dependable catching skills.

[docwithablog]

Title: Dependable Catching Skills
Canon Point: Post MHR, s3 AU.
___________

Can we forget about that, please, Sherlock had asked and by God, John tries, he really does, but the sound of Sherlock’s voice, moaning his name just won’t vacate his mind. The deep pitch of it, the huskiness, the way John-in-his-dream was obviously very, very good which, if nothing else, is always a tiny confidence boost. To be -- imagined as -- yes.

Although he doesn’t exactly forget, they do slip back into a pleasant routine not much different from how they did things before. John’s out of a job again (something that’s honestly reason for bloody celebration), cases are lining up and while Sherlock dismisses them, one by one, there’s -- calm. Breakfast. Dinner. John continuing to sleep in Sherlock’s bed, although he’s had all the stuff from his Chipping Barnet flat moved into the upstairs bedroom.

On the third day, right on the brink of a new case, actually while their client is presenting it to them, Sherlock pacing the sitting room and John leaning back in his chair, he remembers Andrew Beck, pretty much out of the blue. Not that he’d -- necessarily forgotten Andrew Beck, mind you, but he really hasn’t thought of him for years and years (and years and years and years), has he? They’d been mates in high school, rugby buddies and Andrew was the best forward on their team, not to mention that he had very, very blue eyes and John would have kissed him that night when they walked home from the Barn, if he hadn’t been convinced Andrew would crush his skull with his bare hands in return.

Their client’s a young rugby jock, just out of school. His hair’s the wrong colour (blonde, only a few shades lighter than John’s own), but he’s got the same shoulders Andrew did, broad as half the bloody world.

Oh, John finds himself thinking while Sherlock asks about something or other that seems irrelevant, but obviously isn’t or he wouldn’t ask in the first place. John turns his head and looks at him. Oh.

Sherlock wasn’t the first.

Well, then.

There’s a lull in the case 22 hours in. Sherlock has business at Bart’s, most likely needs to borrow their equipment, if not pick up some bagged toes, who even knows... Under any circumstances, John stays at Baker Street, waiting until he’s seen the cab drive off before climbing the flight of stairs to his old bedroom and sitting down on the edge of the bed, fingers drumming against the heavy bed frame for a couple of minutes while Sherlock’s voice plays over and over in his mind. John, John, John.

Ridiculously enough, it takes him a couple of tries to really dare reach down and undo his trousers, touching himself to the breathy chorus of his own name, the visual of Sherlock writhing on the mattress, memories of the other man and him -- staring at each other, staring, staring for several long seconds, wordlessly and John’s exactly as quiet as he’d have been, had Sherlock still been in the flat with him, when he comes a surprisingly short time later.

It’s a downward spiral from there. Or an upward climb. Or both at once, frankly, my dear -- he has no idea anymore.

All he knows is that Sherlock has a nice mouth. Softly shaped lips, so soft you’d think they wouldn’t be able to exist on Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock Holmes is by no definition a soft man. Halfway through the rugby jock case, they’re back at their client’s old school (in the middle of the night, naturally, what would you expect) and in the faint moonlight falling through the basement window, making Sherlock’s face a stupid exhibit of shadows and huge, bright eyes in the dark, John happens to look at his lips, well -- as much as you ever happen to do that sort of thing. They’re all soft contours and curves. Would probably work well for -- blowjobs, did he just -- think that? For God’s sake.

It’s obviously not John’s fault that they make it out of that basement undetected, that’s for sure.

Before the rugby jock case is over, he’s grown used to it. Dividing his attention between Sherlock’s work and -- well, Sherlock’s person, supposedly. They end up back at the flat, because where else would they go, Sherlock equal parts elevated and drained from his grander than usual grand reveal, John simply watching him move in a flurry around the sitting room, kitchen, table, windows, kitchen table, fridge, sitting room again, before he finally collapses on the sofa. A scoff. The small smile on his lips grows wider, fonder.

Good, great. Should mean some well-deserved peace and quiet now.

Watching the man’s huddled form for a minute, he sits back on his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He wouldn’t mind, he finds himself thinking, refraining from defining what exactly he wouldn’t mind. Because it honestly doesn’t matter, it’s just a nice feeling, not minding.

It would be the first time in 40+ years, after all.