They had been racing down the rain slicked back streets, jumping debris and splashing through puddles in an effort to catch up to the man ahead. Thanks to his longer legs, Sherlock was closing the distance quicker and didn't realize that John had fallen behind until he heard a muffled curse and a thud. Turning slightly, he saw John pull himself out of a large pothole filled with rainwater.
He immediately realized that turning was a mistake as the criminal doubled back in their direction, gun in hand.
“John, run!” he ordered. His friend went to bolt and stumbled. The expression on his face as Sherlock approached told the detective that he wouldn't be running anywhere. He slipped his arm under John's shoulder, hauling him roughly around the corner. Scanning the alley, it was clear the only options were run or hide, and one of those was not about to happen.
Before their assailant could round the corner, Sherlock ripped open a rusted door to what he correctly assumed would be a storage space and shoved John inside ahead of him before slamming the door shut. The room was pitch black and very damp. The two men were crowded on top of each other with barely any breathing room between them.
John, in usual form, quipped, “We can add being manhandled into a dark closet to the list of things people will definitely talk about,” with a small chuckle.
“People do little else, John, as I've said before,” came the clipped response, then, more gently, “Are you ok?”
“Yeah. Fine. Ankle is twisted. Not broken. Bit of bad timing though, eh?” Both men giggled.
As they awaited the inevitable sounds of sirens approaching, they stood there in the dark, catching their breath, bodies brushing against one another in the confined space.
“Sorry about the dreadful accommodations,” the detective joked. “I promise to find us a better room for the next date.” To his confusion, the laugh from the man next to him made him feel oddly nervous, and the gentle, slightly lingering pat on the his arm sent a small shiver down his spine.
John cleared his throat. “The police are out there, it's probably safe to go now,” he said, swiftly brushing an arm around his flatmate to push open the door.
Stepping back out into the rain, a familiar voice rang out in friendly jest, “Oi! Look who just came out of the closet!”
“John,” the deep baritone whisper began, “do try not to breathe so loudly, you'll get us caught!”
John's eyes rolled as Sherlock fumbled with the lock.
“I don't see why we need to break into the morgue in the middle of the night instead of just asking Molly tomorrow,” he replied quietly.
“Paperwork, John. It's so dull. Just to look over a dead body? It's not like they are going to complain.” He sighed heavily as the lock clicked finally and they made their way through the quiet, dark mortuary.
Sherlock began a hasty search through the stack of records on the desk trying to find precisely where their victim was being kept. John leaned against the cold wall wearily. 3 am. To check under a woman's fingernails. Not exactly where he wanted to be at this…
“Sherlock!” he hissed, his thoughts cut off by the sound of heels clipping on tile down the hall. “Someone's coming.”
The detective raised his head, eyes widening as he realized they had only a few seconds before they would be found out, and grabbed John’s sleeve, pulling him toward the rear of the room. A row of large linen closets lined the wall. He opened the largest and gestured for his friend to get in.
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sherlock! Again?” But as he didn’t feel like spending the night at the station for B and E, in he got with his taller friend cramming in behind him.
The locker was small, but at least it was wider than the storage closet had been. Both men sat, back to back, awaiting the opportunity for escape. The heels belonged to a younger woman, one of Molly's colleagues. Headphones in her ears, apparently here to work on some files. She was also clearly in no rush.
John sighed, realizing it was going to be a long night. A least with her ears occupied they didn't have to be totally silent.
“So, cupboards, huh?” he asked curiously. “Seems to be your hiding place of choice.”
“Convenience,” came the disinterested reply. Boredom was already in his friend’s tone, and a bored Sherlock was never good. John decided to try to get a conversation going.
“Liked to hide in them as a kid I’m guessing? During games with friends?” He felt the other man's back stiffen just slightly.
“I didn't have friends, John,” he stated, flatly.
“Oh, you had to have had. You must've had at least one good mate, right? Or some little girl who giggled at you and held your hand on the playground?”
“No. I was a socially awkward child who others avoided,” he answered darkly, but with a hint of what only John could’ve picked up on - longing.
“No one wanted to play with the freak. No one would have ever touched me by accident, let alone on purpose.”
Silence fell over the two, and John's heart hurt for a little Sherlock. How incredibly lonely for a child. He was angry on behalf of his friend for the cruel nature of any children who had labeled him a freak. He cleared his throat, and attempted to engage the detective again.
