Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“ One day, Sherlock, you’re going to find someone whose very existence makes you feel like you’re feeling right now.”

Sherlock had thought that Lestrade had been overly sentimental at the time he’d said that. After all, he had just been Sherlock’s first shag and, well...people tended to get overly emotional after sexual intercourse. It was a natural thing, a thing that Sherlock did not do. He did not like sentiment. He had only agreed to sex because A) Lestrade was extremely physically attractive for an older man and B) he had always wondered if sex really did produce a high similar to drugs. He found out that it did.

However, while Sherlock found he enjoyed sex very much, he did not like getting personal with someone. So, he decided to not have sex unless he found someone around whom he was comfortable enough. He was comfortable with Lestrade, but he did not want to mix work with pleasure. Work was his pleasure: he did not want to seek out even more in the same place.

So he worked. And he worked. As the years went by, work became the only thing he enjoyed, hence the way he always said he was married to his work. He and Lestrade never mentioned what had transpired between them, and he settled into a complacent existence where he rarely had to use drugs, but kept some within reach...just in case.

He worked with Molly Hooper, a woman who was obviously very interested in him. People thought he had not noticed her attraction, but he was not that stupid: he hated emotion, but he could recognise it. He chose to act oblivious because he had no interest in her whatsoever.

Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man, but he had no idea what his own sexuality was: he was a gay demisexual. No woman could ever sway him, and precious few men had a chance before Sherlock scared them off.

Until he met John Watson. He always had an authority kink, but John sent him over the edge. His very presence in the room commanded attention, commanded Sherlock’s attention. It was nearly too much being in the same room as John for long.

He made his usual deductions, mostly because he couldn’t help himself, but also because he wanted to impress John. Surprisingly, he succeeded. Sherlock knew that John would move in, without a doubt. He just didn’t know what it would be like. Would they become close? Would John begin to hate him in time?

Sherlock immediately knew that the limp was psychosomatic. His first order of business was to get John back on his own two feet, to make him strong again, as strong as Sherlock knew he could be. It worked fantastically, and Sherlock found himself laughing more in five minutes with John than he had done since he was about fifteen years old. It was the most magical moment he had had in his life thus far, and it was then he knew he was hopelessly in love with John Watson.

Before then, when John was questioning his sexuality, he gave his standard “married to my work” excuse because it was a natural defence mechanism. A way to guard his heart from a nonexistent attack. However, he never told John he was straight. He said women weren’t his area, but did not comment on men. Unfortunately, John did not get the hint.

Over time, Sherlock had to suffer, watching John go on date after date, never giving him the time of day. He knew John was bisexual, and that he had had “experiences” when in the Army. So why was he denying it so virulently? Sherlock shook his head, thinking once again that he would never truly understand normal people.

His love for John never diminished, and after his “death” that love only grew with the absence of his blogger in his life.

Many nights he spent cold, hungry, thirsty, mostly bloody, and beaten. Many men would have given up and died, but Sherlock was determined to destroy Moriarty’s web so that he could return to London and he and John could be safe. In place of food, he lived on the knowledge that he would be with John soon. He survived knowing that they’d be together, the two of them against the rest of the world once again. That was his sole sustenance for days at a time.

The last thing on Earth he had expected was the appearance of Mary Morstan in their lives. John had been his whole world, and deep down Sherlock thought that he was John’s. Being wrong shattered his heart, and it took everything he had to be supportive of John’s new life.

He was lost, deep inside. John was gone. He and Sherlock were still friends, but it was not the same as it had been, and Sherlock was left with a gaping hole in his chest that burned whenever he breathed. John’s blog had once called him a conductor of light, but that was not true. John had been the sun in his universe, and Sherlock had been the moon, reflecting the light John gave off. With the sun gone, he was simply a dark, cold piece of rock, just as he had been before meeting John. The light was gone from his world, leaving him in the cold darkness.

“What’s with you?” Greg asked him one day at a crime scene. Sherlock was being his usual brilliant self, but his heart wasn’t in it, and if it was so obvious that the inspector could see it, Sherlock knew he was in deep shit.

