“John, you can’t be serious.”
John doesn’t answer, too busy spreading the multi-colored canvas out on the sitting room floor. The furniture has been pushed back, chairs and the coffee table pushed to the side. The sight of all that empty space makes John pause his ministrations to remember other nights. Cleared spaces and violin waltzes, the feel of Sherlock’s lean body pressed close to his. Looking back, those dance lessons were an exquisite torture, being so close, but yet knowing that soon their time would be ending, soon John would be with Mary. Thinking about it now, those nights learning the waltz were some of the best memories of that whole fiasco of a marriage. He should have known then that it was doomed to fail, that he’d never want to be anywhere except Baker Street, but he supposes hindsight’s always 20/20. Now after the dust is all settled, he's happy to be back home where he belongs.
Sherlock huffs again, clearly affronted by the pattern gracing the floor of 221b. John suppresses a laugh and returns to his work, ensuring the canvas is spread flat, and retrieving the spinner from the box.
“John. Must we with the games? And Twister of all things?”
John laughs, placing his hands on his hips and standing up to glare at Sherlock. “Sherlock, you’re bored. You’ve been in a strop for four days now, and I’m tired of it.”
“Well we could play Cluedo again.”
“No bloody way.”
“Ha!” John exclaims, “No way. Never again.”
“Why not?” Sherlock asks, petulantly.
“You move your ships.”
“Well, I play logically. If I were a real captain, and people were bombing my ships, I’d adjust my coordinates. It’s called strategy.”
“It’s called cheating, Sherlock.”
“To some people.”
John can’t help but laugh. Sherlock looks so exasperated at the thought of someone putting little red pegs in his perfect grey ships. It’s actually kind of adorable, and infuriating, trying to play games with Sherlock sometimes. The man absolutely refuses to lose. He will find any and all ways to go around, over, or bloody through the rules of any game. That’s why John decided on Twister. No chance of cheating in this one.
And if he’s being completely honest, the game is also an excuse to get close to Sherlock. Since he’s been back at Baker Street, there has been a tension between them. Something simmering there, just under the surface. They seem to be dancing around the elephant in the room, and John is tired of it. He knows, has known for a while to be honest, that he is in love with Sherlock. Sometimes, he thinks Sherlock might feel it too. In quiet moments there is a softness in his pale eyes, a fondness that goes deeper than pure friendship. And even though he is not one to respect personal boundaries normally, with John the boundaries are nonexistent, Sherlock oftentimes propping his legs in John’s lap while watching telly or on one notable occasion falling asleep on John’s shoulder in the back of a cab. He wants desperately to make a move, but at every turn it seems he is thwarted. Either by a case, or his own fear and stubbornness. Or for the past four days, the stroppy tantrum of the object of his affections. John has had enough. And ok, it’s juvenile, but at least it’s a game where touching is allowed. And if something more were to happen, well, John can’t say he’d be too upset about that.
“What are the rules of this game?” Sherlock asks, the disdain evident on the word ‘game’.
“I spin, you do as I say.” John thinks he sees a slight widening of those pale grey eyes at that, just for a fraction of a second, before it is shut down. Oh, this is interesting, he thinks.
“Fine.” Sherlock removes his dressing gown and stands at the edge of the mat clad only in his loose grey pajama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt. The bottoms are slightly loose, draped artfully across his hips. John can see the sliver of pale skin between where the bottoms start and the shirt has ridden up, and has to tear his eyes away and upwards, thoughts of trailing his lips across that expanse flooding his brain. Fuck, and we haven’t even started yet.
John flicks the plastic spinner, and calls out the move. “Right foot red, Sherlock.” Sherlock hastens to comply, placing his right foot on the little red circle in front of him.
John smiles, this is going to be very fun, he thinks, before spinning for his own move. Left foot green, and he is stood facing Sherlock on the mat.