“But, as a teen, or at Uni, there had to have been someone. Anyone. Some type of friendship...or...anything?”
“I assure you, John, there was not. There were those who would use me occasionally for help with work but other than that...” his voice trailed off.
“And you've already said no...romantic relationships,” John replied quietly.
Through the slats he could see the lab assistant was still humming to herself and typing away.
“Jeezus. Sherlock. Have you never even been, um, touched at all?”
The taller man shifted uncomfortably. “If you are asking if I am truly what Mycroft has implied, yes, though I don't see why it is relevant.”
“Yes, well...no.” John stumbled over his words because the truth of this was inconceivably depressing. “I meant nothing. Not even hand holding? Hugging? Kissing? Any affectionate touching at all?”
“Unless it was a relative or necessary for an experiment or case - no. However, again, I do not quite understand your interest in my lack of personal relationships. It is unimportant.” He ended the sentence with a finality that John knew better than to challenge.
They sat there back to back in the dark locker without speaking for what felt like an eternity. Sherlock’s head dropped onto his knees as he began to rummage through his mind palace for something to do.
He was jerked back to the cold hiding space by a warm feeling over his hand.
John's hand. Softly resting on his own. John had stretched back with his bad shoulder, in what had to be a horribly awkward position, to reach. Smaller fingers laced into his. One baffled detective, startled by the warmth of such a small act, and one ex-army doctor with a heart breaking for this amazing man who had never even known the smallest gesture of affection from a friend. John squeezed his flatmate’s hand firmly and left it entwined there.
Minutes passed before he felt the younger man relax and lean back against his head, slender fingers returning the slightest pressure, keeping a tighter hold on their joined hands and not letting go.
Sherlock sulked and dragged his feet like a petulant child as the two walked up to Greg's flat.
“It's his birthday, Sherlock, you can at least try to be nice.” John said with exasperation. The response was a look that, if possible, was more whiny than his actual voice.
John mingled and chatted and drank. Sherlock stood against the wall, drink in hand, with a look that dared anyone to try to speak to him.
Unfortunately, a few someones did. An overly tipsy Sally Donovan approached him and John's focus immediately went to how to diffuse what he could already see was going to be a volatile situation. The sassy young sergeant had never liked Sherlock, and John - bristling at the memory of their chat in the locker about how children had treated him - knew instinctively that Sally, with Anderson at her side, was about to lay into the detective for fun.
Expecting his friend to face off like a cornered animal, he was shocked to see Sherlock standing quietly in front of the duo with a look he had never seen on his face before. From where he stood, he had to struggle to hear what was being said.
“Hey, Freak!” Sally aimed snidely at the detective. “Your little pet drag you along?”
Sherlock, totally out of character, stood very still and said nothing, though even across the room John could see his subtle flinch at the adjective used.
Anderson chimed in next. “Not sure why he bothers trying to socialize you. Not even a doctor can work that kind of miracle.”
At this John had had enough. The soldier in him - the defender - took over, and he shoved his way across the room toward his friend. His flatmate looked up as he approached, pale eyes still flashing that uncharacteristically vulnerable look.
“Back off, Donovan,” he growled, surprising even himself with the fierce protectiveness in his voice.
“Ooh. Need your little boyfriend to come rescue you, Freak?” she retorted, eyes still trained on Sherlock. She could be mean on the best days, but drunk, she had become downright cruel.
John opened his mouth and shocked everyone including himself as he tore into both the sergeant and Anderson with his own very explicit verbal lashing until they nervously backed away.
John's eyes darted to Sherlock, who had moved into the hall. He had regained his air of aloofness, yet his eyes betrayed him.
“Wanna talk about it then?” John offered.
The younger man reached behind his back and turned a handle, cracking open a door. With a half-cocked smile he nodded at it.
“It's a coat closet Sherlock. You can't be serious?”
“Away from them,” his friend answered, half pleading, as he backed in amongst the jackets.
Bloody hell, John thought, sliding in beside his flatmate.
“Well, ta,” the doctor joked, as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. “You did promise me better accommodations. At least it's warmer than your previous choices!”
Sherlock stayed quiet.
“So. Um, you wanna tell me what's got you being, uh, not you?” he tried.
The only response was an unwavering stare. After a few minutes of awkward silence, John turned to reach for the door.
