Chapter Text
John was disgruntled and bad-tempered as he kicked off his shoes, violently hung up his coat, slammed down a mug from the cupboard and flicked on the kettle. The entire day had been a complete disaster. Filled with snotty nosed kids, hacking old ladies, and a whole group of people suffering from the sudden onset of food poisoning; and it had only gotten worse once John had showered, dressed, and met his date for the evening at a local restaurant.
“Bad date,” Sherlock stated in a knowing tone of voice.
Earlier Sherlock had told him, with a nonchalant and egoistical air, that the date would only end in failure because of the type of shoes the lady wore. He peered up from his microscope briefly as he spoke, giving a barely there glance in John’s direction, but then frowned and looked again properly, eyeing the line of John’s shoulders and then pointedly motioning to the corner of his mouth.
John scrubbed at his lips in response, wiping a smear of pink lipstick from there, and pulled a face, wiping it off on a nearby dish-towel, “For God’s sake.”
“…Do you,” Sherlock began carefully, looking uncomfortable and very slightly lost. It was sincere enough not to worsen John’s already foul mood, “wish to talk about it?”
“No.”
Relieved, Sherlock gave a contented nod and turned back to his microscope, “All right—”
“Nothing to say really,” John interrupted, waiting until he glanced back over with a patient lift of his brow, “Just that, apparently, I can’t do anything right. Nothing at all! I don’t pull out her chair properly, I don’t choose the wine efficiently, I don’t keep the flow of conversation entertaining enough for her, I don’t bloody pay for everything correctly, and – now this is the most ludicrous by far – I allegedly can’t even kiss her decently.” Throwing up his arms, John let loose a rather humourless and sharp bark of laughter. “My date for this evening told me I’m a bad kisser. And this was both before and after we’d sat down to the damn meal, mind you!”
“I see.”
Unsatisfied by the response, John stormed over to Sherlock, pointing a firm finger at his own chest as he went, “I’m a great kisser. Brilliant in fact. I’ve been told on many occasions, too many to count, that I’m an exceptional kisser. Yeah, that’s the word, exceptional. I’m exceptional!”
“But she disagreed,” he murmured, tilting his head and turning to lean one hip against the table. “Vehemently, I surmise.”
John scoffed and threw up his hands, turning to continue making a mug of tea that he knew he wasn’t actually going to drink, “Very vehemently, yeah. According to her I was rubbish. The worst she’d had, so she says. She even rated me, can you believe. Gave me suggestions on how I can improve…”
“Show me what you did.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if she had gone about it in a—!” Jerking his head around, John gaped as Sherlock’s words finally registered and angrily threw down a tablespoon, “What?”
“You know I loathe repeating myself, John.”
“No.”
Sherlock, annoyed at being so curtly dismissed, scowled and followed him into the living room, “Why not?”
John paused, slammed down his tea and outstretched his arms, taking a deep breath to bellow back in reply, “I’m not gay, Sherlock!”
“Oh for goodness sake—Why is everyone so fixated on sexual orientation? This has nothing to do with your sexuality. That’s not what’s in question here,” he retorted, stepping closer and gesturing flippantly, “We’re not adolescents on the cusp of experimentation, trying to “find ourselves.””
“Sherlock--”
“Just show me what you did and I can tell you, with complete and unbiased honesty, if it was your technique or—”
“How would you know what even constitutes a good kiss? - You’re telling me you’ve actually let someone close enough? What, was it for idle curiosity? A clinical analysis? Did you bribe the participants? Because, let’s be realistic here, who would kiss you willingly?” John snapped, before instantly grimacing and holding out a hand in apology. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that… I’m sorry. Ignore everything I say. I’m just in a mood.”
Sherlock regarded John impassively for a moment, seemingly unmoved by the words that had been spat at him, and then he took another step towards him, “Kiss me.”
“No,” John sighed, throwing out a frustration glare and folding his arms. “No, Sherlock. This is stupid.”
“You want to know. And I can tell you. If you kiss me, I can tell you, plainly, comprehensively, who is at fault,” Sherlock told him, taking yet another step. “Her or you.”
