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i.
The first time, the very first time, John has to stop before they've even gotten very far. Fear swells in his chest where butterflies should bloom, and a prickly, uncomfortable heat spreads across his body where the sweet sensation of pleasure should spread. He's frozen, in shock; visions of bleeding corpses and echoing screeches blasting in his ears.
Despite it all, despite Sherlock's unusually soft eyes blinking through the darkness of the cupboard room, despite his hands holding John's head steadily in his lap, cradling him like a vulnerable animal, despite Sherlock's dangerous finger trailing over the bumps of John's spine, and despite Sherlock's dominant hand fisting John's hard-on, John feels anything but pleasure.
He feels fear. Cold, real fear.
John grinds against the mattress with his backside and reaches anywhere he can grasp, his hands creating makeshift handles out of Sherlock's pillow. It smells like him; it smells so damn musty and good, a mixture of sweat and then pure, raw Sherlock. It's the only thing stopping him from crying out in fear, from the blown-wide eyes of his dead comrades and patients.
"Stop forcing it," Sherlock says against the bitter darkness, and slows his jerks. John damn-near whimpers at that. A groinal response, he justifies, when his hips involuntarily shake and buck for more of the friction he so desires. It's an ongoing battle, a war of right and wrong, the dead and the living, sex and fear, Sherlock and no Sherlock.
Christ, they'd talked about this like adults, too. Sat down in their suddenly uncomfortable seats and swapped medical information - John liking to be assured, after all - before discussing what they liked, what they disliked, and finally, the grand finale, the dessert, the sour cherry on top: John's here-to-stay PTSD.
"I'm sorry," John says, tears of frustration blinking at the back of his eyes. He wants this, he really does, but why must his body betray him and refuse him such a luxury?
"I'm so so sorry," he repeats, and Sherlock shakes his hand away.
For some reason, a strange reason that John swears he sees flash behind Sherlock's eyes, Sherlock does not sigh, he does not frown, he does not kick John out. Instead, he offers a weak smile - he's exhausted and worn-thin after this week's case - and sheds a final piece of clothing: his shirt, before tossing it to the floor where there seems to be a growing pile of clothes.
"Why aren't you angry," John says, less of a question and more of a statement. He watches Sherlock, his lean and shaven body as he stretches into a lying-down position, his torso illuminated by a nearby lamp outside of the window.
Sherlock blinks at him all of sudden, seemingly taken aback. His words are dipped in disbelief as he says, "You really thought sex was mandatory asset in a relationship for me? You honestly let that thought plague you?"
John chews his lip, fiddling with the top button of his checkered shirt. He's nervous, although he has no reason to be. He's here: in 221B, safe and clean and alive with Sherlock. He's not on the battlefield, he's not atop his mountain of corpses, he's with the man he aches for but cannot soothe.
"I'm not calling you a whore, if that's what you mean," John says, massaging his temple with a sigh, "And I understand how frustrating this is, truly, I do. And I don't know why it's come back now, of all times."
Sherlock cups John's chin, looking as if he's studying the galaxy behind his eyes. He's more thoughtful than romantic, and that makes the whole thing even more appealing. His thin legs shift under the covers as he sits up and says breathlessly, "John, you are dealing with an extreme cause of post traumatic stress disorder. It's no wonder that you no longer take pleasure in luxuries or things you used to find joy in."
John swallows a sob, and feels the knickpoint of Sherlock's fingertip tracing the curve of his spine like an abundance of mountains, "But why now?" he stresses, "Why so long after Afghanistan?"
"Because you repress," Sherlock replies blankly, stalling his movements as he swallows thickly. The smell of sex is thick in the air despite both of them sticking to their respective side of the bed. Sherlock adds, "You bottle things up and store them away, then refuse to deal with your issues."
"This is coming from you, Sherlock." John chuckles sadly, and when he places his head atop the pillow, Sherlock rolls onto his side to face him.
"I am utterly indifferent to emotion, John," Sherlock replies, and then John remembers.
He remembers. Because John cannot have Sherlock in any capacity: platonic or otherwise. John's built a throne, and below him lies wounded soldiers, lost lives and a lifetime of deceit. And because of this, he cannot have him. He doesn't deserve such a blessing.
John leans up, furrowing when he finally processes Sherlock's words and their meaning.
"So you just want to screw me for fun, then? For kicks?"
"No," says Sherlock, and he sounds honest and incredulously open, his fists curled inward childishly as he stares in awe at John, like he's a masterpiece above all of the other paintings in a gallery, "I didn't really think emotion even came into this - sex, not in the beginning. But you do confuse me, John Watson."
