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Reverie

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John Watson’s days have grown quite predictable since his return from Afghanistan.

Break of dawn: the sun begging to be seen through thick grey skies, the buzz of the morning alarm on the nightstand. A cold shower, flick of a comb through the hair, a quick but meticulous shave. Breakfast at the tiny table in his tiny flat: two boiled eggs, one cup of coffee (usually black). Read the paper. Try to ignore the current state of the world by taking a walk through the park. And so on, and so forth, ad nauseam.

Today, however, John has plans to go look at a new flat with an eccentric, beautiful man. The day passes into the night, and the night becomes the most thrilling and bizarre one of John’s life, and going to bed with Sherlock Holmes isn’t even the part that’s unusual.

***

“You fancy me.”

Sherlock is drunk, and he’s probably not making any sense.

John tilts his head, glancing curiously up at his new friend, still buzzing and delirious from the events of the evening. “Pardon?” he asks as they approach the kerb before 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock doesn’t look back at him; doesn’t look at anything but the ground at their feet. “You fancy me,” he repeats plainly, slumping sideways into John, and John presses a shoulder against his in drunken solidarity.

“What are you on about?” John wraps his arm to place a hand protectively onto Sherlock’s lower back as they step up to the kerb.

“You. Obviously.”

“Yes, I get that, but you’re saying I fancy...who?” John asks with somewhat feigned incredulity. His memory is hazy from the rice wine coursing through his veins, though it grants him the courage to allow both hands to settle onto Sherlock’s hips as the two men face one another.

Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s, and the corners of his heart-shaped lips turn upwards. “Whom,” he says, pinning John with his gaze, and John suddenly feels as though he may actually be on fire.

“Who?”

“No,” Sherlock reiterates. “Whom.”

“I fancy a whom?”

“Exactly.”

John stares back blankly, amused by all of the sense his friend continues not to make. The wind gusts past them, rustling the curls that frame Sherlock’s face. John fights the urge to smooth them down, and he very nearly loses the battle.

He settles for: “You’re an idiot.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Sherlock glides his long, gloved fingers over John’s arms, and John is suddenly aware of exactly how much Sherlock is crowding his space.

He lifts an eyebrow, shuffling nervously at his feet. “I—I don’t know. I mean, I suppose since I’m going to be living here soon, and you’re in the state you’re in, it just felt like the right thing to do.”

Sherlock ignores John’s feeble argument, taking a step closer and placing one hand beneath his chin. His expression becomes studious, his eyes growing dark as he towers over John. “When you’re attracted to a person,” he says, his voice low, “the signs are strikingly apparent.”

John audibly swallows, bracing himself for Sherlock’s deduction. He doesn’t fight it; in fact, he thinks, perhaps, he wants it. Wants those eyes peering into him and taking him apart. Wants to hear the workings of that stunning brain pouring out from those gorgeous lips.

Besides, there’s no point in trying to hide from the world’s most observant man.

Sherlock tilts John’s head upwards, his piercing eyes falling to John’s mouth. “The way your tongue slides over your bottom lip as though you’re not quite sure what to do with it, though I presume you’re quite creative in that department. The way your words grow flustered, and you speak without thinking. The way your cheeks become tinted with a dark shade of pink.” He chuckles, brushing his fingers over the skin of John’s neck. “Yes. Exactly like that.”

If it weren’t for his heart pumping loudly in his own chest, John would be certain he’s stopped breathing.

“I do wonder, however,” Sherlock continues, his own tongue peeking out from his mouth as he regards John with curious amusement. “If shooting a serial killer is a standard part of your repertoire.”

John chuckles, nearly dissolving into laughter. “Er, no,” he says. “No, not generally.”

He stares up at the man before him, stunned, searching desperately for the words to respond. But frankly, he doesn’t quite understand it all himself.

The way this man arouses something completely new within him. Something just shy of electric, something that flows through his chest and his belly and his limbs. And the inarguable fact that, from the moment John met this man, he knew he was someone he’s meant to keep, to treasure and to protect.

John finally loses the battle against his own will, reaching a hand up silently to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Assuming I am... interested in you,” he replies softly, “What would it matter? We discussed romantic attachments earlier, and you’ve clearly made prior rules against such a thing.”

Sherlock shivers beneath John’s touch. “I suppose,” he breathes, “now and then, some rules ought to be broken.”

John bites his bottom lip, his fingers still entwined in Sherlock’s curls. “As a military man,” he says coyly, “I’m afraid I’m not so experienced with the concept of breaking rules. So perhaps you could help me figure it out.” He rakes his fingertips over Sherlock’s scalp, eliciting another shiver. “Would you say that I’m breaking them at the moment?”

Sherlock’s eyes drift shut. “Oh, absolutely.”

John inhales and exhales, tracing his finger down the side of Sherlock’s cheekbone and settling his open palm upon his cheek. Bringing his other hand upwards, he cups Sherlock’s head in his hands, and Sherlock stills completely. “And how about now?” he asks.

Sherlock relaxes, leaning into John’s touch with a satisfied smile. “Very much so.”

John slowly pulls Sherlock’s head downwards; bumps their noses together, and Sherlock sighs onto his lips. “And now?” he murmurs.

“John.” Sherlock closes the space between their bodies, pressing their torsos together firmly.

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to know what would be the most significant rule breaker of all?”

“What’s that?” John asks, praying to any god who will listen that there’s only one answer.

“If you were to kiss me right now.”

John hums and tilts Sherlock’s head down to seal their lips together—and he thinks to himself, if breaking rules were to always make him feel so earth-shatteringly alive, he’d surely become a criminal.

Chapter Text

His lips are every bit as soft and sweet as John had imagined. And since they’d met, he’d imagined little else.

But he never imagined the two of them like this, at half past one in the morning, drunk on rice wine and the presence of each other. Here, at the entryway of his brand new home, dark and quiet, though bright and buzzing merely hours before. Here, with his new flatmate, the man he’d met and solved murders with and saved and kissed all within a span of thirty-six hours.

And he’s touching him. Touching every part of him that he can reach—Hair. Face. Neck. Arm. Hair. Neck. Hair.

Sherlock holds John in a warm embrace, his arms wound possessively around his shoulders as he pulls him upwards. John’s fingers trickle up and down Sherlock’s spine, the coarse wool of the jacket at his fingertips a stark contrast to the delicate brushes of their lips in chaste, lingering kisses.

As they sigh into one another’s mouths, John thinks he’d be content to continue kissing Sherlock exactly like this forever. But Sherlock, seemingly ever-impatient, begins to squirm, scooping John’s body towards his and kissing him with gradually more fervour. John grins against his lips, finding his raw enthusiasm unbearably attractive. He nips at Sherlock’s bottom lip and pokes his tongue out teasingly until Sherlock begins to audibly whimper, and the sound of his desperation does John in.

He takes Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and licks at the seam of his lips. Sherlock’s mouth falls open with a sharp inhalation, claiming John’s tongue greedily. He moans, running his tongue along John’s bottom lip, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him. Wrapped up in one another, they kiss just like that—endlessly discovering each other with fingers and tongues and lips.

Eventually, the thickness between John’s legs becomes more than he can bear, and Sherlock presses up against his thigh with an echoing hardness of his own.

Sherlock unseals their lips with a gasp, and he looks down at John with eyes blown dark.

“Stay the night.”

It’s not a question, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. John could never say no.

“Yeah,” is John’s simple answer, and he takes both of Sherlock’s hands into his.

They walk through the entryway of 221 Baker Street and head up the stairwell, making a valiant attempt at silence and grace. But through fits of giggles and wandering hands and the clumsy removal of outer layers, they fail miserably.

They’ll apologise to Mrs. Hudson tomorrow.

Before the front door of the flat even swings open, they’re kissing again, panting into one another’s mouths and brushing their fingers through each other’s hair. They toe off their shoes and socks as they tread through the sitting room and into Sherlock’s bedroom, lips wandering to earlobes and necks and jaws along the way.

They collapse onto Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock on his back and John straddling his waist from above as he licks mercilessly into his mouth. He fumbles with the top button of Sherlock’s shirt, and then the second, exposing the creamy skin of his neck and shoulders.

It tempts him more than he can resist. He plants open-mouthed kisses onto Sherlock’s collarbone while working the rest of the buttons and sliding the shirt off his arms, all while Sherlock moans and tugs loosely and desperately at John’s short hair.

As soon as Sherlock’s shirt is off, their lips come crashing back together. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, kissing him, lingering and open-mouthed but with intent. They rock their hips together, all warm tongues sliding over lips as though they were made to be slotted into place.

They kiss until John feels dizzy enough to faint; until he feels hot enough to melt; until he’s hard enough in his pants that he truly doesn’t think he can bear it, now. He unseals his lips from Sherlock’s, gazing back down at his kiss swollen mouth and eyes deeper than the sea.

He looks exquisite.

“I want your skin,” he says to Sherlock lowly, his tongue flicking out over his wet bottom lip.

Sherlock bursts into laughter. “You do realise, given my line of work, I could take that request in a myriad of ways?”

John hangs his head low, his sides shaking with silent laughter. “The second I said it.”

“I mean, really, John? Would you like to remove it from my body and wear it?” he wheezes, his face red with laughter. “Would you like to view it beneath a microscope?”

“God, not even the tiniest bit,” John groans. “I want to see you naked, you berk.”

They laugh together, and it’s joyous and beautiful, just as it had been earlier in the corridor, when they’d made jokes about Afghanistan.

Sherlock eyes John’s body unabashedly. “You’ve got some catching up to do.” His fingers slide beneath the hem of John’s jumper, and John gasps at the sensation of Sherlock’s long, cool fingers against his burning skin.

“Off,” Sherlock demands.

John pulls his jumper over his head. The two men meet one another’s lips again while they fumble with belts and zips. John kicks his trousers off, and then takes Sherlock by the shoulders and flips their bodies over, pulling him on top of him.

Sherlock kicks his trousers off as well. He encases John’s thighs within his, and in a heartbeat, they’re fully naked and rutting against one another’s wet, throbbing lengths, moaning and clutching to each other’s bodies with stuttering breaths.

Sherlock arches his back as they frot, sliding forwards and backwards on top of John until he’s a gasping, writhing mess. He bucks so rapidly and recklessly that John begins to feel the tip of his cock graze against Sherlock’s arsehole every few strokes.

Sherlock’s eyelids seal themselves shut, his sweat-matted curls sticking to his scarlet face. He’s so beautiful that John can’t simply watch anymore.

“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting himself up and pulling Sherlock in for another kiss.

The kiss is more delicate than the others. It’s slow, and it’s longing; a tender caress of tongue against lips. John brushes his fingers against the side of Sherlock’s face before he pulls himself away, and they look into one another’s eyes.

John grins at him. “So, erm—“ he clears his throat, his gaze faltering the tiniest bit. He can’t believe how cheeky he’s about to be. “You said earlier—or rather, deduced—that I’m quite skilled with my tongue.”

Sherlock smirks back at him with delight. “Yes. I did imply that.”

“And, erm. What evidence could you possibly have had?”

Sherlock doesn't even blink. “You’re passionate about everything you do, as demonstrated by almost all of your actions this evening, but markedly, by the way you heroically saved my life. You’re a doctor and a soldier: meticulous, quite familiar with human anatomy, and you live a life of service.” He pauses, leaning his head closer to John and narrowing his eyes. “And the heat of your gaze tells me you’ve already imagined, at length, what you would like to do to me.”

John smiles at him.

Sherlock drops his hands to his sides and shrugs haphazardly. “Or perhaps I was simply guessing, and hoping you’d make an attempt to prove me right.”

John laughs lowly. “I’ll let you be the judge, then.” He kisses him once more before laying his head back down on the pillow. “Come here,” he says, resting his hands at Sherlock’s hips and urging him softly to move forwards.

He can feel Sherlock shiver with anticipation as he slides his body over John’s, and John cups his arse cheeks with his hands, spreading them apart.

Sherlock plants his legs besides John’s head, slowly sinking down onto John’s mouth.

John meets his tight pink arsehole with his tongue. He tastes divine, like honey, and John licks, wet, greedy, and indelicate. Sherlock lowers his body down onto John’s tongue, and up, down and up, offering himself completely.

John takes him all, circling his tongue hungrily around his area and loosening him up. Sherlock balances himself as best he can, but he’s shaking, so John firmly clutches onto his hips to ground him.

Steadily, he licks deeper into Sherlock’s hole, and Sherlock groans lowly at the sensation. Concerned it may be too much, John pulls back, but Sherlock bucks down into him firmly, wrapping his legs so tightly around John that he can scarcely breathe.

He grinds onto John’s mouth, and John screws his thick, wet tongue into him, and it isn’t long before he is again a complete and utter mess—groaning and growling and heaving, so wanton that John very nearly feels guilty for taking him apart in such a manner.

So he pauses, squeezing Sherlock’s hips reassuringly again before sliding his tongue out.

“Christ, John,” Sherlock gasps.

“Mmmm,” John replies. “So I pass your test, then?”

“With flying colours,” Sherlock replies.

“Well,” John says, licking his lips. “If you think I’m good with my tongue—“

Sherlock doesn’t even wait for him to complete his sentence; he’s already accurately deduced the next few words coming from his mouth.

He slides himself backwards, positioning his arsehole at the tip of John’s dripping, pulsing cock.

“Whoa, easy,” John urges, grabbing his hips again to steady him. “Have you done this before?”

