docwithablog | open post.

Entry tags:

open post.

( TEXTS )
( AUDIO )
( VISUAL )
( PROMPTS )

[ Will you come and bail me out already, he shoots off in Sherlock's very general direction and then hands his phone back to Lestrade who gives him an altogether non-pitying look, simultaneously patting his shoulder and closing the door to the holding cell. You really can't accuse the man of being unable to multitask.

They've been sitting here for three hours now, Johnny and him, although Lestrade has contacted Sherlock about his little predicament. Lestrade managed to "gently" persuade the two men in front of the club not to press charges, but still had to take John and "his friend" (who had joined in the scruffle as soon as the first blow had hit John's face) in for disorderly behaviour. Neither of them had money on them to pay bail, least of all double-bail, and John wasn't going to leave the other man behind. Hence their current surroundings.

John sits down on the floor, Johnny having taken the cot, halfway asleep with his head popped up on his arm. He'd apologised to him for how -- well, everything had turned out (not exactly a happy end, I know to which Johnny had replied, what do you mean, haven't had this much fun in months) and they hadn't addressed it again, John feeling Lestrade and Co.'s long, lingering gazes through the bars. However stupid Sherlock likes to paint them, they aren't that stupid.

A sigh and he stretches his legs out in front of himself, careful not to look to the side where Johnny has sunk into a state of light snoring. Well, at least someone's able to sleep it off. Good for him. ]

[ His phone vibrates almost angrily whilst he's fishing out the beetles from the pot on the cooker and it'll have to wait another minute, won't it, he can't rightly leave them to burn. Well, he could, but his experiment would be even less accurate in the face of it. He leaves them to sizzle away on a plate (3.5 minutes, precisely), turns off the heat and scurries back to the living room table, hoping against hope that someone's been murdered in a very obscure sort of way, like, thrown into the aquarium and partially consumed by some odd, flesh-eating algae. Instead, it's just John, asking him to be the fitting end to what's got to be a disastrous sexual exploration attempt. He frowns. He's been on his way out of the door at least thrice already. But apparently, he hasn't actually made it to the Yard, imagine that.

Deciding that he can't rightly call himself John's friend (whatever that means) if he keeps ignoring him for the sake of dead beetles, the hand currently soaking in dirty river water or his active ager dishes, he finally writes off the beetles as a lost cause and makes his way down the stairs, grabbing his coat on the way. His head's still spinning a bit. Grabbing his phone, he flicks to the latest received messages - John's, yes, yes - Lestrade, more of the same - and there! The picture one of his people sent to him earlier tonight of John and someone else, leaving the dingy hotel next to Flourish. He stares at it whilst hailing a cab. It takes him less than two minutes.

Giving a quick instruction to the driver, he gets seated, stretches out his legs and finally shoots off a text in response: Got distracted, you know how it is. Hope you're happy, John, you've ruined my beetle burn. ]

Edited 2019-02-14 10:56 (UTC)

[ Eventually, Johnny's own snoring wakes him up and he smacks his lips, easing himself up on one elbow before looking down at John, sitting next to him and waiting for something to happen, supposedly, at some point. He meets the other man's eyes slowly, about to ask him if he wants his jacket for pillow to keep his head elevated and avoid the snoring, but Lestrade opens the door and waves his phone at him at that precise moment. ]

"Look who's come through for you, John!" [ John jumps to his feet, walking over and taking the phone that Lestrade is holding out for him, reading over the text and mentally face-palming, because Sherlock can honestly be such a git. It doesn't surprise him anymore, of course - or at least it shouldn't, but the man still manages to reach new heights every now and then. Such as now. He texts back a I'm thrilled, trust me and hands the phone back to Lestrade who quickly shakes his head and glances over at Johnny, who's sat up on the cot. ] "Never mind, keep it."

[ So, John does. Walks over to the cot again and slides into a seated position on the floor, leaving the phone in his lap. Johnny leans in over him slightly to glance at it, raising an eyebrow in a very eloquent manner. Few people get to keep their cellphones while in a police holding cell, Johnny sure didn't. Without answering the unspoken question immediately, John sends off another text (How long are you going to keep me waiting this time?) and licks his lips. ]

They probably don't know me the way you think.

[ Since Johnny hasn't read his blog and thus, doesn't know what John does in his ample spare time, an explanation would undoubtedly be in order, but an explanation would entail a whole lot of talking about Sherlock and since he can't rightly burst out a to whomever it may concern, I'm not gay every other minute after tonight, he really doesn't feel like bringing up -- the consulting dickhead unless he absolutely has to. When he shows up to bail them out, he imagines. That'll be as good a time as ever.

No shit, Johnny replies. ]

[ He doesn't reply to John's next text, the man can wait the few minutes it'll take. Instead, he watches the streets of London pass by outside the car window, gaze lingering at nothing in particular, though his mind keeps running in the background, grinding through relatively useless information, quickly processed, forgotten even quicker. When the cab comes to a stop by the station, he gets out, pays the driver and heads for the front desk. Every step of the way is so familiar that he hardly thinks twice about it, though he does register all changes in the environment, again, because he can't not. Being observant can be so very tedious.

The woman at the front desk lets him know that while John can be released without the additional of surety, the man he's been detained with (also called John, why, what do you know!) can't. He'd argue that John would be a lot more likely to re-offend, given their shared history, but at this very moment, he doesn't really feel like it. Arguing. He rolls his eyes instead, signs the papers because really, if nothing else, John can owe him if anything should happen. After tonight, he probably will in any case.