John feels both a pang of guilt and a pang of pride at that, sliding his hand unto Sherlock's, feeling the long wind of his fingertips and the familiar thump of his pulse. Sex and emotion aren't one in the same, he realises, but then why do the visions wash over him in waves of guilt and horror?
"Not so stoic then," John murmurs softly, almost to himself, "Compared to myself, I suppose. You're Sherlock Holmes: the master of all things that can be learnt and I'm the master of handling things entirely wrong."
Sherlock finally meets John halfway and winds their fingertips together fully, almost as if they were built for one another. His lips are parted; chaste and soft as he replies in a slow, slow whisper, "Which is why I want us to handle this right."
He thumbs over John's knuckle ever-so-gently. "I want you to enjoy this, and I want us to have this together because you want it. I don't want you to have terrifying visions and flashbacks whenever I so much as lay a finger on you. We can wait. I'll wait."
"But I don't want to wait," John chokes, a loud shout coming from a nearby popular London club, the sound of clinking bottles and intoxicated laughs bouncing through the streets. He merely cares about Sherlock's thump, his heartbeat, his life.
"I've always wanted this," John admits, wrinkled skin intertwining with soft, snowy flesh, "Even when you were a stuck-up sod."
And he lays for a while, wishing the world would just stop. He's content, safe, listening to the soft whistle of wind and Sherlock's scattered breathing.
At some point, John must slip into a deep sleep, his eyes blinking awake to meet a clear, white ceiling and the smell of early morning dew.
When he looks to his side, seeing Sherlock's chest rise and fall, his face oddly boyish and innocent with tufts of hair scattered across his forehead, he feels butterflies smell in his chest at the fact that their hands are still inter-linked.
For a while, just for a while, he can forget.
ii.
John Watson would consider himself a rather aware man, thank you very much.
John is aware of many things. He's aware of sporting events; news stories; attention to detail; the positive and negative reviews of his blog posts; the feel of crisp newspaper against his thumbs on a lazy Sunday morning; Sherlock's compulsions; and the fact that Sherlock is currently waltzing through the door, his face drenched in charcoal.
John looks up from his laptop momentarily; gives Sherlock an exhausted once-over as he says tiredly, "A case?"
Frowning, Sherlock stomps to his desk, mumbling a hearty, "What else?"
"Taking into account all of the human organs stored in our fridge, not much could surprise me at this point honestly."
Despite all the things he is aware of, John isn't aware of Sherlock's beady eyes burning into him. He isn't aware that Sherlock's spent the last half hour helping an elderly woman clear out her chimney, and consequently, ended up getting a faceful of charcoal. He's not aware. He's so blissfully unaware of Sherlock and what he can do and what he has done that he doesn't even notice Sherlock cross the room and slip casually into his armchair.
"You fret too much," Sherlock says, as he snatches the newspaper from the coffee table with his forefinger and thumb. And no, this is all so wrong; the way he's narrowly avoiding the topic of the night before and how John and Sherlock had slipped asleep into a sexless relationship. John bows his head and prays the nagging in his mind goes away.
It doesn't, though. And neither does Sherlock. Though he isn't as upset about the latter.
"Sometimes I wonder if you're a worried little housewife," Sherlock says absentmindedly, wetting a thumb and beginning to flick through the newspaper. Page after page he accompanies with a murmur of, "Boring, boring, boring," and John honestly hadn't expected any less of him.
"Remember to stop me before I become Mrs. Hudson," John humours him, and leans forward to reach for his tea - the cup and saucer a unique shade of china - and raising it to his lips. He stops when he notices Sherlock staring.
This whole thing is awkward; strange, even. John aches to do nothing but reach for the clock and turn back the hands.
John chuckles, wanting to suck the awkward, heavy air right out of the sitting room and stuff it with pretty much anything else. Despite the occasional howl of wind beyond the bay window, or the clattering of dishes downstairs courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, everything is deathly quiet.
"What's to say I'd be the housewife?" John laughs, a quiet chuckle that catches a lump in his throat. He can't help but feel his skin pulse and his veins run a strange temp of icy cold when Sherlock shifts forward, deliberately dragging his armchair along the floorboards with a heavy squeak as he does so.
And with that, the awkward air is replaced with challenge; with dare; with confidence and battle. Sherlock slips out of his chair entirely, his hair a wild and unmanageable mess in dire need of a comb. But his shirt is pristine, if you ignore the few too many creases pressing into the collar. His eyes breathe hunger, but not in a way that's even mildly lustrous, but rather: intimate; aching; too close for comfort.
