“Johnnnn,” Sherlock yelled as he walked in the door, slamming it behind him.
“On the couch,” John called back.
“I went and got a few pints with Mycroft, and I’m feeling a little tipsy. I deduce that you think it’s funny.”
“Come sit, you seem off balance over there,” John chuckled.
“I’m fine. I can—“ Sherlock fell over with a crash.
“You obviously can’t from that little show. Let me help you.”
“Fine, but I’m really okay.”
John walked over, thinking about how adorable Sherlock’s flushed cheeks were. He held out his hand, offering to help Sherlock up. Sherlock took his hand and fell right into John’s chest. John’s heart fluttered at the feeling of Sherlock in his arms.
“I’m not sure if I can walk, John. Can you carry me? Pretty please?”
“You are definitely not fine, you just said ‘please’.”
“I say please when I want to,” Sherlock whined, “and I still want you to pick me up. I want to feel your strong arms around me, I’ve always wanted to see just how strong you are. If I’m right you could carry almost triple my weight, and I’m always right.”
“You think about how strong I am on a regular?” John said, face flushed red, because good Lord, Sherlock just admitted to thinking about his arms around him. John picked Sherlock up, causing a gasp to escape the taller man.
“Oh yes, and it’s not the only thing I try to deduce about what’s under your clothes. Sometimes I wonder if you’re still as fit underneath those stupid sweaters you wear as when you worked in the army. And of course I try to imagine where the scars are based on your stories.... but there’s something else I think about, that I think of the most—“
John had thrown Sherlock over his shoulder, Sherlock’s face all too close to his arse. John blushed tomato red, realizing what Sherlock was referring to.
“Sherlock, you’re very drunk, I should get you to bed.”
“Yes, my bed. Let’s go,” Sherlock said, giving an awkward pat to John’s very perfect arse.
John yelped and started towards Sherlock’s door.
“Well, here,” John said, placing Sherlock down in his bed.
“Stay?” Sherlock asked.
“Sherlock you’re drunk and tomorrow you’re going to either forget all this or regret the things you said. I’m not going to sleep with you. No matter how much I want. I’ve waited too long for this to be a one time drunken thing.”
“You think about me too?” Sherlock asked in a small voice. “All this time we could’ve been in the same bed and you didn’t say anything? God, John, I wish I’d been able to deduce this sooner.”
“You’re not going to remember this conversation in the morning anyways. It doesn’t matter what I tell you. Like how I’ve been in love with you since you jumped. Then you were gone and I tried to find the farthest thing from you. But I only managed to find Mary and she left me too. It killed me when you died. I spent every day missing you, wishing I had told you. It just never seemed like the right time. I didn’t think you’d feel the same way either, after all, you were married to your work. I tried to kill myself so many times after you were gone, I held that gun close to my head every night wishing you’d come back to me. And then you came back and I thought I’d finally moved on, but no, I still loved you. I was so mad at you, for being yourself, for being dead and alive, I was so mad at myself for loving you. I still am. I hate loving you because you’re so out of my reach. So fuck it, you won’t remember this anyways, I love you William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and I always will.”
Tears were streaming down John’s cheeks, on his knees, head resting on Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he stroked John’s hair.
“I love you too, John. So much, you don’t even know. I left to protect you and everyday I missed you, I hated being away from you. And then I came back and you were with someone else, but you looked so happy with her when I saw you, I couldn’t tell you then. You were so angry with me, that hurt me more than any of the tortures I went through to get rid of Moriarty’s web. Then you wanted me to be your best man, and it broke me because I wanted to be the one up there with you saying ‘I do’, but I did my best to make it the best day for you. I was so afraid of messing it all up for you. And all through the speech I was trying to tell you without saying the words in front of them all, John Hamish Watson, you are the best man I’ve ever met, my best friend, and the thing that keeps me from going back to drugs or committing suicide, I love you.”
“Stop saying this Sherlock. You’re drunk, you don’t even know what you’re saying. You don’t even know how much you’re hurting me. Just, just stop. Tomorrow it’ll be like nothing happened. It’s just a dream, just like always.”