“Nothing, Lestrade.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Greg replied. “The spark in your eyes has gone, there’s no life while you’re prancing around showing off like there usually is. So what gives?”

“I said ‘nothing’, now piss off,” Sherlock snapped, his irritability shocking even himself.

Greg grabbed the back of his coat and pulled Sherlock back like a naughty child. “Now you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. I have known you for ten years, and I have never seen you act like this, not even when I had arrested you. I know you don’t like emotion, but whatever is bothering you is affecting your work. I am your friend, for all intents and purposes, and I am here when you want to talk. I was there for you years ago, and I’m still here.”

Sherlock did not know what to say to that, so he simply walked away. No one had ever been there for him since Mycroft when he was a teen. John, of course, was another story. This was new information to process.

Thoughts of John encompassed his mind, made it hard for him to think of anything else. Many nights he spent alone, staring at the drugs he had stashed away for a rainy day, and wondering who would even care if he took all of them at once and finally left this world. The pain would stop...forever.

He had already tried to kill himself on the plane that was supposed to take him away after he killed Magnussen ( for John; everything he did was always for John ), and it had not worked. Would it work this time? He thought yes. No one would notice for days, probably not until either Mrs. Hudson noticed he wasn’t drinking the tea she set out for him, or Lestrade didn’t hear back from him about a case.

John would not discover him, because John was busy elsewhere. Because John did not care for him like Sherlock had hoped he would.

Sherlock fell to his knees in front of his armoire, startled and resigned when hot tears began to fall from his eyes. He cried in a way he had not since Redbeard had been put down, with deep sobs wracking his body and finding it hard to breathe. If it were possible his heart seemed to physically ache, and there was a rock in his stomach.

A line from one of John’s favourite films went through his mind: “If this is love, I do not want it. Take it from me. Please. Why does it hurt so much?”

The next line also came easily: “Because it was real.”

It was real, for Sherlock at least. More real than any emotion he had felt in over two decades. He wrapped his arms around himself to stop the shaking, but his body was not under the control of his brain anymore. His heart held dominion now. He hated it. He wanted it all to go away. Forever. Love really was a terrible disadvantage.

The only thing that broke him from his misery was the incessant beeping of his cell phone. It cleared the fog and he went to see who kept texting over and over. His heart gave a traitorous leap when he saw John’s name.

“Sherlock, hurry!”

“Mary’s gone missing!”

“I haven’t heard from her in hours!”

“Sherlock, I need you!”

“I’m scared.”

Sherlock barely had the opportunity to type out that he was on his way before he hurriedly caught a cab, making sure the driver was not, in fact, Moriarty. His dread grew as John’s flat got closer and closer. If Moriarty had her--and that was the most likely scenario--then she would not survive, nor would their baby.

Sherlock leapt from the cab, tossing notes at the driver as he ran up to John’s flat, where Lestrade was already comforting the distraught doctor.

When Sherlock entered the room, John cried out and ran straight into the detective’s arms. Instead of recoiling, Sherlock, wrapped his arms around John, placing one hand in his hair. “It’s okay. I’m here. We’re going to get her back, I promise.” It was an empty promise, of course. Most likely, she was already dead or would be very soon.

John looked up at him, his face tear-stained and creased with worry. “If anyone can get her back, I know it’s you.”

A knock came at the front door, Lestrade went to answer it, and Sherlock heard him talking with a neighbor. He came back into the room holding a disc. “Neighbor said this came for you, John. I...think it could be from Moriarty.” He was holding it in a Kleenex so he did not contaminate it with his prints. “The neighbor said someone dropped it off but she didn’t see who.”

“Unobservant dolts!” Sherlock spat. “Well? What are you waiting for? Play it!”

Greg opened John’s laptop and they all gathered round to see what was on the disc. It was a video of Mary! She was tied up in what looked like a cellar, but she appeared unharmed. It was just the video, nothing more. No sound. Nothing that could help Sherlock figure out where she was.