John turned away, rubbing at his face, then turned back, “It’ll be an opinion, not a fact. You can’t score me against thousands of others. Can’t come up with a definite answer. I’m not a chemical compound you’re watching change state under your microscope, I’m a person. Human. - And you can’t be unbiased either. You’re already biased. You’re my friend.”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow, “What does that matter? Since when have I ever lied to you to spare your feelings?”
“…Well…”
“John, do you want to find out if she was wrong or not?” Sherlock sighed, aggravated.
John glowered and lifted his chin, “She was wrong! I’m an exceptional—”
“Kisser. Yes, I know. I heard you,” Sherlock interjected with a roll of his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be encouraging this, you know,” John told him with a tight smile, “you shouldn’t be asking for an example to evaluate me for my own ego. You should be telling me how ridiculous I’m being. How the word of one person doesn’t mean the word of others were wrong. That everyone has a preference and that I’m just not hers.”
Sherlock conceded with a nod, but let out a slow breath with a tilted head, “There is always a base. A right and wrong way of doing something. Adding your own flare to what is already established doesn’t change that,” he said with a small shrug, showing his palms. “And what if you’re wrong? What if you’re really not an expectational kisser. What if all the people you’ve kissed up until this point have been lying to you? Weren’t as candid as this one was, so not to upset you? People do that. Everybody lies.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” John snorted, crossing his arms uneasily. “I would have noticed. At some point, I would have noticed their tells. They would have slipped up or at least thrown it back in my face once we’d gone our separate ways. I know they weren’t lying. I know how to kiss—”
“Your date thinks otherwise.”
“Yeah, well she’s a critical, uptight—” Cutting himself, he took a long, deep breath and let it out again. “As I said, people have preferences. Different tastes. Perhaps she would have liked it with more tongue? Or less? - Christ, I’d have preferred it if she hadn’t have worn half the makeup aisle of Boots on her face! She looked like she’d got ready in the dark.”
Sherlock quirked a sideways smile, “Just show me. It’ll give you closure. I know you, John. You’ll forever think back and wonder. Then you’ll second guess yourself, lose confidence, become paranoid and—”
“For God’s sake!” John lunged forward and took Sherlock’s face in his hands, pulling him down the few inches it took to connect their mouths in a firm and close-mouthed kiss. He tried not to think about who he was kissing and why and how it was a terrible, terrible idea. Instead he angled his head, cupped Sherlock’s jaw and tried to remember how he’d kissed his date that night, doing his best to mimic it to the best of his ability.
Sherlock had gone stiff under his touch in surprise and so his mouth was a contrasting mix of firm and soft skin, the faint stubble around the lush shape of his lips doing odd things to his concentration. The added texture was so obvious, so masculine, that it was difficult to ignore, sending a strange spark of complicated emotion up the length of John’s spine. A complication that only deepened when Sherlock shifted his stance and relaxed into the kiss, his lips more yielding.
With heat rushing to his cheeks, and a raising, wild panic only just smothered down, John slid one hand into the thick curls at the back of Sherlock’s head and focused on the finesse which he always applied.
With a full bodied shift forwards, Sherlock leaned further into what was bestowed to him, hands coming up to skim John’s waist, cautious but confident in the path they took. Long fingers snagged on a few creases in the rumpled shirt John had so carefully ironed the day before and suddenly the atmosphere changed, got scorching hot and thick with some sort of tension, and John found himself tugging on the hair coiled around his knuckles in zealous hunger. Sherlock’s exhale explosive and moist against his face in reply. John wanted more. More of his kiss, more of him. Wanted to abruptly slam him up against the nearest wall.
The thought was strong and sudden, and was like a cold bucket of water to the face, so John pulled away sharply, avoiding Sherlock’s half-lidded eyes to take several steps back, “There. It’s done. I kissed you…Well?” he asked, glaring when there was no immediate answer. “Sherlock?”
“Hm?”
“Well? What do you think? What’s the, um, the verdict?”
Blinking, Sherlock straightened, smoothing down his shirt and fiddling with his cuffs as he looked to visibly gather himself, “Oh. Oh, right, yes. I think that it was perhaps too short a time to really garner adequate feedback--”
“What?”
“Was that how long you kissed her for?” he questioned with a considering furrow to his brow. “It was barely even a minute.”