Lestrade joins him for a moment, giving him an exasperated look and a very irrelevant comment ("Never a dull moment with you guys, is there? Maybe look out for him better next time.") before striding off again, probably still trying and failing to solve that Charing Cross case, the one Sherlock solved this afternoon out of boredom, only to promptly delete all the details for the sake of keeping his database as sharp as possible.

He waits for John and John (really), knowing that his pulse is going too fast, that his muscles are too tight and his breathing too quick, knowing exactly what it means, too and trying not to follow that thought to its natural conclusion. He shifts. Waits some more. ]

[ After a ten minute wait that feels practically like forever, Lestrade finally shows up and lets them out, Johnny getting up and following after John when he leaves the holding cell behind without a second glance. He's not getting into one of those again any time soon, if he can at all help it, Christ. Apparently Sherlock has been magnanimous and got Johnny off the hook, too which he should probably inform the other man about, so he knows what's going on, but there's no time, because they're shown into the waiting area where Sherlock is doing exactly that, waiting. Looking highly stressed-out, when you know him like John does, though, he would maybe only register as mildly irritated to others. For all he knows, he doesn't register as much else to himself either. It can be difficult to tell the difference anyway, with Sherlock...

Coming to a halt in front of the other man, John meets his eyes calmly, shrugging into his jacket and trying not to care that everything's undoubtedly registering with Sherlock at this very moment, the stench of sex (which is obvious, even to John and to Lestrade and to everyone else, pretty much), the wrinkles in his clothes or whatever alerts him to the conclusions he's able to draw out of absolutely nothing. It's a tough call. He feels weirdly guilty, like he's done something wrong when Sherlock was the one to tell him to consider widening his dating pool, right? Right. ]

Thank you.

[ It's said in defeat, just as Johnny comes up next to him, looking Sherlock very pointedly up and down (a twitch at the corner of John's mouth in response, although he steadfastly ignores it). Turning slightly away from Sherlock, he searches through his pocket for a 50 pound note which should have lasted him groceries for a couple of days at the least, but hey -- and throws it into Johnny's hand with a I'm paying your fare home. Johnny doesn't say no. It was obviously a fun night, but not really that fun, when all is said and done. ]

[ Finally. He looks the two men over, starting with John the Newest, a quick glance up and down his body confirming every hypothesis he's concocted and leaving him almost disappointed. Whether he's disappointed in himself for being so predictably right or in John (the Original) for choosing someone so utterly wrong for him, he can't say. He pushes the thought aside, looking at John - his John, the only one who matters - and refraining from giving him the cursory once-over. He can smell it, obviously. There are no surprises left.

Instead, he just shrugs. Turns on his heel and heads for the exit. ]

So, John - [ He speaks loudly enough for his voice to carry across whichever distance might be building up between them currently - the physical distance, mind you. Right now, he's just not a fan of metaphors. ] - hitting bad people is becoming a slight habit of yours, it seems. Perhaps we should simply skip the casework henceforth and go straight to beating stupid people up?

[ People are staring at them and he doesn't give even the slightest fuck, let them stare, they never do anything else and they don't even notice anything important anyway. Gaze narrowing, he doesn't bother looking back over his shoulder, knowing full well that he's being childish. Presumably, John's learned his lesson here; if there's even anything to learn. Meanwhile, he can't help but wonder whether this is, all things considered, his fault. That kiss, last month. That long period of inaction, of pushing things away. Then again, weren't they both doing that? Surely, that's John's fault as much as his.

He looks for a cab the moment they get close enough to the road, his movements fast, borderline-erratic. This is such a stupid, unnecessary situation. He doesn't know anything about relationships (unless you count flat-out enmity) but even he, with all his blind spots, can see that this is not where they've been wanting to go. Either of them. ]

[ Stupid people. Says Sherlock, walking so far ahead that they're basically shouting at each other or rather, Sherlock is shouting at him, ignoring Johnny beyond the first assessing glance that probably told him everything down to his bloody name and length of his cock, what does he know... John gives the other man an apologetic look and they decide, without words, to part ways like this, before anything else can go wrong. Johnny heads in the opposite direction as soon as they get outside, John follows Sherlock as is apparently his habitual addiction. Follow around the consulting dickhead, it'll be fun, won't it? Won't it just. ]

You're free to get in line, Sherlock. [ Sarcasm dripping, he catches up with the other man, comes to a halt next to him and scouts for a cab, though there's a greater chance of Sherlock hailing anything, being taller than a building and dramatic as fuck with his scarf. John takes a deep breath, accidentally breathing himself in enough that the stench of sex is almost uncomfortably prominent in his nostrils, a thick odour of man and sweat and bodily fluids that speak in less general terms. Grimacing, he waves a hand at a free cab passing by in the opposite side of the road, watching the cabbie make an illegal u-turn right in front of the police station to get into the lane by the sidewalk. John Watson just inspires rebellion tonight, cancelling out every shit others might give, doesn't he? Wonderful. Great. ] First come, first serve.

[ So, it was pointless. Going to the club, hooking up with Johnny, thinking that he could figure things out without actively including Sherlock into the equation when he seems to be the bloody equation. Throwing the door to the back seat open and crawling in, by habit making room for Sherlock by evacuating to the far-end, John leaves all the practicalities of destination and payment for the other man to deal with. When he won't buy groceries or clean up, this must be the perfect job for him. Opening his mouth and spending all the cash. Getting them there. Sounds customised for him, to be honest. ]

Edited 2019-02-14 15:43 (UTC)

[ He gets in after John, ignoring his comment though he could, potentially, come up with quite a lot of appropriately scathing answers, all centered around John's need for getting his hands on people no doubt sated at least to some extent - as it were. He doesn't, however. It's not funny or clever. It doesn't feel like it, either. Really, it just makes him feel tired and when is he ever? Truly? Sitting down, he gives their address to the cabby and leans back, feeling the car setting into motion, pulling away from the curb and into the traffic.

