Work Text
October 2010
Their first time was in a hotel room in the quiet seaside village of Branscombe, in Devon. They had been invited there by the local police to solve a serial murder case. Four men had been brutally stabbed and castrated, and the locals were clamouring for an arrest. Branscombe was a small town, and to John’s dismay, they could find accommodations only in a single room above a local pub. Sherlock seemed unperturbed by this and pointed out that sharing a room would save money. The arrangement was awkward and uncomfortable for John. He had been hiding his attraction to Sherlock for some time and was nervous about being so close to him. Each night, John scooted to the edge of the rather small bed as Sherlock, oblivious, sprawled across it with his usual disregard for personal space. John had lain awake for hours, listening to Sherlock’s breathing and watching his chest rise and fall in the moonlight that shone through the window. Watching Sherlock sleep fascinated him, and he took in every detail, every mole, every eyelash, without fear of discovery. But then, everything about Sherlock fascinated him.On the second to the last night in Branscombe, as they slept, Sherlock’s hand passed over John’s and stayed there. A ripple of pleasure passed through his body as the touch woke him. It was bound to have happened, this accidental contact. As John revelled in the feeling of that warm hand, Sherlock’s fingers curled around his, gripping lightly. Sherlock’s even breathing continued, and he appeared to be asleep. John stared at the ceiling and stayed as still as possible. Eventually, sleep overcame him too. He woke the next morning to find the hand, and the person attached to it, already out of bed. If Sherlock had awoken to find them holding hands, he didn’t mention it.The case was a challenging one, but Sherlock solved it, of course, identifying a local primary school teacher, Elizabeth Harrison as the murderer. She would become known in village lore as “Bloody Bess” and would remain the only female serial murderer they would encounter in their long careers. After her arrest, Sherlock was in a fine mood. The authorities had had to acknowledge his brilliance, and this always made him happy. By that evening, word of the arrest of Bloody Bess had spread through the terrorized village and the visiting detectives were practically celebrities.The residents staged a celebration that night at the pub below their room. Parties weren't something Sherlock typically liked, there would be far too much human interaction expected of him, but the proprietor insisted. And Sherlock ended up thoroughly enjoying himself, bragging to the locals about his deductions and observations. John drank pint after pint while basking in the praise and gratitude of the crowd. After some time, a little drunk, and high on adulation and residual adrenaline, they went up to their room, laughing as they climbed the stairs.“That was fucking fantastic,” John said. “What are we going to call it?”“For the blog? I don’t know, you choose.”“I’m thinking ‘The Adventure of Terrible Teacher’.”“Mmm,” Sherlock said, noncommittally, falling across the bed on his back.Looking down at his friend, John blurted out “Have I told you lately how brilliant you are? How amazing?”“Not nearly enough John, tell me again,” Sherlock said, not missing a beat.“You cheeky git!” John said as he flopped down on the bed beside Sherlock. And that is how it began.John gets the credit for making the first move, or maybe Sherlock does, for the handholding the night before. It really doesn’t matter. On the bed, at that moment, kissing just seemed right and so John did. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock and Sherlock responded by lacing his fingers behind John’s head. It was a long, deep kiss, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. It was perfect and long overdue. They parted, looked into each other’s eyes, and kissed again. There was no conversation, no need for it, they understood one another completely.I could tell you that John slowly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and that they spent hours whispering endearments and making love, but that is not how it happened. Not at all. The next morning, perhaps, but not that first night. They are men after all. That night they rutted, they devoured each other hungrily. Rolling on the bed, John on top, then Sherlock, then John again. Once, they even fell from the bed to the floor and, finding it too uncomfortable, climbed back on, barely taking their mouths from one another in the process. Impatiently and urgently, they undressed. Sherlock managing to pull off John’s jumper and John simply ripping open Sherlock’s shirt, sending buttons flying. Trousers, pants, and shoes were hastily undone and kicked off. Socks were left on. Legs tangled, mouths roamed, sucked, bit, and licked.Sherlock explored John's body with as much enthusiasm as if it were a crime scene, smelling, touching, learning. He wanted to know everything about John, he wanted to devour him and even more, he wanted to be devoured. And he wanted it NOW. He had waited for this night for so long. They both had. And now they were making up for that lost time as they fumbled and stroked and sucked and then...Oh, dear god, John was inside Sherlock and it was sublime--for both of them. John grunted and Sherlock sighed. They still hadn't spoken. The creaking of the bed and the muffled sounds from the pub below were the only sounds as they moved together.John twisted the fingers of one hand in Sherlock’s hair and pulled it. He didn't know it at the time, but Sherlock loved to have his hair pulled...and stroked, and petted, and carded. Anything really. It was an erogenous zone of the highest order and Sherlock moaned. And then he came, and the first words of the encounter were uttered. “Johhhnnn...Johhhnnn...Johhhnnn.”John will remember those words, whispered in Sherlock’s sultry baritone, for the rest of his life. A reminder of the day he was changed and his new life began. ***** There was no going back to just friends. The die was cast, the genie let out of the bottle, the Rubicon crossed. Pick your cliché. They returned to Baker Street a couple. No one was surprised (in truth, most wondered what had taken so long), and they took no pains to hide it. Life at 221B went on as usual but with the addition of sex. Blow jobs in the hallway, shagging on the stairs, in Sherlock’s chair, in John’s chair, in Regent’s Park. They had each other in every way it was possible to be had and on every surface. Then, slowly, as sometimes happens, things settled into a certain “sameness.” Comfortable, but Sherlock Holmes was not one to be satisfied with “comfortable."
