Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The stakeout took much longer than Sherlock had anticipated. John didn’t really mind. They were both more than a bit tipsy, John because Sherlock kept buying him drinks to keep up their cover and Sherlock because he had the alcohol tolerance of a twelve-year-old. The chase afterward was brief, which was good. Tipsy Sherlock was cheerful, slightly uncoordinated, and tactile. Lestrade blinked twice at Sherlock’s state, glanced at John, then snuck a few pictures with his phone while Sherlock wasn’t looking. John made a mental note to ask him to share. Sherlock started gesticulating wildly as he explained his trail of deductions, though, voice a bit louder than usual, and all John could do was gape.

Because the man was beautiful. There really was no denying that. Cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, high on the thrill of a successful case. John usually tried very hard to shove that particular observation to the back of his brain, lest Sherlock notice, but he’d passed the threshold for an internal filter a pint and a half ago. Sherlock was brilliant and gorgeous and John’s usual compliments kept pouring out even though he didn’t mean them to.

Sherlock only got more animated the more John interrupted, though, the constant stream of “incredible!” and “fantastic!” fueling his exaggerated recitation. Lestrade just smiled and shook his head.

“Wish you’d called me before he ‘happened’ to run into a brick wall twice,” he said mildly, “but you two are a good team. You’re also soused.”

Sherlock frowned and drew himself up to his full height. He looked rather like a meerkat, which didn’t help make him more intimidating at all. “I know exactly how much alcohol John and I consumed,” he announced.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not a bit sloshed.” Lestrade snorted. “Off to Baker Street with you, now - your statements can wait until the morning.” He glanced at John. “Or afternoon, I suspect. Go on.”

Sherlock managed to hail a cab thirty seconds later, because of course he did, and somehow he and John ended up in the back seat in a tangle of limbs. John could have sworn his own legs were properly in front of him, but Sherlock somehow took up the entire seat with loose elbows and shins and that damn lazy smile that always made John start Thinking Things.

“I’m not drunk,” Sherlock insisted, a slight slur to his words.

John nodded. “Of course. N’m I.”

“We caught him.”

“Yes, we did.”

“Good.”

And then Sherlock leaned across the space between them and planted a moist kiss on John’s mouth, in full view of the cab driver and whatever portion of London happened to be looking their way. John debated whether to kiss back or not, but by the time he’d decided on I probably shouldn’t he realized he already was. His hand was on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, holding his head steady, and his tongue was more or less in Sherlock’s mouth without any actual input from his brain. Sherlock seemed to approve of this state of things, as far as John could tell, because he was kissing John back and oh, that mouth was good for a lot more than pontification. John’s sense of time may have been a bit warped from the alcohol (not drunk, dammit), but it seemed like they’d only just started the good part when the cabbie was clearing his throat and the familiar red door of 221B Baker Street was outside the window.

Sherlock charged inside and left John to pay, as usual. And left his coat and scarf on the floor of the sitting room, as usual. He was already inside his room with the door shut by the time John got up the stairs, though, which was not usual. John considered knocking, seeing whether that kiss was intended as a prelude to something else, but some part of him recognized Sherlock’s “leave me alone” signal even through his alcohol-induced haze.

He went up to his own room instead, wanked furiously, and fell asleep without even taking the time to clean himself up.

***

This was followed by an increasingly awkward two weeks during which Sherlock seemed to be trying his best to pretend nothing had happened. And maybe he’d deleted the whole thing, the berk, but John was damn sure he could trust his memory from that night and what he remembered was Sherlock’s tongue tangling with his own.

Sherlock wasn’t acting like he’d actually forgotten, either. He was acting like he expected John to want A Serious Talk I Mean It Sherlock and was doing everything in his power to avoid John getting the opportunity to voice anything. The attempted shut-out would have been a bit offensive, honestly, if John hadn’t been fluent in Sherlock-ese. Sherlock avoiding something meant Sherlock was having an emotion and didn’t know what to do about it. John’s usual two solutions were to either pretend everything was fine or to corner Sherlock in the kitchen and force him to acknowledge whatever-it-was that had him so riled.