Sherlock stares down at him, eyes connecting where lips should. He uses his gaze like a weapon, looking down at John through glassy and hazed eyes.
Forcing another sly, cat-like smile, John searches for something, anything to distract himself from the hot gaze currently digging into his flesh. He pulls himself together with unearthed stitches and sighs quietly.
"I am the breadwinner out of us, after all," he says, damn-near silently. John sounds as if he's given up, massaging his temples as he tears his eyes away from Sherlock's, and continuing to feel like he's broken a rule or disobeyed an elder when he does so.
"You're a blogger, Watson," Sherlock monotones, but his eyes are encased in emotion, stretched left and right with awe; love; and most definitely: adoration.
And then he comes to a very sudden realisation, something he is now extremely aware of: Sherlock is peering over his shoulder and scanning the screen of his laptop with widened eyes.
John looks back, sees the military logo and sponsor photos, and wishes he'd switched the computer off.
"I was right then," Sherlock says, and John doesn't even get a chance to speak before Sherlock continues, "you do miss the war."
This is all too much. All of it is swarming over him, pulling him back to the battlefield, the rush of tainted blood and screeching cries sprinting through his mind. He feels so fucking pathetic for giving in like this, the familiar sensation of boiling tears pricking at his eyelids.
"I do," John whispers, squeezes his eyelids shut desperately and wills them to run dry. He feels Sherlock's hand sliding over his knee, and the sudden shift of weight on his armchair.
John continues shakily, "It's all I've ever known; it's safe. Traumatising, sure, but life outside the battlefield is like foreign land to me. It's so new that I struggle to adjust."
"You refuse to step out of your comfort zone," Sherlock says, and John can see deduction dwindling in his eyes. He forgets sometimes that emotions are of little to no relevance to Sherlock, and his attempts to empathise are utterly useless.
John shakes his head, "No, Sherlock. I want to. I'm just not sure whether my mind will let me."
Sherlock is quiet now, slipping unto the carpet, a position that the Holmes' would usually find degrading. He moves across the ground slowly; crawling towards John and eyeing him cautiously. John's aware of everything, feels his neat little bubble being popped as Sherlock steps into it and makes himself at home without even wiping his feet.
He never was big on the idea of personal space, John recalls.
And then the thoughts are encumbered, weighed down by Sherlock's touch; Sherlock's taste; his smell; his everything. It's all so deliciously and characteristically Sherlock that John can't help but love and relish in it. He's nowhere near being cured but he doesn't want that, he simply wants Sherlock to dull the weight.
Sherlock's hands are sliding everywhere at once, wandering and exploring and caressing all at the same time. His fingers soothe John's burning skin, tracing the little lines and wrinkles of his skin, the bumps of his war scars alongside his legs, ones in which a person could easily mistake for muscles. But Sherlock is aware, and so is John. They're both blissfully aware of the understanding stood before them.
"I want you to want this more than you've ever wanted anything before in your life," Sherlock says bluntly, and it doesn't sound like Sherlock. It sounds like a fragment of him, a mixture of the famous detective mixed in with something dirty yet familiar all at once. Perhaps it's Sherlock's hidden impulses speaking for him, taking front row and centre and beckoning John unto him.
"Sherlock," John hisses, his groin aching for purchase as he begs. John Watson begs, "hurry the fuck up."
And so Sherlock hurries the fuck up. He does it in double quick time, in fact, swiftly reaching for the hem of John's khakis, and giving them an adventurous tug. It doesn't do much besides reveal the material of his underpants - a cute navy colour, Sherlock mentally notes - with a dark stain on the front. Upon this, John wants to shy away, but feels Sherlock's hands sliding up to cradle his face and preventing him from doing so.
It's dark, winding and addicting the way Sherlock side-eyes him, his pale face heavy with concern yet obvious arousal.
"The thoughts?-" He begins, but John raises a hand and stops him, clasping his fingers around Sherlock's desperately, digging his nonexistent nails into snow white skin and making his mark, wanting to feel Sherlock's scent burning on him for days on end.
"Shut up about them," John says, and shrugs away the thought of gushing blood or wriggling bodies as he says breathlessly, "You, I just want you. Please."
And so Sherlock gives himself to John; all of him. He ducks his head and nudges John's button-up further along his chest, before pressing soft and feather-like pecks to his skin. He leaves a couple barely-there bites along his sternum, reaches up to absentmindedly tweak a nipple, and pulls John's khakis further down so they sit snugly at his ankles.
John's practically panting like a horny teenager, despite his brain in a battle against itself. His body is in flight mode, his head above cloud nine, and yet the thoughts push back against him. John wanders through his own mind palace, searching, searching for something to calm him down.
