John guided Sherlock back on the couch. “I need to touch you, to watch you come apart.”
“Then let’s get you the rest of the way there. I want to see you come for me.”
Another time, John would use his mouth, would seek out every way he could bring him pleasure, but right now, he just wanted to see Sherlock come, to feel him pulse hot and wet over his fingers. He straddled his thighs and picked up the rhythm that Sherlock had set for himself. “Christ, you’re beautiful like this.” John leant down to kiss him deeply, his hand never faltering. Sherlock moaned into their kisses as John stroked him off.
Sherlock broke off their kiss, chanting John’s name like a prayer until he came, arching up off the couch with the force of it and coating his stomach and John’s hand.
John’s hand stilled and he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s as they lay together, letting their racing heartbeats slow.
Coming back to himself, Sherlock broke the silence. “You were right too, you know.”
“Oh, I was?” John murmured, kissing Sherlock again.
“Mmhmm. I might, perhaps, be just a bit of a size queen.”
John looked smug rather than irritated this time. “Well, aren’t you the lucky boy, then?”
Sherlock smirked back at him for a moment before they dissolved into laughter. Once started, they couldn’t stop. They giggled helplessly, shaking with laughter until they slipped off the couch, tangled up together, a ridiculous jumble of limbs trapped in half-removed clothes. They laughed even harder at that for a moment as they disentangled.
“The luckiest,” Sherlock panted, trying to get back his breath.
“Not sure about that,” John said, turning a bit serious, despite his impish grin. “I think that title belongs to me, besides which, I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”
“I don’t, but I might be willing to indulge after getting… Lucky?”