“Yeah, well, the first one was short. It was a greeting. She was angled for it, so, I obliged her. The second one was a bit longer, being at the end of the night. - Are you saying I need to do it again?” John sighed, using some of his panicked jitters to seem angry, rather than ambivalent. “Haven’t we figured out, just from that short time alone, that she was wrong? You said it yourself, it was too short a time to really form such a strong opinion.”
They locked eyes and Sherlock studied him with a cocked head, some emotion flitting across his face, “Yes,” he said at last, voice a little deeper than before, “I think we should do it again.”
“Why?”
“I want to give you a fair trial.”
Snorting with laughter, John looked away and briefly clenched his eyes shut, “Of course,” he murmured. “Look, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s necessary. I’ve… calmed down now. I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up over it all.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” Sherlock agreed, squinting at John with amusement and scrutiny, “but—”
“Fine,” John muttered in defeat, wiping suddenly clammy palms against his trousers and steering Sherlock down into his chair. “Sit down then. So I don’t have to strain my neck so much.”
Arching an eyebrow, he shuffled forward and waited, perched on the edge, while John dragged his own over, “Should I kiss you back?” Sherlock asked.
John looked up with wide eyes, “What?”
“Did she kiss you back?” Sherlock added, hands bracing his knees. “Or was it one-sided? Like everything else about the date.”
“No it wasn’t. Yeah, no, she kissed me back,” John replied as he settled down facing him. “She was a rather enthusiastic kisser actually. Lots of tongue.”
Sherlock hummed non-committally, watching John with calculating eyes, “Attractive.”
“Sometimes it is. I’ve had some enthusiastic kisses that were… were really good. But, uh, yeah, she kissed me back, but no, you don’t have to kiss me back. I don’t think it’s a necessity.”
“I’ll kiss you back.”
“And you have kissed before, right? What I said before, I didn’t mean it, but I don’t actually know if you’ve ever…” John trailed off and motioned awkwardly with his hand, wincing when Sherlock lifted a questioning eyebrow and letting out a loud sigh, “done anything. At all. Kissing included.”
“I’ve kissed before.”
“Oh good—”
“In college.”
“…In—I’m sorry, in college? Just in college?”
Sherlock looked aside in deliberation, shoulders lifting in imperturbable composure, “No, not only then. It came up in a few past cases as well, but I don’t count them precisely.”
“Why not?”
“Because they meant nothing,” Sherlock told him with a wave of his hand. “They were a means to an end. A stepping stone. An act.”
John swallowed with empathy for those used, but nodded, understanding, “But the time in college?”
Smiling softly, Sherlock spread his hands and inclined his head, “Was not. Instead it was a mutual pleasure.”
“And now, you want to kiss… me,” he muttered quietly, feeling uncomfortably tense. “Where does this come under for you? A means to an end? Probably right?”
Looking at him for a few moments in silence, Sherlock then leaned forwards a little further, his smile becoming amused, “Kiss me again.”
John sighed through his nose, “Yeah… okay.”
Sherlock was ready for him the second time and so, instead of meeting a tensed and unresponsive mouth, his lips were an open appealing mixture of moist, gentle, and firm heat. It was almost enough to distract him from the point of the exercise, what there was of it. John wasn’t actually sure why he was kissing Sherlock any longer, nor, in fact, why he wasn’t putting an end to the entire thing. The jolt of unknown proclivity and panic from earlier was still present, sizzling deep in his core, and though it scared and confused him, part of him was itching to give in to it.
Cupping Sherlock’s neck, John thumbed at his ear, combing the fingers of his other hand through messy curls once again and kissing him as close to how he had kissed his date as he could manage through the gathering haze of disorienting want. It was difficult, more so than John really expected. Sherlock reacted differently, in almost every possible way, to how she had in just the first few seconds and it thrilled John as a result. Filled him with such intense confidence and desire, that it made him dizzy.
The air around them was quickly electric and John pulled back an inch or two with a faint gasp, overcome and out of his depth, “God, I don’t think…” he began, voice embarrassingly guttural.
“What?”
At the unmistakably, petulant and wanton expression on Sherlock’s face, and wet shine to his reddened lips, John lost all thought of what may or may not be a bad idea. Everything he was going to say, every little objection and fear, every single word, fled at once, and he mindlessly pushed Sherlock back in his chair. He went willingly, stretching out under John without complaint, despite being in an uncomfortable sprawl, and the next kiss between them was deeper, filthier and greedier.
John’s blood ran blisteringly hot, lust and adrenaline intermingling, and he vaguely wondered how much he’d had to drink as he pushed up out of his seat and into Sherlock’s, following him as he shuffled further back in his chair. He pinned Sherlock by the shoulders in a passionate surge of dominant yearning, bullying his knees besides long legs.
“It was her,” Sherlock said breathless and hoarse when their lips disconnected, face rosy, “at fault. It was her. You clearly know how to kiss and kiss well. – Did you push up against her too?”
“No,” he husked, thumbs pressing down his collar to expose more of his throat and follow the spreading blotchy flush of arousal.
“Good. I doubt—”
John tipped up his chin to cut him off with another kiss, impulsive and generous with the touch of his tongue, licking into Sherlock’s mouth and sucking on his bottom lip. He shoved his way forwards onto his lap with more purpose, fully acknowledging what he was doing and committing to it anyway, before he could think his way out of it. It felt good, more than good, better than good. He’d not kissed or been kissed by someone with such mutual eagerness for a long time. Sherlock’s body was hard and fervid and shaking, and nothing at all like what John was used to, but it was still so good.
The sudden faint tang of smoke, however, was not and John separated them with a frown, “You’ve been smoking.”
“What?” Sherlock croaked, shifting sheepishly. “No I haven’t.”
“That wasn’t a question, I know you have, I can taste it.”
“Ah, yes, well—”
John gave his shoulders a quick pat, “Sit up.”
“Sit up?”
“Sit up. Straighten up on the chair and let me closer,” he mumbled, eyes falling on the stretch of Sherlock’s neck as he adjusted and stretched beneath him. John barely had time to catalogue his next, new, coveted longing before he was gripping a handful of hair and pushing his lips to what was on offer, a fire in his gut.
Sherlock let out a shaky exhale and went rigid with surprise, “John, what are you—ah!” he exclaimed when John mouthed at a patch of skin high up on his throat, bruising it easily and with an impetuously brazen smile. Sherlock moaned brokenly under his breath and through his clenched teeth, flinching with a rapid and obvious blush.
John leaned back afterwards and admired the mark with his finger, tapping the thundering pulse point below, “When did you smoke? Was it today?”
“You know it was.”
“How many did you have?”
Peering sideways at him, Sherlock fidgeted and huffed, visibly rueful, “What does that matter?”
“How many?” John repeated, meeting his gaze for a second, adrift in the torrent of conflicting emotions. He should end it, he knew. They’d done what they’d started. It was over.
“Three… possibly four.”
John nodded, drunk on the heavy ardour in the air between them, “And where are they?” he asked, swaying close enough that his nose brushed, feather-light, down Sherlock’s cheek. He was only foggily aware of what he was saying, mind wandering and libido overtaking. “So I can confiscate them. Again.”
“John--”
“Where?”
Sherlock side-eyed John’s expression, cheeks pinked and pupils dilated, and then slowly slid to one side, reaching down within the crevice of the seat. He glanced away in petulant diffidence as he pulled up a crumpled, partly flattened cigarette packet and tilted it in John’s direction with a small sigh. It was a different brand than what he was used to finding in Sherlock’s possession, meaning they were ‘borrowed’ more than purchased, but John let it go for the moment, mind on other things. The packet was almost empty, the rest of the cigarettes inside crushed and bent out of shape, and he took it only to throw it down on a nearby side table.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome--” he grumbled, ending in a stuttering gasp and arching in the chair, as John squashed his mouth to Sherlock’s throat again, unable to resist.
Sucking and bruising and free-falling into mindless desire, John fisted at Sherlock’s fringe, pulling it and tipping his head further back to give himself more room to work with. Sherlock didn’t touch in return, but grabbed at the armrests with a firm, trembling clasp, digging his fingers in so tightly the leather creaked under the strain. The sound shot surges of avid, smug, and wild lust throughout John’s body. Made him rock down and forwards in an aborted grinding thrust, thighs tensing.