Spin. “Left foot yellow.” John puts a bit of Captain Watson in his tone, after all he is doling out orders, and he’s definitely not imagining the start of a flush blooming on those impossible cheekbones. Sherlock stretches his left leg to comply, balancing gracefully.
“Tell me, John, how does one win this game?”
“First one to fall on their arse loses.”
Sherlock smirks, eying John’s frame speculatively. “Then you’d best hope your next move isn’t too far a stretch.”
“Fuck you,” John says, but there's no real heat in it. “Just because we’re not all bloody gazelles.”
Sherlock laughs, a deep sound that vibrates into John’s bones. He loves it when Sherlock laughs, actually lets himself go. It’s one area John likes to think is reserved for him. John can’t help joining in, laughing at the ridiculousness of two grown men playing a childhood party game in their sitting room.
“Alright, git. My go.” John’s spin finds him with right hand yellow, forcing him into a crouch. Because of the position of Sherlock’s last move, his head is now level with Sherlock’s inner left thigh. He’s not directly brushing against it with his shoulder, but it’s close, and if he just moved slightly to the right -
“I believe it’s my go. Your next command?” Sherlock asks. John pulls his gaze away from the expanse of thigh in front of him, trailing his eyes up Sherlock’s lean frame to his face. He reaches out and spins the disk and gives Sherlock the next move, and doesn’t miss the ripple that goes down that body at his words. Left hand yellow, and they are both crouched, firmly in one another’s space now.
It becomes some sort of weird dance. Each move like a push and pull moving them closer together, further apart, twisting and turning. Hands, feet, yellow, red, green, blue, each call a chance to take the final step and finish what has started between them. The air is charged and John aches to close the distance. Somewhere in the calls, he has ended up sprawled half over Sherlock, his leg tangled between both of Sherlock’s, his chest pressed to Sherlock’s back, reaching over him to keep his hand pressed to his own circle. John’s jumper has long been shed, and somehow Sherlock’s shirt has ridden up even further during the game. The smell of him, combined with the velvety feel of his skin has John half hard in his jeans. He’s about ready to forfeit the bloody game and press his lips to that alabaster skin.
Sherlock seems to be similarly affected. With each command, the flush of that pale skin grows impossibly deeper, those pale eyes darkening to a smoky green. Sherlock is breathing harder than normal, and from this vantage point, John can tell his pulse is elevated. John wonders what he’d do if he flipped them right now, crawled over his body and pressed his lips to that gorgeous mouth.
“My turn?” Sherlock breathes, breaking John from his current thoughts.
“Hold on,” John reaches for the spinner, brushing Sherlock’s abdomen as he goes, eliciting a tiny gasp from Sherlock. The spin calls for right hand red, which from Sherlock’s current position would be quite a feat, on all fours with an army doctor draped over his back. But John should have learned long ago not to underestimate Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock executes a move with all the grace of a dancer, and suddenly he is faced upwards, still under John, holding himself up in a backwards crab stance, arm and leg muscles straining to keep him upright. The move also does two things that John cannot help but notice. They are now facing one another, their mouths mere inches from the other’s, and because of the positions of their lower halves, John is more or less resting between Sherlock’s spread thighs. Ok, the move makes one more thing apparent to John. Sherlock is not unaffected by their positions either. John closes his eyes and lets out a small groan when he feels Sherlock’s answering hardness against his hip.
“It’s your move,” Sherlock whispers. They are so close John can feel Sherlock’s breath gust on his face and the warmth makes his eyes snap open, locking onto Sherlock’s. John’s tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. Sherlock’s eyes trace the movement before flashing back upwards and John doesn’t need the plastic spinner to tell him what his next move should be.
John leans down slowly, putting his weight on his forearms and pressing his body impossibly closer to Sherlock’s. He stops just millimeters from Sherlock’s mouth, needing to be absolutely sure before closing this last gap.
“Yeah?” John murmurs.