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September 2011
“Lestrade wants us at Scotland Yard,” John said, after reading the text that the DI had sent to each of them as they were finishing breakfast. “Maybe a new case? I’ve got to work all day. Fill me in tonight?”“Who does he think he is? The Queen?" Sherlock said. "Text him back and tell him he knows where to find me.”“Can’t you?”“Too busy. I’m working on a new experiment today,” Sherlock said, already bustling around the kitchen, retrieving chemicals and equipment from the cupboards. John sighed, and sent the text. With Sherlock, you had to pick your battles. John had won some, lost some, and some had ended in a draw. For example, the battle of the jumpers. When John moved into Sherlock's bedroom and they began to share wardrobe and drawer space, Sherlock had asked John to get rid of his bulky, and what he termed "hideous," jumpers. John had put his foot down. He loved his soft warm jumpers. Sherlock sulked and huffed, and finally, John had moved his clothing back to the upstairs bedroom. Now he tramped up the stairs every morning to dress, but the compromise had been worth it. John finished his breakfast and gave Sherlock a quick kiss goodbye. Sherlock tried his best to entice John to linger, licking his neck and saying his name in that breathy whisper he knew turned him on, but John was running late and left for work without so much as arse-squeeze, leaving Sherlock disappointed. As soon as John was gone, Sherlock went to the window and watched him walk toward Baker Street Station. Sherlock watched him from the window every day. Watching John’s confident, quick stride down the pavement was part of his morning routine and felt comforting somehow.John had been working long hours, coming home exhausted, without much energy left for Sherlock. A colleague at the surgery had quit, and John was picking up extra shifts. The money came in handy. John’s army pension was modest, and Sherlock’s income from detective work was erratic. If the case was interesting enough, and the client couldn’t pay, Sherlock took the case for the pure fun of it. Fun didn’t pay the rent, however, as John was quick to remind him. Sherlock didn’t care about rent. He cared about his work and about John’s attention. It bothered him that John hadn't called him amazing in weeks, maybe months.He remembered their first night together. In Sherlock's mind, their “first night” was not the one they spent above the pub in Branscombe, but the one they spent together working on the “Pink” case. He had felt little thrills of pleasure at each “fantastic” and “amazing.” John had been so effusive in his praise of Sherlock’s genius, and his admiration hadn't been smarmy, but sincere. And he was clearly a danger-junkie. This combination was irresistible to Sherlock, and he had made up his mind about John right then. After that, Sherlock waited patiently for John to figure things out for himself. And when he had, things had been wonderful, and the sex imaginative and rough, the way Sherlock liked it. He liked to be admired and he liked to be fucked, the harder the better, and it had been a while since he'd had either. Sherlock sighed and turned from the window with a little frown of frustration. He wanted the old John back; he wanted a good case, wanted an unplanned after-dinner shag in an alley, he just wanted…something. He was BORED. Sherlock’s brain was zinging about, but it had nothing to latch onto. His rapid-fire thoughts needed either an outlet or a dose of something to calm them. Since John and Sherlock had been together, he promised John that he would not resort to self-medication, and he had kept his word. He paced the floor, looking at his watch. He wondered what kind of a case Lestrade had for him. He hoped that it would not be dull. Please, please, a seven at least. The criminal classes of London seemed to be on an extended holiday, and it was downright infuriating.However anxious he was to have a new and exciting case, he was not about to go begging to Scotland Yard. As a consulting detective--correction, The Consulting Detective, he did not go to Scotland Yard, Scotland Yard came to him. He went about setting up his equipment on the kitchen table. He would be able to do most of it here, but it might require a trip to Barts at some point to use one of the more powerful microscopes. He hadn't been able to convince Molly to let him “borrow” one. Now that he was with John, he found it harder to use his charm to get what he wanted from her.Around four o’clock, the doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson escorted DI Lestrade into the flat. “Sherlock, you have guests!” she sang out. Oh, just great, he brought Sally, Sherlock thought with annoyance. He glanced up from his microscope and saw Gavin and...not Sally. With Lestrade was a young man that Sherlock had never seen before. He was slender but muscular, and just a bit shorter than Sherlock, with deep brown eyes, and short dark hair. Sherlock took in a hundred less obvious details, his quick brain cataloguing and deducing.
No pets. No, wait. Small dog.
Jaw a shade lighter than the rest of his face– just shaved off his beard. For whom?
Suit-bespoke - expensive on a detective's salary--family money?
Shoes-trendy
Jewellery – none - not married
Smell – can’t smell him yet
Nails - manicured
Gay. Definitely gay
“Sherlock, this is Detective Hopkins.”“Please, call me Stan,” the man said, approaching Sherlock and extending his hand.“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said rising and shaking the man’s hand while inhaling.
Smell – Tobacco Vanille by Tom Ford. Expensive…and nice.
“I know,” Stan said, still pumping Sherlock’s hand. “I’m so excited to finally meet you; you're a legend!"Sherlock side-eyed Lestrade. This was not the typical response from Scotland Yard detectives, especially not those who had spent any time with Sally Donovan or Philip Anderson. The praise sent a ripple of pleasure through him.“He’s new,” Lestrade said, understanding Sherlock’s look. “Mrs Hudson, would you please fetch us some tea?” Sherlock requested.“Not your housekeeper dear, and I’m late for my Zumba class,” Mrs Hudson said over her shoulder, already on her way out of the flat.Scowling, Sherlock went about making tea for his guests.Soon they were seated in the sitting room. “So, tell me about the case,” Sherlock demanded, hands steepled in front of his face, looking hopeful. “It’s a murder,” Lestrade said. A professor at King’s College, Peter Carey, was found dead in his office on Tuesday. You might have seen it in the papers. You would have noticed it because he was killed in a rather unusual way.”“I notice all murders, and yes, I did see that. A spear, correct?”“Driven right through him and into the wall. His PA found him hanging there Tuesday morning when she got there about nine. Molly tells us he had been dead for eight to ten hours, so he was probably killed late Monday night.”“Any suspects?” “One possibility, a bloke named John Hopley, Carey’s research assistant. They had been seen in a pretty heated argument the day before. He claims that he had nothing to do with it, of course, and his alibi is his wife. Says he was home watching telly. Other than the argument, we don’t have anything solid on him, but I have a strong gut feeling he’s our man. I was hoping you could help us find something to prove he did it.”Sherlock practically snorted, derision plain in his voice. “With all due respect to your ‘gut feeling’, Lestrade, I require data. Tell me about the crime scene. Do you have pictures?” “Yeah,” said Lestrade, passing him a folder.Sherlock opened the folder and glanced through the photos. The first was of a middle-aged black man slumped against a wall with a long wooden pole protruding from his chest. He was in a cluttered office with African art and masks on the walls and piles of books on the shelves and floor. The next picture was of the spear itself, after having been removed. It was about four feet long and had a flat iron blade with a sharp point. “An Assegai,” Sherlock said.