John stood and left, shoulders pulled back and eyes rimmed red. He tucked himself into his bed, closing his eyes tight and wishing away this feeling of remorse.
It was just a dream again, tomorrow he would wake up and nothing would have changed.
John woke the next morning with sinking feeling in his stomach. He was sure it was a dream, he thought to himself as he brushed his teeth.
He wandered into the kitchen to find Sherlock sitting with a cup of tea and the paper.
“‘Morning, Sherlock. How’s your hangover?”
“Terrible, everything hurts. Of course Mrs. Hudson’s tea is helping, but I still feel quite shitty. How are you feeling, John?”
“I’m still living, if that’s anything to go by,” John said, trying to joke a little.
They sat in silence sipping their tea, John staring at Sherlock, trying to figure out if it really was a dream, while Sherlock read the paper.
“John—about last night—“
“Dammit it wasn’t a dream, it’s all right Sherlock I know you don’t feel the same way, I’ll get over it.”
“No, no, I was going to say I meant every word of what I said to you. So, if you want to go to dinner with me tonight that would be, most appreciated.”
John’s eyes widened in disbelief, this had to be some kind of cruel joke. Sherlock looked up from his paper and said,
“Well, how about it then? Or are you going to sit around with your mouth open like that? It’s quite rude you know, to just not answer me.”
“Of course I’ll go with you, you idiot. I just can’t believe it.”
Sherlock looked back at his paper, “I can’t see why not, I mean, I did tell you I loved you. I think that’s a good sign that I like you. But what would I know, I’m no good at this whole thing, Mycroft’s always deterred me from feelings of any sort.”
John smiled, wondering at this man in front of him, feeling the sudden urge to capture his mouth in his own.
“I was thinking we could go to Angelo’s seeing as that was where we had our first meal together, but then I wasn’t sure if that was too plain a place for a date, so I thought I’d give you the choice.” Sherlock nervously looked up at John, rapidly seeming less and less put together.
“Angelo’s would be wonderful, Sherlock. Surprisingly thoughtful too.”
Sherlock blushed and looked away, rolling his eyes.
“I thought it would be something you would like.”
“Are you blushing Sherlock?”
“No, I have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s just rather hot in here. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t find it hot in here at all, I think you’re blushing. The great Sherlock Holmes is blushing, wait 'til I tell my blog!”
“Shut up,” Sherlock mumbled, obviously embarrassed.
“Make me,” John replied with a devious smile on his lips.
Sherlock looked John dead in the eyes, a mischievous glint in his own.
Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John’s face, leaning forward, breaths ghosting on John’s lips. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as he moved to close the final few inches.
John’s mind was running a mile a minute, because, Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock Holmes, my best friend and long time crush is about to kiss me!
And then it all abruptly stopped when Sherlock’s lips met his own. They were softer then he imagined, much softer.
Sherlock pulled back and smiled, “Alright?” He asked, unsure of himself for a brief second.
“If you can’t tell that that was bloody marvelous, you’re the worst detective that’s ever been.”
Sherlock chuckled and was interrupted by John’s lips on his again.
It was a little more rushed this time, John’s tongue asking for entrance on Sherlock’s lips, Sherlock going pliant and letting John in to explore his mouth. Sherlock moaned into John’s caress, surprising himself.
When they finally parted, panting, John said, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a bloody long time.”
Sherlock smiled and replied, “Me too.”
They stared at each other for almost a full minute before John was pouncing Sherlock’s lips again. He maneuvered himself into Sherlock’s lap, pressing his very hard erection against Sherlock’s. They both gasped at the pressure and John grinded down against him. Sherlock cried out at the sheer intensity of their movements. John grinned and repeated the motion, making Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head.
Sherlock was flushed and disoriented. “John, may I, that is if you’re willing to let me, may I suck you off?” His dark eyelashes fluttered against his porcelain cheekbones, a stark and beautiful contrast.
John choked a little and nodded, afraid of how his voice might sound.
“You have to get off my lap, John.”
“Right, right, sorry,” John scurried off his lap, feeling like a fool standing there.
