John’s tongue circles around the soft, twitching flesh. He stiffens it, and pushes in once, twice, then pulls back and presses his open mouth against the ring of muscle, sucking wantonly. Above him, Sherlock is writhing and keening, making noises John had never imagined him capable of. Before tonight, at least. He tastes like musk and clean sweat and soap, hot and earthy and completely intoxicating. John is certain he’s found his new favorite meal, if only because of the noises Sherlock is making above him. The soft, sparse hairs in the cleft of his arse tickle John’s chin delightfully. He squeezes Sherlock’s foot and gives one last hard lick, then moves up to nuzzle at his scrotum.
“You like that, sweetheart?” John pulls one full, hot testicle into his mouth and suckles. Sherlock whimpers, one foot pressing hard into John’s back.
“Shhh, Sherlock,” John presses an open-mouthed kiss to the weeping head of Sherlock’s cock. “I know.” He kisses his way up Sherlock’s torso, salty with sweat, pausing to mouth and bite gently at the bullet scar below his sternum. They both have scars now, matching scars to commemorate the days their lives shifted irreparably. John kisses up higher, licking at the hollow of Sherlock’s neck and biting gently at his pulse point. Sherlock’s heart is throbbing, in his chest and his neck, so real and so alive John wants to cry. “I know, fuck, I know.” John takes Sherlock’s face in both his hands and kisses him hard, sucking the air from his lungs. Sherlock gasps and digs his fingers into John’s biceps. “You’re so beautiful. Have I ever told you that?”
“No,” Sherlock says honestly. His pink cheeks flush more, if possible. “Once you thaid—said, my cheekbones were ridiculous.” He is adorably out of his element aroused, all of his usual aloofness replaced with fluttering eyelashes and lisps. John’s chest aches with how much he loves him, how touched he is that Sherlock is letting him see him like this. Soft and open and achingly alive and human.
“They are ridiculous,” John kisses him and runs his thumbs over Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones. “And you’re ridiculous”—another kiss—“and so, so beautiful…” John relaxes into Sherlock’s embrace as he kisses him, his hot, heavy cock settling into the sweaty crease of Sherlock’s thigh. The friction as Sherlock squirms beneath him is maddening, and not nearly enough.
It’s completely and entirely surreal, and didn’t happen at all the way John had expected it to.
Sherlock plopped down on the sofa as John opened container after container of Chinese take-away. It was going to be a quiet night in; Greg had called with a case early that morning, but what had appeared to be an Eight ended up being barely a Three, and they completed the requisite paperwork and were home by 7pm.
John spooned fried rice and garlic chicken onto a plate for Sherlock, who wordlessly accepted it while scrolling through his email, on John’s laptop, of course. John spooned shrimp and broccoli onto his own plate, plopping dumplings on the edge and adding a few to Sherlock’s plate. “Soy sauce in the bag.”
“Mmmm,” Sherlock grunted, and lifted a dumpling to his mouth with his fingers, eyes darting back and forth across the glowing screen.
“Jesus, Sherlock, use a fork!” John plunked a fork on the edge of Sherlock’s plate a bit too loudly, but smiled to himself as he dug into his own plate. He’d missed nights like these, back…after…and then after again. But he’d been back at Baker Street—home—for almost a year now, and while the first few weeks were a bit awkward and stilted, they slid back into their old places much more easily than John expected they would after…everything.
Their old places, and more.
There was a new warmth in the flat that John noticed whenever he came home from the occasional clinic work and conferences he attended. Sherlock was far more open, and gentle even; at first it seemed as though he was trying too hard, putting on a show for John, but he soon realized that it was earnest. Sherlock was happy he was back. Their old routines hadn’t changed, not to the outside world, but John could feel it: the increased casual touches, the way Sherlock now labelled his experiment and left John milk and even deemed to keep quiet when John went to bed. Of course the cases continued and occasionally Sherlock still forgot when John was in the room, but God, John was happy.
John reached into the paper bag for a packet of soy sauce, his leg pressing against Sherlock’s as he leaned forward. Sherlock didn’t shy away, and for that matter neither did John. That was the way it was now. And if that was all it could be, well, so long as they were at home together, John would continue to be happy. It was more than enough to fill the hole John had after Sherlock jumped. In fact, his chest felt positively full most of the time.
“You need a haircut,” John leaned back into the sofa, bringing his plate of Chinese into his lap.
“What?” Sherlock popped another dumpling into his mouth with his fingers, eyes still on the screen.
“Your hair,” John reached out, and gently tugged on the overlong curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, still damp from his shower. “It’s getting long, idiot. You’re starting to look like a teenager.” He squeezed Sherlock’s neck briefly, then reached for the remote.