Sherlock’s answer is to tilt his head up and press his lips to John’s. The first press is light, a tentative brush of skin, and it sends a thrill through John’s body. He instantly wants more. He kisses him again, sucking that plush bottom lip between both of his own. Sherlock gasps and John presses in, licking into Sherlock’s mouth. The first touch of Sherlock’s tongue to John’s is like an electric current hardwired straight to his groin and he can’t suppress the moan that erupts from his mouth at the feeling. This, this is what he had been waiting for, hoping for. And it is incredible. John can only think that he needs more, now. Below him, Sherlock is trembling with the strain of staying suspended, arms and legs shaking.
Sherlock breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against John’s. “John?” Sherlock is breathless, his question barely more than a puff of air.
“Yes, love?” Oh, shit. Well, nothing for it now.
Sherlock freezes for a second, his eyes wide, before a smirk breaks over his features. “I forfeit.” With that statement Sherlock throws his arms around John and slams their mouths together, both of them falling flat on the floor, John flush on top of Sherlock.
“Sorry, Sherlock, did I hurt you?”
Sherlock’s mouth is relentless, trailing open-mouthed kisses up John’s jaw to his ear and sucking on the earlobe. John groans and shifts his lower body slightly so he is lying fully between Sherlock’s spread thighs. The move brings their groins into alignment and both men moan with the sensation.
Sherlock’s hands are moving on John’s back, pulling at his shirt until he can untuck it enough to get his hands underneath. The feel of Sherlock’s fingertips on his heated skin makes John shiver. He presses another hard kiss to Sherlock’s mouth before sitting back on his heels and removing his shirt.
“Take off your clothes, I want to see you.”
Sherlock’s eyes go wide at the command, but he hastens to comply, stripping off his t-shirt and throwing it across the room. His pajama pants follow, kicked off in the direction of the couch. Sherlock is gloriously bare, and just as beautiful as John had imagined in all his many fantasies. He looks his fill, drinking in lean abs and long legs, sinewy muscles and creamy skin.
“John?” Sherlock is biting his lip, an uncertainty burning in those beautiful eyes, and John wants nothing more than to take that away, to show him how very much he is wanted. And loved.
“Jesus, Sherlock, you’re beautiful. I need to touch you. Please can I touch you?”
“Please, John. But, I need to see you too.”
“Of course,” John says, standing and pulling off his jeans and pants.
John stretches back down on top of Sherlock, and presses kisses along his neck and jaw, pausing to suck a bruise where the shoulder meets the neck. Sherlock arches his back and moans, his hands coming up to rest on John’s head. John moves further back to the skin behind Sherlock’s ear and bites down, and Sherlock arches his pelvis, rutting his hard length against John’s thigh. Sherlock’s hand tangles in John’s hair, and he pulls him up to crush their mouths together in a savage kiss, their tongues tangling, wet and hot and perfect. John’s hands go to Sherlock’s curls to hold him steady while he ravishes his mouth, licking inside and sucking that gorgeous top lip between his teeth and biting gently. John can’t remember a time when a kiss affected him so much, but he’s harder than he’s ever been and desperate for some friction on his aching cock. He moves his hips so that their erections align and groans out loud at the velvet slide of Sherlock’s cock against his own.
“Christ, Sherlock, that’s sweet.”
“John,” Sherlock keens, grabbing John’s arse and lifting one long leg to drape over John’s hip.
John lifts his left hand to Sherlock’s lips. “Lick,” he commands.
Sherlock licks a long stripe from palm to fingers, hooded eyes never leaving John’s. He sucks John’s index finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip, wicked glint in his eye. John growls low in his throat, pulling his finger out of Sherlock’s mouth. Leaning down to press kisses to Sherlock’s jaw, he snakes his hand between them to take them both in hand, Sherlock’s saliva and their own pre-come making the slide easier.
“Fuck, yes,” John pants, rolling his hips.
“John. Oh god, I’m not going to last.”
“It’s okay, me either.”
