docwithablog | storyline one.

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storyline one.

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[ Time is standing still, so he doesn't precisely know when he hears the other man's footsteps, how long it's been after -- Well, there are no temporary focal points in his bedroom right now, just shadows and light and the bed creaking over and over. Yet, John hears him, on the staircase, the sound of large feet ascending the steps one by one. They're moving quickly, too, why so quickly, has someone (else) died, then? A new case? Moriarty? He turns back on his other side, facing the door, staring at it through the darkness and half-expecting Sherlock to burst through it, babbling about evidence and observations and clues coming together until they've got it all solved, all under control. Nothing happens, though. More footsteps. How long is his staircase again?

Sitting up, equally quickly, though carefully, the bed screeching at every movement, he leans back against the headboard and reaches for the bedside lamp, the sudden onslaught of golden light filling every corner of his room while he waits for the sound of Sherlock's footsteps to -- do something else, halt, perhaps. Turn around and leave, preferably. No, he didn't mean that, he doesn't actually want Sherlock to leave, he wants him safe which might as a matter of fact be the exact opposite, when he thinks about it. John's the man with the gun, after all.

He licks his lips. His thin Army t-shirt feels too hot. His pyjamas bottoms have already landed well and truly on the floor. John's the man with the gun, except not tonight, he wasn't. ]

[ As he grabs onto the door handle, his brain interjects the tiniest, tiniest fraction of a pause, just enough time for him to realise that yes, he is barging into John's bedroom without any reason or goal, he doesn't have anything to tell him or any answers worth hearing. Thus, as he opens the door and steps inside, he knows already that there's no logical point to his being here at all - it's impulse, pure and simple, and perhaps the slightest, most basic urge to reassure himself that yes, John is here, not kidnapped (burned, not burned), whole and well. He stops. Turns towards the bed and stares at the other man who's propped himself up against the headboard, his old t-shirt looking worn amongst the shadows. ]

John, I...

[ Pause. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it. Suddenly, he's reminded of this situation, reversed, with John standing by his bedside and him, in the relative darkness, waiting to emerge on the other side. I'd rather have you, he'd told him then and the truth of that statement weighs him down right now, in a way he can't quite explain. He looks away. Looks back. John's hair isn't quite bed-hair but it's messy, a result of him turning from side to side (obvious from the indents in the pillow, too). He smells clean, unlike explosives or chlorine or the sour sweat that forms when your nervous system hits survival mode.

He doesn't smell entirely like himself, either. ]

Could you...

[ He makes a shooing motion with his hands, signalling budge over, no doubt looking helplessly lost. ]

[ Eventually, of course, his staircase ends and Sherlock opens his door without knocking, because you can't rightly expect Sherlock Holmes to care about something as trivial as manners, besides John wouldn't expect it of him right now either, doesn't expect much at all, actually. They've both had their rush, adrenaline junkies that they are, and now they're on their comedown and whereas heroin takes a week to flush out of your system, who the hell knows how long this drug's going to last? Who even knows how it bloody well works?

The other man turns towards his bed and they've changed roles this time around, haven't they, that's interesting in some small, ridiculous way, Sherlock at his bedside, saying his name and looking -- only to look away again. He's biting his bottom lip and the shadows soften it up quite a lot, so it indeed looks very bitable, not that John has an opinion on that, mind you. Especially not as Sherlock shoos at him to make him budge over in his bed that isn't half as big as Sherlock's own, because he's somewhat more occupied by the thought of what is even going on, what kind of planet has he landed on, are they going to sleep together (will Sherlock be in any state of undress, a small, very small voice at the back of his head wonders out loud which he ignores) and what in the world can make Sherlock look this beside himself? They deal with murderers and psychos pretty regularly, you should think... But John knows, of course. He knows. ]

Sure. [ Moving to the side, up against the wall to leave enough room for Sherlock to sit down next to him, he frowns and looks him up and down once. He can't coldread him the way Sherlock can everyone and their dog, but he can make his own conclusions, fallible and incomplete as they may be. ] I don't think I've seen you look this frazzled before.

[ John scoots over and looks at him in that searching way of his, the one that tells you he's thinking, properly thinking, trying to work you out. Quite often, he'll come through with some surprising insights, too, better than most would expect because people tend not to expect too much from him, don't they. Faulty assumptions. A pet, Moriarty had called him. But then again, crazy people say crazy things and stupid people say stupid things; you probably can't hold it against either.

Wordlessly, Sherlock shuffles onto the bed next to John. They haven't shared a bed before (why would they?) and the idea alone is odd, foreign. Whenever they're together, him and John, they're always seeking out action, adrenaline, running breathlessly against the clock. Right now, however, what are they doing? Nothing. Just - this bed, the quiet, London going only partially to sleep around them. They don't belong together in such a context, in this silence and he should get up and walk out, go play the violin or solve the case or seek out Moriarty, go another round against him, chase the rush...

