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There is one anchoring presence in the universe around which everything revolves, and that presence is Sherlock Holmes. There may be distractions and temporary cosmic glitches, but eventually everything comes back to the world’s only Consulting Detective. Not that John has anything against that, mind you—on the contrary, John thoroughly enjoys the crazy adventures that Sherlock brings him along on. It’s just that other people—ordinary people—can’t seem to understand his obsession. Sherlock is rude, insensitive and cold, and John is ‘too good for the likes of him. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.’ John, of course, doesn’t. He stays and continues to be drawn to Sherlock like a moth to a burning flame.
It doesn’t take him many weeks to realize his attraction for the taller man. He is tall, with high and prominent cheekbones, and full, rich lips. His unruly hair rests like a mop on top of his head and dark curls line his face, making his staggeringly pale eyes stand out. There is something mysterious about the way he looks, and something that is just so utterly Sherlock. Of course the bloody genius had to go and be gorgeous as well. It was like adding insult to injury. John was dying a slow, hormone-induced death and Sherlock just kept on existing. Just like that. It was unfair, to say the least.
And then Irene Adler came into the picture, and John thought he was actually going to drop dead. He was going to die of cardiac arrest, a broken heart or something equally ridiculous. Not only was the woman incredibly beautiful, but there was something about her that seemed to appeal to Sherlock. His Sherlock. The I-consider-myself-married-to-my-work-though-I-am-flattered-thank-you-and-goodbye Sherlock. John had never seen Sherlock like that before; he was brooding and texting a lot, and he seemed almost love-struck. He became defensive whenever Irene was brought up in conversation and was painstakingly irritated with John at all times. Jealousy burned hot and red in John’s veins, and he had to do a lot of counting-to-tens to prevent himself from doing something incredibly reckless that could potentially ruin everything.
He wanted Sherlock. God, he wanted him so badly he wasn’t really sure what to do with himself whenever they were alone. It was as if there was something physically pulling him towards Sherlock that he just wasn’t strong enough to resist. John was surprised Sherlock hadn’t noticed his longing looks yet and kicked him out.
John is pretty sure he flat lined when he discovered Sherlock and Irene had been flirting. Mutually. Back and forth.
John spent more time outside than he normally would have, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind or wonder where he was. It was self-preservation really to get drunk and forget about Sherlock Sodding Holmes, or so John told himself at least.
One evening when he wasn’t incredibly drunk but definitely intoxicated, he came home and Sherlock was standing in the living room intently watching him. John could feel his scanning eyes taking in everything there was possibly to know about him. Drunk? Slightly. Date? No. Drinking alone? Yes.
‘John.’
Sherlock’s voice was low and baritone, and John forced himself to meet his eyes. They were filled with something John couldn’t quite identify. Worry, perhaps? There was really no way of telling.
John removed his coat and hung it on the coat rack, and then very deliberately ignored Sherlock and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Sherlock’s gaze had been very intense and John hadn’t known what to do with himself but run off and hide like a scared animal. Fucking buggering arsehole tits.
Then Sherlock Holmes opened the door without knocking and gently closed it behind him and John was certain this was the Devil punishing him for something. Sherlock was in his bedroom. Sherlock, in his bed room. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlo-
‘John,’ Sherlock said again and John didn’t have the heart to ignore him.
‘Yes, Sherlock, what is it?’ he snapped and cursed inwardly at himself. He was such a bloody tosser.
‘Are you—er, I mean, is everything alright?’
Fumbling for words was definitely not Sherlock. John held his breath.
‘If this is about Irene Adle-‘
John lost it.
Quickly he turned around and forcefully knocked Sherlock into the closed door behind him, one palm resting on the door on either side of his head. Sherlock seemed confused—rightfully so, John thought—but didn’t make an attempt to move. Instead, he watched John with something akin to interest in his eyes. John licked his lips and watched as Sherlock instinctively mimicked his movement.
‘To hell with Irene Adler,’ he growled fiercely. ‘You are mine.’
He watched realization dawn across Sherlock’s face and he thought about how utterly screwed he was, and also how very close their faces were. He held his breath as Sherlock scanned him for clues.
‘You’re an idiot,’ Sherlock finally breathed, and suddenly Sherlock wasn’t the one pressed up against the door—it was John. And suddenly Sherlock’s lips were on his neck and their bodies were pressed tightly against each other, and John let out a barely contained groan. Then their lips were meeting and Sherlock was kissing him hungrily, his tongue trailing across John’s bottom lip. John opened his mouth slightly to allow better access and Sherlock eagerly followed, his left hand pulling on John’s hair and the other one trailing its way down to his lower back. Their erections pressed flush together eliciting a moan from them both, and John felt light headed and very warm.
‘Sherlock,’ he interrupted him in between kisses. ‘You don’t—this isn’t, you’re married to your wo-‘
‘John,’ Sherlock growled and sucked on a sensitive spot on John’s neck. ‘I lied.’
‘But Irene A-‘
‘To hell with Irene Adler,’ Sherlock repeated as he nibbled on John’s earlobe and John swallowed loudly. ‘You are mine.’
It was all the reassurance John needed. He pushed Sherlock off of him and backwards until the back of his thighs hit John’s bed, then pushed him. John straddled Sherlock’s legs with his thighs and bent down and kissed him again. He bit Sherlock’s lower lip and was rewarded with his hips bucking upward. He pulled his fingers through Sherlock’s impossibly soft hair as he kissed him, then beckoned for Sherlock to take his shirt of as pulled his own over his head. Sherlock was quick to comply.
The sight of Sherlock was breath-taking. His chest was pale and skinny yet muscular, and his lips were swollen and red from kissing. His pupils were dilated and he was panting slightly, his eyes fixed on John’s.
With trembling hands, he unbuttoned his own jeans and took them and his boxers off, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. Then he unbuttoned Sherlock’s suit trousers and waited for Sherlock to take them off. He shivered at the sight of Sherlock.
His cock was hard and pink and his glans was slick with precome. It came to rest above the dark pubic hair of his crotch, creating a moist spot on his stomach. John cleared his through nervously. He didn’t feel very intoxicated anymore.
Sherlock gently pulled him down on top of himself and kissed him senseless, his hands firm on John’s buttocks, grinding their hips together. John swore he could see fireworks.
Then Sherlock’s hand came down between them, gripping both their cocks firmly in his hand, and John moaned Sherlock’s name. The friction between them was too much and not enough all at once and John found himself desperately bucking into the skilled movement of Sherlock’s palm.
They were kissing and the pressure was building inside John’s body and then Sherlock’s lips were on John’s neck again and John just couldn’t hold it together anymore.
He came with Sherlock’s name on his tongue, spilling his come on Sherlock’s hand and cock. Sherlock shortly followed and bit down on his neck hard as he came. It would leave a mark.
‘John,’ was all Sherlock could manage, and it was all John needed to hear to understand that the world would keep spinning and keep revolving around Sherlock, but that Sherlock would revolve around him, too.