Sherlock is clinging to John, pressing his open mouth to John’s neck, giving sloppy kisses between his moans as he gets closer to his climax. John wants nothing more than to see him let go, to relax his control and truly come apart in his arms. John can feel Sherlock getting closer, his cock grows even harder in his hand, and Sherlock’s hips start to stutter in their rhythm.
“That’s it, love, yes, come for me, come now.”
“Johhnn,” Sherlock cries, his back arched off the floor, come coating John’s fingers and belly as he crests through his orgasm. That beautiful body, taut like a bow, lost in ecstasy is enough to push John to the edge. He sits up, leaning over Sherlock’s prone form, using Sherlock’s release as an extra lubricant as he fucks into his fist.
“Christ, Sherlock, you’re perfect, yes -” he pants, flicking his hips faster has his orgasm barrels down on him.
“Come on me, John. I want it, I want to feel your come on my skin. Mark me, John.”
“Fuck, Sherlock, fuck, fuck,” John cries as he comes, his release spurting over his fingers to land on Sherlock’s softening prick, his pelvis.
Another burst hits Sherlock’s stomach and chest, and Sherlock gasps, throwing his head back, and John’s leans forward, the last burst hitting that beautiful neck. John reaches out his other hand to smear his release around Sherlock’s collarbone, the milky white a contrast to the already darkening bruises John had make with his mouth.
“Mine,” John breathes, amazed at the possessiveness and pride he feels at the physical manifestations of his claim.
Sherlock lowers his head, and grabs John, hauling him down into a sloppy kiss. “Yours.”
John rolls off of Sherlock, and lays next to him on the floor, shoulders touching as he catches his breath. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, he realizes their current situation. The canvas is sticking to his sweaty back, and he supposes he should go and get something to clean them both off, but he can’t really be arsed to move at the moment. He didn’t quite expect to end up as a sweaty, sticky heap on the sitting room floor, but he can’t really complain. He may have to send a thank you letter to Hasbro. Because of Twister, I had the best shag of my life…
Sherlock turns towards John and sits up, resting his head on his hand and looking down at him. “Love?”
“You prefer something else? Sweetheart, honey, baby?” John asks, smirking up at Sherlock. He knows what he’s getting at, but he’ll be damned if he’ll make it easy for him.
Sherlock huffs and waves his other hand. “No. I mean, yes, if you want... fine.” John grins wider, Sherlock really is adorable when he blushes. “What I meant was, you called me ‘love’. I - well - you - you love me?”
John decides to have pity, Sherlock looks so small, waiting for John’s answer. And gorgeous, decorated in my come and markings, he thinks, as his cock gives a twitch. He leans up and presses a tender kiss to Sherlock’s lips, once, twice, before pulling away.
“I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I have since the moment we met. I was so alone, and then you, you showed up and my life changed. I’m sorry it took me so bloody long to see it.”
Sherlock face transforms into John’s favorite smile. The one he knows is only for him, has only ever been for him. Sherlock reaches out his hand and strokes John face, a gentle glide of fingertips that sends goosebumps down John’s body.
“It’s always been you, John. I love you, too.”
John leans up and kisses Sherlock again, pulling him down and slanting his mouth over Sherlock’s, the chaste affair quickly turning to something hungrier.
Sherlock breaks away, “Shower?” he pants, moving to sit up. “I’d like to keep the mat in decent condition. After all, you owe me a rematch. You cheated.”
“I’m sorry? I what?”
“Cheated. No where on the spinner board is the move labeled ‘kiss your opponent.’”
“You git. You forfeited!” John laughs, standing up and pulling Sherlock toward the bathroom.
“Hmm. Strategy,” Sherlock smirks, pressing a kiss to John’s neck and darting inside the bathroom door.
It certainly was a good strategy, John thinks, as he follows Sherlock into the shower. But whether it was his or Sherlock’s doesn’t really matter. All it took in the end was someone to put one foot forward.