“Just because I don’t adhere to the styles of Her Majesty’s Army does not mean I look like a teenager, John. Don’t engage in hyperbole.” Despite Sherlock’s grousing, his tone was entirely without rancor, and he abandoned John’s laptop to lean back into the sofa while John flicked on the telly. His thigh remained comfortably touching John’s.
“Right. Oh, Jaws is on.”
“Jaws, Sherlock. Jesus Christ…Steven Spielberg? Chief Brody? Quint? The first true summer blockbuster?”
Sherlock had the decency to look sheepish while he shrugged. “I’m sure it will be quite riveting.” He rolled his eyes, tone arch and sarcastic.
“Eat your dinner, Sherlock.”
As usual, Sherlock found it more riveting than he expected to. By the time John had finished eating, Sherlock’s eyes were glued to the telly while he occasionally, mindlessly, lifted a forkful of chicken to his mouth. John glanced at Sherlock while he set his empty plate on the coffee table. His hair had dried frizzy and fluffy, and the black was streaked with auburn and gold in the light of the red lamp behind the sofa. He chewed slowly, the muscles of his face and neck undulating gently. His milky white skin glowed a champagne pink.
And his leg was still comfortably resting against John’s.
Mindlessly, John’s arm came up to rest on the back of the sofa as he settled back into the cushions.
For several long minutes, Sherlock continued to watch the movie, while John watched Sherlock. He was beautiful, always had been, and for the first time, John realized he wasn’t worried about being caught staring.
“John, why does—” Sherlock turned but stopped when he saw John staring at him. John could see the gears turning in his head and the moment they clicked into place, right as a flush colored his cheeks. John only smiled, softly. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered adorably, much like they did when John asked him to be his best man, almost two years earlier.
Truth be told, John hadn’t expected it to happen that way, if it ever happened at all. He was content with what Sherlock was giving him, but always imagined if it happened, it would happen under duress or while in mortal danger, when John couldn’t simply imagine going to his death without letting Sherlock know just what he meant to him. Or maybe at a hospital bedside. Cradling and comforting a bleeding body. Not on an uneventful evening on their sofa, filled to the brim with Chinese take-away in worn t-shirts and pajamas while Jaws played in the background.
Sherlock swallowed hard and exhaled shakily. “Will we still be friends?” His voice was small and soft, afraid. John’s heart cracked.
“Always, Sherlock. No matter what happens, I will always, always be your friend.”
“Yes, Sherlock.” John’s hand dropped gently to Sherlock’s neck, while his other removed the half-eaten plate of Chinese from Sherlock’s lap and set it on the coffee table.
“Good.” With that, John gently tugged Sherlock’s face down to his. The first press of their lips was gentle, but more thrilling then any John had ever had. Sherlock kissed back awkwardly, mouth closed, until John gently took his face in his hands and titled his head to the side gently. “Like this, love,” before he leaned back in, licking the seam of those full, soft lips and pushing between them, satisfying five long years of yearning. And God, so much heartbreak.
“You taste like garlic chicken,” Sherlock murmured breathlessly several minutes later, completely dazed. His lips brushed John’s as he spoke, moist and starting to swell.
“So do you,” John pressed a kiss to the dip below Sherlock’s bottom lip, then licked back into his mouth as he pulled him flush against him, tightening his arms as hard as he could around Sherlock’s back.
John pulls off Sherlock’s mouth with a wet slurp. “I adore you. Sherlock. From that first day, I was yours.”
“You gave me your phone,” Sherlock says stupidly.
“I did,” John chuckles. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “What do you want, love?” He grinds his cock down into the damp crease of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s brushes, hot and wet, against John’s belly. John can feel his heart thudding in his chest. “I’ll give you anything you want. Forever.”
“I—I want…could, could you…” Sherlock stutters and swallows hard, then squeezes his eyes shut. His entire chest and neck is mottled pink with arousal, and John thinks, embarrassment. Sherlock swallows and exhales hard. He shifts, bringing his knees up so John settles squarely between his legs. His meaning is quite clear, and John’s mouth floods with saliva at the thought.
“Yeah? Shit, Sherlock,” John kisses him, hot and wet. “Um, have you ever…you know…had anything—”
“Um, when I, when Mycroft had my committed to rehab, the doctors did a search…”
“Christ, Sherlock!” John inwardly cringes. That may have been the most unsexy thing Sherlock could have said, but then, being Sherlock, how could John expect anything else? “That’s not what I meant…have you ever done anything? With anyone?”
“No,” Sherlock shakes his head, his damp curls bouncing against the pillow. “I’m clean, John, you don’t have to worry—”
“Again, not what I meant, darling,” John kisses Sherlock’s forehead. “I don’t want to hurt you, and it might…”
“I know. I don’t care.”
“I know you don’t, but I do.”
“Please, John.” Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut again and takes a deep breath. Steeling himself. “I—I liked what you did with your tongue, and I want your…I want you to. Please, fuck me.”