And he doesn't have to look far. Because he finds Sherlock. He finds Sherlock with his head between John's thighs, peeling back his underwear as slow as anything. He finds Sherlock clutching his hand, knuckles clenched so hard they're almost white. He finds Sherlock pressing wet; open-mouthed kisses to John's prick, wiry hair bouncing as he gives him a good few pumps.
And John is almost whimpering, his throat closing up on itself. He can't bring himself to shut his eyes, because then Sherlock would be gone, and then it'd just be him and the visions. Instead, he watches. He watches Sherlock and he lets him in.
"You're fucking obscene," John manages in between something of a moan and a purr.
Sherlock simply smiles up at him with his Cheshire Cat demeanour, ducks his head back down and whispers, "I do try."
Then John is suddenly very aware of Sherlock's delicate tongue working away at the length of him, his hands grinding and jerking for all he's worth and John's puzzled as to how he hadn't done this sooner. He reinforces that thought when Sherlock's damp and eager-to-please mouth closes around him with suction, all tongue and no teeth and simply Sherlock.
He can't help it; has to thrust just a little, and though Sherlock does pause to adjust to the new position, he takes it all. He hums appreciatively along John's cock and the vibrations damn-near drive John wild. He bobs, Sherlock Holmes fucking bobs, and John is writhing and panting and, Oh God he's actually getting head from Sherlock.
It's almost embarrassing how quickly John comes, shaking and reaching his peak with a desperate shout of Sherlock's names, swearing he feels white blare his vision. John rides it out with clenched teeth, even more tightly clenched fists, and a groan that's so loud that Sherlock has to shush him with another tender bite to the thigh.
It takes a string of minutes for John to regain a normal breathing pattern, and becomes aware of Sherlock refastening the buttons of his khakis and moving upwards to rest on the balls of his feet.
He stares at John, whose heart is skipping at what feels like a hundred miles.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't have intercourse with my mouth next time," Sherlock says sternly, carefully dabbing excess fluid from his mouth. But he's smiling triumphantly as he says it; like this is all just a game to him.
John's cheeks turn a deep shade of pink, and he resists the urge to cringe. It's awkward again, but in a way that's natural just after your not-boyfriend has given you oral sex.
And all in all, John watches as Sherlock returns to his bedroom, the sitting room suddenly now feeling very cold and empty. He hears Sherlock pottering around in his room as he cleans himself up; moving what sounds to be like a dresser across the room. Though in the many months John has known Sherlock, such an occurrence doesn't surprise him in the slightest. On the contrary, it actually makes him feel at home.
John knows this isn't heaven - far from it, in fact - but with the image of Sherlock's lazy, cheeky post-coital smile in mind, a guy might get confused from time to time.
iii.
Sherlock Holmes is not asexual, nor is he a sociopath; he just wishes he was. He's tremendously inexperienced and fresh-faced yet wise beyond his years, like a witty, disobedient child dancing around the adults. He's a case himself- an unsolvable one at that.
But John also can't imagine Sherlock having sex, watching pornography or any of the like. He's imagined it sure, but it's never gone beyond a midnight fantasy. He can only see Sherlock's sinfully long fingertips tracing the curve of his spine; his clean, hairless body slick with sweat and his tufts of ebony curls bouncing in sync with his hips. John can't imagine dirty, or rough, or raw. And maybe that's where the fun comes in: John can fill in the blanks like a jigsaw puzzle.
But at that, every step is just another way to lose the game; lose Sherlock; lose himself; lose the comfort that comes with war and tending burns and wounds. The comfort is a familiarity without a face; a face that haunts his dreams. He misses the war, that's no lie, but he's also terrified of it; and that's something he's very hesitant to reveal to anybody. Sherlock included.
Nevertheless, at three a.m. each morning, Sherlock enters John's bedroom, slips the door shut, and clambers into bed with him, Sometimes they'll move to Sherlock's room if the situation permits it, but that is a very rare occasion, and John prefers the comfort of his own dingy, ridiculously small cupboard room.
They'll lie together; talk about cases; Sherlock might babble about how incredulous he finds human emotion to be; and then John will somehow wake up the next morning with his hand still safely tucked in Sherlock's. Then Sherlock will drag John along to a case, be an arrogant asshole as usual, then return to 221B Baker Street and slip back into John's room.
And it's a never-ending cycle. John questions how a man like Sherlock Holmes can be so two-faced when he despises phonies himself. Sherlock is a puzzle, frankly; a code that John longs to crack. And beyond the doors of 221B, Sherlock only becomes more difficult to solve. Behind them, however he's so desperately open and vulnerable that John begins to question whether he was even a puzzle in the first place.