That kiss didn’t exactly fit with anything John and Sherlock had encountered together before, though, so John wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. Therefore, when Sherlock actually stayed put on the couch when John came home from the surgery one afternoon, John seized the chance while he had it.

“Thinking profound thoughts?” he asked. Sherlock was in what John privately thought of as his effigy pose, hands pressed together with his forefingers touching his lips. His warm, mobile, expressive lips. Lips John had spent the last two weeks obsessing about. “You look like you could be a statue like that, you know.”

Sherlock hmmed but otherwise didn’t move.

“You always seem to come up with something incredible afterward,” John continued. “I don’t know anyone else who thinks as thoroughly as you do. Wish I knew how to emulate it. Brilliant, really.”

Anyone except John might have missed the way Sherlock’s breathing caught, just for a moment, before resuming its steady pace.

Interesting.

“I mean, you’re always brilliant, of course.” If Sherlock liked praise, then John could work with that. The man deserved it so frequently. “It just blows my mind how brilliant, though. You’re so very good at knowing exactly what to do. Practically read people’s minds. You want to try reading my mind right now?”

Sherlock’s gaze slanted over to John’s face. There was a slight flush in his cheeks - not so much anyone else would have noticed, but enough to tell John that Sherlock was having to work to appear so calm. It gave him a bit more confidence that Sherlock wasn’t about to stomp off in a snit. John hung his coat up on the hook beside the door, then went to join Sherlock on the sofa.

“Budge up.” He nudged Sherlock’s head with his hip until Sherlock had wriggled down a bit and there was space to sit. The top of Sherlock’s head was still pressed against his left thigh, but they’d done this before (mostly because Sherlock tended to ignore the whole concept of personal space and John secretly enjoyed letting him) so it wasn’t that bold a move. Sherlock tilted his head backward a fraction so he could read John’s face.

“Usually you’re not in this easygoing a mood,” Sherlock observed, fingertips still pressed to his philtrum. “Good day at the surgery, then. Mostly routine but one interesting patient around noon. It’s cool but sunny outside; you enjoyed the walk back to the Tube. Gave the violinist on Aldersgate your spare change because he reminded you of me. You got a seat on the Tube even though your leg doesn’t bother you anymore, but you gave it up for someone more deserving. Young and pregnant, presumably. You came up with a title for that blog post you’ve been sitting on - something insipid and alliterative, no doubt. You’re also hoping you can talk me into curry for supper. Did I miss anything?”

John huffed out a laugh. “Not that I can recall. Although now I expect you to tell me how you knew. May want to fool you one of these days.”

Sherlock arched one eyebrow, which was significantly less effective upside-down but still made John want to lean down and snog the living daylights out of him. “Ink smudges on your left hand means you were writing quickly, which you only do when a patient has presented you with something out of the ordinary and you needed to chart everything before you forgot it. Weather is obvious; I know you and your inexplicable obsession with fresh air. You always buy a ham sandwich from Pret with cash and get a pound sixty-three in change; your pockets didn’t jingle when you hung up your coat so you gave the coins away.”

“Brilliant,” John said reflexively. “I mean, you always are, but still. How do you know the violinist reminded me of you?”

Sherlock looked away for a moment, but his eyes crinkled up around the corners. “His name is Chaz,” he said. “And he studied at the Royal Academy of Music until he lost his flat and had to beg friends for a place to live. We share much of the same repertoire. You were humming Paganini as you came up the stairs.”

“Absolutely incredible.” John sighed, leaning back and letting his hand not-so-accidentally rest in Sherlock’s hair. “Keep going - I love how you can pull everything together like this. The Tube?”

“Also the humming. You’re feeling proud of yourself because you’ve been reminded you no longer need a cane, hence giving up your seat to someone you felt needed it more. I knew about the curry because it’s Thursday and the restaurant at the end of the block has a particularly aromatic special on Thursdays. You’re hungry.”