“Right then, if you don't want to talk about it I'll just go...oomph!” His words were cut off by all of his friend’s weight hitting him as he was wrapped in what he could only call the world's most awkward hug. The younger man's arms, unsure what to do with themselves, closed around his shoulders. Then even more unexpected, a mess of dark curls fell to rest on his good shoulder. John was at a loss.
A low voice rumbled in his ear, “That thing you did, out there, for me. That was, uh...good.” Then barely audibly added, “thank you.”
It hit John then, the conversation in the morgue locker. This was not something the detective did. Emotion. Touching. This was some part of the man he didn't show other people and suddenly John was chuffed that he got to be so lucky. Having another man draped around him in a closet was not really something he had ever imagined enjoying, but the awkwardness had faded. He circled his own arms around the detective’s slender waist, knowing he was the first to be allowed to do this, and rested his own head atop his friend's.
“Don't thank me, Sherlock. You didn't deserve that. Not as a kid and not now. You are not a freak. You are an amazing, mad genius…and I...I care about you. Friends protect each other and I am proud to call you my friend.” The last words earned him an even tighter squeeze. The two men stood there like that for several minutes before Sherlock finally released him from his octopus grip. They straightened their jackets and opened the door.
People stared. People did actually talk…and John realized he really didn't care if they did.
The response to this story has blown my mind. Thank you to all the lovely people who have commented or bookmarked or sent kudos.
Also, thank you so much to my amazing beta:
This chapter is where you will finally understand where the title came from.
Personal space at 221b baker street had completely gone out the window. Not that Sherlock had ever really acknowledged that it was a thing before, but now…
Standing too close became standing on top of. John would be typing and his flatmate would stand behind, leaning over so his head rested lightly on top of his blogger’s. Watching telly where normally they kept to their own sides of the sofa, Sherlock had begun sprawling out like a cat, usually with his legs stretched across John's lap. He had all but abandoned his own chair in favor of this new position.
To his own shock, John found he didn't mind at all. He sat there one night, long legs and large feet across his lap, his hand resting lazily on one of his friend’s ankles, failing to focus on whatever show the younger man was currently yelling at, wondering what it would be like if Sherlock chose to lay the other way, with his head in his lap. What would it feel like to absently tangle his fingers into those raven dark curls…
His mind stuttered to a halt at that. Why was he daydreaming of playing with his flatmate’s hair?
It continued this way for some time. The “accidental” touching. The more intimate closeness. Finding on several occasions those amazing multicolored eyes watching him intently with a look he couldn't quite interpret. The detective was even showing more consideration toward his friend. Cleaning up after his experiments, making tea; he had even bought milk!
As the days went by, the sitting together indeed progressed from feet in lap to Sherlock curled like a child next to John's leg. Until eventually, one night, it turned to tentatively scooting over and resting his head cautiously on the doctor's thigh - where John fought a hard war with himself NOT to stroke the man’s hair, instead choosing nervously to rest his arm lightly on the detective’s shoulder in an almost-cuddle.
Yes things were different, but nothing in his time living with Sherlock had ever quite been normal in the first place, and mixed into the slight awkwardness of it all, there was also acceptance.
This was now life at 221b - and John didn't particularly mind at all. Confusing feelings aside, he was very much enjoying seeing this softer side of Sherlock. A part of him that it seemed was only ever meant for John. It was never talked about, it just was what it was.
A few weeks after the tackle hug at Greg’s party found John in the kitchen, desperately searching for clean mugs, and Sherlock in his room scuffling about noisily, his bedroom door ajar. Another change. He rarely shut it all the way anymore.
Clinking glass and the thuds of things being tossed made John wonder what the hell he was doing in there. The noises continued as the doctor drank his tea, but he put down his paper when it had become silent for a period of time. Curiosity getting the better of him, he moved to the cracked door to see what was actually taking place in there. Pushing the door open slightly, he stepped just inside his friend’s room to a sight that nearly sent him into giggles.
Sherlock, in pyjama bottoms, a grey t-shirt, and one of his dressing gowns, sat cross-legged on the floor half inside of his closet, with most of its contents strewn about the room, thumbing through an old journal. With his head down, his slightly disheveled hair fell across his face making him look even younger than usual. However, what made the sight totally bizarre (who was he kidding - absolutely adorable) was the ratty stuffed bumble bee in the detective’s lap. Obviously a childhood toy. The visual with all its absurdness caused his heart to flip flop with affection, and he cleared his throat nervously at the reaction.