“What?”“He was killed with an Assegai, a weapon common in Africa before the introduction of firearms. The Zulu and Nguni tribes of South Africa are the most well known for their use of it. Did it belong to him?”Lestrade and Hopkins exchanged a glance. “Yeah, it was his. He was an anthropology professor, and African culture was his speciality. He travelled frequently to Africa and brought back that spear on this last trip.”Sherlock continued looking through the photos. The next one was a close-up of the floor near the dead man’s feet. There was a pocket knife lying on the carpet; the initials “P.C.” clearly visible on it.“That’s obviously Carey’s too,” Stan said.“Hmmm,” Sherlock mused. “Possibly, but there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”Next was a photo of the desk. Sherlock noted two items of interest, a notepad with the numbers “NW 2400-88” written in pen and two glasses, one empty, and one with a few inches of amber liquid, possibly whiskey from the bottle that stood nearby. “We didn’t find any fingerprints other than Carey's on the weapon, the glasses, or the bottle,” Lestrade said.The last photograph in the folder was that of John Hopley, a small, bookish man with a thin moustache and spectacles.“Any ideas Sherlock?” Lestrade asked? “Seven,” Sherlock replied. When will I be able to examine the crime scene? ““Hopkins and I can meet you there tomorrow. I’ll text you in the morning with details.”The two men rose to leave.“Sherlock, do you think you could tell me about some of your cases sometime?" Stan said. "I mean, I read Doctor Watson’s blog religiously, but I’d love to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. You are the brains of the operation, right?" He winked and then stared straight into Sherlock's eyes. This made Sherlock unaccountably warm, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable.“Well, I’m terribly busy,” he said, quickly looking away.“Oh, I’m sure you are, I just thought maybe sometime when you aren’t…I'll buy you a pint. We could get to know each other,” Stan said hopefully.“Aw, Sherlock loves talking about himself, so I’m sure he’d be happy to tell you at great length how wonderful he is and what complete idiots we are,” Lestrade said. “Well, not complete,” Sherlock said.“That’s about the closest we’ll get to a compliment,” Lestrade chuckled. They heard approaching footsteps, and John walked through the door.“John!” Lestrade said, “We were just leaving. Sherlock can fill you in on the case. It’s a real puzzler.”“Detective Stan Hopkins,” Stan said, shaking John’s hand. “I’m a big fan of your blog!”“Pleasure,” John said.Turning to Sherlock, Hopkins said, “I look forward to working with you.” He placed his left hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he pumped his right hand enthusiastically and for a bit longer than necessary. Sherlock felt something pressed into his palm, and he quickly put it into his pocket. He knew without looking exactly what it was, Stan’s mobile number. As the detective's left, Sherlock couldn't help glancing at Stan's very attractive backside. *** John surveyed the kitchen that looked like a tornado had torn through it. Sherlock's experiment had exploded, and the room was littered with debris. John touched a glob of green goo on one of the cabinets and looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t have time to clean all this up,” Sherlock said. You'd best get takeaway for dinner."“Just me? Aren’t you eating?”“No, I've got a case; of course, I’m not eating. I’ll tell you about it while you do, though. Then I’m going to do some alone thinking, this might be a three patch case!”“Are you sure the case is what you’re going to think about?” asked John, with an edge in his voice.“What do you mean?”“I mean, I haven’t lived with the most observant man in the universe without picking up some observation skills myself, I saw Stan making eyes at you, and you were enjoying it - don't tell me you weren't. I also observed that as he left, you were looking at his arse. And what exactly is in your pocket. Yeah, I didn't miss that either.” John spoke quietly, but there was an undercurrent of anger in his voice. “John,” Sherlock said, as lightly as he could manage. “He’s a young detective and we--both of us, are his heroes--thanks to your blog. He’s just overly enthusiastic, and I think you are imagining things. Are you jealous, John?”“Should I be?”“No, of course not.”John wasn't convinced, and he was jealous. Jealous of the tall, young, handsome detective. When they went out together, Sherlock always got the attention; John was used to this. He was taller, louder, smarter, and dammit he was just…Sherlock. Everyone wanted him. But John had always been confident that Sherlock only wanted John. He belonged to John. But the way Sherlock had looked at Hopkins...and right in front of him no less. A black snake of doubt slithered into John’s mind."Show me what's in your pocket, Sherlock."Sherlock slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the slip of paper. "It's his number, John. For the case, I'm sure."John's face darkened. "Yeah, sure it is," he said sarcastically. "I’m going out to get some food since this place is a toxic waste dump." He picked up his jacket and walked out of the flat without kissing Sherlock goodbye.Sherlock watched him leave. Perversely, a part of him was enjoying John’s reaction. He wasn’t really interested in Stan. He liked the flattery; he couldn’t deny this. And Stan was attractive. However, he was more interested in provoking John, rousing him to action, refocusing John’s attention to him, where it belonged. He fingered the slip of paper as a plan began to form in his mind.When John returned, a couple of hours later, he was unsmiling and sullen, but he listened with interest as Sherlock briefed him on the case.“So, Lestrade thinks it’s the research assistant,” John said. "Makes sense, I mean Carey must have known or at least not been afraid of his killer, right? Otherwise, why the two glasses? Any idea of what they were arguing about?"“Not yet, but I’ll find out. Lestrade, as usual, has latched onto the most obvious answer and now wants to find facts to fit his premature conclusion. I guess I should be grateful that Scotland Yard is so obtuse since I’m the beneficiary of it. I’m meeting Lestrade and Sta--Hopkins, at the crime scene tomorrow."John’s face twitched a bit at this news, a fact that was not lost on Sherlock.They watched telly for a while, without conversation, then went to bed.As they lay in the dark, side by side, John spoke abruptly.“Do you love me?”“You know that I do.”I saw what I saw, and you looked, John thought unhappily but didn’t say it. Instead, he reached for Sherlock’s hand. Pulling it to his mouth, he kissed it. "I love you, too,” he said.Sherlock moved closer and pressed his cheek against John’s shoulder. He ran a hand over John's chest, then down his stomach."Not tonight, Sherlock. I'm tired."Sherlock sighed and moved away. It was a long time before John began to snore. He usually fell asleep quickly, but not tonight. Eventually, Sherlock slept too.
