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John Watson was not a romantic at heart.
That isn’t to say that the man was not a gentleman – he was, without a doubt – but he had always found himself somewhat subservient to the whims of his more base desires. Certainly, whenever circumstances permitted, he enjoyed the surprises of dating and the familiar comfort found in serious relationships, but he could not deny the primal pleasure he derived from pure sex. Filthy words being growled into ears, sweat-slick rutting in alleyways behind seedy bars, legs beginning to shake uncontrollably beneath him while his head was dipped between thighs – he loved it all, drank in every ounce of sensation with wolf-like satisfaction.
The past few weeks had been particularly restrictive on his more primitive urges, as a slew of unexpectedly baffling, dramatic cases had been brought to Sherlock’s attention and were apparently deemed worthy of his intellect. Ever a faithful assistant and friend, John had followed, questioning and rethinking, nudging Sherlock towards the occasional bite of toast or cup of tea.
The night prior had brought the conclusion of the fifth case and, with hardly time for a short kip between each, Sherlock had returned to Baker Street more blurred and frayed at the edges than usual. He normally slept for at least twelve hours after a case, although sometimes up to fourteen after particularly taxing ones such as this had been. Therefore, John had no qualms about slipping past his friend’s figure early the next morning – draped haphazardly as he was across the lounge in the sitting room, as though he had simply fallen onto it and into slumber in the same movement, and remained in both – and into the bathroom for a relaxing bath and a wank.
He had not at all, not in the slightest, anticipated that while he engulfed himself in the steam and the gentle caress of near-scalding water, stroking himself leisurely, said friend would stride unceremoniously into the room. With barely a glance at him, Sherlock made a beeline for a medium-sized red bucket resting on the floor beside the vanity, while John splashed about, spluttering ill-formed sentences and cut-off words in an attempt to communicate his outrage at this unexpected turn of events.
There was no use in even entertaining the thought of hiding the uncapped bottle of conditioner – oh god, Sherlock’s conditioner – he’d relocated for his purposes. It currently sat on the floor beside the bathtub, seeming very out of place and very, very obvious: his hair wasn’t yet entirely damp.
“What the– Sherl– Jesus– what the fuck, Sherlock?!”
As a result of his confused haste, water had sloshed over the edge of the tub and was currently drenching the floor mat.
Sherlock ignored the commotion behind him, bending to examine the bucket on the floor, tilting it this way and that to regard its contents. John had completely overlooked it upon first entering the room.
“Do you have any idea – should’ve learnt manners – personal space – we’ve talked about – how could you – when you know – Sherlock, look at me!”
John could sense the man in question rolling his eyes, even if he couldn’t see the movement. Sherlock only considered it necessary to turn his neck ninety-degrees rather than his whole body, so he was merely half-facing his flatmate. He still clutched the odd bucket in his grip.
“I rather suspected you would’ve preferred I did the opposite.”
His eyes positively glittered with silent mirth.
This is fine, John thought mildly. I could collapse and die right now and I’d probably be fine with it.
Being embarrassed in the company of Sherlock Holmes was worse than having an entire stadium full of people laughing at you. At least the crowd would be neither as annoyingly gorgeous nor as dickishly intelligent as him.
Fuck.
Breathe. How does one breathe? It seemed an impossible task, especially laying naked in a bathtub, still half-hard, locking eyes with your deadpan flatmate from across the room.
“Frankly, John,” Sherlock started, to John’s increasing dismay, “it’s not anything I haven’t heard before. Or seen, to some degree, for that matter.” He added the last part almost as an afterthought, his eyes narrowing as if recalling some vague memory of walking into the bathroom unannounced or of John exiting it with his towel not fastened safely enough around him. John wanted the tiles to swallow him up. “Besides, it’s not as though I have any interest in watching.”
“That’s not the point!” John blurted.
The only response was the cocking of his friend’s head to the side in askance. He realised very quickly it was of imperative consequence that Sherlock departed the bathroom as swiftly as was humanly possible.
John carefully repositioned his thumb and middle finger to clasp around the base of his cock, wanting to both cease the further flow of blood to the area, and retain that which was already pulsing there.
“The point is I was taking a bath, which is generally a private activity, and you felt there was something so vitally important that you had to interrupt without warning.”
Sherlock stared at him and then said very slowly, as if to a small child: “Yes.”
John gaped with furious exasperation as the man spun carelessly, returning to the stupid bucket.
“What are you even doing?!”
“Experiment,” came the short answer.
Glancing at the ceiling, John wondered what would happen if he simply stood up, grabbed his towel and left the room. Sherlock would be unbothered, no doubt, but John’s pride would surely sustain a beating.
“It’s time-sensitive, so naturally, I had set an alarm on my phone. Really –” Sherlock extracted what looked like a toothpick, a butter knife, some tweezers and a small glass vial from the pockets of his ratty pyjama bottoms, and placed each gently on the floor. “– you should be thanking me.”
“Should I?” John was thinking of tea and porridge, of flowery perfumes and the shade of pink Sherlock’s lips turned when he was outside for extended periods in winter, and of the sweet, sweet release of death.
“Of course. This time I troubled myself with containing the mould cultures in this bucket instead of using the bathtub, since you expressed such vehement dislike for the idea after the last occurrence.”
Was it crazy that John was actually very thankful and a little bit proud of his friend’s doing so? Yes. Yes, probably.
“Sherlock, I swear to god,” John said through gritted teeth, his voice deciding to sound a little choked for good measure. “Either help me or get out, I don’t give a fuck, but please, please stop talking about mould.”