His friend looked up from his notebook and smiled that real smile that was so rare.
“Come in, John!” he said excitedly, holding up the tattered notebook.
John stepped over the mess on the floor and sat across from the younger man. He was promptly handed what he could now see was a sketchbook. He looked in amazement as he flipped pages, each filled with intricate drawings of bees. Every assortment of bee, down to the smallest detail of their transparent wings. Each one labeled in a handwriting that was recognizably Sherlock's, yet with a bit less finesse.
“I was 10,” he interjected. “I always loved to watch bees.”
John was silent. The sketches were incredible, especially having been done by such a young child.
“I had no idea you could draw,” John said, closing the book and passing it back. He leaned forward, giving a loving pat to the scruffy toy in Sherlock's lap. “Who's your friend?”
“Bee,” the detective responded. “Not the most creative name, but I was only 4 when mummy made him”. He turned the worn lovey over in his hands with a look of affection before setting it aside.
John glanced into the mostly gutted open closet “What are you digging for in here anyways?”
With a shy smile the detective reached behind him and turned back holding a small model pirate ship. Perfect to the last detail. Even including one tiny model pirate on board.
Sherlock studied it while speaking.
“Mycroft helped me build it when we were little...well I built it and he criticized. Always said it was lacking.”
John reached out to touch the small skull and crossbones flag.
“It's not lacking. It's amazing. Really. What could it possibly be missing?”
At the compliment, a long finger hooked around his own where they both held the ship. Curious, John looked up and instantly Navy eyes were ensnared by ocean water ones. A warmth spreading in his hand where the other man's finger brushed his. Utter confusion settling in his stomach. This was...more than different. Personal space aside, something had indeed shifted, and John was at a loss as to what he should say or do, only knowing that he didn't mind at all.
The younger man finally broke the silence.
“John,” he began tentatively in a hushed voice “I think I know now. I know what it's missing.” He moved his hand and set the ship aside, then stood up, reaching down a hand to help his friend up as well.
The older man raised an eyebrow and gave a nervous smile (why was he nervous?) as he was pulled up.
“Enlighten me then?” he quipped.
Sherlock put a hand on his back and pushed him foward - and into the closet. John gave an exaggerated eye roll as he turned to question his friend, who had followed him in and was now standing directly in his space, his long arm reaching back slowly and shutting the closet door, throwing them into shadow.
“Sherlock?” John attempted meekly, more than a bit thrown off guard (and yes, definitely nervous) being now nearly chest to chest with his best friend in a darkened, closed closet.
“I know what it's missing. What's always been missing,” he began in a deep low whisper.
Something in that voice caused John’s spine to tingle and his breath to catch as he tried to respond.
A barely audible “Yeah?” was the only word he could manage to get out.
A larger hand took his and placed the small figurine inside his palm. John chanced a questioning glance at the detective's face. He found a look of curiosity, affection and nervous shyness, the latter two not being attributes he would ever have thought to associate with the man.
“It's not the ship, John,” came a quiet reply. “It's not the ship…it's the pirate.”
He closed his hand and John’s, together, around the toy in the doctor's palm.
“The pirate was...is...lonely...he's missing something.”
Again, John stood, heart pounding, not grasping exactly what was going through his friend’s head, nor his own for that matter. As he felt himself tugged forward by the hand around his own, he panicked briefly, thinking he should pull back - but finding in this insane moment that he really didn’t want to. What he wanted...OH!!! his thoughts were cut off by a head full of curls finding its way against his face in a not quite embrace, but something more like an intimate nuzzle.
He stuttered his own breathy reply into the other man's ear.
“Wh- what is the pirate missing, ‘Lock?” biting his lip at the odd choice of nickname he just uttered.
The head at his shoulder pulled back a fraction, and, keeping their eyes locked, he ghosted a breath of whispered words across John’s face.
Before his brain could even register the comment fully it was thrown right back offline as soft lips pressed firmly into his. One long arm had found its way around his waist, the other still curled around his and the small pirate. As the quick, gentle press of mouths parted he stood unmoving. Sherlock’s face fell a bit as he pulled back enough to look questioningly at his blogger.
“Did I do it wrong?” he asked in a quiet, slightly broken voice that was so not Sherlock that John felt a stab in his chest at the tone. So insecure. So unsure. So very vulnerable.