John doesn’t think he’s ever heard Sherlock say the word “fuck” before, and for some reason, the idea of that smart, prim mouth saying that word while John is lying naked and hard, God, so fucking hard, between his thighs is almost enough to set him off then and there.
“Fuck, Sherlock,” John buries his face in Sherlock’s sweaty neck and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. “Yes. Yes.” He licks up Sherlock’s jawline. “Please tell me you have lube, down here.”
Sherlock’s large hands come to rest on John’s shoulders. They’re trembling slightly. “Under the pillow.”
“Good.” John reaches under the pillow on the left side of the bed, and finds a small, unassuming tube of personal lubricating gel. “Christ, if I’d known you even did that…”
“I do,” Sherlock presses his lips to the sweaty skin where John’s neck meets his shoulder. “Thome-sometimes. I think about you.”
“Good.” John growls into Sherlock’s cheek. “Don’t ever think about anyone else.”
“I won’t,” Sherlock says simply, honestly, his hands stroking down John’s chest and belly as he pushes himself up between Sherlock’s legs and flips the cap on the lube. Sherlock is absolutely wrecked, sweaty and pink, trembling slightly. John watches as he eyes his cock, curving upward towards his belly, and his gut clenches when Sherlock licks his lips. His right hand reaches out.
“No,” John grabs his wrist and stops him. “You do that now and we won’t get much farther.”
“Next time, love. All the times,” John squeezes some lube onto his fingers and reaches down between Sherlock’s thighs, into the hot, damp place his mouth explored moments before. Sherlock jumps slightly as his index finger rubs lightly around his puckered hole. “You tell me if I need to stop?”
Sherlock nods frantically as the very tip of John’s finger pushes inside.
“I mean it, Sherlock. We stop if we need to.”
“I will…please, John…oh—oh!” Sherlock gulps as John pushes his slick finger in to the second knuckle. Sherlock’s body is hot and tight and frankly, incredible, twitching and clenching around John’s finger.
Sherlock exhales hard. “Yes. It feels…right. More, John. Please.”
“Okay,” John wriggles his finger, strokes a bit, then pulls out and presses two in. Sherlock inhales hard and grabs onto John’s thigh. “Too much?”
“No, no…please, keep going.” Sherlock’s cock is still hard and red against his belly.
“Alright, let me just…” John crooks his wrist and curves his fingers, and Sherlock jumps and downright squeaks as John presses into the tender nub inside him.
“OH! Oh, Jesus…John!” Sherlock brings his knees together and lifts his hips, practically jumping off the bed.
“Easy, love,” John soothes, but continues to rub his fingers in light circles over Sherlock’s prostate. “Deep breaths. Relax for me, yes, like that…” Sherlock’s thighs release and fall open again, but his hips continue to jerk as he gulps for air. His fingers are digging bruises into John’s thighs. “You’re so amazing, inside…” And he is, so warm and tight and alive; John’s balls clench as he twitches around his fingers. “Three, now?”
Sherlock nods frantically, opening his eyes to look down his body at John between his legs. “More.”
“Alright…” John pulls out and strokes the wet, clenching ring of muscle, then tries to push three in. The tightness is considerably more. “Bear down a bit for me…yes, that’s it…” John’s fingers slide in as Sherlock exhales hard through his teeth, rocking back into the mattress. His sphincter is fluttering helplessly around John’s fingers inside him. “Still okay?”
“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice is high and tight, the muscles in his thighs contracted hard, but it’s obvious he’s still alright by the state of his cock, still hard and leaking against his belly. A bit more pre-come oozes out of the slit as John circles his fingers once more. He leans over and tongues the salty fluid off Sherlock’s belly.
“Do you think this is enough?” John strokes the inside of Sherlock’s thigh.
“I think—think tho-so? Maybe? Oh, fuck…John,” Sherlock’s hips rock down against John’s hand. “Have you…do you?”
“Yes…and it might still not…”
“Oh—ohhhhh!” Sherlock grabs onto John’s other thigh. “Yes—yes! I’m ready. John, please…”
“Alright…fuck, Sherlock,” John pulls his fingers out with a wet squelching sound. Sherlock’s hole is already a bright, raw pink and is glistening with lube. John’s mouth waters as it twitches. He grabs the bottle of lube and hastily slicks up his cock, having to grip the base as the bit of friction is almost too much. John is achingly hard.
“Give me a minute, love,” John takes a deep breath and wills himself to calm down. Now that it’s about to happen, finally, the breadth of the situation is like a punch to the gut and John is suddenly dangerously close to the edge. A few hard swallows and deep breaths, and John is able to shift forward and line himself up. “Alright…alright, here we go…” John presses the head of his cock to Sherlock’s hole, and slides in easily, more easily that he was expecting. But his mind fizzles and blanks as he’s enveloped in hot, tight, twitching flesh, almost more than he can handle. It’s unlike anything he expected. “Fuck, Sherlock.” John braces himself, hands digging into the mattress on either side of Sherlock’s rib cage, his forehead dropping down to Sherlock’s. Sherlock is frozen beneath him, breathing hard through his mouth. His body is clenching and squeezing, fighting the intrusion of John’s rather ample erection.
