Archive of Our Own

“What do you want for takeaway?” John asked, phone in hand as they stood on the kerb and waited for a cab. It was the wee hours of the morning, but there were still the open all night places they could order from.

“Nothing.”

“But the case is solved?” John was confused. Sherlock always was ravenous after a case was solved, particularly a long one like this. John himself was starving despite the fact that he did eat on cases.

“Tomorrow, I’m dead on my feet.”

John looked up at him, at his coat collar turned up and pale skin practically luminous in the darkness. There were shadows under his eyes that John could see even though they were far from any street lights.

It had been a difficult case, one where the first victim had been a child murdered. Sherlock had solved it before a second one could be, but of course he was affected. John knew he pretended not to care, but the man clearly had a soft spot for children, animals, and the elderly.

“Alright, tomorrow I’m feeding you up proper though. We’ll have breakfast out.”

Sherlock smirked without looking at him.

“Cab!” He shouted, hailing the one that had just come up the street.

***

John set down a cup of tea next to Sherlock who was at the kitchen table doing an experiment, and then turned through to the sitting room to read a bit in his armchair.

A few pages in, he heard Sherlock take a sip.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’ll not take sugar in my tea anymore.”

John frowned. Sherlock had always taken sugar in his tea, quite a bit of it and he would make a face if John didn’t put in enough. He liked it sweet like a child might.

“Why not?”

Sherlock turned and stared at him, his face unreadable. John was quite used to these long stares by now, and they didn’t make him uncomfortable as they had at first.

“I don’t want cavities.” He said finally, turning back to look through the microscope.

John shrugged to himself. He supposed it made sense enough.

“Do you want me to add cream instead? Honey?”

“Plain is fine.”

“You hate plain tea.”

Sherlock was silent, twiddling the knobs of his microscope.

Rolling his eyes, John returned to his book.

Sherlock would make it one or two cups of tea max before he was asking John to put the sugar back in. Sherlock loved his tea with no less than five teaspoons of sugar and John imagined the look of distaste he would have when he sipped a cup with no sweetener.

Yes, if Sherlock made it to a second cup of unsweetened tea it would only be because he was trying to prove a point. Ridiculous man.

***

They’d been out on a case, something about a stolen accordion and a poisoned street actor, when the murderer had made for an escape and slashed Sherlock across the chest.

John had tackled the man from behind and pinned his arm behind his back while Sherlock called Lestrade. They’d packed the criminal off with him and left for home, John fretting about the amount of blood on Sherlock.

John bustled Sherlock through the foyer and upstairs into the bathroom, pulling the first aid kit from under the bathroom sink.

He pushed Sherlock onto the seat of the toilet and motioned to have him undo the buttons of his shirt.

He squatted and immediately began tutting over the gash just below Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Not as bad as I expected. Might need a stitch still, though.”

Sherlock groaned. John ignored him and pressed some hydrogen peroxide to the wound, gently dabbing away the blood.

After prodding for a moment more and deciding no stitches were necessary after all, he noticed his friends body.

“Sherlock, you’re as thin as a sheet of paper!” He fretted, noticing ribs prominent enough to be played like a xylophone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’ve never seen you so thin. Have you been feeling unwell?” John asked, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock scoffed, pushing away Johns hand. “I am fine.”

“I knew I’d been doing a poor job of feeding you up lately, but I didn’t realize it was this bad. I guess I shouldn’t rely on Mrs. Hudson to pick up my slack.” John had been staying late at the surgery to pull in some extra money to perhaps do a bit of a holiday for them and hadn’t been cooking dinner as such. John thought back over the last month or so and realized they’d not been to Angelo’s in awhile nor were they getting their usual takeaway either.

“Really John, I’m absolutely fine.” He insisted, “I’ve been a bit busier than usual and I guess I just forget.”

“You’re really quite not fine and you’re also an absolute liar. You’ve not had a case for weeks until now and usually you are somewhat decent about eating biscuits and takeaway when we’re not working.”