He had openly let John in where he had allowed no one else. He sought out the missing pieces from John. All the affection never given - he had allowed John to be the first to give, or in this case, receive. It was then that John realized: what he wanted was this. With this insane genius. His insane genius.
“No. No you didn't,” he managed in a gentle, hushed voice, as his free hand reached up to tangle into dark hair, making sure to lock eyes again with the anxious man in front of him. He pulled up to his full height as he gently brought his friend’s face back down to meet his own.
Guiding the younger man through it, he slid his tongue against full lips and was immediately granted access. Playfully, he pulled a lower lip between his teeth and could hardly hold back a smile at the hitched breath and low moan that it drew from his friend.
Sherlock caught on quickly. Darting his own tongue in and around John's mouth. Mimicking his motions. Gently biting back (to which his doctor emitted a little whine of his own), his hand moving up into silver-blonde hair to copy the one tangled in his own curls.
They continued for what seemed like hours, staying on the innocent side of passionate, this being a new experience for both men. When they heard the familiar sound of a tea tray being set down in the living room the moment broke. Both of them, fully tousled hair and slightly out of breath, pulled apart. Sherlock opened the closet quietly, preparing to exit before a curious Mrs Hudson could wander in. He turned to press one last soft kiss to the shorter man's cheek and smiled broadly, before bounding out of the room as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
John had waited in the bathroom until their landlady had left to finally venture out himself. Unsure of how to act or what to say, he was spared by his coat being quite literally tossed in his face while Sherlock, texting furiously, pulled on his Belstaff.
“Museum, John!” he exclaimed, then with a wink, “Could be dangerous,” before he was off down the stairs to hail a cab. John sighed and smiled to himself at how odd this day was becoming, before following him out into the cool London air.
Which is how they ended up racing down echoing museum hallways dodging exhibits in an escape from a crazed curator. As they turned full tilt into an open area John skidded to a halt to avoid crashing into an enormous fossil exhibit.
“Jeezus. Almost took out a brontosaurus!” he panted, bending down to catch his breath.
"John there is a museum curator who has been smuggling illegal artifacts chasing us with a loaded rifle! This is hardly the time for jokes - also, it is a diplodocus. There was no such thing as a brontosaurus; it was a mistake pieced together with the bones of two separate species.”
“Arse!” John exclaimed, jabbing his elbow into the detective’s side,with a lopsided smile, “You deleted the solar system, but kept dinosaurs?
“Shhh!” hissed the taller man, holding a hand out to hush his friend. “Quick, up the stairs, NOW!”
They hurriedly moved up the right hand branch of the staircase onto the second level, ducking into a hall before their pursuer could see which side they had chosen. John's hand was grabbed as he was pulled forward into what appeared to be a taxidermy room. Quietly, as they weaved between dead creatures and glass cases, the detective found what he was seeking.
John, who was behind him texting details of the criminal and their location to Lestrade, failed to see that his friend had stopped. Outside a door. Sherlock threw a nervous glance behind him at the doctor he had just hours ago been fully snogging in his own bedroom closet. For the first time, he felt a bit intimidated by being again in a confined space with the man. John looked up, confused at the hesitation on his friend’s (was friend still the correct term) face, before giving him a slight shove.
“Oh just get IN already!” as he motioned to the handle.
Sherlock snapped back to the present and nodded as he pulled open the door into the mostly empty space. Shutting the door with a quiet click, the two men stood face to face in near darkness. Listening intently for any indicator that they had been followed and hearing none, John relaxed. He could still hear and feel the detective’s very rapid breathing. There was space enough to move this time but neither made an effort to create any distance. Sherlock’s nervous breathing huffing against him told him he wasn't the only one thinking the same things about what had occurred earlier and their situation now. He reached out a hand and lightly pressed it to the younger man's chest, feeling the panicked heartbeat beneath his palm. At the touch, Sherlock shuddered but still stood not moving nor speaking.
The silence was becoming too much and the air had become heady between them.
Sod it, John thought and the hand on Sherlock grabbed a fistful of purple button down and pulled the man towards him.
Bodies flush against each other, John leaned up and whispered, “Ok?” against his ear, causing a full body tremor through Sherlock’s thin frame. A slight nod was the only reply.