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John had committed to working at the surgery the next day or he would never have left Sherlock alone to work on the Carey case with Lestrade and Hopkins. What were they doing right now? Was Sherlock enjoying Hopkin's company? Was he comparing him to John? Was he flirting? Was he trying to impress him? He kept looking at his watch as the day dragged on. His last two appointments of the day cancelled, and John looked forward to surprising Sherlock with his early arrival.He resolved to start fresh. Maybe he'd overreacted last night. After all, how could that Hopkins bloke help but be attracted to Sherlock? These thoughts turned over in John's mind as he made the journey home. He was walking up Baker Street after exiting the tube station when he heard a familiar voice. He glanced across the street and saw a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks. Outside The Volunteer pub, stood Sherlock and Stanley Hopkins, holding pints of beer and laughing loudly. John couldn't believe what he was seeing. The men were standing close together. Too close. They continued to converse and laugh as John stood, frozen on the pavement, staring. Sherlock, having a conversation at a pub? Laughing? Drinking? He felt like he'd had been punched in the stomach. His first impulse was to cross the street and confront them, but instead, he stood and watched. Sherlock seemed to be interested in what the other man was saying. This couldn't be right. It was so unlike the detective. But maybe they were discussing the case? Stanley handed Sherlock his beer, and then mimicked a golf swing, and then a putt. Sherlock nodded and smiled. Golf? GOLF? They were not talking about the case and Sherlock hated golf. He was flirting! John resisted the urge to cross the street and make a scene. Instead, he turned and stalked home, seething with anger and jealously. When Sherlock arrived, half an hour later, he seemed surprised to see John home. "You're home early." "Somebody cancelled. What have you been up to today?" John tried hard to keep the accusation out of his voice. He wanted to know if Sherlock would tell him the truth on his own. "Visited the crime scene, spent most of the day at Barts, then met with Lestrade on the case again." "At the Yard?""Yes," Sherlock said and then sighed dramatically. "He's still focused on Hopley." John's heart sank. Sherlock was lying to him and it hurt. He clenched his jaw. He wanted to yell. He wanted to rage. He wanted to beat the living hell out of Hopkins and lock Sherlock in the flat where no one else could touch him. He swallowed hard. He needed to calm down and think this through before he did or said something he'd regret. He needed to get himself away from Sherlock and think. "I'm not feeling well, I'm going to bed, he said." After he'd left the room, Sherlock went to his laptop and pulled up the online scheduling program for John's surgery that he'd hacked into. He confirmed that the last appointment tomorrow was for a routine examination. He'd call the patient, Ms Margaret Heatherstone, tomorrow afternoon and tell her it would need to be rescheduled. Then he'd cancel the appointment. *** The next day, John left work early again. It was odd to have had another last-minute cancellation, but he was glad of it. He had resolved to confront Sherlock tonight. It was Friday and they'd have the rest of the weekend to hash it out. John was scheduled to work, but he'd call in sick; this was too important. As he passed the Volunteer, he couldn't help but look across the street, and when he did, his blood ran cold. They were there again, standing even closer this time. They looked like a couple. John couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He could not believe that this was happening. Then the blood that had been ice-cold in his veins began to boil. "Don't you touch him," he whispered.As he watched, Sherlock turned to go into the pub, perhaps to use the loo. As he did, Stan gave him a little squeeze on the bum. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and smiled.This was too much. John’s paralysis broke and he charged across Baker Street, ignoring the screeching tyres and blaring horns. Hopkins looked up in horror as John rushed him.“You fucking prick,” John snarled through clenched teeth as he reached Hopkins, drew back a fist, and punched him in the nose, dropping him to the pavement. His glass of beer shattered, its contents splattering the nearby patrons.Sherlock had turned back as soon as he heard the screeching tires and stood unmoving in the doorway of the pub, mouth gaping.John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and jerked him roughly out of the doorway.“You. Home. Now.” he growled.Before Stan could get up and fight back, John and Sherlock were running toward 221B.Once inside the door, John slammed Sherlock against the wall. The wall. The wall where they had leaned and laughed together that first night, where John had realized that he didn’t need his cane, where their story had begun. Where, not six months ago, John had knelt before Sherlock after a West End show because they couldn’t even make it up the stairs without having each other, John fumbling with Sherlock’s belt and zip and taking him in his mouth right there. The depth of John’s fury surprised Sherlock. John had never pushed him in anger before; it wasn't like him at all. For once, Sherlock was speechless. “I…I... I was just having a drink," he stammered.“Sherlock Holmes does not ‘just have a drink’" John hissed. "When is the last time you went to a pub for a drink? And you went with him? Sherlock I saw the two of you flirting. I saw him touch you.”John released Sherlock and paced back and forth in front of him, running his fingers through his hair.A door creaked and Mrs Hudson peered out at them.“Boys, is everything all right?” she inquired.“Sorry Mrs Hudson, we were just heading upstairs,” Sherlock said.They went up to the flat where John directed Sherlock to sit and Sherlock obeyed.“I’m waiting,” John said.“John, I know you're angry.”“You are damn right I'm angry," John said, as quietly as he could, when what he wanted to do was shout. "You flirted with another man. That man. You saw him behind my back. Twice. Yeah, I'm fucking angry. What did you expect? And why did you do it, Sherlock, Why?”"Ennui, John." "What the fuck is 'ennui'?""It's french. It means boredom. Taedium vitae if you prefer Latin. I've been bored, John. Bored. You've been working so much and always tired. I was missing the way things used to be between us. I was feeling neglected and wanted to make you jealous."John glared at Sherlock and one side of his mouth twitched. “What?”"I wanted to make you jealous, but I underestimated just how successful my plan would be." John couldn't believe what he was hearing, and, abandoning his effort to keep his temper under control, began to yell.“You did this to me because you were bored? I just punched a fucking Scotland Yard detective. I’m surprised we don’t hear the sirens yet. I could go to jail! And yeah, Sherlock, I do know how you are. You're a self-centred arrogant dick who never gives a shit about other peoples’ feelings. Including mine, apparently. Always after the rush, no matter who gets hurt along the way. Do you know how that made me feel? How betrayed? Damn you!”“John, I'm sorry that I took things too far,” Sherlock said in a small voice. “Everything you just said is true, and you deserve better. How can I make this up to you? I’ll do anything,” Sherlock pled, rising and reaching out to John. He really was sorry. His plan had worked a little too well--he'd never wanted Stan to get hurt. But on the other hand, John's passionate reaction and defence of his territory had been...arousing. John backed away. “Anything?" he queried.“Anything," Sherlock repeated. “Yeah, all right. Fine. I’m going out,” John said abruptly, turning and walking towards the door. “Don’t wait up.” The door slammed behind him.Sherlock did wait up. He waited until long after midnight but John didn't return. Finally, he fell asleep alone. When he woke the next morning, John was not in their bed. However, there was a small box, powder pink and topped with a black bow, on the bedside table with a note. A gift from John? Sherlock sat on the side of the bed, opened the note, and began to read.