Sherlock shrugged his thin shoulders and John noticed that he wouldn’t meet his eyes suddenly.

“You’ve not been eating on purpose.” He said aloud, realizing it.

“Don’t be silly. It’s not on purpose.”

“Liar. Why the bloody hell you’ve not been eating?”

A dramatic sigh was expelled from between Sherlock’s pale pink lips, grey eyes rolling back snidely but John wasn’t fooled.

“Sherlock, as your doctor I demand an answer.”

“I told you! I’d just forgotten!” He shouted, turning on John angrily.

John huffed. “No, no. That’s not good enough. There’s something more here that you’re not telling me.”

Sherlock frowned. He’d returned to not quite meeting Johns eyes.

John tried to think through the reasons people typically lost weight. Sherlock had never had an ounce on him to spare, so it couldn’t be any legitimate loss for health, not that Sherlock gave a damn about his health anyways. He didn’t seem to be sick either.

“What has made you think you need to starve yourself? You’re really not ill? You’ve not been nauseous or anything?”

“I am fine.” Sherlock ground out, repeating himself.

Perhaps it was some form of self harm, like the drugs.

“Are you doing this for some sort of high?”

“No!” Snapping now.

John stared up at him from his crouch. Sherlock continued to pointedly ignore him.

Not ill, not some sort of high, and John didn’t believe it was an accident. Was he trying to be more attractive? Which was patently ridiculous because this was thinness beyond attractiveness and Sherlock had always been utterly gorgeous and trim before. Who would he even try to attract? He barely left the flat without John by his side. He couldn’t imagine it would be anyone at the Yard or Bart’s, but what did he know. He didn’t even know for sure if Sherlock liked women or men or if he had feelings like that at all. Still, might as well have all his bases covered.

“Are you trying to impress someone?”

He noticed Sherlock’s posture stiffen. John's question hung in the air, ignored as Sherlock gazed past him like he wasn’t there. Right on the money then, with that one.

“That’s it. Who then? What awful person could you possibly like that made you feel like you weren’t thin enough?”

Sherlock snarled, still not looking at him.

“You’re not going to ignore me.” John said in his captain’s voice. “Spill.”

Sherlock sighed as if it pained him, and slowly turned his face to John. His grey gaze was unreadable as always.

“Well?”

Sherlock merely continued to look at him, unwavering and unanswering.

“You want me to try and read you mind or something? ‘Cause I’m shite at that. You’re the mind reader.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in amusement, but otherwise he just continued to stare at John with his penetrating gaze.

“Alright, has to be someone I know. The Woman has been long gone. Can’t be Molly. You could have her and you’ve made it clear you don’t. I would be dead shocked if it was Donovan. Obviously not Mrs. Hudson.”

His cupid’s bow mouth trembled a bit more with mirth, but he was clearly suppressing it and otherwise kept his face impassive. John sussed out internally that it wasn’t merely the specific women he suggested that was funny though.

“Not a woman?” John asked tentatively.

Sherlock’s mouth immediately stopped its quest to smile.

“Lestrade?”

His face barely moved, but Sherlock looked bored.

“Anderson?”

Nose scrunch in disgust. Grey eyes still steadfast on his.

“Angelo?”

Boredom again. John racked his brains for someone else they both knew, coming up short.

“Well who the bloody hell is it? If it’s someone I don’t know, or someone online or something I’ll never be able to guess. You just keep looking at me like you expect me to—“ John stopped abruptly. No, no it couldn’t be.

“Me?”

Sherlock looked away, his cheeks coloring. John felt stunned. He’d written off Sherlock wanting anything or anyone that first night at Angelo’s. He had valiantly suppressed his attraction to Sherlock and had tried to be the perfect platonic friend. He knew he slipped up sometimes, was too close, too dedicated, too obsessed. The papers had certainly captured his dopey awed expression when he was looking at Sherlock. This whole time though he could have not bothered. Sherlock wanted him? A short and stocky, old retired army doctor who just followed him around pathetically like a lost puppy?