“Christ.” John slid his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, scratching lazily, and he didn’t miss the way Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and his back arched before he caught himself and pretended he hadn’t noticed. Smug like a goddamned cat. Somehow John had begun thinking of smug-cat-Sherlock as the man’s natural state. “I am hungry,” he admitted, “but I don’t want to get up yet. Would rather sit here and play with your hair. It’s so soft. And I love how much me touching it relaxes you.”

Sherlock did close his eyes at that, inhaling a shaky breath and - just for a moment - letting a look of pure bliss settle over his face. “I have very sensitive follicles,” he murmured.

“Mmmm.” John let the silence stretch, any potential awkwardness stemming from the fact this wasn’t exactly what just-friends flatmates did dissipating into Sherlock going boneless and melting into the cushions. Even if all Sherlock wanted from him was just this, John decided, he’d happily give it. There were worse things to come home to.

Sherlock muttered something when John shifted his hips to get a better angle, using both hands to give a proper massage to Sherlock’s scalp and temples, but he didn’t make any move to get up. John kept going until Sherlock was practically purring - goddamned cat again - and was probably more than half asleep.

“I keep thinking about the other week in the cab,” John said quietly, fingers still moving.

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, but his breathing got shallower.

“Seems a damned shame is all,” John continued as if he hadn’t noticed. “It was a bloody good kiss and I’d been wanting to do that for some time. Not that I’m surprised, I suppose - you’re brilliant at pretty much anything when you put your mind to it. Flattering that you put your mind to seducing me. Or I’d hoped, anyway. Any of this ring a bell, or did you delete the whole thing?” He slid his hands down to cradle Sherlock’s skull, working Sherlock’s temples with his thumbs. “I’m sure you know I’ve wondered about your history, but I didn’t want to ask.”

Sherlock made a small sound of distress. “No history,” he said quietly. “I miscalculated the effect of alcohol on my inhibitions that night. I . . . assumed my overtures were unwanted.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“You were drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want it.” John hummed in appreciation of the memory. “In everything else - practically everything - you’re the one leading and I’m the one following two steps behind. Seems to me if you were interested, I could do the teaching for once.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head back to stare quizzically at John’s face. “You’re offering to tutor me?”

“If you mean like an academic class, no. If you’re amenable to this friends-and-flatmates situation becoming something more, though . . . well, I’m sure you’d be a brilliant student.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock was speechless for a full ten seconds, which John considered something of a personal record. Finally he blinked twice and shuffled around so he was leaning against the opposite arm of the sofa with his legs tucked up under him so he could gawp at John more effectively. Hard to tell whether Sherlock’s expression was more “hopeful” or “wary,” but he definitely looked out of his depth.

“It’s fine to admit you don’t know how all this goes,” John said quietly. “But a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would be a good place to start.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, but he nodded. “Just don’t . . . don’t make fun of me if I get it wrong. You wanted my history; derision is essentially it. What little of ‘it’ there is.”

“Noted.” John stood and offered Sherlock a hand up. “Let’s go sit on your bed to start with, all right? You’re allowed to get things wrong here, as long as you’re not being deliberately cruel. And I know everyone seems to think you don’t care, but cruel isn’t usually your thing.”

“Many would disagree,” Sherlock muttered as he accepted John’s grip and followed him to the bedroom. “And everything I say to Anderson is deliberate.”

“Deliberately cruel without reason, you twit.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, which startled a small, shy smile out of him. “I know you - ninety percent of the time, the biting things you say are because either the person deserved it or you honestly never considered your comments would be received in that light. That’s what you’ve got me around for.” He kicked off his shoes and kept ahold of Sherlock’s hand while scooting backwards on the mattress, until Sherlock had to climb on too. They ended up kneeling, facing each other, closer than they’d normally be but not close enough to touch. Not yet.

John let his gaze drift down to Sherlock’s chest. The man was wearing the grey t-shirt under the dressing gown, today, the one item of clothing Sherlock owned that was actually showing signs of age. The cotton was practically threadbare, which meant it was nearly no obstacle to sensation. He let Sherlock catch him looking.