It's three a.m. when John's laying awake in bed, feels Sherlock's "stand-to-attention" presence slip into the room, a blundering shadow hot on his heels. He feels the weight of the bed shift, then sees the outline of Sherlock's shadow against the illuminated wall of his bedroom.
Surprising himself, John turns to his side and stares Sherlock down, right in his tired, baby blue eyes, putting forward a subject he'd been aching to know the answer to for a very long time indeed.
"I should've known you were gay after the whole Jim incident, really. You would've guessed it," and there he goes, comparing himself to Sherlock again. John swallows thickly and watches as Sherlock's wet lips part in surprise.
"You really upset Molly with that, you know," John shrugs, now desperately wanting to change the subject entirely. Sherlock is not the most emotional of people, and it doesn't take a genius to figure that out. The way he tenses up momentarily, shifts underneath the covers and manoeuvres so that his arm is strung over John's shoulder, makes John believe Sherlock is stalling; doesn't know what to say.
"You inferred I was gay because I made a contradiction?" Sherlock asks rhetorically, pondering his options. He smells stank of cigarettes, mixed in with the clear aroma of aftershave and sugared tea. "Because I attributed a high level of personal grooming to being gay, and I'm rather well groomed also? Tsk tsk at your stereotypes, Dr. Watson. And I'm fairly certain Molly will get over it. She'll find a man eventually."
John snorts, "And you're sure of that?"
"Ordinary people are meant to live ordinary lives with their ordinary spouses, John," Sherlock tells him, just as a splatter of rain drips from the flat's pipes, landing splat-bang in the middle of the window pane. "Maybe that's why you and I landed together. We're far from ordinary."
John traces soft lines over the stretch of Sherlock's skin, a soft pleasure which he finds enjoyment in. It's intimate, yet so unfamiliar at the same time, like there's a wedge placed between them that neither of them can budge, so they instead decide to hold hands over it.
Tired, John smirks lazily and turns to face Sherlock, "And we belong together because we're not boring? You should broaden your horizons a bit, Sherlock. Get on internet dating; you'd meet some right weirdos on there."
Sherlock chokes, and then he slips into cackling. John finds it incredibly alluring and off-putting at the same time, and simply sinks into his pillow, watching Sherlock from afar as usual.
"I'd rather do literally anything else," Sherlock says, before adding, "and I'd prefer to stay one hundred feet away from your laptop ideally."
"Well, I mean," John begins solemnly, slowing his traces. His face falls heavy with dread, his chest hollow as he swallows thickly before speaking once more. "If this is just a casual thing, then I'd prefer for you to actually find a man you have a connection with, if that makes any sense."
He adds the last part as a good measure, but Sherlock still looks taken aback. Sherlock quickly sits up in bed, the need to question and deduce knifing through him.
"So now you're assuming I'm gay?"
John's head pounds. "Well, you are, aren't you?"
John stops; pauses.
"But..." John begins, "you like dancing?"
"I like dancing," Sherlock repeats, nodding in an exaggerated fashion. "Clearly that makes me a homosexual."
Sherlock stops, chews on his lower lip, and this is possibly the first time John has seen Sherlock stumble for longer than a second. His eyes are blown dark and wide, studying everything surrounding him, his mind working like a cog in a machine. John simply watches; waiting; seeking; blooming.
"But yes," Sherlock says, and that's enough conformation for John, who breathes a silent sigh of relief. Sherlock turns to face him, leaning upwards on his elbow. "I am."
"But that's besides the point, John. And you seem to be struggling with your own bisexuality and the notion that you can indeed be attracted to both males and females. Life isn't black and white, John, but a scale of greys."
"You should be a philosopher," John mocks.
"Growing up with Mycroft, I've heard that a few times too many," Sherlock says light-heartedly, his chest rising and falling as he winds, winds, winds until he becomes one with John, ankles knocking and arms wrapping around the other.
"And anyway," Sherlock clears his throat, rather loudly, "Which one of us said this was just a casual thing? I desire you for much more than sexual intercourse, John."
John turns to him, brows raised ever-so-slightly. "Can you stop talking with a stick up your backside? You can say 'fuck'."
"I swear for comedic purposes only."
"That explains why you never swear."
"Touche," Sherlock retorts, barely blinking an eye. He unclasps himself from John and begins climbing out of bed as he says, "and I'll put the kettle on, shall I?"