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Sherlock,
I have decided to take you up on your offer of “anything.” I’m going to punish you for being such an utter shit. Open the box and put on what’s inside. No questions, just do it. For the rest of the weekend, you will do exactly what I tell you to do. You will not pout. You will not complain. You will not argue. One more thing. You will not, under any circumstances, touch yourself. Your body belongs to me.
John
PS: Ennui? You posh wanker. Since you like French so much I'm sure you'll like this. I know I will. Sherlock dropped the note to the bed and picked up the box, trying to deduce what it was. Something to wear, obviously. Lightweight, small, not wrapped by John, but by some expensive store. The pink and black packaging was distinctive and somehow familiar. Agent Provocateur? They had visited the Agent Provocateur lingerie boutique in Soho for a case last year. Realization dawned on Sherlock. He knew what was inside the box.Slowly, he removed the black bow. Lifting the lid from the box, he found a delicate pair of lace knickers nestled in tissue paper. Using his thumb and forefinger, as if he were picking up something distasteful, he lifted them from the box and held them up in front of his face. They were a rich, red colour, the colour of fresh blood. The lace was finely made and scalloped around the edges--French lace. Sherlock rubbed the material between his fingers. John expected him to wear these? He looked at them doubtfully, wondering how he was going to fit his bits into them. He was going to look ridiculous.He dropped them back into the box, and with his elbows on this knees, ran his hands through his hair, thinking. He had promised he’d do anything, hadn’t he? He picked up the note and re-read it. John’s tone was...commanding. A small smile crept to his lips as tendrils of anticipation began to unfurl in his belly. This...could be fun.After showering, Sherlock stepped into the knickers and pulled them up slowly over his long legs. They weren’t scratchy as he expected. Soft, actually. He pulled them past his narrow hips and tucked in his penis and bollocks. Having been made for a woman, there was not quite enough room for them, and it took a few tries to find a comfortable arrangement.He examined himself in the mirror critically. “Ridiculous,” he muttered. He put on his dressing-gown and taking a deep breath, walked into the sitting room.John was sitting in his chair reading the paper. “So, you wearing them?” he asked.Wordlessly, Sherlock walked over to John, opened his dressing gown, and dropped it to the floor.John gulped and tried to maintain a stern face. He was, in fact, still angry, but this. He was not quite prepared for this sight. John had seen Sherlock in almost every conceivable sexual pose, bent over the kitchen table, tied to the bed, folded up, knees to ears below him, but this, Oh, dear god.Sherlock looked like a marble statue. His pale skin contrasted with the blood-red knickers in a most pleasing way. Pleasing? Fuck that. It was utterly, spectacularly, mind-bendingly, hot. The long legs, the sinewy muscles, the trail of dark hair running from just below his navel down to the scalloped lace which was almost overflowing with Sherlock’s cock. He looked like an angel. If there had been wings sprouting from his shoulders, they would not look out of place. Slowly, John looked up to Sherlock’s eyes, fringed with his still-damp curls and boring into him intently.Sherlock still felt ridiculous, but he was intrigued by John’s reaction. He observed the dilated pupils and the change in John’s breathing and expression. John had licked his lips. Yes, this was going to be just fine.John reached out and traced a finger from Sherlock’s stomach down to the lace and further still to Sherlock’s soft penis outlined beneath it. It twitched at John’s touch. He looked again into Sherlock’s eyes. In the small part of John’s brain that was still functioning properly, he realised that he was going to have to adjust his plans for the day. He was going to have to have Sherlock very soon, or he was simply going to come in his pants.He sat back and took a deep breath, composing himself.“Sherlock, here is how it is going to go. You are going to make me breakfast for a change. While you're in the flat you will stay dressed just like that, whether I’m here or not. We are going out tonight, and you'll wear them under your suit. You'll do as I tell you, and no matter what, you will not touch yourself, and you will not come. The same goes for tomorrow. If you have obeyed my rules, then tomorrow night I’ll consider us even, but I’m not going to forget what you did Sherlock. Never.”“I understand John,” Sherlock said, quietly, his head bowed.“Well, get on with it then,” John said.Sherlock walked into the kitchen and John watched him. The knickers were skimpy, and they rode up between Sherlock’s buttocks, leaving half of each white cheek exposed. John rubbed a palm over his crotch as he watched Sherlock walk. He had wanted to punish Sherlock, but he had no idea he was going to enjoy it this much. Sherlock went about making breakfast for John, a rare occurrence indeed. He filled the electric kettle and switched it on, popped two slices of bread in the toaster, and opened the new jar of blackberry jam that they had bought at a farmers’ market on a recent trip to the country. All the while, he was acutely aware of the lace barely holding his semi-hard cock and bollocks and riding up between his arse cheeks so that he was constantly reaching back and extracting it. To his surprise, he found that he enjoyed making tea and toast for John. It wasn’t as if Sherlock was a complete wanker and never did anything for John, but even after all this time together, Sherlock still often acted like an entitled child, and if the score were being kept, it would show that he didn’t do anywhere near his share of the domestic chores. John wasn’t keeping score though. They each accepted the other as they were, quirks, and imperfections included. It all evened out in the end.As Sherlock worked, he felt John’s gaze, and he began to feel less silly, and a bit more...sexy. He felt a warmth spread up his neck to his cheeks. Bloody hell, he was blushing! When the toast popped up, he buttered it and put it on a plate, added milk to John’s tea, placed the plate, tea, and jam on a tray, and carried it into John, setting it on the table beside him.“Thank you,” John said, taking a sip of tea. “You're free to make yourself something.” “I’m not hungry,” Sherlock said, “but I would like to know the parameters of my punishment. May I go about my business now, or must I stand here and watch you eat?"John picked up a piece of toast and spread jam across it as he considered this question. His cock was rock hard and tenting his pyjama bottoms. He took a bite and chewed slowly. Then he put the toast back on the plate, and a half-smile twitched on his lips. “Turn around,” he instructed.Sherlock turned obediently. John grasped his hips and pulled him back until he was standing between John’s legs with his calves touching the chair. John leaned forward and placed a kiss on one white flank, then the other, just below where the lace stopped. His hand found Sherlock’s penis, and he stroked it through the lace while continuing to kiss Sherlock’s backside tenderly. Sherlock looked down at John’s hand moving over him. He watched it free him from the underwear. He watched the thumb glide over the tip of his penis, spreading the bead of liquid gathered there. He watched the fist slide up and down slowly--too slowly. John was teasing him. Making him suffer deliciously. John sucked a bruise on Sherlock’s buttock, then bit the tender flesh. There would be marks tomorrow, a reminder of John's claim. Sherlock would admire them in the mirror at every opportunity. Sherlock groaned with pleasure under John’s expert hand and gasped when he abruptly stopped.