Not wanting to startle his already nervous companion, he recreated the moments of earlier. Cupping Sherlock’s face in both hands, he gently brought their lips together in a hesitant but electric kiss that quickly became a more insistent tangling of tongues. Still a bit awkward and unsure, Sherlock followed his lead again as the moment grew more passionate and needy. John broke away to trail small kisses across his partners long pale neck, pushing aside his collar to nip gently at his clavicle, while sliding another hand into his hair, tugging hard and causing the younger man to yelp loudly and press his hips up against John's thigh, with a very obvious indicator that he was indeed enjoying this.
John decided he had demonstrated enough. With his own arousal building, he grinned against those full lips and sent a low growl into Sherlock's mouth as he once again whimpered and bucked his hips back into John.
Before Sherlock could process all of these new and confusing sensations, John had clasped both his hands in his own, raised them over Sherlock's head and roughly pushed forward, thumping him flat against the wall. Pressing their bodies together tightly as he deepened the kiss, a low groan escaped from his detective's throat. Keeping Sherlock pinned, he pulled him down slightly, matching their heights a bit more and bucking his own hips into the now panting man against the wall. As much as clothing would allow, he slotted himself between the taller man's legs, gently nudging them apart and aligning his now painful erection against the hardness of his partner. Slowly, without releasing their lips, he began to rock his hips against the pinned man.
Not breaking the rhythm, he slid his mouth in small wet kisses across the detective's face and began an assault upon his ear. Licking and sucking and diving his tongue in and darting out quickly, eliciting obscene sounds from the other man's throat. Which in turn sent shudders throughout his own body.
Sherlock’s hips began a stuttering thrusting, new sensations causing all rational thought to fall away as he rutted against John jerkily. The doctor released the man's wrists and lowered his own strong hands to Sherlock's hips, steadying him back into a rhythm.
“I've got you, Sher,” he breathed into the man's mouth as he ground their hips together more firmly.
The only sounds the taller man seemed to manage were keening whimpers and a stuttering chant of John's name. All other vocabulary seemed to have forsaken the normally outspoken man.
John's teeth found collarbone again, and Sherlock threw his head back so hard it smacked the wall as he let out a desperate cry. John decided that if this was to be the man's first sexual experience he was going to make it count. Having no experience of his own to draw from, he searched his own memory for all the ways a particular act had been performed on him.
He steadied the man's hips as he broke contact, which brought forth a broken whimper from his friend (lover?). He pulled back and let his hands fall to the waist of Sherlock's trousers, skimming a thumb lightly underneath and against pale, sweaty skin. He caught the detective's eyes for silent permission, holding a steady gaze as he began to slowly pop the button and ease the zip until he could easily shove his trousers down out of the way.
Any doubt John thought he should have in this moment was gone. The sight of Sherlock's pupils blown wide spurred him on as he slowly drew small circles across the younger man's thighs.
He stretched up to his ear, lapping softly before he spoke in a whisper, “Keep those gorgeous eyes on me, love,” and with that he lowered himself slowly, running his hands up and under his flatmate’s shirt to trail his nails down alabaster skin as he dropped to his knees. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants as he tenderly pushed them down as well.
The man above him stilled completely, never breaking eye contact. John nuzzled the space where his thigh and pelvis met, earning him a quiet whimper from above. The sound was enough to make him shiver as his body reacted to the noises from Sherlock’s mouth.
He encircled his hand around Sherlock’s impressively hard and copiously leaking cock. The detective brought his arm up and bit down hard as he grunted loudly, trying to stifle his own noises.
“Move your arm - I want to hear you,” John growled as he slowly began working his hand up and down over Sherlock's length. His partner nodded as he kept eye contact with his captain as he had been told. John continued gentle slow strokes so as not to overwhelm the shaking detective he had pinned helplessly to a storage room wall.
Gathering his courage, he kept his eyes on Sherlock’s for a moment as he leaned forward and gently lapped at the dripping pink tip of his cock. Stormy eyes widened, his silvery irises gone completely dark. His breath hitched and a small mewling sound escaped as he involuntarily gave a small thrust.
The doctor's own achingly hard member throbbed at the knowledge that he was the first to ever hear him make such sounds, and he smiled.
He began to flick his tongue around the tip and underside of the silky head before oh so slowly sliding his mouth around it, swallowing down as far as he could without retching. There was a broken gasp above him when he gripped around the base and began sliding his mouth up and down while running teasing circles with his tongue, finding a steady rhythm with his hand as he moved his mouth over every inch he could manage.