Sherlock stilled. John knew he’d said something very wrong but didn’t have the presence of mind to contemplate exactly which part it was. His flatmate rose to his feet, abandoning the bucket with the soft rattle of its handle, and finally turned toward him. From his privileged position looming over John, Sherlock directed a level gaze at him and said, “Well, if you’re offering.”
John’s vision blacked out for a moment, in which he could have sworn he heard the quiet whoosh of fabric being dragged over skin. When his eyes fancied themselves ready to become accustomed to the harsh bathroom light once more, Sherlock was poised before him, completely naked. It did not escape John’s notice that the man’s thin, perfect cock was standing at half-mast.
In response to raised eyebrows, John’s hands found the bottom of the tub and propelled himself to one end in a single fluid movement. He had no idea what he was doing; all he knew was that he was aching for release, and the frustratingly attractive man he lived with looked ready and willing to assist him.
Sherlock stepped into the tub and lowered himself onto his knees, which he positioned on the inside of John’s. He seemed entirely unfazed by the high water temperature, however he took a moment to openly observe John, laying before him like this, in all his glory.
“I already knew you used my conditioner on infrequent occasions.”
John was suddenly not embarrassed by this whatsoever.
“If it had bothered me, I would’ve said something.”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped to his flatmate’s Adam’s apple, tracking the telling bob of it in his throat as he swallowed heavily. Blindly, John reached one hand onto the floor beside them and retrieved the bottle.
“Good to know.”
Sherlock took the bottle from him, grabbed John’s left hand and poured a small amount of conditioner into his palm. He nodded. Go on, then.
Sherlock found that watching John’s face as he worked himself was exquisite. He started slow, evidently still self-conscious, but then the sensation and the realisation of oh god, this is really happening, he’s really here watching me with those eyes, like he wants to fucking consume me seemed to sink in, and the pace of his hand increased. Hungry eyes drank in the sight as he flicked his wrist just so whenever his hand approached the head of his cock.
The man was a marvel, a renaissance painting, a symphony in himself. Sherlock found himself wanting to catalogue every twitch of his mouth, every tense-untense-tense of his shoulders, every shade of his storm-cloud eyes while his gaze never strayed from Sherlock’s own. Suddenly unable to restrain himself any longer, Sherlock bent down and captured John’s lips with his own, in the same movement as his left hand slipped down to join the other man’s.
The noise John made in that instant was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard: more captivating than Mozart, more evocative than Tchaikovsky, more beautiful than Brahms.
At first, their mouths were sloppy, John recovering from his surprise and Sherlock trying to adjust the angle of his torso to something more comfortable. Then Sherlock parted his lips at the same time John’s tongue sought his own, and a cacophony of sensation exploded behind Sherlock’s closed eyelids.
They explored each other’s mouths for a time, with all the enthusiasm of drowning men searching for their last breath, until John’s head tipped back, his chest heaving as he panted. Sherlock took the opportunity to anoint his jawline with kisses, and then proceeded to suck and lick his way down the man’s neck.
A thought occurred to him, an abrupt urge striking him like a flash of lightning, and Sherlock stilled both of their hands.
John thought he might combust if he held out any longer. A whine escaped from the depths of his throat.
“John, I’d like to taste you,” Sherlock breathed, both soft and low at once.
Eyes widened in reply, a head nodding eagerly in spite of overt disbelief. Water sloshed as the conditioner was rinsed off. Yes, definitely going to combust.
Sherlock seemed almost timid as he shuffled backward, bending lowly to lick the head of John’s cock just as a sinner bows in repentance. Then he raised his eyes to meet John’s gaze and, in one swift motion, swallowed him down to the hilt.
The side of John’s hand flew to his own mouth and he bit down to stifle what would probably have been a scream.
The lapping of water and the obscene sounds vibrating from within Sherlock’s throat while he sucked John echoed in addictive harmony around the tiled room. John’s eyes slid shut. A hand rose to thread fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He held on for dear life as the man sent him crashing into ecstasy, obstinately ignoring the single, unambiguous tug on his curls.
When John next managed to reopen his eyes, following an extended period of attempting to get his breath back, he was blessed with the sight of his flatmate reclining at the other end of the bathtub. Hand slick with what he assumed was fresh conditioner and the remnants of John’s own come, Sherlock was working himself at a pace just short of feverish. His eyes were heavily lidded and his head tilted upwards, exposing the enticing column of his alabaster neck. A vein jumped in it, the blood within pounding along to the symphony the two men had unwittingly begun to create together.
Bracing himself on one side of the tub – he didn’t yet trust the solidity of his knees – John leant forward and licked a daring stripe up the other man’s neck, followed by an array of kisses dotted across it. Judging by the moan that erupted from Sherlock’s mouth, the sentiment was well received.
When Sherlock reached his climax, he slumped forward, his hands reaching out to soften his fall and landing upon John’s chest. His forehead came to rest on a shoulder, and he absently registered arms loosely wrapping around him as his eyelids fluttered shut. There they remained for a time, while the bath water rapidly cooled, clutching each other in an unexpected moment of closeness that somehow felt far more intimate than the act they had just engaged in.
Words were left unsaid for now; the thrumming of their heartbeats seemed enough.
“John,” Sherlock said finally, tentatively, unwilling to shatter the peaceful moment but aware of the knowledge that he had to anyway.
“Mm.”
“For a bath, I’m certainly much less clean than when I stepped in.”
John gently pulled back from the embrace, eyes searching. He nodded calmly. “You can get back to your mould cultures, you madman. Just let me give you a quick wash down first, alright?”
Sherlock’s face split into a wide grin. “Not that I wasn’t glad for the invitation.”
“Any time,” John chuckled. He placed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, sparing only a moment for them to blink some form of their own bewildered, besotted morse code at each other before he reached for a wash cloth.
Maybe he was a romantic after all.