“Remember, Sherlock, no orgasm for you,” John said evilly, turning Sherlock back to face him and pulling the waistband of the knickers back up so that they stopped halfway up Sherlock’s erection. “But I’m most definitely going to come.”John stood, dropped his pyjama bottoms to the floor, and sat back down in his chair.“Get to it," he commanded.Sherlock immediately dropped to his knees between John’s legs and bent to take John into his mouth.“No. Wait,” John said, stopping Sherlock by placing two fingers under his chin. Then he reached for the jar of blackberry jam. “I know this is your favourite.”John dipped his fingers into the jar and scooped out a generous dollop of jam. With his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, he spread the jam over himself until his erection looked like a grape ice lolly. He extended his now sticky fingers to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opened his mouth and enveloped John’s fingers. John closed his eyes. The inside of Sherlock’s mouth was smooth and warm, and he felt a tongue circle his fingertips as Sherlock licked away the jam. That mouth. Oh god, that exquisite mouth. He pulled his cleaned fingers from Sherlock’s mouth and placed his hand on Sherlock's head, pushing it down. He kept his fingers in Sherlock's hair, carding and massaging the way he knew Sherlock liked. Instead of swallowing John right away, Sherlock flattened his tongue and licked upward in long smooth strokes. Then he took each testicle by turn into his mouth and sucked off the jam. He pulled up briefly to lick the excess sticky sweetness from his lips before diving back down and taking John down his throat as far as he could, which was quite far indeed. Sucking off the jam, he pulled slowly, over and over, then faster as John urged him on. "Yeah, Sherlock. Just like that. Suck it."He watched the curly head bob as Sherlock's mouth worked him into a frenzy. In John's opinion, fellatio was one of Sherlock's greatest talents; which was saying a lot for a man who had so many. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair as heat gathered in his belly. “Here it comes,” he whispered hoarsely. As his sight dimmed and his consciousness narrowed into that pinpoint of exquisite singularity between his legs, he let out a cry and came hard in Sherlock’s sweet blackberry mouth. Sherlock swallowed all he could and then licked the remaining jam/semen mixture from Johns body. He discovered that blackberry jam improved the taste of semen significantly and filed this information away in his Mind Palace for future reference. After John released his hair, Sherlock remained on his knees between John’s legs.John gazed at his boyfriend. Christ, he was a sight. Hair going every which way, lips swollen, cheeks and chin purple and sticky with residual jam, and his hard cock still poking out from the red lace at his groin. John almost felt sorry for him.Almost.“Oh Sherlock,” John said.“Good?” Sherlock asked.“So good,” John answered, pulling him close for a kiss. ***** Sherlock spent the rest of the day in frustration. John had him perform some tiresome domestic tasks, but for the most part, left him alone to work. Still, he was not allowed to touch himself and not allowed to dress. He lay on the sofa, nearly naked, plastered with nicotine patches, and tried to think. It was impossible. This was torture. He ached for John, who was conspicuously ignoring him. Eventually, he made a bit of progress and texted Lestrade with some questions about Carey’s travel to Africa and about the other professors in the anthropology department. Lestrade didn't respond. He was frankly surprised Gary hadn't already shown up on their doorstep after the row at the pub last night with Stan. He was going to have to be his most charming self, or solve the case quickly, in order to mollify Lestrade and Scotland Yard. Best solve the case, he thought. Much more fun than attempting charm. He went to his desk and opened his laptop to do some research. By late afternoon, he had narrowed the possibilities from seven to three. ***** That evening they went to Angelo’s. The delicious secret of the lace knickers under his trousers was thrilling. Sherlock was beginning to relish this punishment. He wasn’t eating, because of the case, but he did enjoy watching John, who was always up for a meal. They sat close together in the window seat of the restaurant, the seat that was forever reserved for them. They had a normal conversation. The case, the weather, where they should go on holiday next summer. John wanted to go to the south of France, while Sherlock suggested a quiet countryside getaway in Sussex.Midway through dinner, Sherlock rested his hand on John’s thigh under the table and began to stroke it. Eventually, he moved his hand higher, then higher still until it was on the zip of John’s trousers. John could feel the weight and the heat of Sherlock’s palm on him, just resting there on his cock, and felt it stiffen. John turned to Sherlock and putting his lips near his ear whispered. “You know that if I told you to get under the table and blow me right now, you’d have to do it.”“I would do it, John, of course, I would,” purred Sherlock. “Are you going to give the order?”Jesus Christ, Sherlock's voice should be illegal. John’s dinner was left half-finished on the plate. They'd settle up with Angelo later. When they got home, John practically dragged Sherlock up the stairs, ordered him to undress, get on his hands and knees on the bed, and then fucked him hard without preamble. Sherlock shuddered each time Johns's cock passed over his prostate. His own neglected penis bobbed with each thrust and threatened to explode. He absolutely loved John this way, ruthless and insatiable. It made him feel like an object, his brain for once, secondary. It was a delicious respite from that other life that he lived, and he was enjoying it immensely. To keep from climaxing, Sherlock recited, one-by-one, each type of tobacco ash he had catalogued."Criollo, Dohka, Ecuadorian Sumatra"“Oh Sherlock, yes, fuck yes,” grunted John."Brightleaf, Burley, White Burley, Cavendish, Corojo"“Don’t you dare come,” hissed John, his breath hot on Sherlock’s shoulder."Habano, Habano 2000, Madder, Tuoc Lao…"John gave one more hard thrust and spilt deep inside Sherlock. They collapsed to the bed together, John on top of Sherlock, breathless. The friction of the mattress against his aching cock almost sent Sherlock over the edge."Perique, Latakia…"John withdrew, wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and kissed the back of his neck tenderly. “I guess your tobacco list has some value after all,” he whispered. Sherlock tried to be indignant but ended up laughing.