Sherlock slid down to his knees on the floor and pressed his hand against the strain in John’s jeans. John let out a whimper at the touch. Sherlock pulled at the zipper, revealing John’s bright red boxers. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes blown wide with lust. He toyed with the fabric, seeming rather interested in it. He pulled down both the jeans and the boxers at the same time, staring in wonder at John’s cock. John chuckled and asked, “Like what you see down there, love?”
“Mmm, very much,” Sherlock hummed.
He let his hand stroke down the shaft, reaching the tip and swirling the precome at the head. John cried out when Sherlock’s tongue flicked across where his fingers just were, as if testing the waters. Without warning he took the whole of John’s cock into his mouth. John swallowed his moans, crying out Sherlock’s name.
“Sherlock! Oh God! Fuck fuck fuck Sherlock your mouth— feel so good! Ah! Just like th—fuck!”
John grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled, causing Sherlock to groan as well. Sherlock took his mouth off with a pop.
“Why’d you do that, I was so close!” John said, a bit peeved.
“That’s why I stopped, can’t have you coming before you fuck me into the sheets.”
“Yours or mine?”
In response Sherlock started towards his room, not looking back to see if John was following, because he knew John was.
The second they were in Sherlock’s room, John had the taller man pressed against the wall, hands fumbling to get both their shirts off.
“Bed,” John said in his Captain John Watson voice, not a question, but an order.
Sherlock stopped dead and stared at John, eyes impossibly wide.
“Too much?” John asked, looking vulnerable.
In response Sherlock took off his pants and spread himself on the bed for John to see.
“Not at all. I just like when you go all Captain John Watson on me. It, well, it turns me on,” Sherlock finished, blushing and looking a little self conscious.
“On your back then, no touching yourself, or I will have to handcuff you?” John said falling into his Captain persona.
Sherlock whimpered and pulled his hands above his head. John gave him a long once over, admiring Sherlock’s cock. It was longer then John’s, but skinnier. There was a long vein running down the center, and the head was dripping with precome and purple. He was obviously painfully and desperately hard.
“How do you want to do this?” John asked, a bit unsure of himself now that he was there, he’d never fucked a man before, or been fucked for that matter.
“I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock said quietly.
“What’s that you said?”
“I want you to fuck me, Captain.”
“That’s what I thought.” John thought for a second, trying to figure out how he was supposed to do it.
“Do you need me to walk you through it, John?”
“Erm, yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the mood, just never done this before.”
“It’s fine John. So, first you’ll have to stretch me, there’s lubricant in my nightstand.” John went over and got it out, looking up at Sherlock expectantly.
“I might’ve stretched myself this morning before you got up, so I won’t be too tight and this won’t take too long.” John’s lips quirked up and he raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.
“I’ll let you know when I’m loose enough and then I’ll guide you through the next part,” Sherlock said, ignoring John’s pointed look.
“I’m going to put a pillow under you so I have better access,” John said grabbing an extra pillow.
John slicked his finger with lube and pressed his finger against Sherlock’s hole, extracting a hiss from him.
“Okay?” John asked.
“Keep going,” Sherlock replied.
John nodded and pressed the tip of his finger in, it was surprisingly hot to think he was inside Sherlock bloody Holmes.
“More,” Sherlock moaned.
John pressed all the way in to his second knuckle. Being a doctor John knew how to find the prostate quite simply, and he quickly had found the spot that made Sherlock keen and beg. He pressed against it lightly at first, Sherlock mumbling on about, ‘oh God John, yes! That’s it right ther—AH!’ With that encouragement he pressed a little harder against it, deriving vehement praises to himself and God.
“More, John I need more, add another now. And go harder, please.”
John pressed in his second finger right along with the first, hard, on the next stroke. Sherlock let out a strangled cry, a mix between ‘fuck’ and ‘John’.
They went like that for another minute before Sherlock was begging for a third. And then a fourth. Finally Sherlock moaned,
“I’m ready John, that is if you’re still up for this. We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to. Very much,” John said as he put a generous amount of lube on his very hard, very painful erection.
John looked at the beautiful man spread before him, scars littering his body from the tortures he endured to protect everyone.