There's the sharp smell of sex and semen in the air, sweat too, body contact. He glances out of the window, away from John, trying in vain to clear his mind of all the mental images that pop up. John and John, up against... a wall, somewhere, judging by the state of his jacket. Up against the wall, not in fact naked (how base, just fast and quick and dirty), but it doesn't make anything less picturesque, does it? He blinks. Hard. Under normal circumstances, sex doesn't mean much of anything to him, but the combined stress of the night (and the past month), the memory of John's lips, how they felt against his own... not to mention, his reaction two days ago, in the kitchen...

He shifts, heat starting to pool in his belly, which is really neither here nor there. He squares his jaw and tries to throw his mind off-track, anywhere, anywhere at all, but it works as well as one might expect. It's John, after all. Just him. There's no active case to take his mind off this situation and to be fair, isn't that how it's been ever since they kissed each other? Each moment he's managed not to think about it - they've been little but temporary reprieves - cases, experiments, all of them over too quickly, none of them substantial enough to linger. Other things do, then. Other things. ]

[ The cab pulls into motion and the way the darkened streets on the other side of the window move past them reminds John of that first night, during the study in pink case, when they'd sat in a cab just like this, actually they'd been sitting just like this, hadn't they, looking out each their window and Sherlock had deduced that whole insane sequence about Harry who he thought was his brother at the time and he can be excused, supposedly, he isn't exactly the first. Anyway, a year and a half later they aren't the same people they were back then (well, John sure isn't the same anymore, it's hard to tell whether Sherlock ever truly changes, whether he isn't some sort of mathematical constant), their relationship has grown into something else, too, something better (though, not right now at this very moment, right now at this very moment it sucks), but under any circumstances he's become a better man for it. And perhaps John Watson is a right idiot for clinging to something that's changing whether he fights for it to stay the same or not. Perhaps it's his average intelligence talking. Though, Sherlock's brains don't seem to be helping the situation all that much, if they're honest.

He turns his head, looking over at the other man, his gaze stealthily fixed on the city outside, the lights, the shadows. His jaw squared, he looks about as inapproachable as Sherlock Holmes ever does when he isn't high on a case or on drugs (John imagines, having been spared the worst of that habit, thank God), the channels through which Sherlock seems to engage with the world. Frowning, he tries reading anything from his face, but it's as neutral as ever, except for the muscles in his jawline working, a slight pulse visible near his temple, beating, throb, throb, throb. John blinks, turns his attention back to his own window, the view offered him there. They know the way back to Baker Street, they've driven this way a hundred times.

The thing is... The thing is, John would really like to continue these kind of cab rides with Sherlock, he'd like for them to be able to share this kind of space, the silence, the observations, the conversations. It's not even a matter of normality anymore, it's just a matter of wanting what -- works best for him, okay. Does it matter if it's some kind of shirtless reality he's heading towards? Does he care about sexualities and labels and what not? Harry navigates that jungle just fine and she's drunk most of the time.

Surely he (they? please let this work in the third person plural) can manage, if that's the standard they're holding themselves up against. ]

[ The trip back to Baker Street is as familiar as the walk through the police station - two variations on the concept of home, perhaps, though he never intended there to be any sort of milestone difference between them in that regard. All the same, there is. He doesn't know how to rate it, whether there's even a scale suitable for the task, but something about Baker Street trumps all other destinations, including his family home. He doesn't glance sideways, doesn't even look at John's reflection in the car window, because he doesn't have to. The answer - the what (meaning, rather, the who) is obvious. Despite what Mycroft says, despite what his heart sometimes tells him when he makes the fatal mistake of actually listening to it, to sentiment, he's not such a stupid man. He recognises it, the truth, for what it is. The past month has merely been a pitiful take on escapism, something neither he nor John does particularly well.

As the cab pulls up, he pays the driver and gets out quickly, trying to ignore the slight stiffness of his body, the quickening of his pulse. The signs. All the same, it's as if the smell of sex keeps clinging to him, even as the fresh evening air hits him in the face. He can't get that image of John out of his head. Shifting from one foot to the other, trying desperately not to make his... situation any more compromising than it has to be, he finally glances back at John. His familiar features. That kiss, one month ago. That kiss, which John initiated.

Which Sherlock then finished. ]

John, I just want you to know - [ He pauses. Feels his restless hands sneaking into his pockets. His voice sounds oddly stilted here, with buildings rising on either side of them. ] - I regret the beetles. I do. They're quite foul.

[ He waits, then, for John to scale the few steps to the front door which is, again, an anomaly. He doesn't wait because waiting implies either reluctance or strategic intervention (well alright, either that, or you're queuing but Sherlock tries not to put himself into such frustrating situations), none of which usually feature all that heavily between the two of them. Tonight, they're at a crossroads, he thinks - they've been getting closer to it every day for the past month and surely, whichever step they take from here on is important enough that he shouldn't rush as he normally would. The problem is, of course, that he doesn't know what else to do. So here he is, waiting for John to go on ahead of him and maybe that'll enlighten him. Maybe it won't. ]

Edited 2019-02-14 17:08 (UTC)

[ Eventually the cab pulls up in front of 221b Baker Street which has very quickly become the only home John really associates with himself and not for the sake of the wonderful decor, mind you. He gets out after Sherlock, already falling into the familiar routine of being second in row, always staying one step behind, when Sherlock hesitates (?) and tells him that he's sorry (??) -- well, not in those exact words, Sherlock might not actually be capable of sorry as such, but he regrets the beetles. Because the beetles are quite foul, he says. John comes to a rather abrupt halt, looking up at the other man, staring into his face which is obscured by the shifting shadow play of cars moving by on the street, people filtering past them on the sidewalk, lamp posts, somewhere above the city -- the night sky, as starlit as you ever get it over the London rooftops. He stares. A long moment of intense, unwavering attention to the other man's features, awfully familiar, his blue eyes, his prominent nose, his jawline... He didn't let them loose in there, did he? If John's going to find beetles in his shoes for the next week, he'll be cross.