Words appeared on the video. “If you want to get Mary back, give me Sherlock Holmes. Send him ALONE to the following address. Anyone else comes, she dies.”

An address appeared on the screen and then the video ended.

“Oh, my God!” John cried. “Could either of you tell where that was?”

Sherlock was on his phone, pulling up a map. The address was an empty building MI:5 had once used for something his brother had concocted. Judging from the lighting in the video, that was exactly where Mary was.

“Lestrade, play it again. Quickly!” Sherlock ordered. “And both of you stand back. I can’t think when you’re crowding me in like that.”

He watched the video again, pausing and rewinding it in parts. His analytical brain was putting it all together, seeing clues many people (including DI Lestrade) would miss. In a second, all the puzzle pieces put themselves together in his Mind Palace and he knew what was happening, what had been happening ever since he faked his death three years ago. How had he not seen it sooner?

He swept across the room and said, “No need to worry, John. Mary will be back with you safe and sound.”

John’s eyes widened. “But Sherlock! You can’t go there alone! You’ll be killed.”

Sherlock turned and regarded John, sitting there with tears in his eyes and a muscle working in his jaw. His John. His world. His heart. He would always do whatever it was that made John happy, and if that included dying, then so be it. As long as John was happy.

“John. Do you love Mary?” he asked quietly.

“Of course I do, but--” He cut himself off, biting his lip. “If I had to choose one of you to live and one to die...I can’t do that, Sherlock. Please, don’t go. I’ll never forgive myself.”

Sherlock had a million things he wanted to say, but he could say none of them, lest he reveal his true emotions to John and ruin everything. He looked at Lestrade instead and said, “Make sure he stays here, Greg. Don’t either of you follow me.”

He turned to leave, but Greg grabbed his arm.

“You know my name.”

Sherlock nodded. “I figured, if it was my last time to say it, I probably should.” He turned towards John and said, “You are my best friend. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure you were happy.” With that, he left, knowing in his heart that he would not return.

In the cab ride to the address the video gave, Sherlock sent some texts to Mycroft, asking for certain MI:5 and 6 files. Mycroft sent them without hesitation once Sherlock said it was for John. Sherlock opened them and read them over. One was extensive. The other not so much, but it connected the necessary dots.

The cab dropped him off outside the empty, boarded up building. The sun was setting, casting an eerie light on the place. Had Sherlock not known what he was walking into, he might have been nervous.

The front door was neatly picked and left unlocked for him. He walked in, cocking his gun. The front of the building was dark, but after he took a few steps inside, he heard a familiar, goading giggle. It continued as he walked deeper into the building.

“I know you’re there. And I know who you are,” Sherlock said. Silence. “I know who you really are. Professor James Moriarty is dead. I confirmed it. He never sent that video message all over England. You sent it, just like you sent that message today. You, who have always wanted me dead, you who have always been controlling Moriarty ever since you met him in America.

“You were a CIA sniper. Your name is Sebastiana Moran. You are what people like Mycroft like to call the puppet master. And oh, you have been playing us all, Moran. Playing us like a fine-tuned violin. I bet you gloated at fooling me, didn’t you? Well, the game is over now. Stop this ruse and come to me, we can settle this face-to-face. Sociopath-to-psychopath.”

More silence.

“I am here to surrender, if that makes it easier for you. Finish the job you already botched up once before, and I’ll be out of yours and John’s hair forever. Though, it would be best to let him in on your pseudocyesis.”

“You’re not going to beg for your life?” Sebastiana’s voice carried to him from the back of the room. “To make a deal with me?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Do you know what I was doing before John told me his wife was missing? Do you?” Silence. “I was going to kill myself. The only person who might be a bit affected by my death would be Lestrade, and he’d get over it. Lord knows my brother would be relieved not to have to worry about his addict little brother anymore. And John...well, he’d be free to be with the woman he loves. No more cases, or interruptions, to muck up his life. No more death threats. Everyone would be better off, and frankly, I’m sick of this existence. It was so easy when I felt nothing, but now that I do recognise my feelings, I am dreadfully depressed and it just won’t do.