“God, you’re beautiful Sherlock. Do you know that?”
“That’s wonderful and all John, but I really need you to fuck me right now. Sentiment for later.”
And with that John lined himself up with Sherlock’s puckered hole, wondering how he was going to keep himself from coming right then and there. He pressed himself forward, and then his tip was in. They both moaned and threw their heads back. John pressed in a little farther, waiting for Sherlock’s go ahead to keep going. He finally pressed all the way in and had seated himself inside Sherlock. He waited, trying to keep himself under control which Sherlock adjusted to John’s cock inside his arse.
“Move,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.
With that John pulled out and gently press back in. John set a slow pace, being unsure of Sherlock’s limits, afraid to hurt the man he loved. His lover. He liked that thought, his lover.
“Harder, dammit. I’m not breakable, John, you of all people should know that.”
John’s self control broke right then and there, as he slammed down into Sherlock, hitting his prostate again and again.
“Oh fuck, John— yes! Right there, yes, that’s it—OH JOHN~”
“Fuck, Sherlock! You’re so—AH— tight! God, I’m not going to last like this, please tell me you’re close.”
“Very.” Sherlock said, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking in rhythm with John’s thrusts.
“Come for me Sherlock,” John commanded, slamming into Sherlock as hard as he could.
“JOHN!” Sherlock cried, shuddering as he came all over both of their chests and stomachs.
Feeling Sherlock clench around him drove John over the edge too, pounding in one last time as he shouted Sherlock’s name. He slumped down onto Sherlock’s now sticky chest, feeling lighter then he ever had before. The was the best sex he’d ever had. He pulled out of Sherlock as gently as he could. Sherlock whimpered as John popped out.
John rolled over and smiled blissfully at Sherlock. Sherlock had his eyes closed and was smiling peacefully.
“Should I go?” John asked, carefully. He didn’t want to hear yes, but he didn’t want to be asked to leave.
“No, I want you here. I want to wake up with you and know it wasn’t just another dream.”
John out the involuntary breath he’d been holding, because thanks God, Sherlock wanted him to stay.
He curled into Sherlock’s side, smiling to himself.
“I love you, Sherlock.”
“And I love you, John.”
They slept the rest of the afternoon, curled close. That evening they went to Angelo’s, getting the lovely couples candle that this time, was wanted.
Sherlock looked at John lovingly and asked, “John, is there such a thing as asking someone to get married too soon,even if you’ve known them for a very long time?”
“I’m sure there is, but this is not one of those times.”
“Hm, okay. I’m still not really sure how these relationship things work, so please inform me if I’m doing things wrong.”
“You’ve done fine so far, love,” John said with a small smile.
That next month John took Sherlock back to Angelo’s, saying he wanted to have a nice night out together after all the crazy cases they’d had.
They sat and ate and joked around as per usual, but John was preparing for the most important moment of his life so far.
At the end of dinner John smiled nervously at Sherlock, knowing Sherlock could tell what was about to happen.
He got down on the floor on one knee, smiling up at Sherlock like there was no one else in the world. He pulled out the ring he got engraved for him.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are the greatest friend I’ve ever had, you’ve saved my life countless times, and you’re also the most brilliant man I’ve ever had the honour of meeting. I would die for you, and you’ve already died once for me, so, please, Sherlock, will you marry me?”
Sherlock started at him, eyes so wide it was a wonder they didn’t fall out right on the floor in front of John.
And then there were tears streaming down Sherlock’s face, not the reaction anyone would’ve expected.
“Yes, oh God yes, I love you John Hamish Watson—“
And then there was no words to follow because they were kissing sloppily, probably up there with the sloppiest ever, but they were so happy, because finally, finally, they were together. And no one could tear them apart, not even death.
John slid the ring on Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock fell into his arms.
On their wedding day, all their friends and family were there, but John and Sherlock couldn’t care less. Sherlock still found weddings trivial and stupid, and John still loved them.
Right there on the steps they kissed, promising each other forever and always, but what no one else saw was the engravings inside their rings, the ones that John and Sherlock Watson saw sitting on the pillow as they were walked down the aisle.