However, it's an apology in every other sense of the word and thus, John lets it slide, shrugging slightly and managing a thin smile. He still reeks of sex, he needs a shower, desperately and then, he needs to reacquaint himself with his bed. Tomorrow must bring what it will, he's ready to deal with it on the other side of an eight-hour sleep, he's sure. And seeing as Sherlock isn't moving, he takes the lead, walking up to the front door and pushing it open, stepping into the hallway with the staircase leading up to their flat, their bedrooms, the complete lives of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, right? Turning around in the doorway, almost crashing head first into Sherlock who's followed behind, he catches the other man's eyes, standing face to face with him for the first time in -- well, how long has it been, days, weeks? It's been a month, he knows. He's counted the bloody hours. ]

Unless you've repeated the thing with the maggots, we'll be fine.

[ We'll be fine, he says, gaze boring into Sherlock's and saying something along the lines of, it's okay, we'll get there, wherever, because sometimes it's less important what they actually manage to formulate in words in favour of what stays between the lines, unsaid (but understood, it needs to be understood by them both). As such, he doesn't turn away, not this time. ]

[ John, naturally - good, old, trusty John - scales the steps ahead of him without asking questions, perhaps aside from that long look which Sherlock doesn't know how to interpret. He looks at John in turn, though. The way he always does, even when there's no recoil, no sense of reciprocity. He keeps looking at him, even when he turns his back and steps inside the hallway, noting the lines of his shoulders and back, the way his body moves when he walks. There's nothing surprising about any of it but he looks anyway, as he always does, and isn't that a bloody revelation all in itself? With John, he doesn't get bored.

It's a miracle he hasn't already consumed the man, body and soul (if you believe in that - miracles and souls - frankly, he jumped off that particular train decades ago). He follows, managing by virtue of some very excellent reflexes not to plow into John when he stops and turns just on the other side of the doorway. The maggots. Oh yes, back when John actually threw up all over his shoes, the kitchen floor and Sherlock's experiment. The memory makes him smile very, very slightly, even though the experiment in question was contaminated beyond repair. You cannot, apparently, have everything. We'll be fine, he says, and that small, benign sentence sends shockwaves through his system, makes his heart beat fast enough that for a good many seconds, it's all he can hear. ]

Yes. [ He steps closer. Lets the door fall shut behind him and just stands there, staring at John who's staring at him. 'Fine' is such a relative thing, between people. He doesn't know what to do with fine but he takes it all the same, takes it for what it is. The experiment has long since lost any semblance of objectivity. It's just experience now and that's so much harder to manage. ] If you really think so.

[ He doesn't mean for that to come out sounding even the slightest bit pleading and he isn't, pleading, not as such. He's rather badly in need of meaning, however, of system. Of decisions being made and action taken, of getting past all this theory, the complexities of what-ifs, infinite lines criss-crossing until you don't know which way is up. He looks at John, gaze running over his face, trying to rip the answer from his open features, but all he sees are facts and signs, what happened, where and who and what. ]

[ Sherlock steps closer, letting the door fall shut behind him and somewhere at the end of the hallway, John listens for the sound of Mrs Hudson's door opening or closing, because she keeps a keen eye on who comes and goes at her building. There's no indication of the door chain rattling or the door falling shut, however, and he reminds himself that it is past four in the morning, elderly ladies with hip problems should rightly be in bed, if he has any (very professional) say in the matter. They're just the two of them, then. Sherlock and him. If you really think so, the other man says and they're looking at each other rather intensely, aren't they? John suddenly way past caring about how he still smells like Johnny or is currently dealing with a screaming loud case of sexuality crisis or whatever else has run amok between them the past month. It simply doesn't matter. Perhaps it never did. Perhaps they've both been bumbling idiots.

He's still thinking about how the other man's lips felt against his own that night and if he's still thinking about it, well, it holds significance. Some things are just that simple, Sherlock. Some things don't need experiments or deductions or elaborate explanations. Even put as simple as that, he's still thinking about it, so it's significant, must be. Obviously. It matters enough to make Sherlock run around shirtless in order to get a reaction out of him and it matters enough to make John hook up with some (not quite nameless) stranger at a gay club in response, a context that he'd honestly take the battlefield over any day.

This -- This matters.

Licking his lips once, he doesn't really hesitate as much as he takes the time to create a proper overview of the situation. Mrs Hudson is in bed, the door to the street is closed, the hallway is mostly dark, they're staring at grey outlines of each other, but it's enough. It's fine. It'll be fine and even if it won't, they'll at least have this moment, right? So he moves in, reaching up with one hand to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair at the back of his head, soft and curly where it slips between his fingertips, what did the man say about using product (?) -- and he proceeds to kiss him. Just a slight pressure of mouth to mouth, but it's a starting point and with Sherlock, you'll soon enough find yourself well ahead anyway, because Sherlock is fast and everything in relation to him is a question of holding on, John has learned. ]

[ He can practically see the cogs grinding and turning behind John's eyes and he wonders why, what are they waiting for? Then again, he's left it up to the other man, hasn't he, to set the pace and what follows will always, inevitably, be slower than he prefers. Doesn't mean it's... less right. In this particular context, that is. He doesn't know what he wants to do, aside from stand here and stare at the other man, frozen in place as he is, and perhaps the best solution would be to shoulder past him (again - it stops being trial and error, doesn't it, when one simply refuses to learn) but he can't quite do it. It's not the path he wants, for God's sake, and he's never been very good about denying himself what he wants so long as it's never been about anyone else.