John takes a deep breath, then another, willing himself away from the edge, again. He opens his eyes to see Sherlock staring up at him, breathing hard, swollen, pink lips slightly open. He’s still hanging onto John’s thighs.
Sherlock nods, then strains his neck up, and John meets him halfway, capturing his mouth in a searing, biting kiss as he starts to rock slowly. Sparks burst behind John’s eyes at the slick, tight slide of Sherlock’s body around him, and he has to pull out of the kiss to watch, to see Sherlock’s face as he pushes inside his body. He’s beautiful, skin damp and pink, his eyes glazed and almost entirely pupil. His breath is hot in John’s face, quick breaths as if he’d just run a race, and his heart is pounding, in his chest and in the hot tightness around John’s cock, and it hits him, in that moment, everything he had and almost lost, twice—no, three times, and somehow, somehow got back. He got more back, and now he’s here and Sherlock is beneath him, achingly human and warm and alive, and he’s clinging to John and whining low in his throat as John fucks him, as he’s inside him, and it’s too much and suddenly John is coming. It takes him completely by surprise, his testicles violently pulling up and contracting. His gut aches and his hips stutter as he fills Sherlock, coming harder and longer than he ever has.
“Oh, fuck,” John gulps, his head dropping down to Sherlock’s neck. His stomach hurts and his balls hurt, more shivers ripping through his body as he tries to keep himself from collapsing fully onto Sherlock. He barely made it two minutes. “Oh, fuck…Sherlock…Christ. I’m so sorry, love. Jesus…” He can’t catch his breath.
“Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry, Sherlock…but it was too good, you felt so fucking good…I’m sorry…”
“You just ejaculated inside me, John,” Sherlock runs his hands down John’s sweaty, trembling back. His cock is still hard against John’s heaving belly. “Why on earth are you apologizing for that?”
John laughs breathlessly into Sherlock’s neck, he has to, as his chest fills with warmth. “Because, you git…” John manages to shift off one trembling arm and reaches awkwardly between their bodies. “That was not my best performance.”
“John,” Sherlock’s voice is breathless and strained. “I assure you I’m nothing but flattered that you were so aroused you were unable to—OH!” Sherlock arches as John’s slick hand finds his cock, impossibly hot and hard, and begins to stroke.
“Next time,” John pushes himself up and looks between their bodies, watching his hand wring around Sherlock’s erection. He’s still inside him, still surprising half hard, so he can feel it as Sherlock immediately starts to tense around him. His head rolls back on the pillow. “Come for me, beautiful…”
And he does. Sherlock’s back arches once more, bowstring tight, his thighs tightening around John’s rib cage as he spurts hot over his hand. It catches John in the chest, four, five times, his internal muscles squeezing around John’s wilting, oversensitive penis. It’s still unbearably erotic, feeling Sherlock come from the inside, even if he’s spent and half-soft.
“There,” John chuckles, as Sherlock slumps back against the mattress, John following suit and collapsing on top of him. Sherlock lies limp beneath him, breathing hard. His heart is fluttering against John’s chest. John can feel endorphins flood his system and pulls out and shifts up while he’s still in the mindset to do so, settling so he can rest his face on the pillow next to Sherlock’s without moving off of him. Not yet. He wants to feel the signs of satiation in Sherlock’s body.
After a few minutes, Sherlock’s breathing slows and his grip loosens. He turns his face towards John’s, and when his eyes open they are bright and gleaming. A small smile dances across his swollen lips.
“Hey,” John shifts forward to kiss him. He runs his hand down Sherlock’s sweaty side. “You alright?”
“I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Have I ever told you that?” Sherlock's voice is soft and sleepy, painfully intimate.
“No,” John kisses him again.
“You are,” Sherlock closes his eyes. “This was entirely unexpected. I thought tonight would be boring and positively uneventful.”
“Unexpected maybe…but a long time coming.” John kisses Sherlock’s left eyelid. He brings his clean hand to Sherlock’s cheek as he opens his eyes. “I love you. Fuck, I love you so much.”
Sherlock smiles softly, that genuine, gentle smile that is John’s and always has been. “And I, you, John. I always have, you know.”
“I’m glad,” John kisses him again, soft and open. He still tastes like Chinese, and the mess between their bodies is growing sticky and tacky. John laughs. “I am so fucking glad.” He gathers Sherlock to his chest, heedless of the copious amounts of semen between their chests. He pushes his thigh between Sherlock’s and can feel it there, too, but can’t be arsed to care in this moment.