“Better to go now, before I start having affection for Mycroft, don’t you agree? This way, no one will ever know. I know you want me gone and always have. There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” Sherlock said. “Why John? How on Earth did you choose John Watson?”

“How did you?” Sebastiana asked in return. Sherlock was near the back room, so her voice was closer and had lost the eerie echo.

What do we say about coincidences? The universe is rarely so lazy.

“Fate,” Sherlock replied. “I didn’t consciously choose him.”

“I saw him. I was just coming over here with Jim when I spotted him. I fell madly in love with him in one moment. It was mere chance that the man I love had become acquainted with the man Jim was obsessed with. We both wanted you out of the way for different reasons, yet somehow you never fucking died.”

The back room had no lights, but some of the boards on the windows had fallen, and the bright orange light of sunset illuminated it well enough for Sherlock to see the familiar blonde hair and red maternity jacket Mary always wore.

“You didn’t miss me on purpose: you thought I’d die in hospital,” Sherlock said.

She nodded, smiling as pleasantly as if they were back at her and John’s flat. Still smiling, she pulled out a gun, aiming at Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock didn’t move away, and lowered his own gun. He knew how this was going to end, and there was no point in trying to stall by defending himself.. “I promise you I won’t miss this time.” She cocked her head. “Any last words, O Great Detective?”

“No. I said my goodbyes to John. You just have to promise me...promise me you’ll always love him. That you’ll never hurt him. That you’ll always make him happy. If being with you makes him happy, and I am a distraction, I’d rather it be this way.” Sherlock dropped his gun and held his arms to the side, a similar pose as to when he had faked his death. There was nothing fake about this, however. Tears ran down Sherlock’s face, but he was hardly aware that he was even crying.

“You really love him, don’t you?” she asked.

“Of course I do. And I have never had more emotional turmoil in my entire life, so please, if you’re going to put me out of my misery, I suggest you do it now before Lestrade gets a hair up his arse and brings the Yard here,” Sherlock said, impatient.

“So impatient.” She chuckled, and Sherlock watched as the safety of the gun was clicked off. “So long, you bastard.”

“Mary!”

Damn it. How had Sherlock not realised by now that John was not a great listener? This was the last thing he had wanted!

“Get out of here, John,” he ordered without turning around. “Now!”

John ignored him. Sherlock could feel his presence just behind and to the left of him. There was more noise outside, so he assumed Lestrade had brought the cavalry.

“Mary, is everything you just said true?” John asked, breathless.

The woman they all had known as Mary Morstan did not take her eyes off of Sherlock, nor did she lower the gun. In fact, she kept on smiling.

“John, don’t you see? He was tearing us apart and had been since before we met,” she said. “Now, allow me a moment, and we will finally be able to live in peace, dear.”

Moran was the name that made people tremble. Moran had killed more people than the reader has ever even met, and never missed the target. No one knew that the feared sniper was a woman. So it was needless to say that Sherlock knew his time was finally up when her small finger started to squeeze the trigger.

A shot rang out in the building, echoing and hurting his ears. However, it was not the gun “Mary” used that fired.

He watched as the woman who had faked a pregnancy for seven months, had tried to kill him twice, had plotted to kill him again, married the man he loved, and kidnapped herself looked down, a darker red stain spreading on the front of her coat.

She looked up, eyes wide and filling with tears. “John...why?” she asked, before falling to the floor, blood pooling around her like spilled milk.

Sherlock could do nothing but stare as John came into his field of vision, holding a literal smoking gun. He tossed the gun aside, not glancing at the dying form of his wife as he rushed over to Sherlock, whose knees chose that very moment to give out. John caught him in his arms and eased them both to the floor, cradling Sherlock as if he were nought but a child.