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Sherlock woke on Sunday with an erection. He reached for it, then groaned when he remembered that he wasn't allowed to touch. He rolled over and moved his hips, rubbing himself against the sheets. Did this count? He opened his eyes and looked at John’s side of the bed. He was already up. Sherlock rolled onto his back again and sighed. If he could just make it through this day...There was another pink box on the bedside table. While still lying in bed, Sherlock pulled off the bow and opened the box. Inside the tissue paper was another pair of knickers. These were made of simple white cotton, trimmed with delicate white lace and covered with tiny bees. One side of Sherlock’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. John knew that Sherlock had an affection for bees. He dangled them above his face, then rubbed the soft material against his cheek. As he did so, he noticed the other item on the table that hadn't been there the night before. A buttplug. One of their larger ones. There wasn't a note this morning, but it was crystal clear what the instructions were. Put on the knickers, slip in the plug, follow orders, and if you're good, you'll be rewarded. ***** “No wanking!” John shouted through the bathroom door as Sherlock was getting into the shower. I’ve got to go out for a bit. Harry called and needs me to help her with something this morning. I’d like you to do some hoovering while I’m gone. Same rules as yesterday. Be back soon, love."Sherlock rolled his eyes. Hoovering. How pedestrian. ***** Still ridiculous, he thought as he looked at himself in the mirror. Ridiculous or not, he was quite enjoying the effect all this was having on John. If John would both forgive him and give him another good shagging and some relief when this day was over, then all this would be worth it. He turned and looked over his shoulder into the mirror at his arse, then touched the bitemark, hoping it wouldn't fade too soon. He was getting used to the feeling of wearing the dainty underwear. It felt soft and rather good. He decided he might wear it again after this weekend was over. Perhaps with some matching heels... He made himself breakfast of toast and the blackberry jam. He ate slowly, savouring the sweetness of the jam and thinking about his breakfast of blackberried John yesterday. No, no, not good, stop thinking about it! It was pointless to work himself up if he could do nothing about it, and who knew when John would return. He had to occupy his mind until John got back or he might not be able to hold up his end of the bargain.He determined that he was going to solve the Carey case today, and there was still the hoovering. He might as well get that out of the way.He got out the vac and took a few minutes to figure out how to use it--it had been years since he had done this. He decided that listening to music would help pass the time as he worked. He found his iPod and put the earbuds in, immediately discovering the flaw in his plan. No pockets. He thought a minute and then tucked the iPod into the waistband of the knickers. He switched on the vac and began running it over the rug in the sitting room while listening to Pink Floyd, humming along to one of his favourite tracks, “Breathe.” While he generally preferred classical music, Pink Floyd was his guilty pleasure. As a musician, he was fascinated by the subtlety and nuance of David Gilmour’s playing. He found it simply amazing how he could make every tiny bend, slide, pick, and strum of his guitar mean something. He began to sing along.
Breathe, breathe in the air
Don't be afraid to care
Leave but don't leave me
Look around and choose your own ground
Back and forth over the rug, until finally he looked up and saw…Mrs Hudson.She was standing just inside the doorway, holding a plate of biscuits and a small book. Her mouth was drawn into an ‘o’ shape, and her eyes were wide. Sherlock’s eyes met hers, and he froze. They stood there for what seemed an eternity, neither speaking, Sherlock’s mind racing to come up with a plausible explanation. “Sherlock!” she said, finally breaking the silence. “What on earth…?” Sherlock quickly switched off the vac and pulled out the earbuds. “Just tidying up the flat,” he said with a neutral face, but feeling the heat of a blush on his cheeks. “Ever heard of knocking?” he added.“I’m sorry! When I heard the hoovering, I just assumed that it was John and… and… well, I’ve made you some biscuits and... I was going to ask him to help me with my Sudoku… and…” She was desperately trying to keep her eyes on Sherlock’s face and not down there. “Oh Sherlock, what are you wearing!” she could not help but blurt out.Sherlock hesitated for a split second and then said smoothly. “It’s for a case, Mrs Hudson,” as if this were the most natural and obvious thing in the world. “John’s not here, but I thank you for the biscuits, you can leave them on the table. Now I really need must get back to my work. So, if you don’t mind…” he said, with a “please leave” gesture of his hand.Mrs Hudson looked doubtful about Sherlocks's explanation, but set the biscuits down and hurried from the flat. “It’s all fine you know,” she called over her shoulder as she left.After the door closed, Sherlock sunk down into his chair. Oh, god that had been embarrassing. He put his face in his hands and started giggling uncontrollably. After the fit passed, he glanced at the clock. It was after noon. He hoped John would get back soon. Sherlock spent the next several hours sitting at his desk, going over his notes and the photographs of the Carey case. Finally, he had it. It was all so obvious.He texted Lestrade. SH: Arrest Patrick Cairns, the head of the Anthropology Department at King’s CollegeGL: ???SH: Oh, please. It was never John Hopley OBVIOUSLY! He is much too small and weak. It took real power to impale Carey to the wall with that spear. I knew we were looking for someone much stronger. Cairns is a bodybuilder.GL: Motive?SH: They were smuggling diamonds from South Africa, Cairns got greedy and killed Carey so that he would get 100% of the proceeds. They met last Monday night – probably to find a buyer. The pocket knife was Cairns’, not Carey’s. Same initials (never make assumptions!). I think you will find the diamonds in a safe deposit box #2400-88 at National Westminster Bank unless they’ve already been sold.GL: Diamonds! How did you figure that out?SH: I simply observed, as always. Details matter. How many times must I tell you this? I’ll explain later. I think you’d better get to the bank ASAP.GL: You are something else, Sherlock.SH: So I’m told. :)GL: I’ll check out the safe deposit box. Sherlock put down his mobile and smiled to himself. There was a knock at the door. Thinking it was Mrs Hudson again, he opened it and peered out, careful to keep his lower body hidden behind the door. It was not Mrs Hudson; it was Stan Hopkins. Stan’s nose was swollen, and he had ugly purple and yellow bruises around his eyes. He did not look happy.“Sherlock.”“Stan.”“I, um, well, Lestrade made me come,” said Stan, uncomfortably. He has informed me that I need to apologise to John. “Did he now?” smiled Sherlock.“Yeah and I’d like to get it over with. You were sending out signals you know, I don’t’ think it was all my fault.”“John’s not here, but I’ll pass on your apology. It isn’t necessary though. He’s the one who hit you after all. And I’m sorry Stan, I shouldn’t have flirted. I think you should leave now. Right now, please.” Sherlock was still hiding behind the door, and Stan was trying to peer around it, curious.“Please,” Sherlock said again, urgently. If John came home and saw them together, apology or not, it would not end well.Stan left, and Sherlock shut the door with a sigh of relief, walked to the window and watched him hail a cab. As the cab pulled to the kerb and Stan got in, Sherlock saw John walking up the pavement toward 221B. John stopped abruptly, stared at the cab, and then looked up to the window where Sherlock was standing. He looked angry."Fuck!"