With a frown, he lies down onto his side with one arm curled beneath his head, facing John without truly looking at him. He blinks once, twice. Then, demonstratively, he shuts his eyes. ]

[ Without saying anything, Sherlock shuffles onto the bed next to him. He doesn't reply, doesn't tell him that he hated to lose, that Moriarty frightened the shit out of him, that apparently seeing 12 innocent people killed can't compare to seeing John in explosives which would honestly have become him, if only because it could have been the start of a conversation and a conversation might have been just what the doctor ordered tonight. Instead, he gets Sherlock who lies down on his side, facing him and blinking against the shadows of his t-shirt a couple of times, looking without seeing anything of importance and isn't that a rarity for the world's only consulting detective, before shutting his eyes completely, demonstratively, pretending to sleep. Like either of them can sleep right now, come on. ]

Okay.

[ Have it your way, I tried... Deciding not to force it now, if anything they can pick up the pieces tomorrow and really, that might be a better timing anyway, John just shakes his head and reaches in over Sherlock to turn off the bedside lamp on the nightstand, drawing back in order to lie down himself, shuffling into a reclining position on his back, hands resting a bit uneasily against his chest, where he can make out the increasing rate of his own heart. Sherlock smells like cold sweat this close. And something else, something darker, John doesn't know what. Thud, thud, thud goes his heart beneath the weight of his right palm. ]

Night, then.

[ Another second and he turns onto his side, back on Sherlock, the bed creaking something awful. Thud, thud, thud. ]

[ Okay says John, following along as he always does and Sherlock breathes out slowly, shoulders relaxing as the other man reaches over him and turns off the bedside lamp before lying down, first on his back, then on his side. He opens his eyes gradually, the outline of John's back, shoulders and neck coming into view gradually as his sight adjusts to the dark. Like this, they're once again close enough that the tiny distance between their bodies hardly matters, like sharing a cab or walking side by side beneath the night sky. Really, that's how they do things, him and John. In close proximity. Except tonight, Sherlock had gone off on his own, a habit born from years of living alone, trusting only his own senses and mind. He'd thought maybe he'd finally found an equal, someone willing to challenge him, to feed his ever-persistent cravings, a new, exciting type of drug, perhaps. And like any proper junkie, he'd wanted that rush more than he'd cared about the drop that always follows.

Then, there'd been John, wearing explosives, ready to die alongside him, to die for him.

There's never been anyone like that before, ever.

And Sherlock had very nearly traded him for a rush that wasn't even what it promised to be.

Making a low sound in his throat, a cross between frustration and distress, he slips closer, closer, closer, until he's pressing his chin against the back of John's neck, his front against his back. He keeps his hands by his sides, their legs aligned but not entwined. Like this, his lips are pressed very, very gently against the nape of John's neck, the other man's hair tickling his skin. He breathes in. Out. In. The tension in his body doesn't leave him, exactly, but it reaches a tolerable level and stays there without fluctuating. Eyes falling shut again, he really rather hopes that John won't take offense to any of this, odd and unexpected as it may be. Sherlock couldn't hope to explain it, just like he can't explain the accumulation of John!data growing steadfastly in his mind.

It's just something that happens. ]

[ In the stillness, the room's back to being a canvas of shadows, lights from the street, red, gold, green. His own breathing takes up quite a lot of space, too, shallow and uneven and whatever space John isn't claiming, Sherlock is -- with his breathing, his presence just out of reach in the darkness. John is lying with his eyes open, mostly because he's pretty sure that if he were to close them now, a whole myriad of very unwelcome and uninvited images would flood his mind. How the last time he jerked off to the thought of Sherlock was three days ago, before this entire craziness began. Good wank, too -- just, rather unimportant in the grand scheme of things, now. Also, awkward, what with the other man lying a foot from him, his scent carrying over the distance, the heat of his body radiating off his back, even without them touching. John swallows hard, blinks against the greyness of the wall in front of him. Shifts. Shifts again.

Then, Sherlock moves up behind him with a sound that's part frustration and part something much more heart-wrenching and John stops shifting altogether, freezing in place as the man presses up against his backside with his whole front, his torso feeling thin but warm where they touch with no fabric in between, the nape of John's neck against the soft curves of Sherlock's lips, for example. John forgets to breathe. There's no brush of hands, no touch, their legs aligned, but not entangled. It's just this. They're together, but not really -- together. He remembers the first time Sholto and he slept together, it had been a pretty similar situation. Private Adams had barely survived a roadside bomb and in the middle of the night, he'd woken up to Sholto standing at his bedside, wanting in. What had followed had been two of the most complex days of his life, not making any comparisons to this one and he's not ready to repeat that. He's just -- not ready. Not unless the terms are clear and they don't go off on yet another blind chase.

Surely they've had enough of those, Sherlock and him.

A deep breath through his nose and he rolls onto his back, turning gently and immediately regretting it as Sherlock's lips slide off the hot skin of his neck. ]

I'm telling you this from experience, Sherlock. Your no-talking strategy is going to get very difficult.

[ One beat, two - and then, he senses John's body movement before it actually happens, the light tension springing up between his shoulder blades, his hips rotating... Something sinking in his chest, he rolls onto his back seconds after, though the warmth of John's skin remains like a tingling sensation on his lips. He stares upwards at the ceiling as John goes on about experience (another one for the data collection, this time with a couple of side questions) and no-talking strategies that won't make anything easier. Ugh. Why can't they just -- but of course, the rush is the easy bit. Drugs. Games. Intellectual exercise.

Having someone willing to follow you into death itself is entirely different.

Thus, he breathes out slowly through his nose, then sighs and glances sideways at the other man. ]

I don't -- I look frazzled, you said. [ He frowns, shaking his head. His voice is smaller than usual, thinner. It's not something he does on purpose - though he can, certainly, if necessary - rather, for now he's just done feeling grander than life. ] I don't know what to say to that.

[ In this particular case, it doesn't take anything out of him, admitting to his own ignorance. He'll gladly admit to knowing next to nothing about the solar system, about the royal family, about pop queens or talk shows or naked cats. This lack of knowledge has never before impacted him significantly, job-wise, and job-wise as a state of existence really is all he's had, for years and years and years. This thing, this... whatever they're doing. It requires a skillset he hasn't cultivated, quite the opposite. He doesn't even know what to call it, for God's sake. How's he supposed to say anything at all? ]

[ Yeah, good. Mark your calendars, ladies and gents, Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what to say to that. John scoffs lightly, nothing too provocative, just a hard sort of amusement as he thinks about how this is the man who promised him days of silence and still hasn't delivered on even one, the very same man doesn't know what to say about no-talking strategies and their opposites, he simply can't find the words to describe whatever's got him so completely shaken up, meaning it pertains to his emotions. It pertains to -- it isn't that John doesn't believe him, it's just that it is a very telling sort of very stubborn silence, isn't it? Comparatively to all the other insane situations in which the man can run his mouth a hundred miles per hour. They're dealing with something very special, then. Something that involves him. John, the assistant, the colleague, the friend, the pet, apparently... ]

Well, you could start by admitting you got scared tonight and after that, you could tell me what you got scared of.

[ His neck is still burning from the touch of Sherlock's lips, he keeps imagining his stupid Cupid's bow, too, but ignores it for now, the mental images, rolling onto his other side to face the man more directly, no more sidelong glances or furtive looks. That stage's over. Not that he has any bloody idea what's taken its place instead and he was rather hoping Sherlock could tell him, but that only brings them back to the issue at hand, it seems. Resting his cheek on the slope of his upper arm, he watches the way the lights from outside, moonlight and street lamps, trek over the other man's face. His nose casts a long shadow. His cheekbones make him look sort of skull-like in this light, actually. Blink, blink.

The important thing is that he isn't dead. They aren't dead. They're here and Sherlock was touching him, not dead, and John rather wants him to do it again, if he'll just bloody well say the word(s). ]

[ John turns towards him more fully, shadows dragged across his profile and emphasising the planes of his face, his brow and his lips. Immediately, Sherlock's brain lands the individual details (tired, lines of fatigue near the eyes and mouth; body language says open, unafraid of confrontation; calm, no signs of heightened arousal; breathing calm, skin dry, CNS unperturbed), but it doesn't necessarily make things easier or obvious. John's not afraid of this particular conversation but then again, he did instigate it.

You could tell me what you got scared of.

He doesn't get scared. The thought alone is ludicrous - fear is a basic human reaction, evolutionary sound. Of course, he feels fear but getting scared is somehow a lot more juvenile, something that happens when you can't separate imagination and reality and you start thinking that certain things - items - people - matter. He swallows. Thinks about shooting up again, though the craving's milder these days, less insistent. ]

I... was not expecting you to be there, tonight. By the pool. [ He speaks slowly, contemplatively. ] I thought, if I left you out of the loop, I'd gain a greater satisfaction from finishing the game. Purer, maybe. Less... [ Pause. He waves a hand at the empty space between their bodies. ] Less of this. But then, suddenly, you were there and the nature of the game changed completely, in a way it hadn't otherwise - not even when the old woman got blown up, it just didn't matter. You - there's something about you, something you do. [ His voice has taken on a decidedly frustrated edge now. He's staring upwards, unfocused. ] When you're here, John, I can't do what I used to.

[ He breathes in harshly. It's the crux of the matter, there, the turning point. ]

[ Sherlock hadn't wanted him there, he'd wanted his rush to himself, because he's a junkie and didn't want his fix contaminated by -- less of this, Sherlock says, gesturing between them. Less of what? Human interaction? Feelings? What feelings? ... But, of course, John knows what feelings, he's known from the get-go, from that first night at Angelo's when he'd put out a feeler and got a surprisingly polite I consider myself married to my work back, thus scrapping the entire idea without much thought to it. It wasn't supposed to be a thing, but it is a thing, it's been a thing. He's played nurse to the man. He offered to die for him. It is a bloody thing, shit. They might have been running from it, junkies in each their different way, but there are things you can't shake, evidently. It follows. Or it never let you go in the first place. ]

Maybe you're not supposed to do what you used to. [ His tone is neutral, observational, but softer than usually.

There's something about you. The man didn't specify which in itself says a lot, when it's Sherlock. Most likely he doesn't know, logically, because you don't know these things logically, you feel them and they both felt it tonight. That they matter. John matters to Sherlock, obviously, his frustrated attempt at verbalizing something that no language has ever really managed to contain very well giving that much away, clearly. And -- John supposes he should just come out and say it now, it's only fair when he's initiated the entire conversation, Sherlock matters to him. Matters more than anything he's encountered in his life, more than medicine and military and mysteries. More than all of that. Because he's the essence of all three, probably. Incredible as that is. And like that, John props himself up on his elbow, looks down at Sherlock, still lying on his back. From this angle, he's all shade and irises reflecting the sparse light. ] I'd say, obviously neither of us is.

[ He thinks about Sholto. Sholto in his big house, leading his solitary life, because he's still afraid of the world's reactions, though for very different reasons now. Then, John thinks about himself, letting him. ]

Edited 2020-04-19 09:46 (UTC)

[ John props himself up on his elbow and just like that, their positions are re-arranged, angles altered, perspectives shifted. Sherlock looks up at him now and there's something so momentous about this whole thing that he can't understand why he isn't running away. He's married to his work, yes, for a reason. It's safe, it's easy, it's what he does best, better than anybody else, and what he succeeds at. But the notion, of course, is equal parts fitting and absurd. Fitting, because he's lived his life like that for so long that he can't imagine doing anything else. Absurd, because really - you can't consider yourself married to something that poses no risks of loss or abandonment. What's the point of binding yourself to it, then? What the point of making any promises?

Meeting John's gaze, he licks his lips and tilts his head slightly sideways, trying to understand what he's looking at. Objectively, it's not a hard challenge as such - he thinks John wouldn't mind kissing him, as he's known since the first day they met, it's plain and obvious to anyone with, well, eyes - but then, there's the fact that John is dating Sarah. There's the fact that they haven't - they aren't... And Sherlock doesn't really know, does he? It's not that sex or physical intimacy is a foreign concept to him, please, he's been a junkie all of his adult life. It's just that it's all chemistry, it's the electrical snap of one neuron to another. At the bottom of it, a fleeting exchange and a lesser rush than shooting up or solving crimes with the clock ticking down.

This, however, isn't sex. Not the way he understands it. He looks up at John a bit helplessly because he doesn't - he came up here for a reason tonight. Obviously, he can't go back to status quo. In that aspect something has changed irrevocably. Voice shaking very slightly, he simply says: ]

Then?

[ After he's done thinking about Sholto, he thinks about Sarah and realises that maybe he's held back on that account for a reason, waited for her to initiate, to invite. Trust him, normally John Watson can be very persuasive when it comes to sex and the fact that he hasn't been in this case probably speaks volumes about his actual investment. Well, he has been very busy solving cases, hasn't he? As well as jerking off to the thought of Sherlock blowing him, but never mind that -- little detail. Making a sound a the back of his throat, he finally just leans in over the other man, supporting himself with his arm curved lightly along the side of his head, the man's curls brushing over his skin lightly, warmly. He swallows. Sherlock's head is cocked to the side a bit, his lips wet from where he just licked them. He imagines quite a lot of his fantasies have started on a note not too dissimilar from this, actually. ]

I'm going to kiss you now -- [ A pause. No shrug, a shrug would be very inappropriate right now, it's not a shrugging matter. Supposedly, Sarah is irrevocably out of the picture, at least unofficially, but whether Sherlock is on his way into it remains more uncertain. They could be fucking everything up royally. John could. Or they could just be fucking. A quick intake of breath through his nose. ] -- and then, we'll see where it takes us, I guess.

[ He licks his bottom lip once, eyes taking in all of Sherlock's features or, well, as much as you can take in when it's dark and you're drawing closer, so the man's head's proportionally growing bigger, the further down you lean. The last thing John notices before tilting his head to the side, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to Sherlock's (warm, slightly moist, soft, Christ), is the curve of his Cupid's bow. Enormous(ly pronounced).

This close. ]

[ There's a pause, just the briefest moment - then, John tells him he's going to kiss him, that they'll see where it takes them and Sherlock's pulse goes up instantly in response, a mix of expectation, bafflement and... wariness (fear, this is also fear, why are there so many different kinds?). True to form, he manages to have quite a lot of thoughts in the interim between John's words and the act that follows. Some concern themselves with the immediate, available data (John's lips, the feel of his breath close to his face, he still doesn't seem nervous, steady, steady; the sound of a car breaking too hard outside on Baker Street, tires screeching; the light coming in through the bedroom window and flittering across the walls, white and cold and artificial); some return to the cold case as he realises that obviously, the dead man with the stolen face must have been a trial run for something even bigger; and some simply relate to a memory from a very long time ago when he'd thought (mistakenly) that a boy called Adrian was about to kiss him.

As John presses his lips against Sherlock's, a shudder goes through him from head to toe, fingers twitching by his sides. He stares into the other man's face for a second, two, three. Then, he raises one, shaky hand from the bed and curls it against the back of John's neck, fingers curving lightly over heated skin and strands of hair. He parts his lips very slightly and presses back, another exchange, another back and forth, but this is softer than anything he knows. He's got nothing to compare it to.

Thus, he simply kisses John Watson back, tilting his head slightly to ease the angle and avoid bumping their noses together. All the while, he can sense his John!data archive expanding beyond itself, beyond whatever walls he'd erected around it to keep it contained. ]

[ There's a moment where he thinks he might simply not get a reaction at all, when Sherlock remains unresponsive beneath him and he frowns, wondering when to draw back without completely shattering the atmosphere, but then the other man raises one hand, shaky where it makes contact with the back of John's neck, curling over the slope of it and fingers curving against his skin. His palm feels huge and warm, overheated, slightly sweaty and John breathes out harshly through his nose, cocking his head a little more just to feel the slide of muscle beneath Sherlock's fingertips. Then, the man actually -- parts his lips a little and presses back, meeting him halfway which is that thing they never do, Sherlock leaves and John follows, this is new, this is very new.

A very unmistakable heat is beginning to pool in the pit of his stomach, too. Christ, he's going to be so hard before they're done kissing, if this is how little it's going to take.

Swallowing again, he angles his head a little, nose following the curve of cheekbone, those bloody cheekbones, and pushes back against Sherlock's mouth, their lips slipping wetly over each other, bottom lips, upper -- lip, fuck. It takes another couple of seconds, even as Sherlock's lips remain parted and inviting, before he decides, sod it, and just attacks. Slipping the tip of his tongue over the curve of the other man's bottom lip, he finally really tastes him, dark and hot and sharp like his wits, yeah, because what did you expect. John feels his body responding immediately, the heat in his stomach turning into a hard throbbing between his legs and he shifts a bit, slips his hand into Sherlock's curls and brushes them away from his forehead just a tad roughly.

It's been a while, now that he thinks about it. He hasn't had sex since he came back, pretty much. At the back of his mind, he wonders when a man who considers himself married to his work last shagged. If he ever has. Carefully, calmly, keeping himself in check, he pushes inside Sherlock's mouth with his tongue, slipping up along the length of Sherlock's all wet and slippery. ]

Edited 2020-04-19 12:14 (UTC)

[ John's lips are very warm and soft, slightly damp. Breathing in unevenly through his nose, Sherlock watches John's face up-close through half-closed eyes. People always look different at a distance; the closer they get, the more your mind reduces them to details and micro-impressions. Right now, John is eyelashes, unevenly spaced, number in the lower average range and bridge of nose, sturdy, skin very faintly heated, the beginnings of a flush, arousal. For a couple of seconds, that's just that - the soft pressure of John's lips against his, the highly increased sense of proximity.

Then, it changes.

John drags his tongue along the length of his bottom lip before dipping inside. Logically, it's unsurprising - after all, isn't that what you do? When you kiss? He realises only now as he keeps his lips parted and feels John explore his mouth (there's something incredibly fascinating about that idea, something that makes his spine tingle all the way down his back) that he's got absolutely no idea how to respond. John's hand in his hair is slightly rough, steady, unshaken and he tightens his own grip on the back of his neck in turn, fingertips digging in a bit. For a moment, he just lies there with his mouth mostly open, feeling like a gaping fish, except he isn't drowning, he's just not...

Frowning, he focuses on the movement of John's tongue, the way the tip slips up the length of his own. The other man manages not to actively drool into his mouth, too, which must be a quality sign as he's bound to keep himself from doing so on purpose. With a sharp intake of breath, lower body twisting slightly against the sheets (restlessness, no wait, something else - a tingling in all his limbs, heat pooling in his abdomen - oh, right, that), he pushes his tongue along the length of John's tongue experimentally, applying a little pressure just for emphasis. As soon as he does so, the other man's taste intensifies in his mouth and he gasps, suddenly overwhelmed with stimuli. John's tongue (thick, strong, wet, slick), his taste and scent (familiar), his hand in his hair. Christ. ]

[ Once more, there's a moment of unresponsiveness in which John's left to wonder whether he's doing something wrong (he isn't, though, he's been reliably informed he's a fairly good kisser), whether Sherlock doesn't like it, whether there's too much tongue, too little? He just doesn't know. Well, for all of two seconds, he doesn't and he hesitates. Then, the other man tightens his grip on the back of his neck, meaning he isn't supposed to pull back at least and gasps for breath, his body slightly restless beneath the weight of John's front as he pushes back, finally, tongue following the length of John's, slight hint of pressure, nice.

He's probably analyzing every bloody step of this, he finds himself thinking, panting into Sherlock's mouth hotly before drawing back enough to press his forehead against one prominent cheekbone, fuck, those things. Between his fingers there are curls aplenty, soft and springy and strands much longer than they look when you pull at them. Which he does. He likes the feeling of them, the way there's a slight resistance to it. His breathing sounds heavy and quickening now, in the space between them. What little's left.

Pulling back enough that he can look down on the other man again, just a moment of taking in the visual of him, he's still in his shirt, that might need to go, trousers, definitely... John licks his lip again, everything feeling slightly tingly. He's obviously not an experienced kisser and without really ascribing much relevance to the thought, John concludes that the man either hasn't kissed anyone before or it's -- been a while. He'd never admit to it, but he likes the concept of being Sherlock's first. It's -- special. As far as he knows, he's never had the honour.

A non-committal sound, somewhere between a grunt and something breather, he leans down again and kisses the other man, leaning in over him further, supporting himself with his free arm against the mattress while he pretty much just sucks Sherlock's tongue into his mouth, caressing it more assertively now, the vacuum of his mouth creating a whole row of lewd, wet sounds as their mouths slip over each other, half-open, wanting. Well, he's hopes it's wanting, doesn't he? Sherlock would probably just leave if he didn't want it, tell him it was boring, dull, give him a case, yes? That's how he works.

Although exasperated about it at times, John likes it. He really likes the taste of him, too. Also, he needs to get out of his t-shirt, the rubbing of fabric against his nipples is driving him to distraction at this point. ]

Edited 2020-04-19 13:51 (UTC)

[ Oh - oh, that's - John draws back for a short moment and looks him over, just... looking at him. Saliva cooling on his lips, Sherlock watches him back, conscious of the fact that they aren't by any means looking for the same things because they never are, him and John, it's how they usually compliment each other. It's how John both inspires and emphasises his strengths. Right now, Sherlock looks at him and wonders what, exactly, the other man gains from their relationship, aside from wild adrenaline rushes and a blog with a wide readership. Aside from the cases, what's really in it for him? It's not like Sherlock's a very attractive companion in the grand scheme of things, he's well aware and usually unbothered by that particular fact. But here, like this, with John looking him over, pupils dilated and breathing heavier, his lips shiny and wet, he really does... wonder what he sees.

He knows what he sees, obviously, when he looks at John. He's got a huge, mental catalogue detailing every single observation.

Another beat, then John leans back down and kisses him again, harder now, taking. Yes, there's something distinctively assertive about it, it's quite... quite... oh. He gasps again, louder, and twists his hips. His trousers, already tight, feel like a vice around his groin, his cock straining and hard. Pushing back against John's tongue, pushing in (because two can play that game, John, he's not going to just lie here), he reaches down with his free hand and unbuttons his trousers, rolling down the zipper as well and trying not to wince at the loudness of it. The relief is immediate, though his underpants are still in the way. It's fine. It's yes. Very. Spreading his legs just a fraction, he slips his hand beneath the hem of John's t-shirt and spreads out fingers against the small of his back. Strong, he thinks and runs his hand slowly upwards along the length of his spine. Warm, steady. ]

[ They kiss. Sherlock's picking up on the pacing, thrusting his tongue back into John's mouth and taking in turn, John beginning to feel slightly faint from a distinct lack of oxygen and quite a lot of Sherlock everywhere, touch and taste and sound, groaning and -- did he just roll down his zipper? Jesus. John feels his cock respond by growing harder, more than half-erect at this point and John should honestly be beyond five minute fucks at this point. He's 40 years old, seriously. Another few seconds of kissing, hard, wet and he pulls back rather abruptly, heaving for breath and sounding throaty as he speaks: ]

That's -- yes, very -- good. Very good. [ Pant, pant, pant. Sherlock's hand burns against the small of his back and his t-shirt feels drenched at this point, his arousal not exactly helping in the sweat-emitting department. Swallowing once, John meets Sherlock's eyes a long moment before pushing himself upright, very reluctantly moving out of the man's grip. The other man's trousers are open around the crotch, glimpse of fabric and an unmistakable bulge and if John wasn't hard before, the sight of that certainly helps things along. His underpants feel uncomfortably clingy.

A lick of his bottom lip, tasting like Sherlock now, too and it's everywhere, the reminder that he'd rather die with this man than live on without him and he pauses, just a second. It quite simply needs no emphasis. They've had enough realizations tonight, enough big reveals. All he needs to know is that this matters, oh, yeah, this matters very much, because John has had a lot of sex in his life, but never anything very meaningful, because he has never slept with very meaningful people. Few exceptions. Few.

Then again, Sherlock's exceptional, isn't he, he's known that from the beginning. He knows that now as well, looking down at him with a sort of -- fond admiration, fantastically and incredibly clever Sherlock, before pulling his shirt over his head in one swift motion, fabric slipping over skin, baring his upper body fully. ] Don't cheat me of the rest, Sherlock. Come on.

[ Dropping the t-shirt on the floor, he kicks down the duvet, pants straining around his cock as he eases down on his haunches, hands on his thighs, posture straight. Military. Like that, he just watches, patiently, for Sherlock to get on with it. Don't give him a show, Sherlock, give him skin. Give him you. ]

[ Wait, what, where - as John pulls away and sits up, Sherlock's grip falls away and he feels instantly bereft. It's as if his body is slowly but surely waking up from a very, very long hibernation (talk about decades) and he wants to... to... John pulls off his t-shirt and bares his upper-body, his body hair light and scattered enough to make his chest seem almost hairless in the faint light from outside. The bullet wound in his left shoulder is a wrinkled mass of scar tissue, relatively unremarkable from the front, though large enough to give away the violent nature of the incident (military rifles leave terrible damage, even if the worst isn't plainly visible). For a moment, Sherlock just looks at it, gaze narrowed slightly. Please God, let me live, John had thought, at the time. Then, he'd been wrapped in explosives by Moriarty. He certainly has a way with cheating death.

Come on, he says now, John, as he sits back on his haunches and watches him, his pants straining around his cock. Sherlock blinks. Looks at his face, then down again, all the way to his...

Pause.

Uh, well that's.

Not average.

He swallows something that feels like thirst, hands trembling a bit as he reaches for his shirt and begins unbuttoning it. It's a bit of a process, admittedly, for there are many, many buttons and John's not wearing anything except his pants and Moriarty very nearly killed him and what's the point of John surviving a war if Sherlock then proceeds to get him killed? He fumbles with the buttons somewhat, though he's getting there, it's happening. As he bares his chest, however, he realises that he's actively getting naked in front of the other man which, well. Usually, he'll at least wrap a towel around his hips or what have you. That would be weird, given the current context. Very. Looking down, focusing on getting the shirt open all the way, he takes a deep breath and inhales John's scent all over again. His shoulders relax, minutely. ]

[ As they sit opposite each other, Sherlock working on his shirt, the other man looks at him and John won't pretend to know half the stuff that must go through his brain, he knows how Sherlock's mind works as a general rule and expects it would give him a headache, frankly. His eyes land on his bullet wound, though, that much is obvious and John remains motionless, leaving the man to his conclusions. It's not a pretty piece of scarring, let's be real here, but it carries a lot of history and a lot of meaning, if not by itself (there's no meaning in war, there's no meaning in injury and death on the battlefield), then to him personally. Without that bullet wound, he'd probably never have met Sherlock, he'd have still run around in Helmand and fixed people up until one fine day, a roadside bomb had taken him out.

After that, his gaze travels lower, stomach, crotch, back to his face, back to his crotch. So, he noticed, then? Judging by the way he's swallowing, something is definitely going through his mind. John smiles slightly, just a tug at the corner of his mouth while he shifts a bit in place to accommodate the fact that his cock is currently very, very hard and very, very confined to his pants. Sherlock makes slow progress of his shirt, a bit too slow, really and it isn't that John's getting impatient, he's just growing hungry and Sherlock looks edible, the way his chest, sparsely haired like his own, looking almost hairless, appears in stages, a bit of skin for every button he flicks open. Once he reaches two-third down, he just -- you can't expecting him to sit through that, it's torture and John begins moving over the bed towards the other man, on his knees, stopping in front of Sherlock expectantly. Hands coming up. Fixing his shirt from the bottom up to where Sherlock's fingers are working on the last button, now. He reaches up and pushes the fabric off the other man's shoulder, his chest all pale and flat and halfway malnourished, but who's surprised. Sherlock never eats enough.

He'll need to work harder on that from hereon out, he thinks.

And really, Sherlock's still delicious as fuck. John leans in, presses a row of open-mouthed kisses to the other man's chest, following his ribcage down, not all the way to his navel, but there's no doubt a distinctive feeling of drop. They're going places. ]

[ John's usually quite patient, even if, at times, his temper gets the better of him. Right now, however, he's very decidedly impatient, moving over to Sherlock on his knees and stopping in front of him before undoing the buttons from the bottom up, until they're fixing the two last buttons in tandem. Then, he pushes the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders and he has to actively remind himself not to just sit there with his hands still stuck in the sleeves. He untangles his arms and pulls it off the rest of the way while John starts... kissing his way down his front, oh, oh. He looks at the other man for a moment, licking his lips again before grabbing onto his shoulders with both hands. His lips are so soft and it feels both curious and lovely, his skin breaking out in goosebumps all the way down his front and back.

He's still wearing his trousers, though, and right now he'd really rather not. Squeezing John's shoulders lightly, he urges him off and away, just to give him enough room to drop the rest of it. Well, most of it. John's still wearing pants and he's certainly not getting more naked than him. Shifting backwards, he starts nudging out of his trousers which is a complicated process involving a lot of hip wriggling and fabric pulling. They're close-fitting, it's part of the charm, supposedly.

Then again, he's never had to take them off in front of an audience. ]

Are we... [ Pause. He looks over at John, feeling a blush sneaking its way up his chest and neck. ] Aren't you taking those off? [ Nod nod, in the direction of John's gigantic cock (because apparently), still tugged away beneath the fabric of his paints. Christ. ]

[ Sherlock bravely fights his way out of his shirt, dropping it to the floor where it looks like heavy improvement on John's old Army t-shirt. Then, the other man slides his hands down John's shoulders and urges him off and John obliges without resistance or hesitation or comment, simply moving back on the bed again, leaving Sherlock plenty of room to get his trousers off, seeing as they're so tight you'd think they were painted on, because that's the sort of clothes Sherlock wears, isn't it? Consulting model clothes.

