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I Just Want You for My Own

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December 15

Just finished org chem final

how’d it go?

I corrected a few of the instructor’s
mistakes, so I’d say it went well

:) My genius boyfriend. I’m in
class, I’ll be done in about 30 min


Sherlock, you there?
Just left you a voicemail

John, sorry, I was at the police station.


I witnessed a burglary and
they wanted my statement,
that’s all.

Where? What happened?

I was walking down an alley,
saw a thief coming out of
a back door, so I followed him
for a while. When I had his
address I called the police.

Jesus, Sherlock, what if he was
dangerous? ARMED?

It wasn’t dangerous, I could tell.
It’s fine, really.

Calling you right now


Sherlock smiled at his phone and shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. He was almost home now, and would be able to talk to John privately, uncensored. They hadn’t talked since the night before, which wasn’t so unusual, but he’d had a really good day, and wanted to tell John about it.

His phone rang as he pushed through the front door of his building. It slammed shut behind him as he tapped the ‘answer’ button with his thumb.


“Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You followed some crook to where he lives. You could’ve been hurt. Where even was this place? And why are you walking around back alleys?”

Sherlock stopped in the mail room and dropped his backpack to the floor, then fiddled with the old-fashioned dial lock until it opened. “Come visit, and I’ll show you all the best back alleys, John.” He smiled at his own innuendo as he flicked through his mail, tossing out everything but a letter from Mrs. Hudson, and a take-out menu from a new pizza place.

“I’m serious, you idiot.”

“I know you are. I didn’t mean to worry you. It wasn’t really a big deal. I was taking a shortcut to the lab and saw this guy coming out of the back door of the Baker Library.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the library for the Business School, and no, it’s not in a bad neighborhood. It’s on campus.” Sherlock climbed the last flight of stairs to his apartment, and rummaged in his coat pockets for his keys. “At first I didn’t really think about it, but he didn’t look like a business student, he looked like an art student, so then I thought, why is an art student coming out of the back door of the business library?”

“How could you tell he was an art student?”

Sherlock flicked on the light switch just inside his front door, flopped down on his futon couch, and kicked his off his Converse.

“Shoes, and paint. He had cobalt blue oil-based paint on the sole of one of his shoes – I could see it because he was walking in front of me – and he had some cinnabar green on the back of his neck. So, I figured he was an art student, undergraduate, probably a freshman based on the newness of his backpack.”

He could hear John opening his refrigerator in the background, then popping the top off a bottle of beer.

“Yeah? Go on.”

“I caught up to him when he stopped at a stop light. I glanced into the box he was carrying, and right on top, he didn’t even bother to hide it, was an original 1788 French broadside, just, you know, sitting there.”

“So he just looked like, I don’t know, just a regular guy?”

“Yes. With paint on him. I figured it couldn’t hurt to call the police, then I waited outside his apartment until they came. Turns out, the broadside was from the Kress Collection, and they didn’t even know they’d been broken into. He’d taken books, prints, and broadsheets, all of them French, worth several hundred thousand dollars.”


“Yeah, but here’s the best part. He’s an art student from France, and he wanted to take it all home over the break and return it to the French government. He thought it would impress his girlfriend. As if they wouldn’t question where he got the stuff, you know?” Sherlock could hear the beep of John’s microwave oven.

“You’re a fucking genius, you know that? I've never even heard of cinnabar green.”

Sherlock smiled and grabbed an apple out of the bowl on his coffee table. “You know lots of stuff I don't know.”

“Mmhm, sure. So, the police, and the library, must’ve been grateful.”

“Sure, after I convinced them I wasn’t actually in cahoots with the guy, and pointed out all the clues they never would’ve found on their own.”

“Genius. Fucking sexy as fuck genius. What's that noise? Are you eating an apple?”


“How is you eating an apple sexy to me? What’re you wearing? Tell me you’re wearing that tight purple sweater and those really beat up 501’s with the little hole under the left back pocket.”

“You’re ridiculous. What are you eating?”

“A frozen burrito that I didn’t nuke long enough, but I’m too hungry to put back in the microwave.”

Sherlock sat up again and walked over to one of his studio’s two windows. It was beginning to snow, thick fat flakes swirling between the buildings, clinging to awnings and lampposts and newspaper boxes. “It just started snowing.”

“Harry said they got six inches at home yesterday.”

“Only four more days, John.”

“I know, I can’t wait. What time does your flight get in?”

“Early. My flight leaves at about eight, so with the time difference, I get in at ten. What time will you get on the road?”

Sherlock’s brain pulled up the memory of John surprising him over Thanksgiving break, showing up at his house, coming into his bedroom in the middle of the night. He knew it wouldn’t happen this time, because John’s last final was that Saturday morning. Sherlock would be boarding the plane when John was starting his two-hour test.