Increasing the pace, he again lifted his eyes to watch the face of the man he was taking apart. Sherlock, utterly wrecked and panting, couldn't help but to buck into the movements of his John's warm wet mouth and hand, the moment quickly becoming close to overwhelming. Long fingers anxiously grappled at John's hair, as the broken gasping baritone voice stuttered out incoherent words as he continued sucking and stroking, never breaking rhythm as the younger man thrust roughly into his throat.
He braced himself and let Sherlock thrust. A throaty “J-Jaaawwn” was cried as he stiffened and arched his back and bucked through a violent shuddering orgasm. John's mouth filled with the salty-bitter taste of his partner, and he did his best to keep moving through Sherlock's climax, while attempting to swallow what he could.
As Sherlock slumped a bit against the wall, John withdrew his mouth and steadied him with one hand as he pulled himself up off the floor. The detective was completely wrecked. Sweaty curls sticking to his forehead, breathing heavily, and barely standing upright. Their eyes shyly meeting as he gave John a weak but besotted smile.
John's heart did a little flip flop at the sight of what he had done to his friend (no. Definitely something far beyond friend…). His own arousal now just background thought, he reached out to push hair lovingly out of Sherlock’s eyes, gently rising up to press soft kisses to his forehead before leaning his own against it as long arms encircled his neck. They stood in a quiet embrace for a few moments before clothing was readjusted along with composure. With one last brush of a kiss to his (boyfriend/lover’s?) mouth, he possessively took one of the taller man's hands in his as they headed out of the closet and through the back hallways of the darkened museum together, avoiding the remaining yarders left from the case, to make their way home.
Thank you to everyone who has been reading this and for all the kudos and amazing comments!!!
“Dull,” came the annoyed mutter of the man seated next to him at Lestrade’s desk.
“If you would just finish the bloody paperwork we could leave, Sherlock,” John chided playfully, giving a light pat to his thigh under the desk.
Green-gray-blue eyes caught his and sparkled with a look he was learning all too well. Sherlock winked, then resumed hastily scrawling his name to several more papers. He tossed the pen onto the desk and bounced to his feet.
“Come on, John,” he said in a voice that sounded just a bit not good as he moved toward the office door, poking his head out and scanning the area. Giving John a let's go nod, he left the room. Near the front of the station was a hall of lockers they had passed on the way in. With a quick glance around, Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him off to one side, pulling open the largest one and hauling John in behind him.
Clicking the door closed with as little noise as possible, he turned and before John could think up a witty comment, he found himself being roughly shoved back against the locker with 6 feet of wiry detective pressed fully against him.
The taller man leaned down to claim his mouth in a rough but affectionate kiss before wandering down his neck to place possessive bites wherever he could find skin. John bit back a moan and brought one hand up to fist into a mop of dark curls while the other slid down between them to palm at the prominent bulge in his partner's trousers. He yanked hard at the roots of the detectives hair, pulling his head back roughly before reeling him in to crash back into his mouth.
Sherlock gave a low rumbling growl into his mouth and pushed him more forcefully against the locker, batting away his hand and pinning him impossibly harder with his hips as he rolled them teasingly into John's. A satisfied smile pressed against his mouth as John gave a less than quiet whimper in response while bucking back against him.
John slid both his hands down to firmly grab Sherlock’s hips, intending to take control, but the younger man deduced his motives and, never breaking rhythm, grabbed the hands gripping him, entwining their fingers and pulling John’s arms over his head with no chance of regaining control. He claimed his doctor’s mouth again, moaning into a wet kiss, and gave another rough thrust against John's hips, pressing him hard into the wall he was pinned to...hard enough to rock the locker. They both heard the crack as the force against the door became too much, but it was already too late to stop it.
John lost his balance as Sherlock lost his grip on John, and the latter tumbled breathlessly out of the cramped cabinet, barely catching himself before he fell on his arse. A sheepish looking detective with wildly mussed hair peeked out, looking wide eyed past John at the group of yarders gawking at the scene.
And John realised he could care less who was there. Sod it, he thought, let them talk!
Pulling the locker door out of the way, exposing a very embarrassed Sherlock Holmes, he said loudly, “You know, you mad idiot, I absolutely love you, but if you want me to come ‘OUT of the closet’, you really need to stop putting me IN one!”