But John isn't finished yet. He practically leaps forward, catching Sherlock by the wrist, now caring very little about modesty as the duvet lays askew over his naked lap. Sherlock turns, and John licks his lips nervously, skin flickering like glitter underneath the mustard-yellow lampshade.
"You're a virgin, aren't you?" he says, and Sherlock takes a moment to intake, intake, intake. Sherlock's expression is soft and empathetic, and he moves closer to the bed for a moment or so.
"Technically, yes, but any skill can be learnt when you put time and effort into it."
Sinking back into the bed and letting go of Sherlock's wrist - aware of the red marks winding around his wrists like a bracelet -, John does his best to smile. It's crooked, toothy and undeniably unattractive, but it's three a.m. and Sherlock is looking at him as if he's a diamond in the rough, something that needs to be managed and crafted gently with Sherlock's own hands.
"That sounds awfully positive for Sherlock Holmes," John says simply.
"Positivity is a sham, John," Sherlock tells him, all quiet and dainty and strangely unlike Sherlock, "I don't think. I just do."
They're silent for a very long time, rain pouring down the bay window akin to their downpour of feelings. Sherock perches himself back on the end of the bed, staring up at the white-wash ceiling until John swears he can see his eyes burning.
After what seems like a lifetime's worth of silence, Sherlock speaks once more.
"Can I ask you a question?"
John glances upwards, twiddling his thumbs. "Hm?"
"When you watch pornography, do you still get the visions?"
"Is that relevant?"
"Yes."
Ah, yes. Because all data is relevant to Sherlock Holmes. Emotions and the cornerstones of relationships are all a nuisance to him but data? Even in the form of John's insecurities? Now that's important.
John shifts, and the bed creaks rather crudely. "No, it's only when I'm actively engaging in it. And that's been difficult for a couple girlfriends. They're not really aware of asexuality, either."
Sherlock finally tears his eyes away from the ceiling, now diverting his stare to John.
"A reluctance to have sex is not asexuality. Asexuality is not actively a choice."
"Just like it's not my choice to be sexually anorexic?"
Sherlock gives him a confused look, before he sinks back into his usual demeanour. He shakes his head softly.
"No, it isn't. It's your brain. Chemicals, and all the like. Funnily enough, your brain knows better than anyone what your faults are; what you're insecure about. It'll cherry-pick, until you're sure you've been driven insane."
Then there's a comfortable silence, much different to the awkward silence thrust upon them beforehand. Sherlock looks at the window, the wall, the door, anywhere he can find meaning. John stares at him, watches silently as Sherlock rises from the bed, turns to John and smiles, all big and wide and content.
"Thank you."
John feels his heart sink; can't help the pang that settles in his chest and refuses to leave. he leans up, frustrated and slightly bewildered.
"Oh," he nods, eyebrows narrowed, "Just 'thank you'?"
"No, John," Sherlock furrows his own brows, before letting his face deflate. He swipes forward and presses a chaste peck to John's cheek, before putting distance between them out of what seems to be embarrassment.
He sighs, "Thank you."
And John knows. He knows Sherlock can't say those three words. He's seen them though, thousands of times, living before dying on Sherlock's tongue like white little lies. John's seen them, and that's enough for him, so he doesn't push it.
Instead, John smiles at him and wraps his thumb around Sherlock's with a grasp that's tremendously soft yet wilting.
"You're welcome."
iv.
John can't think straight. He can't focus on anything besides Sherlock; the way Sherlock's slender, daring fingers plunge in and out of his own entrance as quick as anything; the way he writhes, squirms and chokes on his own moans at the sensation. The way he grinds his his against the crisp white of John's sheets, precome spilling out of the duvets as his dick bounces in sync with each thrust of his fingertips.
John's watching with wide, hungry eyes, the thoughts becoming less and less present in his mind. All he hears, all he sees, is Sherlock; Sherlock everywhere. Sherlock's smell is in the sheets, his face permanently imprinted in John's mind, his quivering, desperate body atop his sheets,begging to be touched, to be cherished as he pleasures himself in front of John.
It's taunting, mocking, as Sherlock pants over and over again, his hair tousled all over his slick forehead. It's so strange to see Sherlock Holmes lose his composure like this, and John truly feels privileged to witness such a sight, to see such a delicious dessert laid out all pretty for him on his own bed. It's daredevil; it's unusual; it's wanton; it's Sherlock.
And when John reaches out to take Sherlock's aching length in his own fist, jacking it hard, Sherlock can;t help but reach his orgasm. And when he comes, dear God, John has to dig his teeth into his first to stifle a desperate grunt.