The movement, even as slight and swiftly ended as it was, made Sherlock flail and buck, slouching a little with a ragged groan, “John…”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, hot in the face but powerless to stop, and adjusted Sherlock’s position by dragging him up by his underarms, mouth smearing along the rough line of his jaw. “Sorry, I--”
Turning to look at John from under his lashes, Sherlock swallowed thickly, reaffirmed his grip on the chair, and upturned his face into a kiss John wasn’t even aware he was moving to bestow. It was soft, dry and chaste, then hard, wet and erotic, and they battled briefly for dominance. John loomed and cupped Sherlock’s neck and shoulders with groping fingers, before his hands slipped down the heaving structure of his chest, cupping to find a toned pectoral in place of the soft shape of a breast.
The touch caused Sherlock to scramble wildly, exhaling into John’s mouth and clawing at his arms when a nipple was palmed, “Mm—Wait! Don’t… do that…”
“Do what?” He swept, somewhat teasingly, a thumb over the budding nub through the tight fitted shirt, still out of his mind. “This?”
“Yes!” Sherlock hissed, grabbing John’s wrists with a shudder. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“… I’d rather not say.”
John, lips resting against Sherlock’s chin, arched an interested eyebrow and caressed both nipples at once, “Sore?--”
“No!” he exclaimed, jolting like he’d been electrocuted and wrestling to try and escape. The blotchy patchwork of his gathering flush darkened, racing down his neck to the peek of his chest in the parting of straining buttons. “I just—”
“Sensitive?”
“John!”
“Very sensitive then,” John murmured, watching his fingers trap the visible hard bump of them and glancing up into Sherlock’s face with an unfurling grin, stupefied with delight.
“God…” Pressing his lips together, eyelids fluttering, Sherlock trembled in fierce enraptured agony and gripped at John’s shoulders with an immediate and erratic rutting of his hips, “O-oh no… no… no, no, no! I’m having an orgasm--”
John snapped his head back and blinked in baffled astonishment, “What? Now?—”
“Right now,” Sherlock moaned loudly, clenching his eyes mortification and pushing up into him involuntarily, the tendons in his neck and forearms bulging.
John could feel him twitch and pulse with a burst of liquid heat even through his trousers, and he flushed, leaning back in stunned silence, debating whether to get to his feet while Sherlock shuddered and panted through his climax, taut and rutting in his chair. He wasn’t sure what he expected, what he truly wanted, but it was not watching his friend fidget in the throes of pleasure. John didn’t know what to do or where to put his hands, chilled with panic.
Eventually Sherlock slumped, quivering in aftershock, and glanced down at his groin with a deep grimace, “Brilliant,” he muttered tersely.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John breathed, slipping slowly off him and trying not to flinch when their eyes met. After an awkward silence, he gestured aimlessly between them and let out a nervous, clunky, huff of laughter. “I… don’t know what to say. I wasn’t thinking, and I had no idea that—”
“Neither did I,” Sherlock cut in brusquely, voice throaty and tense. “It’s fine--”
“It’s not!”
“It is!”
“It’s really not, Sherlock!”
Glaring, he looked away, “Oh come on, it’s not exactly dire, John! - A bit embarrassing, certainly, but more for me than for you. You got off relatively scot-free.”
“I didn’t get off at all, technically,” John corrected under his breath with a flicker of amusement, feeling ashamed of his behaviour almost as soon as the words left his mouth. He lifted his hands placatingly at Sherlock’s mirthless, cutting look and sighed. “Sorry. I’m sorry… that was out of line. I’m panicking a little and when I panic I can get a bit—”
“Yes, well, panic later,” he snapped, wiping his face with one trembling hand, “and help me up. It was… intense. I’m all dizzy and lethargic.”
John felt a prickle of both smug pride and heady exhilaration, and swallowed, reaching for Sherlock’s arm, “Uh, right, sure.”
“… And stop that.”
“What?”
“You’re thinking far too loudly,” Sherlock grumbled, shooting him a knowing look once he was on his feet and steady. “Stop.”
Pursing his lips guiltily, John nodded and tried not to look at the rumples in his clothes, the wild disarray of his curls, or the obvious stain at his crotch, “Sorry.”