“As soon as I’m done with biochem. That’s from nine to eleven, and I’ll probably use the entire time. But the truck will be packed and ready to go, so the second I’m done, I’m on the road. I guess that gets me in at about, what, three?”

“That’s not too bad. Have you heard from your mom?” Sherlock tossed the apple core in the trashcan under his desk, and opened the letter from Mrs. Hudson.

“Nah. Harry emailed, though. I'll forward it to you. She basically says Mom won't talk about it at all, acts like nothing happened. Has Mrs. Hudson said anything?”

“Funny you should ask. I just got a letter from her. I'll read it to you.”

“Okay. Skip the parts about her bridge club.”

Sherlock was already scanning the pages for anything interesting or relevant. He had tried to get Mrs. Hudson to use email, but she insisted that an old fashioned letter was better than a screen. After he received the first handwritten letter that smelled like home, like vanilla and woodsmoke, he had stopped pushing technology on her.

She'd sent him a couple of care packages, too, filled with her baking, the local papers, and her plans for updating and redecorating the house. He’d told her to do whatever she wanted, but she kept sending him paint chips, pages torn out of decorating magazines, and drawings for rearranging the furniture. He had little opinion on any of it, but would try to weigh in, because she wanted him to be involved in what she was doing.

“Okay. No bridge club. Here we go. She says, ‘I had Dorothy over for lunch yesterday, nothing fancy, just a quiche Lorraine I'd whipped up’ blah blah blah, apple tart, blah blah, ‘and when we finished I showed her some of the changes I've been making around the house.’

“‘Dorothy liked the way I've rearranged the family room, and you were right, without some of those bigger pieces,’ blah blah blah, ‘lighter color really opens up the place,’ blah blah blah, um, she talks about donating some of the more outdated pieces to a women’s shelter in the city, um, wait, here’s something.

“‘I wanted to show Dorothy the changes I've made in the master bedroom. As soon as we walked past your bedroom she turned real strange and said she forgot something and needed to go. Well, I knew what that was all about, and I wasn't having any of it, not after how hard I've been working.’

“‘I said she should at least see the master bedroom before she left, because that's the biggest change. That handyman I found did a wonderful job with the paint. The creamy beige is much warmer and more inviting than that old orangey color. He also hung up the new curtain rods, and tore out that old shag carpet. The wood floors underneath are perfect,’ blah blah blah.

“‘Dorothy was shocked that I'd gotten rid of the few personal effects that were still in there, but I told her I'd wrapped up the framed photos and anything I thought you and Mycroft might want.’ Sorry, John, she's all over the place.”

“S’okay, I don't mind.” John sounded like he was chewing on his partially defrosted burrito.

“All right. ‘She thought the new bedding was a bit too modern for her tastes, but I told her the only people likely to sleep in that room are Mycroft and Sally, when they come home, which is almost never these days, and you and John. Those little twin beds in your rooms are really too small for grownups, especially tall ones like you. Anything floral would be too feminine for you boys, don't you think? I really wanted something more neutral.’

“‘Well, you should have seen her face, Sherlock. I'm sorry, I hope she doesn't take it out of John's hide, but I'm not going to pretend that the two of you aren't together. Anyway, she went real pale like, and said she'd really love the recipe for my apple tart, even though she's the one who gave it to me, fifteen years ago if it was a day, and she just turned around and walked downstairs and out the front door.’

“‘I'm sorry, I'd hoped to be able to give you better news than that, but maybe it's a good thing it isn't worse, with a lot of yelling and screaming?’

“The rest of it is more about the house, and oh, here, she won ten dollars at bingo. And she says to pass on her love.” Sherlock made kissy noises into the phone, and John laughed and told him to save it.

He folded the letter back up and slid it into the envelope covered with Mrs. Hudson’s loopy cursive. He planned to reread it later, and see what he could find between the lines.

“Well, I guess we know what to expect when we get home.”


“A bigger bed,” John teased in his just-for-Sherlock tone, somewhere between amused and aroused. “Unless, would it be weird, sleeping in that room, in your parents’ old bed?”

Sherlock had thought about that when Mrs. Hudson told him her plans for the bedroom. At first he’d insisted that she take it for herself, but she wouldn't consider moving from her room off the kitchen. It wasn't about not thinking she should, she'd told him, but about liking where she was.

“No, it wouldn't bother me. She bought a new mattress, some memory foam thing, and had the headboard sanded and restained. The carpet is gone, the walls are repainted, so it's going to be like an entirely different room.”

“And you're okay with that?”