John comes to a conclusion and he feels drawn into it, inexplicably, even before the man closes the distance between them and reaches up. His hand feels warm, a slight touch but in its own way, decisive, and in response, he bends his neck almost instinctively (is this even about instinct, he wouldn't know because the primal brain functions, all brain functions, really are such holistic problems, what fires when, why, where). When John's lips touches his, he thinks, feels, knows one collective idea: relief. He doesn't know why, seeing as this is bound to get needlessly complicated at some point (as it has been for the past many weeks already) but they aren't drunk right now and they're doing it anyway, so obviously - obviously - this is the chosen way. Forward.

His shoulders sagging slightly, most of the tension bleeding away, he grabs hold of John's shirt, a harsh, unyielding grip, and pulls him closer. He doesn't break the kiss, not even to breathe (there's such a thing as breathing through one's nose and if nothing else, an average human can hold his breath for approximately two minutes). John's lips are quite soft and he smells of clubbing and afterglow, but underneath it there's an altogether familiar spike of something else, something uniquely him that Sherlock would recognise anywhere, at any time.

He's meticulous like that. ]

[ Kissing someone who's taller than you isn't something he's all that used to (not counting that fling he had with a girl named Natasha in secondary, because that's a lifetime ago), but Sherlock's being a sport about it, if nothing else, bending his neck and not making John crane his too much. The other man is grabbing at his shirt, a hungry, needy grip of all five fingers and fabric that crumbles between them, John frowning while angling his face more to the side and pushing back against his lips, his front, muscle and flatness and that undeniable masculinity that only kind of worked with Johnny, but definitely works now, dear God. He breathes shakily through his nose, running his free hand up Sherlock's side, over elbow, upper arm, shoulder, coming to a rest against the outline of a very distinctive shoulder blade and his fingers spreading out just below the nape of his neck. When he pushes him backwards, up against the door, it's really more a lead than a shove.

With Johnny there had been (even just a subtextual) struggle for dominance, as if they weren't hooking up on equal terms and, supposedly, they weren't, because Johnny knew what he was doing, whereas John was fumbling blindly (though, come on, it isn't exactly rocket science). At least, it certainly wasn't between Johnny and him. Here, it's a different dynamic. He knows Sherlock, maybe not intimately, but close enough, you should think. He knows how the other man moves his hands when he speaks, every line he draws with his fingers, he knows the way his hair falls (much too prettily, meticulously styled) across his forehead and he knows the exact kind of look he gets in his eyes when he encounters something exciting (in relation to a case, sure, but don't tell him it's going to look different now).

Frankly, he should have seen this coming, shouldn't he? This, Sherlock's lips harsh and wet against his own, the gradual pool of heat in the pit of his stomach, despite his earlier bout of -- shagging. Since he knows Sherlock, he should have known this, too, but watch him get surprised by the shortcomings of his own unused brain and the limitations to his, if you ask Sherlock, average intellect. Watch him get surprised and not truly mind.

John speaks Sherlock, after all. John speaks Sherlock well enough to translate and not to need a translation himself. He is pretty much fluent in Sherlock and doesn't that sound outright dirty... ]

Edited 2019-02-14 20:30 (UTC)

[ John leads them both backwards and he doesn't quite notice, really, until his back hits the door with a slight thud. In fairness, he's a bit preoccupied, taking in everything about the way John kisses (him) - the wetness of his lips, the forcefulness (though nothing truly presumptuous), the feel of their fronts pressed together, their lips, oh God, their lips... He's no blushing virgin, despite what his brother might regularly imply (and he knows, Mycroft, he bloody well knows) but neither is he particularly experienced - the past many years, he really has been married to his work, with cocaine and, to a lesser degree, morphine, playing mistress to what he's always considered an unbreakable union. It's been fine that way, too. He's never felt the need.

Right now? There's need. Oh, there's definitely... need. He shifts against John a bit restlessly, his hand against his neck feeling equal parts hot and incredibly physical, the need for touch growing exponentially which is no wonder because, well. Decades. He groans into the kiss and runs his hands up John's arms to rest his palms against his broad shoulders, fingers not quite digging in. Angling his head slightly, he pushes his tongue against John's lips but he doesn't force it, why would he, they're snogging in Mrs. Hudson's hallway, for God's sake. Regardless of how much territory they cover now, surely they won't actually be done, afterwards.

And if they are, well, at least they'll both know. For sure, this time. The thought does leave him feeling slightly cold, however, and he pushes it aside forcefully, saves it for later if - when - if - it'll be needed. For the sake of further processing. There's always a way forward, isn't there, regardless of most outcomes (actual, physical death being the sole exception), though he does know. What he'd prefer. He thinks about that picture again, John and John-the-Second, post-shag. His fingers tighten - roughly - in John's jacket. ]

[ Since he isn't busy admonishing himself about it, he's actually quite impressed that he is so easily turned on right now, considering how he just got off within a three-hour time span and he isn't exactly sixteen anymore, whatever else that (accidental) boner Sherlock gave him a couple of days ago was trying to prove to the contrary. And while John is feeling impressed with himself, Sherlock groans into the kiss (a rumble of sound and breath against his half-open mouth), hands running up his arms and settling by his shoulders, digging in about the same time that the other man slips his tongue in between his lips. It's a wet slide of muscle and it feels -- well, amazing, if he really needs to tie it back to that first cab ride that ended so very differently (that was amazing, incredible, really incredible). Yes, it feels just like that, but with kissing instead of talking.