“Really, me? Jesus.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

Sherlock began to curl in on himself, arms lifting to pull the sides of his shirt closed. John placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee.

“Hey, hey none of that. I can’t believe you didn’t just tell me. What were you waiting for?”

Sherlock froze, eyes darting about as they did when he was thinking rapidly.

“Figure it out yet?”

Grey eyes snapped back to him.

“So… you are attracted to me too, then?” Sherlock looked at him quizzically.

“Yes, you utter dolt. Something perhaps a bit deeper than just attraction actually, I thought I was being obvious.” He felt his own cheeks burning a bit.

Sherlock stared at him mouth in an ‘O’ of surprise for a moment, before surging forward to press his lips clumsily against John’s. It was chaste and uncoordinated, but John’s heart absolutely shattered anyways. It wasn’t how he had imagined a first kiss between them, him squatting in front of an injured and half-starved Sherlock in the loo in the dead of night. It was perfect anyways though, and he felt terribly sad when Sherlock pulled back and it ended.

John looked up at him, stroking one of those too sharp cheekbones. He was a bit awed this was happening after all this time.

“You’ve been an utter fool. You didn’t need to starve yourself to get my attention. You’ve got all of it, you have since the minute I saw you. If you had any more of my attention I couldn’t piss alone.”

Sherlock smiled sheepishly.

“Where did you even get the idea that I wanted you to be so thin? That I would find that attractive? I’ve always tried to feed you up, to get you to eat. I’m not exactly the thinnest bloke myself.”

Sherlock shrugged, looking embarrassed.

“Come on now, I’ve hardly gotten a word out of you all night.”

He sighed. “I thought… I guess I thought if I was smaller, like… like a woman you might be more attracted to me. Though really losing the weight has just made me all the more masculine looking.”

“It has nothing to do with looking feminine or masculine. I was so attracted to you physically the way you were before though, you know. Ever since I saw you sitting in that lab at Bart’s I thought ‘Damn, he’s the most insanely gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.’ I still am devastatingly attracted to you, but this isn’t good for you. You are healthier and better looking with the weight.”

Sherlock frowned and he opened his mouth to argue, but John continued on before he could interrupt. He stood, the crouching finally getting to his knees and making them ache. He stroked Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Your shirts used to fit a bit tighter, the buttons stretching. That was quite obscene, miss that now that the shirts just hang off you. Same with the trousers, they used to hug you quite nicely. And while your cheekbones are utterly lovely, as you are now you’re looking a bit more like a skull and less like a man.”

“Yes, I suppose I am rather looking like Billy lately.” He said quietly. John smiled at the reference to the skull.

“Come here, give us a kiss now. It will all be alright.”

Sherlock leaned forward eagerly, pressing their lips together again. They moved slowly, exploring each other gently. John was above him this time. Cupping Sherlock’s jaw, he licked at Sherlock’s lips and they parted with a delicate moan. Their tongues slid together and John felt a spark in his lower belly. God he really was kissing Sherlock Holmes wasn’t he. The untouchable and cool detective, whining into his mouth wetly.

Suddenly, their mouths fell apart as Sherlock stood and pressed John back into the wall. His body was a hard line pressed against John’s, his arousal straining against John’s hip. He hurried to seal their lips together once more, a deep moan rumbling though his chest and making John melt. One hand flew up to wind through Sherlock’s dark curls, the other grasped at his barely there arse. He frowned a little into the kiss, but didn’t turn away.

Sherlock broke the kiss after several heated moments. “Bed, now.”

“Not quite yet.” John returned them to the issue at hand. “You’ll have to plump up a bit before you can have my cock. It likes a plump arse, not a pancake. I’ll have to feed you up first.”

