The first time John fucked Sherlock was after a particularly close call on a case.
Sherlock had given chase to a sucspect and lost John and had ended up with a knife against his throat. It was Lestrade who found him and incapacitated the suspect. Maybe that was part of it, John being powerless for once and angry at Sherlock for leaving him behind. Again.
They'd stumbled home, adrenaline pumping through their veins, sweat running down their backs. And what usually would have been a reproachful look with a shake of his head and a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder had led to John's hand on him as he steered him towards the bed. John's hand at the back of his head as he pushed his face into the pillow as he'd fucked him.
There was no kissing. That stood out to Sherlock. Wasn't that supposed to be part of it? Kisses and caresses and soft words murmured against skin and all the trappings of romantic sentimentality that he so resented. Instead there was John's hand. Heavy and warm against the nape of his neck as he pushed in and in and pushed down, grunting.
He'd been gentle opening him up, always making sure to not hurt Sherlock. But it had quickly turned ragged and hard and desperate. Hot hand in his hair, hot breath against his neck and the forceful thrust of John against him and in him and deeper and deeper than anyone had ever been before.
He'd cleaned them up after, washcloth warm and soft against his backside and strong arms around his chest as he fell asleep.
But he had been alone as he woke up. A glint of fear in John's eyes the next morning, but he didn't say anything and John didn't say anything and it was fine. They jusn't didn't do that. Talking.
- - - - -
The second time John fucked Sherlock was out of the blue. Unpredictable. Like John.
No adrenaline pumping through their blood. No suspect to threaten their lives. No John being mad at Sherlock to warrant any sort of lashing out, whatever form it took. And lashing out it had been the first time.
Instead, it was John after a shift at work. Boring patients, one with particularly nasty body odour that Sherlock could acertain due to John's compuctious washing of hands and taking a shower in the evening when he had just taken one that morning. And then John taking him. Not even making it to the bedroom this time, but pushing up against Sherlock and pushing him down on the table and not saying anything.
And Sherlock let him. This was, after all, how it was between them, right? He could do without the kissing. The soft murmured words of reassurance and the soft touch leading to more. Instead it just... was. Just John wordlessly opening him up and pushing in and pushing and pushing until Sherlock came with a shout he tried to cut off. The first sound uttered that late evening between them. And feeling John soak it up as he tightened his grip on Sherlock's hip to the point of bruising and burying himself as deep as he could go before hot warmth spread inside him. Hot and deep and foreceful and making him feel all the colder for when John pulled away. And away.
This time there was no warm cloth. No strong arms around him. Just the hard surface of the kitchen table against his chest and cheek and more silence the next day. After all, they were each brilliant at some things, each in their own right, but they were both truly good at this. This not speaking.
Sherlock was sore the day after, wincing as he moved to stretch out on the sofa. The deep, thrumming burn and tingling bruises on his hips the only tether he had to what he thought would be the rest of their time together.
- - - - -
The first time John kissed Sherlock was almost like the first time he had fucked him. Hard and harsh, yet careful and desperate after John had been knocked out at a crime scene where the suspect had been hiding and tried to make a run for it. Maybe it was punishment for Sherlock not seeing the culprit. Maybe it was rationalization.
They were standing in an alley outside, waiting for Lestrade as John had grabbed him, hand on his neck. The touch almost familiar by now, only gentler. Coaxing his head down to claim his mouth. He'd ground their lips together and Sherlock lost all sense of what he thought about how things would be between them as John had leaned in, breathing out harshly against Sherlock's cheek.
Kisses and hot breath, just minus the murmured words. It was almost how it was supposed to be, wasn't it? The act an imitation of the silly notions people had about love and intimacy and that so wasn't Sherlock and he so didn't soak it up as much as he could.
John had left after, going for a drink with a colleague from work. But as Sherlock touched his lips, swollen from John biting and sucking, he'd felt the aching burn just as deep as before.
And it was toast and tea and nagging about milk the next day. And his lips felt like his again, no trace of John on them, and he resented the missing physical reminder. No deep ache inside him as he moved. No tingling bruises to run his fingers over. To hold him in place and together as before.
And for once, the silence after felt overwhelming and not like them.
- - - - -
The first time John left Sherlock was after he kissed him the second time. Sherlock had grown to expect to be left after. To relive the moments in his mind palace and not expect a physical trace anymore.
It was also the first time the kissing went with the murmured words againt his skin as John sighed and pulled back and shook against him. And murmured a steady stream under his breath against his neck, hot breath fanning his skin and the only things he could make out where "I'm sorry. I'm sorry.“.
And being alone. After. More alone than he'd ever been.
There was no toast and tea the next morning. There was no John.
There wasn't for a week.
- - - - -
The first time John made love to Sherlock, he'd stood at the door, not daring to walk in. Eyes cast to the ground, feet shifting slightly and Sherlock had taken John's coat and put it on the hanger. He'd taken John's hand and he'd taken John's mouth and it had been all as he'd sneered at. Kisses and soft touches and murmured words against John's skin. Against his skin.
And John's gentle fingers on him and against him and in him as he opened Sherlock up. Gentle as ever, insistent as ever, but apologizing in their trail against him and around him as he stroked him with a firm touch. The push of John's cock deep inside him, familiar. Not pushing his face in the pillow this time. Not pinning him against the kitchen table. But looking at him from above as he thrust gently until Sherlock came undone, arching off the bed.
John, still deep in him, rocking his hips slightly, watching, watching. And then grunting as Sherlock turned his head and licked the knuckles of John's hand that was holding him up as he breathed raggedly and pushed and pushed and breathed Sherlock's name as he fucked deep into him on one last, soft sigh.
And John's smile the next morning as he curled around him. And toast, and tea, and still no speaking.
But there would be time for that.