So, he isn't thinking about every single way this may go wrong, instead parting his lips more and letting Sherlock snog him with tongue now, the hand grabbing the other man by his hair dropping down the side of his face, down the side of his neck, over shoulder and then, chest, shirt, softness versus something not quite as soft, right? Muscle, outline of pecs and midriff, further down, stomach. It's all so flat, he notices, and he could be missing breasts and the natural fat deposits women build up through their teens in a way men don't, but he doesn't and possibly it's a puzzle for them to solve, isn't it? Why John Watson really doesn't mind that Sherlock is very obviously not female, yet he isn't really thinking about it. Sherlock feels firm and warm beneath his touch and it's good, it's so bloody good, fat deposits are for other people than them, right now, here. It's fine (and well beyond).

A slight intake of breath, sucked in during a brief second of them parting before crashing right back against each other, and John stills his hand somewhere along the prominent line of Sherlock's midriff, his other hand still straddling him by the base of his neck, arm caught between the door and his back. He's feeling decidedly overheated now, the pooling warmth in the pit of his stomach nothing like the base drive he'd felt at the hotel Johnny had taken him to. This is physical, sure, it's very physical in fact, but it's also more and that makes the entire difference. When he finally draws away, a little (really, he isn't exactly eager to leave), he's exhaling in heavy, hot gulps of air, his lips feeling slick and pulsating, something else much further south definitely pulsating noticeably, too. This time, he doesn't try to hide it, instead meeting Sherlock's eyes in the darkness of the hallway.

Hiding it would be a lost cause, of course, we're talking about Sherlock here, and besides, it isn't necessary. He can tell. ]

Edited 2019-02-15 04:30 (UTC)

[ John parts his lips and lets him in and his mouth is as hot as you'd expect, really, his tongue hard but curiously yielding. John's not in general the yielding type, though Sherlock recognises that between the two of them, he does do at lot of it on a daily basis. Which is, obviously, fine and as it should be; just a (mildly) interesting paradox, besides. As John's hand slides down his shoulder, fingers trailing down his front, he sucks in a breath of air just as they break the kiss, drawing back and feeling oddly deprived even though they really should be heading upstairs, all things considered. He can feel John's ragged exhalations against his lips and reaches the automatic conclusion (physical arousal, pupils, breathing, pulse, blood, pressure) before he feels it - the very telling hardness pressing against his thigh.

Meeting John's eyes, watching how the shadows fall in funny patterns across his face, he swallows something that, logically speaking, is probably partial nervousness, partial hunger. He isn't hard yet himself but it's definitely building up, well on its way. For some obscure reason (well obviously, his neurons firing implies a connection but right now, like this, with John standing so close to him and the taste of his mouth still vivid on his tongue, he can't quite put his finger on it), he thinks about his third case. One millisecond - flashes of facts, of scenes and connections, like flipping through the pages of a well-worn book - but then, the whole thing narrows itself down inside his head. It was just him, back then. It was... just him. He liked it fine that way or so he'd thought. Except right now, he can't even stand this slight intermission. He can't stand the thought of John backing away and leaving them cold, though he wouldn't stop him if he did (which, to some extent, makes the feeling worse).

Swallowing again, almost convulsively and hating how transparent it makes him (to John, too, though luckily he does tend to fail as an observer), he flattens his hands against John's shoulders and gives him a slight push backwards, nothing hard or forceful, just a nudge. When he speaks, his voice sounds rougher than usual, like he's finally gone that one step too far and eaten his cigarettes. ]

We should go upstairs.

[ He doesn't say - together - though he'd rather like to think it's implied. Walking just a bit stiffly, he disentangles himself gently from John's touch (more, you imbecile, not less, his brain screeches and he's almost slightly embarrassed), slipping around him and heading for the stairs. His skin feels overheated beneath his shirt and he wants to get it off, now (but not, as it were, now). He wants John's off too, except this is a game with complicated rules and skipping ahead can be catastrophic, so for once, he doesn't just flat-out say it. In fact, he doesn't say much of anything - it's all internal dialogue at this point, cluttered and difficult to make sense of. ]

[ Sherlock is swallowing something down, something thick and uncooperative, but even so (obviously against everyone's better judgement) they part.

It's a fluid parting, too. Sherlock nudges at him to move away which he does, a step or so back, stiffly, and then the other man slips around him, heading for the stairs. John turns his head, following him with his eyes. He's a dark tower among the shadows of the hallway, a tall showcase of coat and too much fabric, too little -- well, nudity, let's be real. Way too little nudity, if you're asking John and he should probably question himself, but he doesn't and that in itself is rather a nice state of being. We should go upstairs, Sherlock says and doesn't add together, but John isn't stupid, he can do the math. He catches the implications at play. This is one of those things they're definitely doing as -- two people, a pair, a couple (?). Together. Together.

So, he straightens up, squares his shoulders as he turns around completely and follows Sherlock up the stairs. His steps are carefully measured, because he's half-hard in his trousers and it's not exactly comfortable, is it? Besides, there's very limited space on the staircase and Sherlock's coat takes up half the room with its billowing which seems to fit the picture of -- mystery and coolness and cheekbones, yes? Indeed. John smiles. He smiles at Sherlock's back, although he won't see it. If not because of it.

Okay, they're doing this. It seems. The door to the living room is currently an obstacle to be faced, but John lets Sherlock lead the way inside, moving up behind him in the doorway, staying close enough to catch his scent on the coat, noticing how he's actually managed to ruffle the man's hair a bit at the back and if that's not perfection in every way, he really doesn't know what is. ]

PSA: I'm not mounting anymore stairs tonight.