“I'm thrilled. It'll be like adding a lot more liveable space to the house.”

“So, what's she done to your room, and Mycroft's room?”

“I think they're the same, for now. As soon as we left, after Thanksgiving, she called some handyman she found on the Mega Foods bulletin board, and he and his son have been working around the clock on the family room, and master bedroom.”

Sherlock wandered over to his futon again, and pushed the back down until it was flat. It was early, but he probably wasn't going out tonight, and he was more comfortable stretched out on the wider surface. “The kitchen and office are next, I guess, and will take more time.”

“Should I feel guiltier than I do, knowing I'll be spending more time at your house, than my own?”

“We only had a few nights last time, but we'll have almost four full weeks for winter break. I mean, I want you to stay with me as much as you can, you know that, but if it means a lot to your parents, you should stay there some of the time, too. We won't feel as short on time.”

“And deal with her trying to set me up with random women the whole time?”

“You think she'd still do that?”

John was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “Who knows? She's acting like she's in complete denial. Let's see how it goes, okay? I can spend time at home during the day, help dad out around the place, but no one is going to miss me when they're sleeping, ya know?”

“True. And we certainly can't stay at your place, not with all the non-sleeping noise you make.”

John sounded like he was choking on his burrito. “Oh, yeah, that's really rich, coming from you.”

“I'm not loud,” Sherlock said through a fake pout. He loved ribbing John like this, and loved when John fell for it.


Sherlock bit down on his lower lip to keep from laughing. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“God, now I'm horny. What time is it? Do we have time for phone sex?”

“Probably going on seven. Do you have your anatomy study group tonight?”

“No, we're done for the semester.”

“Are your roommates home?”

“Not for another hour, I'd say.”

“You've already got your hands down your pants, don't you?”

“I'm alone, and I'm thinking about you. Of course I have my hands down my pants. Take your jeans off. Leave the purple sweater on.”

“I'm not wearing those jeans, or the purple sweater.”

“I beg to differ.”

Sherlock laughed, and undid the buttons of his jeans. He pushed them down around his knees, then pulled them all the way off.

“Okay, they're off.”


“Not yet. You?”

“Not yet. It's my turn to tell a story. I used to fantasize about this before we got together.”

“I love your fantasies.”

“Good thing I’ve got about a million of them, then, isn't it?”


“You just listen, and make a lot of noise for me, okay?”

Sherlock spread his legs a bit and rested his free hand on his chest, over his heart. “Okay.”

“Okay. It's summer. It's hot. We've been cleaning out the stables at my place, and we’re sweaty, and tired. Your curls are plastered all over your neck and forehead, and I've got sweat dripping down my sides and back. We’re wearing cut offs and T-shirts.”

“I bet you stink.”

“Oh my God, you and my armpits, what is up with that?”

“It's sexy. You smell like a man.”

“I am a man.”

Those four words were enough to make Sherlock go from pretty thick to pretty hard. “Yeah, you really are.”

“Anyway. So, yeah, I stink. You do, too. We drive down to the quarry in your station wagon, and the whole way there, I've been trying not to stare at your thighs, because you've gone all muscular from working over the summer, and your shorts are really tight, and it's driving me crazy.

“You park the car under the cottonwood and we get out, and you strip down right there, next to the tree. You're slick with sweat, moving slow. I can't help but check you out, and I catch you looking at me when I take off my clothes, too.”

Sherlock strokes himself, leisurely, wanting to take his time and put himself into John’s story. John’s words strike him as familiar, although he’s sure John hasn’t told him this particular fantasy before.

“Wait. This has happened. Up until this point, anyway. I mean, how many times did we drive to the quarry after working our asses off, sweaty and gross and exhausted?”

“Tons of times, I’m sure. And that’s where the next part of the story comes from, because God, Sherlock, it was hard to look at you like that and not do all the things I wanted to do.”

“Like what?” Sherlock voice cracks. Phone sex seems to come easily to John. He’s confident, he knows what he likes and what he wants, and he has no problem telling Sherlock. Sherlock knows what he likes and what he wants, too, but it’s harder to put words to it. The phone helps, a little bit.

“Listen to the story and stop interrupting, and I’ll tell you!” John laughs, exasperated, but fond. “Where was I?”

“I just peeled off my disgusting clothes, and we’re checking each other out, but trying to not be caught checking each other out.”

“Right. I pull a bottle of water out of the cooler, and you reach for it, wanting me to pass it to you, but instead I splash water all over you. You try to grab it from me, and we start rough housing, fighting over the bottle. You grab me and hold me against you, back to chest, and pour the water on my shoulders and head, and I'm twisting against you, acting like I want to get away.