And Sherlock faltered. “What do - am I supposed to-”

“You just be you.” John levered himself forward, up onto his knees, and slipped the dressing gown from Sherlock’s shoulders. It slithered down his back and landed in a silky pool behind him. “Although I could talk you through it, if you like. Let that gorgeous brain soak in some discrete steps and you can improvise on them later.”

“That would be . . . acceptable.”

“Excellent.” John ducked down to press a soft kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, through the thin fabric, then a second kiss over his collarbone. “I think a good first step would be to get my shirt off, yeah? Go ahead - you do it for me.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment, then reached for the hem of John’s jumper and tugged it upward. It came off smoothly. John allowed himself to be undressed, moving his arms and shoulders as necessary but not assisting in any way. Sherlock flicked the buttons of John’s cuffs open, then paused.

“Here,” John said quietly. He undid the top button on his shirt, then took Sherlock’s hands and physically placed them over the second. “I love your hands, you know. Long fingers and truly impressive dexterity. Can’t wait to teach you how to use them.”

Sherlock flushed bright red and immediately fumbled, which was adorable. John managed to suppress his instinctive smug smile by the time Sherlock brought his gaze back up from where it had settled somewhere in the vicinity of his own right kneecap. After that initial error he got the rest of John’s buttons undone with smooth grace, which was nice because John was pretty sure he’d never tire of watching Sherlock’s hands move like that.

“Now you,” he murmured.

Sherlock pulled his shirt off over his head. And for the first time since they moved in together, John finally got to ogle him - up close, consensually, as part of foreplay. The realization buzzed through his entire body. He touched Sherlock lightly, trailing his fingertips over one pink nipple and through the light dusting of fuzz on Sherlock’s chest.

“John, can you . . . please, tell me what to do?”

The please stood out more than anything else. John thumbed the nipple with a bit more intensity, reveling in the quick gasp he elicited. He would have never guessed Sherlock could be like this, could be pliant and trusting and a bit submissive in the face of the unknown, but truth be told that was fine. More than fine. Perfect.

“I think,” John said in a low voice as he tried his best for a repeat of that tiny sound from Sherlock’s throat, “I think you can be good for me, Sherlock. You can behave when you want to. And if you do, I’ll reward you for it. Will you do that? Do you want to be a good boy for me?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened almost comically. John couldn’t move. Shit, that was too much, he yelled at himself inside his head. It’s one thing to go slow, it’s another to go full-on “good boy”-

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, effectively silencing John’s inner monologue. “I can be good; I will. I’ll earn it. Please?”

John practically melted into the bed with relief. Thank fuck. “Of course.” He actually did lie back, then, tugging at Sherlock’s pillow until it was squarely under his head. “I’ll tell you exactly what I want you to do, and if you follow directions you’ll make us both enjoy this, okay? First thing, I want you to come kiss me.”

Sherlock scrambled eagerly across the mattress, hovering like an over-large puppy who’d just been given permission to climb into its owner’s lap. John helped guide their bodies together so the angle was right. He let Sherlock initiate the kiss itself, which was shy to the point of being what Mrs. Hudson would have called “positively precious” if she’d been there to see - thank god she wasn’t - but Sherlock eventually realized John wasn’t going to criticize his technique and started actually enjoying himself. John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and kissed back. Easy, gentle, tender, all the things he’d come to realize he wanted in his relationship with Sherlock but would have never asked for without that one drunken snog in the cab. Which had been a hell of a snog, granted, but it was maybe possible John’s memory was warped a bit by the alcohol and the fact that he was a bit fuzzy on how, exactly, Sherlock had come to the decision to kiss him in the first place. Whatever the reason had been, John was really damn glad it had happened.

“Perfect,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips when they finally pulled apart enough to breathe. “I wouldn’t be averse to you kissing me like that every morning, if you like.”

Sherlock looked oddly surprised and pleased at that. “I think I wouldn’t either,” he acknowledged. “Was that . . . that was good, then?”

“Mmmm, very good.” John inhaled deeply and lay back, interlacing his fingers behind his head. “I know you’ve been curious about my scar for ages - go ahead and touch. Taste it. Let me feel those dexterous fingers on my skin. The nerves right around the exit wound are a bit wonky, but I know you’ll be gentle. You always are, with me.”

“‘sbecause you’re my John,” Sherlock said, the words somewhat garbled because he already had his face pressed to John’s chest and was practically nuzzling his left pectoral muscle. “Want you happy.”

“Oh, you’re helping with that.” John couldn’t see the state of his own trousers with Sherlock’s head in the way, but they were definitely feeling too tight. “If you help me get the rest of my kit off you can see that more clearly.”

Sherlock didn’t stop kissing John’s chest, but he did slide his hand down John’s abdomen (Christ did that feel lovely) and pop the button on John’s trousers without even looking. John couldn’t hide his little groan of relief. Sherlock sat up a bit at that, searching John’s face for a moment before moving his attention south.

“John . . .” Sherlock laid his hand flat over John’s stomach again. “Tell me I can see?”

“God, yes.” John was dying to strip it all off himself, but there was something seriously appealing about Sherlock taking direction. “In your own time. But quite quickly.”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look at that - it was a phrase that John had railed at him about on multiple occasions in the past, when Sherlock was in a royal snit and everything on the entire planet irritated him - but the rancor dissipated when John nudged his hips upward and Sherlock’s breath stuttered out in a quick staccato. And fuck, Sherlock’s face when he finally had John’s cock uncovered and was able to see . . .

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly. “Virginity is an outdated concept, but I’m glad mine is going to you.”

The man would protest to his grave that he “didn’t do sentiment,” but then he goes and says things like that. John cleared his throat. “You’ll need to be wearing fewer pants for that.” He nodded toward where Sherlock’s own erection was very obviously tenting his pajama bottoms. “And people usually save the mushy stuff for after we’ve both got off, but I suppose I’ll make an exception for you. Since you’ve always been so exceptional.” John put as much fondness and appreciation through in his smile as possible. “And also since you’re following directions so nicely . . .”

Sherlock whisked John’s pants, trousers, and socks off in about two seconds, his own following immediately after. John gave him a while to just stare, mouth open, but eventually the sight of John nude and hard was enough to tip Sherlock into action. He reached a hand out toward John’s cock, paused, then licked his lips and let it fall back in his own lap. It wasn’t hard to imagine him as a child looking through a shop window at a ‘baby’s first dissection kit’ or something - the same awe and yearning and damn if that wasn’t doing good things for John’s ego.

“It’s not going to bite, you know,” he said.

Sherlock flushed. The color covered his entire chest in soft pink blotches. “I’m worried I might. I’ve never actually . . . but I want to.”

Oh hell yes. John made a mental note to revisit that thought later. “Touch it,” he said instead.

Sherlock did, running a fingertip along the underside of John’s shaft.

“Whole palm this time. Wrap your fingers around and give it a few good strokes. I wasn’t kidding about how much I love your hands.”

Sherlock glanced up at John’s face, but his gaze immediately locked back onto where he was slowly, almost reverently caressing John’s cock.

“You feel so good,” John murmured. “Go on; observe for me. How’s it compare to yours?”

Sherlock’s own erection was right there, bobbing along as he moved and shifted, but Sherlock didn’t look. “Thicker,” he said slowly. “Slight curve to the right, which isn’t uncommon. Lighter pubic hair. Unusually generous foreskin. I can’t - it’s hard to focus right now.”

“Christ, that’s probably the best compliment you’ve ever given me.” John unlaced his fingers and let one hand fall on Sherlock’s shoulder, massaging gently but not directing. “You’re so rarely undone. It really does mean a lot to me that you’d trust me with this.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock gripped a bit tighter and rolled his wrist as he moved, the head of John’s cock popping in and out of view. “What do you want me to do next?”

“Here.” John rolled to his side and grabbed ahold of Sherlock’s hips, tugging at him until their cocks were just barely touching, tip-to-tip. “We don’t have to try everything all at once, I promise. And I’ve always wanted to do this but have never had the chance. Put your hand here.” He curled Sherlock’s fingers around where they were joined, then placed his own palm on top. “Fast or slow as you want; that’s my good boy.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly. His first movements were hesitant, but the first feel of John’s foreskin enveloping the head of his cock drew a groan from his throat. John gently reversed the motion, pulling Sherlock’s foreskin back over his own, and Sherlock’s entire frame shuddered.

“That’s it.” John guided him through another slow stroke. “You like that?”

“Docking,” Sherlock breathed. And then looked puzzled. “I didn’t realize I’d saved that term.”

“Not something that comes up much,” John acknowledged. “It feels amazing, though. Your cock is gorgeous, Sherlock. Just like the rest of you.” On impulse, he leaned forward and pressed a close-mouthed kiss to the man’s forehead. “My beautiful, brilliant Sherlock. You’re listening so well, doing just what I need. Making me feel so good. And you, too - I love that you’re willing to try this with me. Something new, something you haven’t already perfected to your usual level of satisfaction. You save that just for me, don’t you?”

Sherlock whimpered, already spiraling out of control. “I do,” he said softly. “I want to make you happy. I want to be good for you. I want to make you come. Can I make you come? I want to - I want you to-”

“I trust you,” John said, cutting off Sherlock’s increasingly-perturbed jumble of admissions. “You’re so clever, Sherlock. Go ahead - get me off. Use those gorgeous hands and deduce how I like it. My brilliant, beautiful boy.”

That was sufficient encouragement, apparently. Sherlock got his other hand on John’s shaft, working it in time with the gentle back-and-forth motion of their soft skin sliding together. It wasn’t too tight and wasn’t too loose, just there and ratcheting up the sensation tenfold. Sherlock’s gaze kept bouncing between John’s face and his groin, but John would have been willing to bet his Sig that Sherlock was too dazed to take in half of what he usually would. Didn’t seem to matter - even half felt incredible.

The tip of John’s cock was warm and slick with their mingled precome. Sherlock’s breathing had taken on a little desperate whine on each exhale, which was just about the sexiest thing John had ever heard. Sherlock’s fingers were long and elegant and on both their dicks together and it was all John could do to not tighten his grip too much on Sherlock’s shoulder as he got closer and closer to that edge. Sherlock was wide-eyed, looking more awed than deductive. “John,” he breathed.

It was the voice that did it. John came with a hoarse pant and a long groan. Sherlock worked him through it, gentling as John’s cock got too sensitive, but his own was still flushed rock-hard. John pressed their foreheads together for a long moment.

“Extraordinary,” he whispered.

Sherlock hummed and let go, but John was far from done. He scrambled backward a bit so he could prop his back against the headboard, then tugged Sherlock sideways into his lap. Sherlock curled there, folded small against his chest, and John couldn’t resist another kiss to Sherlock’s temple.

“So good,” he whispered, close enough for Sherlock’s curls to tickle his lips. “You did that so nicely; I’m so proud of you. Do you want to come too, Sherlock?”

Sherlock whimpered and nodded vigorously. The whimper intensified when John laid a hand on his thigh and then slid it upward to encircle that damp, desperate cock. Sherlock curled further into John, ducking his head to pant wetly against the side of John’s neck even as his legs thrashed and jerked.

“That’s it,” John murmured. “Come for me, my brilliant boy. Let yourself go - I’ve got you.”

Sherlock whined against John’s skin, shuddered, and came.

“So beautiful.” John worked him through it until Sherlock’s twitches started taking on a too-sensitive edge, then lifted his hips (Sherlock still balanced in his lap) and tugged the sheet out from under himself so he could slide down under it with Sherlock wrapped around and halfway on top of him. “I knew you’d be amazing, Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock was practically limp, sprawled and enveloping both, and damn if that wasn’t the best feeling ever.

***

“John?”

John blinked himself awake quite a while later to a mouthful of dark curls and a long, bony body wrapped around his own. “Yeah?”

“Is there extra credit?”