[ His voice is a mutter, but loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Well, there it is. He's not going up the stairs to his own bedroom, he's heading straight (or maybe not all that straight after all) for Sherlock's, it's closer and he won't have to drag his feet up another flight, just getting here has done a job on his cock. ]

Edited 2019-02-15 12:05 (UTC)

[ He's about to take off his coat when he realises exactly how close John is standing - more or less up against his back, close enough that he can sense the warmth of his breath when he speaks. For a moment, he doesn't move, choosing instead to simply stare off into space, gaze slipping from item to item in the dark living room, registering everything and seeing very little. I'm not mounting anymore stairs tonight, he says. Sherlock nods to himself. That's that, then. He thinks about John going to that club, finding some random person in the darkness because they've been such a couple of cowards until now and isn't that just typical? Thank God they're done with that. Whichever comes next, at least they haven't allowed themselves to become completely petrified. Isn't that what you get, really, for looking backwards at what you're afraid to abandon, rather than keeping your eyes on the future, on what's to come?

He finally glances at John over his shoulder, turns slightly sideways and shrugs out of his coat. It's heavy enough to slide off his frame with ease and he ought to hang it away properly but instead, he simply tosses it over the sofa, managing to keep all of it off the floor. The flat smells of smoke, of experiments gone awry, and the kitchen looks a complete fright, the way it does around him. Scattered thoughts, scattered belongings. He sets off towards his bedroom, leaving his coat behind in the living room, knowing full well that John is bound to follow him, as he's done since the very beginning. ]

Then, do try to keep up.

[ Spoken without much rancour, though there's more than a hint of impatience shining through, born from weeks of dancing around an all-but inconceivable problem. He's not quite certain they're heading for a solution tonight, either. More data required. He touches his lips with the back of his hand, doesn't wipe them but simply touches. They feel damp, still. He can taste John on his tongue as well (pints - and the barest whiff of vodka and cranberry juice - probably courtesy of John-the-Second) and it's making him feel so incredibly short-sighted. This, he thinks, is another reason why he's kept himself free from... romantic entanglements. Apart from making very little sense to him, they tend to elicit so many feelings and he doesn't know what to do with those. Not normally and not now, either. Thus, he steps inside his bedroom and goes to stand by his window, looking out. And waiting. ]

[ He keeps up, easily, though first he watches Sherlock shrug out of his coat and abandon it over the backrest of the sofa. He's clad in his usual gimmick, the trousers and the shirt, tight-fitting and colour-coordinated (a cool green on black), John letting his gaze linger at the distinct shape of him, of his body, the first couple of steps down the hallway. Then, he takes a deep breath and follows, entering the bedroom only a couple of steps after the other man. Sherlock walks over to the window, looking out in silence. They're surrounded by the sounds of nighttime. Well, and Sherlock's judo certificate and the bloody periodic table, among other things. Is he supposed to conclude that you'll never get bored in this room? Is that a safe joke to make right now?

He stays quiet, glancing over at Sherlock's unmoving silhouette. Frowning, he shrugs out of his jacket, dumps it on the floor, because they can pick up the pieces in the morning, right? In every way that matters. Clearing his throat, though it lacks the awkwardness of earlier, John licks his lips and shrugs slightly, both shoulders up to his ears, trying to loosen up the knots in his back. There's a tightness about his entire body right now and he needs it gone, because -- he doesn't want it like that, he wants it -- he just wants it. Different. Usually, if Sherlock had been some girl he was seeing, he'd try to joke it away, make her relax, make her play along, but between Sherlock and him it's no game (really, games aren't their forte to begin with) and thus, he can tell there's another strategy needed. Aren't they done with pretenses? Don't they need the direct route from here?

With another shrug of his shoulder, the left and it pulls a bit at his old wound, John moves over behind him. Sherlock's tall enough that he can't really see much of whatever the other man's looking at, but he's at a perfect height to lean in and balance himself with a flat hand against the small of Sherlock's back, running his lips over the jut of vertebrae visible beneath the skin at the base of his neck. The spinal column is such an irregularity, structure-wise, it seems if nothing else fitting. ]

We can't all have London's road system crammed into our heads, Sherlock, some of us need to just go by instinct.

[ He's not in fact looking out of the window - rather, he's staring at the small bubbles of air inside the glass, the tracks of dirt, remnants of ozone collecting along the frame, gaze fixating on all the tiny, useless details. It doesn't lead him to any conclusions, not as such (needs scrubbing, too much soil to wash it straight away, potential draining problems at length, mould experiments?), his attention split between this micro-cosmos and the feel of John's presence in the room, growing steadfastly more acute. He's about to reach out for the windowsill, just to get a grip om something, when John puts his hand against the small of his back, leans in and runs his lips across the base of his neck. Both light touches, certainly, but they leave him shivering all the same, his breathing quickening. He doesn't normally crave or even like proximity but right now, his body can't seem to get enough of it.

His mind is still pending, however, contrary to his usual proclamations, he'd be prepared to venture a guess; that in the end, eventually, they'll align with each other quite perfectly. And isn't that just a suitable description? He breathes in, breathes out, loses count of the glass irregularities. Some of us need to just go by instinct. God, how terrible. How utterly strange.

And yet, here he is, trying to do exactly that. ]

I... yes.