“We’re both breathing hard and sliding all over each other, and I turn around and push you back against the car, and wedge my thigh between yours, and we’re both hard, we can feel it, and we’re staring at each other, so close.

“And finally, God, I used to think about this all the time, I'd have the nerve to just fucking kiss you, and you'd be really still for a minute, like maybe you weren't okay with it, then you'd start kissing me back, hard, and touching me all over, my neck, my nipples, my ass, and we'd be exploring each other's bodies, and rutting against each other, and you'd be making all these whiny noises–”

“I don't make whiny noises,” Sherlock interrupts, slowly palming his erection.

“Shhh. Not your story. You're kissing me, and playing with my ass, and I'm rubbing my prick on your leg, and pulling your hair, and it's like, all that pent up wanting is making us nuts. So, I open the back door and tell you to kneel on the seat with your ass in the air –”

“Wouldn't that be hot? The seat, I mean.”


“And isn't that kind of fast, from best friends to me on my knees with my ass in the air?”

“It's a fantasy!”

“Sorry. Keep going.”

“So you're kneeling on the seat, naked, ass in the air, cock hard, bobbing between your legs, and I lean down and spread you open –”

“Ohh. Are you, oh god, are you going to, you know, lick me, there?”

“Yeah, I'm gonna lick you, and suck you, and drive my tongue into you, and you want it so bad, but I just keep teasing you, flicking around it, blowing on it –”

“Yeah –” Sherlock wriggled out of his underwear and spread his legs so he could reach his balls.

“And your cock is dripping all over the seat, and you're thrusting back, trying to get my tongue where you want it.”

“Please –”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Yeah, yeah –”

“I’m rimming that gorgeous ass of yours, mixing saliva with sweat, and then I push a finger in –”

“Fuck –”

“And you're a mess, you're so hot, and you want it so bad, and, fuck, I'm so hard for you, so I kneel behind you and rub myself over your hole –”

“Oh God –”

“And I start to push in. God, fuck, you're so tight, so hot, and you want it so bad –”

“I do, oh, John, I do –”

“I grab you by the hips, and I'm driving into you, hard – oh yeah – and my hands are slipping on your skin, and your knees are skidding on the seat, and I'm so hard in you –”

“John – God –”

“You close?”

“Oh God, yeah, more –”

“I reach down and squeeze your balls –”

“Yeah –”

“And your cock is so hard, so fucking hard, and I reach around you, and start stroking you, and I'm pounding into you –”

“Yeah –”

“And – it's so good – you're moaning – thrusting back –”

“Nnhhh –”

“Ahh – so hard, so wet in my hand –”

“Oh –”

“Sherlock –”

“Please –”

“And I'm telling you to do it, want you to come in my hand –”

“Ahh –”

“And I'm so close – gonna pull out – and come – on your ass –”

“Fuck, yes, yes –”

“Ah fuck – I pull out –”

“John – please –”

“And I – yeah – I – I'm –”

“Do it –”

“Come – coming – ohhh – all – over–”

“John – yes – oh – God – yes –”

“Your – ass – oh fuck – yes –”

Sherlock’s hips bucked up and his glutes contracted. Neck arched, words gone, he came, hard, all over his hand and stomach.

He could hear John panting into the phone, coming down from his own orgasm. Sherlock wiped his fingers through the mess in his pubic hair and belly button, and sighed.


“God, John. So good. You?”

“Fuck, yeah. Can’t wait to see you.”

Sherlock grabbed his discarded underwear and cleaned himself up, then tossed them back on the floor. “Me, too. Not much longer now.”

“Hey, what do you want for Christmas?”

“Nothing. Just you.”

“Believe me, you’ll be getting plenty of me. But I want to get you something, too.”

Sherlock rolled over and pulled one of Mrs. Hudson’s crocheted blankets over him. “I don’t need anything, John. Really.”

“It’s not about need, Sherlock.”

“Surprise me. What do you want?”

“Mmm, don’t know. No, yeah, I do know, actually. Let’s go somewhere. Let’s go to the city, or down to Chicago, for a night or two. We have the time, right? Book a hotel, see some sites, go to some decent restaurants? Maybe hit a club or two? That could be our gift to each other. No stuff, just, you know, an experience, together.”

“That sounds really good. Let’s go to Chicago. I’ll look into hotels and restaurants, and we can plan the trip when we’re home.”

“Perfect. That’ll be great. Okay, I’m gonna go. You staying in tonight?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. I should study for these finals.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.”

Sherlock put his phone down and let his eyes drift shut. The Christmas trip to Chicago was a truly inspired idea. He’d start researching later tonight. He’d take a little nap, have something for dinner, and take a look at hotels. Yes, good. That would be good.

Four more days until he sees John.