Sherlock grimaced, grinding his hips against John’s lower belly. “But I want you now.”

“You should have considered what I find attractive if you wanted me to come to bed with you. I’m not shagging a bag of bones, no matter how much I love you.” John knew it was a low blow to phrase it that way, but he needed Sherlock to understand that this level of thinness was not attractive to him or to anyone really.

“You love me?” Sherlock asked, shock coloring his voice.

“Er…” John was embarrassed he let that slip out so soon. “Yes. For a long while now.”

“Me too.” He whispered, nuzzling his nose against John’s. John’s heart was surely just a puddle of goo by this point. Even with Sherlock’s erection still pressed into his hip, the moment was terribly sweet.

“So I have to…” Sherlock began again, trailing off, his fear showing upon his face apparently.

“Yes, you’ll have to gain the weight back. Back up to where you used to be at least, though god knows I was trying to put a few pounds on you then.”

Sherlock swallowed, and John saw the lump in his throat, the glisten in his eyes. It was unlike him to get emotional.

“Oh dear, no don’t cry about it darling. It’s good for you, really.” He said, trying out the endearments without thinking.

Sherlock nodded, not letting the tears actually fall.

“Let’s order some takeaway. We’ll get Thai.”

Sherlock breathed in shakily, “Yes, my favorite.”

John pressed a hand against his cheek tenderly, “Exactly.”

***

Sherlock looked nauseous at the full English breakfast Mrs Hudson had brought up. John had nipped down and had a quick chat with her this morning about them needing to keep a closer eye on Sherlock’s eating and she’d diligently promised to do her part.

Not thirty minutes later, she’d been up with the platter of steaming food.

Now Sherlock sat at the table and looked up at John weakly.

“But I ate so much yesterday, I’ll be sick if you make me eat all this.”

“I didn’t say you had to eat it all, I said you needed to eat as much as you could. I don’t want you to make yourself sick and not keep it down, but you do need to eat, Sherlock. You tried very hard yesterday with the Thai, but you still didn’t even finish a whole container, your stomach’s clearly shrunk.”

He sighed and looked over the plate as if it was making him miserable to be sitting there contemplating eating a single bite.

“You love Mrs Hudson’s cooking. She made the sausage and eggs just the way you like.”

He sighed again, picking up his fork limply and beginning to cut up the sausages.

John watched him nibble at first, and then begin to tuck in in earnest. His heart warmed and he set about his own meal, occasionally smiling at Sherlock in encouragement.

In the end, Sherlock ate about two thirds of the breakfast before insisting anymore would definitely make him ill.

***

“Why are you so fixated on weight anyway? Not just yours, but you’ve made quite a few not nice comments to Mycroft as well. It doesn’t seem very logical.”

Sherlock grimaced, “Mummy.” was all he muttered.

John pursed his lips. “Your mum had a lot to say about people’s weights then?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, pretending to be absorbed in the analysis on hair clippings he was typing up for his blog. Perhaps he wasn’t pretending, John didn’t know. He let the issue rest though.

***

About a week later, after a particularly difficult case that had them running through all of London, they stumbled into the flat well after midnight. They’d handed the criminal off into Lestrade’s custody, and taken a cab back to Baker street.

Sherlock pressed John against the door of the flat, his coat falling around John and cocooning them. He felt Sherlock’s breath hot on his face and shivered. Then lips were hot and demanding upon his. Sherlock licked his way into Johns mouth, devouring in his intensity.

He felt Sherlock’s hardness pressing against him and gasped. Heat shot through his own belly and he slid his hands across Sherlock’s hips to grip his arse, grinding him against himself.

Then he pinched Sherlock’s arse, and received a satisfactory yelp.

“Mmm, not plump enough. Need to get some supper into you after all that.”

“Later.” Sherlock growled, pressing back up against him insistently. His need was still very present and John looked up into his eyes, pupils so dilated with lust that there was hardly any grey left.