[ He looks down. Then, he turns against John, the sudden lack of skin-on-skin contact another odd echo, lost for now but present, still, in his neural network. He reaches out again, one hand landing lightly on John's shoulder (the right one, bullet to the left, and he hadn't truly known, even if he said so, John knew he hadn't known but he'd humoured Sherlock anyway) and trailing upwards slowly, following the lines of his neck to the back of his head. There's a slight coarseness to his hair as it slips beneath his fingertips. Contact re-established, he thinks, just as he leans down and kisses him again, harder, more roughly. Insistently. In a few seconds, he'll be walking them backwards towards his bed unless John sets them off first - it's not a matter of sequences or order, just two possibilities, thrown into the air because surely, between the two of them, they can afford the liberty. ]

[ It's actually quite simple. Sherlock agrees, though you might wonder if he can even comprehend the concept properly, then he turns around against John, leaving them face to face before leaning down and kissing him again. It's harder, rougher this time around and John meets him squarely in the middle of it, feeling how Sherlock's fingers slip into his hair and cradle the back of his head.

Fine, it'll be like this, will it?

Eyes shut, lips parting and tongue slipping over Sherlock's lower lip, he starts backing up against (what he sincerely hopes is the direction of) the bed, hands coming up to bury into the fabric of the other man's prissy shirt and dragging him forward, with him. He smells like an intricate map of his day so far, like smoke and burned beetles, disinfectant and a slight hint of soap, very little fresh air, you could basically map out Sherlock's every move today just by the smell of him (but then again, that's why he has a tendency to sniff people, however inappropriate it is). That's how he gets his stories. His data. John just really -- well, loves the laboratory-ish feel of it, how his work hangs around him even now, even here. How you can't escape it and you'd be a right fool to want to, to try.

He tastes familiar, too. Already, he tastes like -- well, he's not going to say it, no. There's no reason to jinx it.

The back of his knees making contact with the edge of Sherlock's bed, John comes to a halt, their chests sliding up against each other through the fabric of their shirts. He pushes his tongue in between the other man's lips, craving that heat, the warmth of him while he fumbles for a moment for the buttons on his shirt, beginning to unbutton it from the middle and down. Sherlock will simply have to fix the upper half of the row, won't he, isn't that the heights he usually frequents anyway? Bloody beanpole. ]

[ For a long moment, they're just kissing, all tongues and lips and wetness, and he'd map it out in a logical fashion - physical signs, actions and reactions - but right now, it's imperatively more important to keep track of John, of where he keeps his hands, where he's taking them. When he starts unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, doing a piss-poor job of it, quite frankly, he decides that a burst of efficiency might just be what the doctor ordered, hah. He draws away, wetness clinging to his lips and steps back enough to create a bit more physical space between them. Not much, but enough.

Raising an eyebrow at John - How do you dress yourself in the morning?, it says, quite plainly - he unbuttons the rest of his shirt. As he slips it over his shoulders, down his arms and off, he realises that this is significantly different from two days ago, back when he walked around shirtless in the kitchen to test out John's response to his body. Right now, the variables really are... all over the place. He can hardly gauge them all, let alone control them. As he drops the shirt onto the floor, a heap of cool green against the floorboards, he straightens slightly and gives John a look. It's not a challenge. Really, he doesn't know what it is, but there's heat behind it. Intent.

Without further ado, he crouches down to untie his shoes because they're Italian leather and very unlikely to accept him trying to just wrestle his feet out of them, unloosened. It takes him all of five seconds (Sherlock was seven years old before he learned to tie and untie his own shoes - too much other data to care about, too little incentive to acquire this particular skill, at least until it became outright embarrassing, letting Mycroft tie them for him). As he straightens up again, he slips off his socks and stands there, barefoot, the air in the bedroom cool. There's a draft, he thinks, from the window. Definitely leaky. He doesn't much feel it, never has, though there are patches of goosebumps rising along the length of his arms and shoulders. ]

[ Eventually, Sherlock breaks the kiss and steps back, obviously giving up on John's lacking dexterity and giving him a look that plainly says so, too, John sending him an in no way genuine glimpse of shame-face back (he could do better, surely, but he could also be doing much worse, everything considered, what is this -- the second time he's doing anything like this with another man), his arms dropping to his sides while Sherlock undoes the row of buttons with an almost elegant ease. What's more important, the shirt is definitely coming off and John follows its travels with his eyes, the way it slips down over pale shoulders, baring arms, baring chest and stomach in the process. He's eating Sherlock's upper body up, pretty much, like he did that time in the kitchen a couple of days prior, just much closer up and much more tangibly, his system sending a hot rush of -- something, most likely a good mix of testosterone and endorphins into his blood stream at the sight. John is used to looking at naked people, it's part of his job, evaluating the human body and usually the male body especially is strictly limited to this kind of objective evaluation, but looking at Sherlock now is endlessly far from -- that and a much more intimate experience, to be honest. Something heated and physical. Want. It's want, flat-out.

Aaaaaand -- it doesn't really help, when Sherlock then proceeds to crouch down to untie his shoes, bringing himself on a rather perfect level with John's cock which is coming back to life after its journey up the stairs in tight jeans. He swallows thickly, deciding that he should really do something with himself in the meantime, just to bring attention away from how he's slowly hardening in his trousers again, breathing deeply through parted lips while stepping out of his own shoes and socks messily, kicking them off to the side to join the ranks of Sherlock's shirt, his socks and his shoes. It's cool in the bedroom, like there's a draft somewhere and although he's far from cold, he can see goosebumps rising on Sherlock's shoulders, his arms, his -- nipples hardening slightly and isn't that just lovely? Lovely. Great. He licks his lips and meets the other man's eyes when he's straightened up fully, shifting from one foot to the other. Impatiently. He need to get out of his shirt, honestly (keep up, keep up), but he'd much rather keep looking.

After all, it feels like there's half a lifetime he hasn't yet actually seen, doesn't it? It feels like Sherlock is making up for it, wholly. ]

Edited 2019-02-15 18:04 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject