Chapter 1: I
He had been following John again. John had been to the pub with Mike and some other old chums. Sherlock had declined to join them. Alcohol wasn't his poison of choice - not enough of a gratification in exchange for a fully functioning mind. There was also the boring drivel about football, the past, or things seen on the telly that Sherlock didn't care for.
He preferred to get the latest from his network on the street while keeping a look out. He loved watching John when he wasn't aware of it. Not that John ever shrunk from his gaze, but the way he went about on his own in his confident, content and genial manner gave away that he was happy. It was enchanting to look at.
He knew John didn't like it. But as with his other oddities, John put up with it patiently. Sherlock still found it hard to believe that he would deserve the love and respect of such an exceptional man. He had never dreamed of it, never sought it and didn't know how he had come to get it. But he did know that now he had it, he needed to keep it.
As John was heading home, a black car pulled over. The door opened and John peered inside smiling before stepping in confidently. It was Anthea wheeling him off again to report to Mycroft. Sherlock hopped on a taxi keeping as close as he could, trying to observe what he could through the tinted back window. John was clearly trying to chat her up again. Why else would he sit so close and keep on prattling, while she just continued texting?
Sherlock deeply resented Mycroft's vigil over his life, but over the years and the fights on the subject he had come to accept it as unavoidable. Anthea on the other hand was a different matter. Her being the one picking John up was really just pushing it. Mycroft had plenty of unattractive associates, both male and female, who he could send out to the task instead of his top gun - look-wise anyway.
Sherlock hadn't forgotten John's early attraction to Anthea. He really didn't want her around John. Those two alone in a darkened limo was not a sight he enjoyed observing. The more he saw, the less he liked it. In fact he deeply resented it.
He had arrived on unchartered territory again: objecting to attractive persons in contact with one's partner. The dilemma had made him seek out the wisdom of the folk on the internet. Unsurprisingly there was nothing intelligent. That he was jealous was as much as he'd deduced himself, but the solution seemed to be for him to "get over it", "let it be", or if that couldn't be done "seek professional help to find out the causes for his insecurity".
Bollocks. The internet was just wholly prejudiced against jealous people and put the blame on them. If John and Anthea didn't have contact, Sherlock was content, so evidently that needed to change, not him. And he most certainly didn't need a therapist to tell him he was unsure if John really had given up women forever to be with him.
John still had an eye for the ladies. To spot that you didn't need to be the only consulting detective in the world. Sherlock was definitely unsure whether he could make up for the soft, voluptuous bodies John's eye wandered to on occasion. He didn't mind John looking. It was an involuntary, natural reaction; proved the man was alive. It was these moments alone with Anthea that could not to be tolerated. Something needed to be done.
There was no way he would go asking Mycroft for favours. The pompous ass probably would know what he wanted anyway and was just trying to take the piss. No brotherly confidences to be shared there. It seemed like the only way to go about this was to talk to John, make him change his behaviour. Make him stop that smirking and chatting and the attempts to engage Anthea.
Chapter 2: II
Sherlock tries to discuss his feelings - by giving orders.
They were having dinner. It was the one concession John had insisted upon to mark their couple status: proper dinner by the kitchen table at least once a week. No reading either. Well, take-out it usually was, but still it was an uninterrupted, non-physical half-hour Sherlock was obliged to attend regardless of circumstances. Truth be told, despite all the grumbling, he liked the fact that John wanted his company off-bed-and-case. It seemed important to him to discuss with Sherlock the little grievances of daily life, Harry's latest news, and the good luck of finding a certain small producer’s lager at the local grocery. However mundane and trivial (and already known to Sherlock) they were, it felt good to be the person with whom John shared these snippets. It placed him firmly in John's life.
For once Sherlock also had something non-case related to discuss. Not that he dived into it with finesse:
"You must stop flirting with Anthea."
"Excuse me?" John asked incredulous.
"You flirt with her every time she picks you up. It bothers me. Therefore you must stop."
"Okay," John swallowed, "first of all: I am not your possession. However it may normally seem, you don't get to tell me what to do and how to behave. Secondly: I am not flirting with Anthea. I will not stop being friendly just ‘cause you’ve decided it bugs you."
"I don’t want you all over her! It’s disturbing me," Sherlock continued vehemently.
"There is no 'all over her'. There is only one 'all over' and that's you. As you well know." John frowned meditatively.
"Look, I'd tell you to mind your own business and stop following me around if it bothers you. But we both know you wouldn't", Sherlock nodded his acquiescence. "I will have you know though that whatever you see then is your problem, not mine. I'm not going to live my life to suit your voyeurism and I'm not going to spend it explaining myself either. You trust me or you don't, there's no in-between."
"But...", Sherlock tried to interject.
"No buts, Sherlock. Trust is all-or-nothing."
John was sometimes struck by how immature Sherlock still was emotionally. Controlling jealousy, really, of all the things... Well, Sherlock should be able to find all the help he needed on some discussion board online.
"If you insist. In that case I'm going with nothing."
John coughed violently; the bite he'd taken wasn't going down the right route.
"Seriously? I haven't proved myself trust worthy? No?" John tried very hard to stay calm.
"Of course I'd trust you with my life", Sherlock begun, "but not with women. You're always ogling them and I'm the only man you've been with. Maybe it's just a fad you'll get over when the right pair of mammary glands pass you by!"
"So what are you saying? You want me to prove myself by sleeping with other men?" John huffed.
"No," Sherlock sulked. "I just want you to… stop talking to Anthea."
In moments like these Sherlock was almost at his most gorgeous. When he showed how vulnerable he was, and how much John meant to him. The blue eyes relentlessly staring at him, the lush lips drawn together defiantly. There was no way to be angry at him now. He needed John, depended on him.
"Sherlock, honey…" John was struggling to find the right words of endearment. They didn't usually go for pet names. "Darling," definitely not right, but would have to do for now, "I'm not going to say I don't like breasts. They are nice. Very nice. Still there is not a pair on this planet that I would exchange for you. I've groped enough to know I can live without them. What I haven't had nearly enough of is you. I'm not sure a life time will even suffice." He reached over the table and briefly stroked Sherlock's hand.
"As for other men - I just am not interested. There's proof right now under this table of how much I want you all the time, but I have never wanted any other man," John said. "If you're asking if I'm gay, I’d still have the nerve to say I'm not, despite the evidence. But I am the biggest poofter around when it comes to you," John grinned. "I have never wanted anyone like I want you. I can’t get enough of you. Being with you makes me so happy, so… complete. I had no idea there could even be something like this. I had no idea there could ever be anyone like you. Isn't that enough?"
Sherlock made an attempt to hide his relieved smile. John had found the right words.
"Well, what if Anthea would rip off her shirt and tell you to take her the next time she picks you up?" he tried to continue.
John laughed at the idea. He couldn't picture breezy Anthea suddenly going for it.
"That's likely. Well, if she did, or for argument's sake, let's say when she does, I will avert my blushing eyes and tell her to cover herself." John frowned serious again. "Yeah, I like talking to her. But it's… it's a puzzle. I'm just trying to find out how long she can keep up that total disinterest. Usually people have a point when they cave in and can't help but engage in some sort of polite chit-chat. I'm hoping to crack her, I guess. Just a bit of fun while I suffer through my reporting duties. I can honestly say, I'm not interested in her or anyone else in that way anymore. Not since you." He paused to reflect.
"You know you're unique, you're all alone in your own league. There's no way anyone could ever compare. Titties or no." Sherlock had to admit John's reasoning made sense. He knew without a doubt that John had always seen him in a way others hadn't. If he trusted his own inimitable appeal, he could trust John's continued fascination with it. The fact that John wanted him in the first place was proof of how special he was to John, and that did make it impossible for anyone else to compete. It made John his. Yes, he could trust that. Huh, fancy that: John outsmarting him. And clearly enjoying it.
"You’re really getting off on this." Sherlock peered under the table. There was definitely a small but unmistakable swelling in John's pants.
"Everything you do gets me off, see? Can't help it. A jealous fit's just one option." Sherlock slipped off his shoe and placed his foot against John's groin. John shuddered as he applied pressure gently.
"Mocking me are you?" he grinned.
"Oh, yes," John affirmed.
Sherlock continued the caresses under the table. John was growing harder.
"So, how about getting some of that trust?" John asked trying to keep his voice steady.
Sherlock unbuttoned his own shirt without haste, his foot continuing the slow movement against John. He opened the shirt revealing a firm and muscular chest. John inhaled deeply.
"Fine. All. I trust you completely," he felt the need to add, "I do." John believed him. Sherlock had reached his conclusions.
Sherlock took off his shirt, let it fall on the floor and carefully, as if forgetting himself, traced his fingers over his upper body, around his nipples, gently pinching them between his fingers as his hand passed them. John moistened his lips, hungry for that glorious body.
Sherlock wiped some sauce off the plate with his finger and licked it with care. John was transfixed. Such a clichéd move and yet Sherlock was once again driving him crazy. He often came up with something that screamed tacky porn, but always made it so real, so sincere and honest that it was impossible to be cynical about it. He was simply so alluring. What a ridiculous idea that he'd give up this amazing, exquisite man for anyone.
Sherlock got up remaining across the table, kept his eyes on John and opened his belt. The outline of his hard cock was clearly visible. He grabbed it over his trousers, fondled it. John was breathing heavily, hardly containing himself. He wanted to get up and take Sherlock right now. But he also wanted to see what was next.
"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asked.
"Not one bit," John replied voice coarse with arousal.
Sherlock stroked himself and opened his trouser button and started sliding the zipper down. John adjusted his position. His trousers needed opening too, almost painfully. Finally Sherlock's trousers fell to the floor. He kept touching himself over his pants. John's gaze fixed on his groin.
Sherlock lowered his boxers, dropped them down and let out a pleasurable moan as his cock was freed. John appreciated the theatrics. He hadn't come in his pants in 20 years at least, but tonight just might be the time to break that discipline. He held on, eager for more. Sherlock walked over to him, behind him, his ready cock so close to John's mouth and hands. On display, teasing him, urging him. John refrained. Sherlock pulled John's shirt and sweater over his head.
Sherlock admired John's physique at least as much as John praised his. The sweaters did a good job hiding how fit John was. His sturdy frame hadn't been built in a gym or doing sports, but was achieved through hard work. It had been forged by marching under the relentless desert sun in full combat gear and the slight softness of age only accentuated the strength underneath. It was a body that served its master.
Sherlock leaned over John from behind, bit his neck, kissed it, let his hands wander over his torso. John shook with delight.
"John, I love you. I love you so much," Sherlock sighed while kissing his upper body.
"I know, I love you too, baby. So badly."
John got up and turned to Sherlock. Gently he placed his hands on Sherlock's face and pulled their lips together. Both mad with desire and yet the kiss was longing and soft. John caressed Sherlock's back, let his hands find their way to Sherlock's buttocks, squeezed them, held on to them. Their kissing intensifying, lips hungry, tongues curious. Sherlock, hands almost shaking, opened John's pants, finally freeing him. He bit Sherlock's lip with relief. Sherlock yelped quietly in surprise. John longed to have Sherlock inside him, he needed it. He needed Sherlock to pull him as close to himself as he could, to hold him, to become one with him.
As always Sherlock knew what he wanted like a mind reader, or perhaps because they were in complete sync wanting the same thing. John turned around, took hold of the table and Sherlock embraced him tightly, his arms on John's, his lips on John's neck. Slowly, carefully Sherlock eased himself inside. Wrapped in Sherlock John caught his breath, unable to hold on any longer and came shaking violently, grapping Sherlock's arms closer, closer. Sherlock held him tight against himself, his thrusts quickening.
"I love you, John, I love you." He panted hard, sweat dripping on John's back. Arms around John, face buried against his neck Sherlock moaned and arrived trembling his hold almost throwing John off balance.
Sherlock pulled out but kept John close to himself for a minute as they both calmed down, caught their breath, lovingly nuzzled against one another. Their legs failing they collapsed on the floor to rest and rolled apart, hands clasped together.
Chapter 3: III
What it is to trust Sherlock.
John turned to his side, placed a kiss on Sherlock's abdomen enjoying the salty taste of sweat. Sherlock stroked his hair languidly.
"You don't trust me?" Sherlock muttered, half-asking, half-asserting.
John thought about it. He had been teasing earlier, caught up in the moment. But it had come off the top of his mind. He trusted Sherlock's intelligence, that presented with correct data he would arrive at the correct deductions. But did he trust Sherlock not to hurt him? Not to use him? To always be there for him? To not leave him for someone more intriguing, someone younger? Was trust really as black-and-white as he had just claimed? Sherlock's fingers played absent-mindedly in his hair, his own palm stroking Sherlock’s bare skin. The floor was starting to feel cold and uncomfortable under their naked bodies, but neither one made the effort of getting up.
"Tough question is it? I thought it was one or the other?" Sherlock spoke softly as if admitting it wasn't so simple after all.
"I trust you to always do what is rational, right as far as the facts go."
He could feel Sherlock's nod in the way his body swayed under his cheek. Of course ‘right’ in Sherlock’s mind didn’t mean taking feelings or other people into account. John didn't trust Sherlock not to hurt him. In fact he expected it, even felt he had already forgiven it. Sherlock would hurt him. Again and again. Cause him excruciating pain, rip his heart out. But he would forgive. He was ready for it. It was one of the ways to love Sherlock. He dragged himself to eye level with Sherlock. Traced his finger over Sherlock’s lips before kissing him.
“I trust you to never do anything I wouldn’t forgive.”
When their eyes met, it felt like Sherlock’s blue eyes rushed into him to look inside, to find confirmation for his words, to reveal the unspoken. Despite the intrusion it was a loving gesture to John now in its familiarity. He could almost feel himself opening wide, letting Sherlock in to find the depths he didn’t know himself he had.
“Evidently”, Sherlock concluded. Suddenly he was full of energy again. He jumped up from the floor and pulled John along. Their backs were prickly, covered in bread crumbs, sand, and dust from the floor.
“That’s handy, no need to mop,” John smirked.
“Yes…” Sherlock acknowledged, but John could see his mind was already elsewhere as he hurried to the desk and began a feverish search among the rubble on the table before settling in front of the laptop. John threw a rug over his shoulders and headed for the shower. Love. He smiled to himself.