“Nope. Not yet, not until your bony hips aren’t going to cut me open.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped in surprise and John left him there as he went to start a late supper.

***

Sherlock had taken to crawling into Johns lap during the day, kissing him frantically and rubbing himself against Johns belly, grinding his arse down onto John's cock through his trousers as though he could convince him if he only got him hot enough.

But when it came to going farther than that, whenever Sherlock tried to reach for the buttons of Johns shirt or to palm himself through his trousers, John would give his arse a considering pinch.

“Mmm, not quite there yet.” He’d say and Sherlock would groan loudly of frustration.

“Take pity on me.” Sherlock whispered this time, rutting against John once more in his attempts at seduction.

“Take pity on me! You’d have my eye out with one of the elbows.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.” Sherlock whined, leaping out of John’s lap, throwing himself upon the settee and covering his face with an arm all dramatic as he was prone.

“You’re the one who keeps coming onto me when you’ve not been trying nearly as hard to eat, you’re frustrating yourself.”

His arm moved just enough for John to see what would be an imperious glare if Sherlock hadn’t been in his pale blue dressing gown at the start of one of his great sulks.

“Have one of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought up.”

With a sigh of utter disdain, Sherlock reached out a fumbling hand to grab a biscuit. He shoved it into his mouth and glowered at John furiously as he chewed it. John merely grinned back at him and watched in satisfaction as he ate another one violently.

***

Sherlock was once again perched in John’s lap while John was in his tatty red armchair.

His thick fingers kneaded the flesh of Sherlock’s arse through his expensive trousers that were fitting much better lately.

“Mmm, I think you’re quite ready.” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips.

“What?” Sherlock jolted in shock.

“Only if you still want to, that is.”

Sherlock leapt up, grabbed ahold of John’s hand, and insistently began tugging on him in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Come on!” He nearly shouted, as John followed his tugging with a chuckle.

“I am, I am. Do you even have supplies in there though?”

Sherlock stopped. “Supplies?”

“Yes. Well, at least just lube anyways. It doesn’t have to go… you know, all the way….” He trailed off, becoming a bit sheepish. Sherlock however, just tilted his head curiously.

“I have lube. All the way?” He prodded.

“I mean we can, but we don’t have to…” John felt his cheeks heating.

Sherlock’s eyes were blank, completely curious and patiently waiting for John to enlighten him.

“Sherlock… have you done this before?”

His lips twisted. “No.”

Johns breath caught.

“And you’re sure? You want to?”

“Ye-eeesss.” He whined, tugging Johns hand again. John smiled.

He followed Sherlock’s tugs to his bedroom. The curtains were drawn against the cool grey London daylight.

Sherlock had immediately began stripping out of his dressing gown and pajamas, when John caught his wrist.

“Hey. We can take our time.”

Sherlock gave him a withering look, already down to his pajama bottoms. “What if I don’t want to take our time? You’ve already made me wait two months, four days, and sixteen hours and that’s just since we first kissed. It’s not even counting all the waiting I’ve done since meeting you.”

John was smiling. “Alright then, no more waiting.” He started on his own buttons and soon they were tumbling naked into Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock’s hands ran greedily over his body, and John did the same. Cataloging all of Sherlock’s pale skin, ruffling the sparse hair that covered it, squeezing his arms and thighs. It was like a dream, finally having all of him exposed and available to John’s wandering eyes.

“God, you are so beautiful.” John whispered and Sherlock bit his lip.

He nuzzled against Sherlock’s neck, nibbling and licking, their cocks sliding against one another. John felt hot and thick as he rutted against Sherlock’s length, gasping at the sparks shooting through him.

“Where’s that lube?”

Sherlock jerked his chin towards the side table, hands tracing John’s back.

Sitting up to straddle Sherlock, he dug around in the drawer and found the bottle. Flicking the lid of the lube open, he drizzled some into his palm and then took them both in hand. He began to tug at them, holding onto Sherlock's hip with the other hand. John’s moans mixed with Sherlock’s at the delicious friction of each other.