Sherlock's eyes wander and taint everything in a fashion that's nearly sinful. His fingers search and seek and John, through it all, through it all, hangs on his stare; challenging him, pushing him. It's Sherlock versus the visions and so far, Sherlock's winning by miles.
"Please," John whimpers, seeing Sherlock's aroused expression, "please, just..."
"I know," Sherlock says, hushing him. He clambers unto his lap, removing his fingers and suddenly feeling very empty. He ducks down; between John's sweat-slicked thighs as he says, "I can do it. Let me do it for you."
And John does.
v.
John comes with a curl of the toes and the tongue, almost yelling through the flat as he does so. It feels as if Sherlock's sucked him dry, and John has to take several stunned moments to regain any of his level-headed sanity. Sherlock simply watches, licking his lips suggestively with a cheekiness that John doesn't know whether to slap or fuck out of him.
Eventually, John decides on the latter. They kiss and screw in a way that's familiar, rough, soft and dirty all at the same time. They use their mouths to suckle and bruise the same way others use theirs to kiss and soothe.
"Thank you," Sherlock repeats, and despite them not being the exact words John wants to hear, John still feels a strange blossoming in his chest.
"You're welcome," John says, and Sherlock begins hastily pressing kisses down John's sternum, all wet and rushed and loose and so tremendously Sherlock that it makes John's head swim.
The entire time, through breathless sighs and pauses to catch a breath, Sherlock keeps mumbling, "Thank you, thank you," like a mantra; like a heartbeat; like it's the only thing that keeps him breathing.
And that's enough for John. It has to be.
Because John finally sees it. He sees months of yearning, a lifetime of hidden feelings, and Sherlock's utter devotion. He sees it all; takes it in, considers it another dirt road for him to dance down.
And the thoughts, well, they keep pushing back alongside the visions. But John fights it, like the soldier he is.
They kiss like they have all the time in the world, John going in for the big kiss when Sherlock explores his lips, licking and breathing all over soft skin; claiming it with light bites and suckles. John pushes his dominance, slips his tongue inside and feels wet heat encasing his own. For a virgin, Sherlock has clearly read a couple of textbooks and articles.
John scissors Sherlock open with his fingers, Sherlock splayed all over his lap, breathing heavily into his shoulder with a string of, "Fuck, John, please," whilst John keeps pumping as fast as his arms will allow him. When he hits Sherlock's prostate after what seems like a lifetime, Sherlock is practically whining, bucking and searching for any friction he can grasp.
And when John rolls a condom onto his cock and lubes himself up, pressing the head of himself unto Sherlock until he reaches his hilt, they're sweating and writhing like animals. It's the most damn unhygienic thing John's ever down, thrusting in a pool of his own sweat, but Sherlock's already reaching his end, a knot twining in his stomach.
"Fuck, John," he hisses through clenched teeth and fluttering eyes.
And it takes a while, but John responds, clenches Sherlock's arse, and hisses right back, "I wanted this. I wanted you."
Sherlock believes him.
vi.
It's early morning when John rises, his duvet stinking of sweat and sex. The sun cuts through the billowing blinds and gives him a rather nice spotlight of Sherlock's peachy, curved arse and back. He traces soft little spots over the curve of Sherlock's spine, watching and smiling until the detective finally blinks his eyes open.
"What dd you mean by you were technically a virgin?" John eventually asks out of curiosity.
"That's some interesting pillow talk right there, John." Sherlock replies, but he's smiling thinly.
"No," John repeats, and speeds up his strokes. He loves the way Sherlock relaxes under him, lets him unto him, lets John take care of him. The thoughts come back worse some days, but Sherlock's skin, Sherlock in general, is enough to distract him for as long as he needs.
Sherlock shifts onto his back, hair drenched and looking rather unkempt. Yet despite it all, John has to swallow at his beauty; feels the visions being kicked to the back of his head and being replaced with sweet, pure Sherlock.
"I'm genuinely curious." John justifies, and Sherlock raises an arched eyebrow at him.
"I've had my fair share of sexual encounters, mostly down to wanting to gather data and evidence, but before you, I'd never actually had intercourse."
John registers this, nods, and rolls to his side as he says, "So you've almost had sex with a couple of men?"
"That's an awfully vague way to put it. I'd put it at around eighty rather than a couple, but you're right. Before you, John Watson, I had no interest in full-blown sex."
"Eighty?" John chokes on his own tongue, his eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, "How have your balls not shrivelled up and fallen off?"
"Well, it's biologically impossible for starters." Sherlock quips.
"Fuck off."
"Charmed," Sherlock responds, and sits upright, stretching absentmindedly a little bit. "And I'm curious about you. When did you lose your virginity?"