John was crying. “Sherlock...was it all true? I heard everything. Please, Sherlock, talk to me, damn you!” He shook his friend, and Sherlock felt the warmth of John’s body so close to his. “Sherlock! You were going to kill yourself?”

Sherlock nodded, still staring at “Mary”, lying on the floor. John had shot her. He had killed his own wife...all to save Sherlock ? He could not for the life of him comprehend it.

“Christ, Sherlock, why?” John asked, still crying. “Why did you never say anything? All those years...wasted. Why?”

Sherlock did not respond.

“You were going to let her kill you!” John cried. “How could you? How could you let her do this, and come back to me, never letting me know that she killed the man I--” John cut himself off and that caught Sherlock’s attention.

“I did it because I love you, John,” Sherlock said, looking up into the reddened eyes of the man he had loved for so many years now. “I would do anything to make you happy.”

Sherlock was not expecting the open-handed slap that came, stinging his cheek. “You giant idiot!” John roared. “How dare you think that your death would mean nothing to me? I had to live two years thinking you were dead. Do you know what that did to me? Do you? I nearly shot myself, Sherlock. Over ten times, before I met Mary, I held my gun in my mouth. Without you my life is meaningless. Without love, life is meaningless.”

He held Sherlock’s head in his hands, caressing his hair and his face. “Sherlock...my life was so dark, and then you came and gave it light and love. You gave me things I never thought were possible. Your death could never make me happy. If you knew...if you’d seen how it was those two years…” John was crying harder, and he and Sherlock clung to each other in the growing darkness.

John looked up, trying to swallow his tears and said, “I love you, more than words could ever express. To lose you would mean losing half of myself.”

Holding Sherlock still, John leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips, his jaw, his cheek, and back to his lips again.

Sherlock grabbed onto John, for once speechless and his mind silenced. He was only emotion and nerve endings, craving the love that John was so ardently offering. He didn’t feel he deserved it, but he did not care. He gasped into John’s kisses like a drowning man gasps for air, not loosening his grip on the Army doctor.

“How--I don’t--” John pressed a finger to Sherlock’s lips to silence him.

“Shh, love. We have a lot to get past, and a lot to go through. That’s okay. You and I, we have all the time in the world.”

****

“The couple has prepared their own vows for the occasion.”

The church was hushed and the minister looked expectantly between John and Sherlock, who were clasping hands before the altar as if they might lose each other were they to let go.

“John, you saved my life more times than you know. I was ready to end everything many times before I met you, and some time after...everything. I thought you would be better off without me in your life. I just wanted to be sure you were happy.

“I have never been in love before. I was not sure I even knew what love was, until I laid eyes on you. It was then that I knew every cliche was true, every love song written spoke directly to my soul. You made me blissfully happy. You made me feel human, and I came to find that I liked that feeling. I once said love was a disadvantage, and I can now admit that I was wrong.

“You are my everything, John Watson. My lover, my husband, and my best friend. And I am honoured to be yours.”

Sherlock watched John fight back tears as he began to speak.

“Sherlock, you drive me completely mad. There were times I thought living with you as friends would drive me insane. There were times after you were gone that I knew I was going mad, because being without you felt like the universe punishing me. Not seeing your smile, watching you try to microwave eyeballs, or just watching you sit and read the paper was torture.

“I fell in love slowly, over time, and before I knew it you had engulfed my heart. You, you rude, childish, impulsive, brilliant man. I love you, I have loved you, and I will never stop loving you till the day I die.”

Even the minister was crying. Sherlock looked into the congregation to see Harry, John’s sister, openly sobbing. His mother was a complete wreck. Greg was dabbing at red eyes, clutching Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft was smiling at them.

“I John Hamish Watson take thee William Sherlock Scott Holmes to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

John slipped a ring onto Sherlock’s finger.

“I William Sherlock Scott Holmes take thee John Hamish Watson to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

Sherlock slipped a ring on John’s finger.

“I now pronounce you legally wed. You may kiss.”

John kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock let everyone see his tears, his emotions plainly displayed for the congregation. Because sometimes one must realise that love is the biggest advantage of life.

Chapter Text

Mycroft had given them a wonderful wedding present: use of a little French cottage in an out of the way village in the country. It was quiet and beautiful, the perfect place for a honeymoon.

“I hope you won’t get bored and start terrorising the locals,” John commented to Sherlock with a smirk.

Sherlock replied, “Well, then you’ll have to keep me entertained , Doctor.” He was laying against piled pillows, hair still damp from a quick shower he’d taken to wash the germs of the plane off of himself.

“And what if I wanted you to entertain me, huh?” John asked, hands on his hips. Sherlock thought he might have been more intimidating were he wearing more than a pair of red pants.

When they had first begun dating, both men were reluctant to be naked around the other. Not because of obvious reasons, but because of their scars. John was ashamed of his bullet wound, and after a lot of prodding from Sherlock had admitted it made him feel weak, like a failure.

Sherlock had proceeded to slowly strip John’s shirt off and kiss his whole body, ending with the scar. “This scar means you fought a hard battle and survived, John. It is confirmation that you are here with me.”

“Then why are you reluctant? I know you lived a hard life. I’m sure your arms are scarred, and I know you were shot--I was there, remember--so what is it?” John had asked.

Sherlock had sighed, standing up and beginning to untie his robe. “It is not those scars. I also have a bullet wound in my thigh, from before we met. Those scars are not my concern. It is what I received when I was dismantling Moriarty and Moran’s network that gives me pause.”

“Show me, please, Sherlock?” John asked.

“I do not want your pity, John,” Sherlock replied.

John looked up from the bed where he sat and said, “I will never pity you. I will kill whoever would dare hurt you, but I will never pity you.”

Sherlock smiled. His John. Always so protective. “No need for that: the ones who are not dead are incarcerated.” He turned, dropping his robe and standing there in the room clad in nothing but black pants, the deep scars from all the whippings and floggings he had received garish in the bedroom light. He knew what it looked like. He had seen a horse with the same scars, whipped to death by a harsh master.

He heard John gasp and felt his calloused fingers tracing each scar. Where each finger traced, a soft kiss would follow.

“I am sorry I wasn’t there,” John whispered. “I’m sorry you had to be hurt.”

Sherlock turned, taking John’s hands in his. “That is the past. Now, there is nothing but pleasure to be found in our future.”

Now, there was no more insecurity between the two men. Every scar--physical and emotional--had been laid bare.

Sherlock smiled at John, crawling to the edge of the bed. “And how would you like me to entertain you, John?”

“ Captain ,” John corrected sternly, and Sherlock felt a little shiver travel down his spine.

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

John maintained a stern face. “You don’t sound sorry, pet. Why don’t you come over here and prove to me how repentant you are?” He pointed to the spot on the area rug in front of him and Sherlock climbed off the bed and crawled towards John. The light in John’s eyes was enough to get him fully hard.

Sherlock pulled John’s pants down with his teeth, allowing the doctor’s thick cock to spring free, already dripping precome from the tip. Sherlock eagerly licked it off, and he felt John shudder. After six months together, they knew what the other liked quite well.

Sherlock felt John’s hands come to grip his curls, but he didn’t restrict his movement just yet. Sherlock licked a stripe down John’s length, tasting him before sucking just the head into his mouth, rolling his tongue and treating it like a lolly.

John groaned, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s curls tighter. “You bloody tease,” he said. “Hold still; you’re going to pay for that.”

Sherlock did as he was told, relaxing his jaw and throat muscles as his Captain began slowly thrusting in and out of his mouth, picking up velocity as he went. Sherlock closed his eyes and felt a sharper tug in his hair.

“You’ll look at me, pet, or I won’t let you come tonight,” John threatened. It was an empty threat and Sherlock knew it, but he complied. He was so hard he was dripping, and didn’t think he could handle any of John’s sexual punishment without coming too soon. John was an absolute master in the bedroom, and Sherlock was one very happy man.