It was electric, having his own thick cock sliding against Sherlock’s long slender one. He gasped a little, watching the heads slip through his fist and rub together. So hot, so wet, everything he’d always wanted. When he’d licked his lips at the table in Angelo’s, this had been exactly what he’d been picturing. It was so much better in reality though, eating up Sherlock’s writhing lean body, his delicate sounds as he met John thrust for thrust. He stroked them in long smooth glides, mouth hanging open.

Sherlock grabbed John’s other hand, pressing it against his bum. “Aren’t you going to…?” He asked breathlessly. John’s hand and hips stuttered.

“Do you want me to?” John whispered.

“Mmm, yes.” Sherlock bucked his hips against John, against John’s hand. His grey eyes burned as they met John’s.

John nodded. His fingers still slick, he reached between them, hand delving under their cocks and between Sherlock’s cheeks. He found Sherlock’s hole and circled it slowly. He watched Sherlock’s face raptly, watching how his eyes slipped shut and his lips parted had John began to gently push a fingertip inside of him.

Sherlock’s pale lips trembled. “That ok?” John murmured, petting Sherlock’s thigh.

“Good, good, yes, god!”

John licked his lips and urged his finger deeper. Closed in the hot channel of Sherlock’s hole, he imagined his cock entering there shortly and his sack tightened in anticipation. He slipped his finger out and Sherlock whined, offended.

“Turn over.” John ordered. Sherlock immediately obeyed, turning onto his stomach. “Hands and knees. It will make it easier.”

Sherlock raised his rear into the air, though keeping his head pillowed on his arms. He grabbed the bottle of lube and squeezed some more out into his hand and down Sherlock’s crack. John watched him shiver in response and then part his legs farther. John traced his hole again, awed as he pushed his finger in and Sherlock took it eagerly now.

“Another, another.” Sherlock panted.

“Give it a minute.” John soothed, rubbing circles over Sherlock’s lower back with his other hand as he began to thrust his finger in and out slowly. He crooked his finger and in less than a second he had what he was searching for. Being a doctor definitely had its uses.

“Oooooo-ah!” Sherlock cried as John softly stroked his prostate. He was keeping up a stream of whines and moans in response to John fingering him open. He was arching his back so prettily, John was entranced with all that pale porcelain skin beginning to sweat under his fingertips.

Sherlock was clenching around his finger and it went straight to his own cock. He rubbed a little against Sherlock’s thigh at the same time that he pressed a second finger against the rim and began to wiggle it inside.

John rubbed himself more frantically against Sherlock’s pale thigh, two fingers deep now and the sounds coming from him urging him on. He scissored his fingers carefully, mesmerized as he watched them slip in and out of Sherlock’s glossy pink arsehole.

“More, more, please!” Sherlock was thrusting his hips back, utterly open and begging.

John shuddered, Sherlock almost never said please and it did things to him. Acquiescing, he pressed a third finger inside.

Sherlock groaned deeply, relaxing around John’s fingers. Fingering him a few more times just to be sure, he eventually pulled back.

“Fuck me!” Sherlock said, looking over his shoulder at John with smoldering eyes.

“Yeah, ok.” He couldn’t have denied that request for anything. Sherlock was so wanton for having never done this. He slicked his cock and positioned himself. Nestled between miles of pale legs, rubbing his dry hand up and down Sherlock’s back, he nudged his cock up to slide along Sherlock’s arse.

John rubbed the round head of his cock back and forth against Sherlock’s slick hole, eliciting a wanton keening sound from the prone detective.

“Now John, now!” He whined.

With a deep breath, he pressed forward and felt his cock head slip inside. He paused with much difficulty, but wanting to make sure it was good for Sherlock. “That ok?”

“More! In, in!” Sherlock protested, pushing himself back and taking more of John’s length.