"Loaded question, Sherlock," John affirms, and then smirks.
"Please don't start making puns on me, John. I think Lestrade's got that one covered."
John throws up his palms as if to surrender, and chuckles a bit at that. He sighs, and speaks once more.
"Fine, fine," he says, and tries his best to sound monotone; failing miserably. "I was fourteen at the time and both she and I were bored, horny teenagers. It wasn't really that special or enjoyable, to be honest, so there's not much to tell, but I've had a handful of girlfriends and boyfriends since. Sex and emotion don't exactly fall under the same umbrella, it turns out."
"Not if you don't allow them to."
"I wouldn't know," John shocks himself by saying.
Sherlock, however, nods out of understanding. He cradles John's head like he has a thousand times before, yet this feels sweeter; kinder; more sincere.
"I'm aware," Sherlock tells him, "The fact that you're a bit loose around the edges suggests that you haven't had sex in a considerable amount of time--"
John groans, "Please, Sherlock, not another deduction. It's seven in the morning--"
Sherlock, being Sherlock, continues anyway. "And your ex-commander was probably your last male sexual partner, but you've had countless female partners since your return from Afghanistan - well, as much as you can considering your injury. But the fact that you were born in the 70's and that you have a lesbian sister suggests that you've only recently begun using the bisexual label now that it's become acceptable in society, minus the stigma."
John clasps his lips, but doesn't stop him. Sherlock is so good at what he does that John really doesn't want to stop him, in actuality.
"And either because of the time period you were born in or because of your preference for females, I'd say you've only had about two or three male sexual partners minus myself. You're fairly new to gay sex but your swiftness and familiarity suggests that you often venture onto the gay side of pornography--"
John stops him, rolling out of bed as he stutters, "Can you read minds?"
"No," Sherlock retorts, smirking cheekily, "but I wish, though. It'd make my job miles easier."
"I need to change my laptop password," John says, heading to the en suite.
"It's nothing I won't figure out," Sherlock says, but pauses when John turns to glare at him.
"A joke, John. Try it sometime, you grumpy old man."
And John almost feels tempted to.
vii.
"You're an old man, Watson. I think it's time for you to retire."
"I'm confused as to whether you're flirting with me or just trying to irritate me," John says, "the latter was always your speciality."
It's the evening of a day in mid-July, shortly after solving a case, when John and Sherlock turn up on the beach, wandering down the shore like two lost little soldiers.
Sherlock shrugs, "Maybe I am flirting with you. Maybe that makes you special."
"Sherlock Holmes doesn't flirt with anyone."
Sherlock simply shakes his head and looks unto the beach. He's a coward.
John tastes the lie on his tongue, swallows them, and looks unto the beach as well. Every now and then, between the soft lapping of the sea and the whistle of oncoming winds, he swears he feels prying eyes glancing over him.
But not once does he look back.
Cowards, both of them.
"So, what?" John says, and brushes his hand against Sherlock's, feeling the chill of bone, "You're gonna be an eighty year old man with a limp who spends his nights running down London streets, chasing after criminals?"
Sherlock blinks, and then a curt smile pulls at his lips, "If you'd have me?"
"That doesn't sound so bad."
"No, it doesn't, does it?"
"Though, for the record, we're not putting 'Hamish' on our wedding invites."
"You're already planning that far ahead?"
John's silent for a very long time. He stares out onto the pier, a rainbow peeking through clouds that are still heavy with rain. London looks so big from here; so much so that he sometimes forgets that there's a world beyond. Beyond, beyond and ever growing.
"Thank you," he hears Sherlock whisper eventually, and it feels secretive, like it's their own language that nobody else can decipher. But it's okay, because one day, Sherlock will be ready to say it. And until then, John will wait for him, just like Sherlock waited for him.
"You're welcome." John says. Sherlock looks so young and bright underneath the mellow glow of the sun, and John just wants to take a snapshot in his mind; keep it there forever.
They walk, hand-in-hand, along the pier side, almost merging with the group and becoming ordinary people, with ordinary lives and ordinary spouses.
Sherlock asks quietly, "The thoughts? The visions?"
"I'll keep having them, of course. I doubt they'll ever fully go away."
"But you've found your own way of dealing with them."
"Indeed. And you've kind of helped me with that."
"'Kind of?' Ouch."
"Shut up," John says, but he's smiling.
They're about halfway back to the car when Sherlock points out a quaint little lobster house, sitting neatly under the rainbow like a beacon. He turns to John.
"Dinner?" Sherlock asks.
John smirks, "Starving."