John fucked Sherlock’s mouth mercilessly, only stopping eye contact when he pulled Sherlock’s mouth away. “Fuck you’re good at that. How can you be brilliant at everything?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. John did not know he used to perform oral favours in order to get drugs when Mycroft had cut off his cash flow, and he hoped John would never know. He hated that Greg knew!

“Come on, on the bed on your hands and knees, now,” John ordered.

Sherlock got on the bed and felt it dip as John got on behind him.

John squeezed Sherlock’s arse hard, pinching and rolling the flesh in his warm hands, and Sherlock groaned.

John leaned forward, biting Sherlock’s ear as he said, “You’re such a little slut, begging for it. But you’re my slut, and I love you.”

Sherlock felt John part his cheeks and then groaned as John’s hot tongue rimmed the tight ring of muscle around his hole, slowly licking him open. Sherlock wriggled his hips, trying to get more of John’s tongue inside of him, but the Captain simply swatted him, making his flesh sting in a pleasant way.

“Fuck, Captain, please,” Sherlock begged.

John didn’t respond, just roughly shoved two fingers into Sherlock’s mouth. The detective knew what to do, licking and sucking on the fingers as well as he had sucked John’s cock a few moments ago. He knew this was all the preparation he’d be getting, but he didn’t mind. Both he and his new husband had found out quickly that they both liked it rough and raw.

John took his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth and the younger man felt one enter his arse, quickly followed by the second. His body naturally resisted at first, but he began to relax into the rhythm John was setting with his fingers, scissoring them to open Sherlock wider.

John brushed across Sherlock’s prostate and the detective groaned, moving back for them to go in deeper, earning himself another harsh slap. John removed his fingers and Sherlock whined involuntarily at the sudden emptiness.

A moment later Sherlock felt John’s head poking at his entrance, just pushing past the first rings of muscle. They both hissed at the burn, both loving it as much as it hurt.

John took a moment to be fully seated inside of his husband, and Sherlock felt wonderfully filled. John massaged his arse as he started to move inside Sherlock, starting out slowly.

Sherlock’s senses were heightened, he could feel every centimetre of his love inside of him, feel the precome slowly help ease John’s passage.

With every short, hard thrust, John got deeper and deeper inside Sherlock, groaning out a steady stream of mixed curses and praise for the detective.

“You delicious fucker, you drive me absolutely mad… Damn it, Sherlock, you’re so fucking good… No one has ever taken my cock like you…”

Sherlock felt his untouched dick getting harder, the head was surely purple by then, but he knew better than to touch himself. In bed, that was John’s property, and only he could touch it.

“John, please,” Sherlock moaned. “I can’t…”

John was a rough lover, but considerate of Sherlock above all else. He knew when Sherlock was close, and knew what to do to take the detective over the edge with him.

Leaning forward and biting into Sherlock’s neck, while taking his swollen cock in one hand, John increased his pace, shoving in hard and barely moving out before thrusting back in, hitting Sherlock’s prostate every time.

“Come for me, Sherlock. Show me how beautiful you are when you let go for me,” John whispered, and Sherlock came with a cry of his name, staining the sheets and covering John’s hand with his seed.

John came a second later, filling Sherlock’s arse.

They both stayed the way they were, John’s softening cock still deep inside his love. They were breathing hard, John’s face buried in Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock could feel his heart rate slowing back to normal, and everything was overly sensitive, especially John’s hand on his spent cock.

John pulled out of him, rolling over and dragging Sherlock with him. The detective promptly cuddled against him like a cat, and they wrapped their arms around each other, a tangle of limbs. They could not tell where one began and the other ended, and they loved it this way.

“Our first shag as a married couple,” John said, doing that little thing where he stated the obvious. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“We’ll have to find a way to keep things interesting for the next forty years or so,” Sherlock commented. “Can’t stand being bored in bed.”

John chuckled, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head. “Oh, Sherlock, I don’t think I’ll ever get bored with you.”

Sherlock looked up and kissed his husband. “And I will never get bored with you, either.”