“Ohhh, alright, whatever you want.” He replied, sinking himself in til his balls brushed against Sherlock’s. Sherlock let out a desperate moan and John felt him squeezing around his cock. He ran his hands along Sherlock’s waist, feeling his tremors.

“Good?”

“Fuck me noo-ow.” So impatient.

John let it settle a moment more before gently slipping back a bit and then pressing in again. Encouraged by the stream of sounds pouring from Sherlock’s lips, he began to thrust in earnest.

“Fuck.” He whispered in awe. He was inside Sherlock, fucking him. John was bracketed by Sherlock’s long lean legs, thrusting into the taller man who was pressing his arse up enthusiastically.

“Oh, yes, yes, fuck!” John moaned, gripping Sherlock’s sharp hips tightly.

Sherlock seemed beyond words now, moaning loudly and pressing back.

It was like he’d been lit on fire, every inch of his skin burning with the need to press into that delicious friction again and again. He wasn’t going to last long, clasped in the tight heat of Sherlock’s body.

Through the haze of pleasure, he remembered to reach around, grasping Sherlock’s cock and tugging to the same rhythm as his hips. It only took a few strokes to get Sherlock to the edge.

He felt Sherlock tense and felt his cock jump in his hand, his release spurting and dripping over John’s fist. Sherlock clenched around him, whining through his orgasm and John quickly followed. His orgasm hit him like a brick wall, stealing his breath and making him see stars.

“Sherlock!” He shouted, hips stuttering as he spilled into Sherlock.

They lay in a sweaty heap for a few moments, before Sherlock wiggled to get John’s weight off him.

“That was amazing.” John murmured, nuzzling into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Mmmm, yes.” He purred, nuzzling his own face into John’s hair. “When can we do it again?”

John snorted, “Give me a few minutes. I’m not twenty anymore.”

“Fine.” Sherlock pouted against the crown of his head.

***

A few months later, they were concluding a case about a red-headed bloke’s basement being used to dig a tunnel to a bank across the street, when Mycroft had shown up, twirling his umbrella with a typical haughty expression.

He gave Sherlock an up-down look before smirking.

“Who’s the one gaining weight now, brother mine?”

Already filled with adrenaline, John had zero patience. Mycroft didn’t have time to avoid John’s fist colliding with his stomach. His breath woodshed out of him and he doubled over, with a grunt.

“Say anything like that again, and I’ll go for your face.”

Mycroft straightened and gave John a strained smile.

“You’re quite right, John. That was crass of me.” He turned his gaze on Sherlock. “My apologies, little brother.” He said in what John deemed rather a rather earnest tone considering the current physical discomfort John had just caused him. Sherlock might make cutting remarks towards Mycroft in the same vein, but he wasn’t so padded as for a punch to not hurt.

“Now, about Mr. Clay—“

“Sod off. Go ask them.” John said jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the Yard members. He grabbed Sherlock by the sleeve of his coat and tugged him away.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said, as John dragged him to the kerb and hailed for a cab.

“Don’t mention it.” John growled, waving his arm angrily, trying to get a cab to stop for them.

Sherlock raised his own, and a cab slowed to a smooth stop. John rolled his eyes as they clambered inside.

“Really, I enjoyed seeing Mycroft told off.”

“Don’t listen to him, alright?” John said, looking over Sherlock. He was so beautiful, his cheekbones still sharp despite the weight John has successfully gotten onto him. It’d been eight months since they’d figured out they were being idiots, and while it was a constant battle to keep it on, John had finally gotten Sherlock looking quite healthy. Despite his protests, John could see that he was stronger, sharper, quicker with his body properly nourished. The buttons on his shirts strained deliciously again.

“I would never.” Sherlock smiled.

John huffed a laugh and grinned back.

“Dinner at Angelo’s?”

“Delightful.” Sherlock replied.

John turned to let the cab driver know of their adjusted drop off.