While Sherlock fights yet another battle with his trousers this time, not exactly an elegant sprawl of limbs, but a very enticing one, John is beginning to take the logistics into consideration. He's got condoms -- somewhere, probably his desk drawer and God knows, he doesn't feel like walking all the way over there now. Common sense seems to suggest that since Sherlock hasn't actually slept with anyone else, there's a very low risk of STD transfer there and John hasn't had sex in more than four months, showing no symptoms yet, so he should to the best of his own belief have a clean bill as well, which means they might actually -- is he saying this, he's a bloody doctor, skip the protection. Yeah. Shit.

He just really wants to suck Sherlock's cock.

At that point, Sherlock interrupts his train of thought, asking him whether he isn't getting out of his pants and John raises an eyebrow at him slowly, very slowly (you'd like that, wouldn't you) before prying them off, inching out of them about as elegantly as Sherlock managed his trousers. Halfway lying down now, he looks up at Sherlock, the man's crotch all but on eye level. He purses his lips, eyes snapping up to the other man's face again. ]

Just tell me if I need to slow down, okay?

[ It's a genuine question. Accommodating. It is, however, also a challenge (faster) and an observation (you're slow tonight, Sherlock) all at once, because that's how they work, that's how they communicate at the best of times. If you're asking him, this is the best of times, definitely. ]

[ He manages to get his trousers off after a tiny battle, leaving them in an inelegant heap on the floor. As he reclines next to John on the bed, he stares at the other man's bared cock. It's not just the size, really, it's the fact that it's his and just. There, suddenly, within touching distance and his brain is definitely taking its sweet time here, sucking up the details (approximate length, girth, at least one deviation above standard, uncut as you'd expect, blood vessels not too obvious or large, taste? scent?). He swallows. Slips out of his underwear, last, trying not to think about the fact that John's face is basically less than one foot away from his cock.

Tell me if I need to slow down says John because he's quite a bit ruder than people tend to think and Sherlock's being unusually slow, yes, he understands, it's just... Giving John a would-be haughty look - which is hard, frankly, when your cock is pointing straight up and your face is getting progressively redder - he straightens up on his elbows a bit and keeps his gaze very firmly averted from the other man's crotch. It's not that he doesn't want to look. Quite... the contrary, actually. His cock gives a tiny jerk, as apparently, it also wants him to look some more, thank you. Ugh.

Your body really is a pitiful instrument. ]

I doubt we could go much slower without going backwards. [ He tries to affect nonchalance. It's not going well. ] What now?

[ It's a bit surreal, waiting for John to take the lead again and again, when they've only just been running all over town with Sherlock pulling John along at a mindblowing pace. Usually, he knows exactly which way to go and how because usually, he's not trying to, well. Have sex? Are they doing that? Not right now, evidently, but... He looks away. Bites his lower lip and tries not to feel like an utter fool. ]

[ A scoff. Sherlock's nonchalance is failing him which is endearing in its own way, quite attractive, too, when you're used to the man being an utter cock, instead of having his cock out as he is right now. John shakes his head, moves over next to him and sits up, reaching out to fluff Sherlock's curls a bit with his right hand, the left coming to a rest somewhere to the side of his abdomen, fingers splayed out, warmly. In the dark, the difference of their skin tones is almost impossible to make out. Besides, John's tan has faded noticeably at this point, no Afghan sun beating down on him every hour of every day anymore. He watches Sherlock for a long moment, just -- the lines of his body, his cock (perfectly proportioned, not too small, not too big, the curve of the head enticing), his face, eyes, lips, cheekbones (fuck), before straddling his thighs slowly, carefully, balancing himself with his hands against the other man's waist. Sitting like this, their cocks are only a few inches apart. If he didn't want to taste Sherlock so bad, he'd probably go for some frotting. They'd be able to snog simultaneously. It'd be nice.

Well, it'll be later. One can hope. ]

Now I'm going to kiss you -- [ He says, repeating himself from earlier, because it still holds true and some things bear repetition. Like sex. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms shift underneath his skin as he leans in and presses his mouth softly to Sherlock's, nothing like the kiss from before, it's brief and warm, but also superficial. John's got places to be or well, his mouth has. ] -- and then, I'll leave you to it.

[ With that, he relocates to Sherlock's neck, kissing a trail down the side of it, over pulse point (beating firmly) and shoulder (long, elegant slope), collarbone and just a brush of tongue against nipple, nothing lingering, licking his way from midriff to navel, down pleasure trail. Oh. The scent of him is getting increasingly stronger in John's nostrils and his breathing feels heavy and hard against Sherlock's skin. Sod the condoms. Isn't dangerous their memo anyway?

He straightens up slightly, licking his lips to avoid any uncomfortable chapping, then he pushes himself on perfect eye level with Sherlock's cock and Jesus, it's a beauty. ]