“Yes,” Sherlock responds with slight irritation. “I’m fine, John, just—“

John is shocked when a tinge of jealousy kicks in at Sherlock’s response.

The thought of Sherlock being fucked by another man drives him a tiny bit mad, though he knows it’s completely ludicrous. Married to his work or not, there’s no way a man that looks like Sherlock has gone his entire life without being shagged senseless at least once. John only hopes whoever it was appreciated what they were getting, because—

“John, for the love of everything, stop thinking so much,” Sherlock groans, ripping John away from his thoughts.

John grins, sliding his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs. “I was only thinking about you.”

“John.” Sherlock lowers his head and looks at him from beneath his dark lashes. “I am right here, quite literally in your lap, and desperate for you to fuck me. So are you going to lie there, or are you going to show me what you can do with that—spectacularly better than average, aesthetically speaking—cock?”

In response, John smacks Sherlock on the arse playfully. “Bossy, aren’t we?” he teases, and he surges his hips forwards unannounced, sliding his tip into Sherlock’s opening.

“Ungggh—fuuuuck,” Sherlock groans. “John!”

“Just doing what was asked of me,” John replies flirtatiously.

“Yes,” Sherlock attempts to collect himself and his breath, “Yes, good.” He bites his bottom lip, sinking downwards until John’s cock is completely embedded in his velvet heat.

John can barely breathe at the tightness and pleasure of it—being inside this man is the most sensational thing he’s ever experienced, and he hasn’t even started moving yet.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs.

“Yes?”

They lock eyes.

“Hold on.”

Sherlock takes John’s hands into his. He faces them forward, pressing their palms together and interlacing their fingers as John begins to rock his hips rhythmically into his body.

John slowly pumps into him, and they are trapped in their own world of pleasure and unity. It’s only the two of them, and their breathing, and the connectedness of their bodies. He speeds up, both of them moaning at the sensation, and then slows down, and they enjoy every centimetre of one another.

He fucks Sherlock, here in their new home, until he is completely spent, and then he fucks him some more. They’ve got all the time in the world tonight, but as he gazes up at Sherlock, with his beautiful face and fair skin, he begins to feel the tug of climax.

“Get on your back,” John says. Sherlock is light and limp and dazed. John flips him over to his back, and he doesn’t resist.

“Legs over my shoulders, love,” John says, and Sherlock follows his demand, and John leans his body forward, resting his elbows on the mattress.

He kisses Sherlock, messy, lazy, and open-mouthed. “Wrap your arms around me,” he says.

“Bossy,” Sherlock retaliates with a smirk as he clutches onto John’s back.

John presses into Sherlock again, and Sherlock closes his eyes tightly and exhales. John kisses his sweaty forehead, canting his hips forwards and backwards as the tip of Sherlock’s cock grazes his belly. He picks up his pace, fucking him harder and faster, their breathing speeding up to match their rhythm.

As he gets closer to completion, John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, pulling and stroking as he fucks him with abandon.

Soon, Sherlock’s entire body freezes, and he gasps as though he’s choking on air. He splays his hands onto the mattress, and the muscles of his abdomen tighten, his arsehole clenching around John’s body. His cock goes rock hard before stuttering and pulsing, hot liquid pouring out in one strong surge into John’s hands.

John squeezes the base of Sherlock’s cock, continuing to fuck him, fast and merciless, until another thick spurt comes out, and then another, and Sherlock is very nearly sobbing with pleasure.

As John approaches his own climax, he begins to lose touch with reality. He feels only Sherlock, tastes only Sherlock, smells only Sherlock. And then he’s sliding himself out and coming onto Sherlock’s belly, and it’s sticky and sweet and beautiful and absolutely perfect.

Before John knows it, they’re lying together in bed, kissing one another again.

“Mrs. Hudson was right,” Sherlock says giddily as their kisses begin to slow.

“About what?” John asks.

“She assumed we were an item.”

“Well, erm, technically, we weren’t.”

“Hmm. I suppose not.” Sherlock bumps their noses together. “And what about now?”

John bumps back. “I think we might be.”

Sherlock smiles. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“She was wrong about one thing: we will surely be needing two beds.”

“And why is that?”

“If we continue on like this, one of them will definitely break. It will be good to have a spare.”

John laughs. “Genius,” he says, kissing him on the forehead.

“It’s important to be prepared for every situation,” Sherlock says, his words trailing off, and John can tell he’s falling asleep.

“Indeed,” John says. “Though sometimes, the unexpected can be the best thing to happen.”

“True.” Sherlock’s eyes drift shut. “You weren’t altogether expected, yet here you are.”

“Yes.” John closes his eyes. “Here I am.”