****
John bolted up the seventeen steps to the flat two at a time. He flung open the door and saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the room. For a split-second, he forgot to be utterly furious as he stared at his gorgeous genius of a boyfriend standing there in just those lacy bee knickers. The split-second passed, and his fury returned.“What the hell was he doing here?” John bellowed.“John, calm down, he came to apologise to you.”“Do you expect me to believe that? Jesus, Sherlock, why are you doing this to me? Did he see you like this?“John… No… I...”“Shut up! Just shut up!” John had closed the distance between them and was standing close to Sherlock now, his face red, and his jaw clenched.Sherlock backed up a step and began again. "John, listen to me. I told you, I don't want him. I never did. I want you. It's always been you. Always. Forever. You. Please believe me." John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw…truth. He knew, just knew in the very depths of his soul that Sherlock was telling him the truth. Sherlock was a master of deceit and manipulation, but at that moment, looking at Sherlock’s stricken face and in those amazing verdigris eyes, John just knew, and his anger ebbed, replaced by something just as raw. "I'm still angry," he said. "I know," Sherlock replied. Then John threw himself against Sherlock and kissed him violently, and Sherlock moaned as John's hands slipped under the soft cotton fabric of the knickers and squeezed his buttocks. "Ennui? Not today, Sherlock," John whispered into his ear and immediately felt Sherlock stiffen against his belly. John turned them around and pushed Sherlock backward several steps until he met the door with a loud thud. Sherlock spread his legs and slid down the door as John pressed against him, kissing his neck and biting his earlobe. Then he ran his hand over Sherlock's bare chest and down his belly until it came to his thickening cock peeking out of the lacy waistband.Sherlock felt John’s hand close around him, and he moaned with pleasure. It was short-lived.“Turn around,” John ordered.Sherlock turned to face the door and leaned his head and forearms against it, listening to John unfastening and unzipping his jeans. “Oh John, yes, please.”John slid the underwear down Sherlock’s hips as far as his spread thighs would allow. Then he pushed his own jeans and pants down and his cock sprang free. John lubricated it with saliva as he looked down at Sherlock’s arse and at the bruise and bitemark that he had put there yesterday. He smiled with satisfaction. He caressed the creamy flesh for a moment before finding the base of the plug and tugging it. Sherlock made a noise deep in his chest and John pushed it back in. He fucked Sherlock with the plug a few times before slipping it out, running it down the crack of Sherlock's arse to coat the skin with lube and then tossing it aside. "You ready for the real thing?""Yessssss," Sherlock moaned. "In a minute," John said, sliding his cock upward between Sherlock’s buttocks, not penetrating but enveloping himself in Sherlock’s soft flesh, pressing the cheeks together with his hands. He thrust upward again and again between Sherlock’s buttocks.Sherlock moaned again and began to reach between his legs. "Not fair!" he said. “I never said it'd be fair," John said, pinning Sherlock’s wrists to the wall beside his head as he continued to thrust.Finally, he released Sherlock’s wrists and pressed the head of his cock against his arsehole. Then he stayed perfectly still, relishing Sherlock's agony as he made him wait."Pleeeeeease, John,” Sherlock panted. John took hold of Sherlock’s hips and pulled him back. The plug had done its job, and with only a little effort, John slipped inside. Sherlock’s body tensed, and he made a low whimpering sound. John stopped and waited. When Sherlock relaxed, he pulled his hips back slowly, burying himself in Sherlock's body. He paused for a moment, savouring the hot tightness that enveloped him, and then withdrew and slammed forward again and again, as hard as he could. He grasped Sherlock's hips as he drove into him, and tomorrow, along with the sucked bruise and the bitemark, there would be ten more faint bruises from his fingers. Sherlock braced himself against the onslaught and his face hit the door with each thrust until he tasted blood. Then he felt John grasp his hair and pull his head back, using it for leverage.This was the way Sherlock liked John--and sex--rough and passionate. This was the John he had missed these last few months. It was ironic that in their public life, Sherlock always took the alpha male role, but when they were alone, like this, it was usually, but not always, the reverse. Sherlock was not thinking about this as he was being fucked against the door, but he would think about it later. And he would think about how he had deliberately provoked John to elicit this response. How he had hurt John for his own selfish ends, and he would be ashamed.Sherlock’s legs began to tremble, and John stopped.“Sofa?” he asked.“Sofa,” agreed Sherlock.John withdrew and pulled Sherlock toward the sofa, shedding his remaining clothing along the way. Sherlock lay down on his back and John fell on top of him. They kissed. Sherlock broke the kiss and began, “John, I’m so sorry…”“Quiet. I know. It’s OK,” John whispered. He pulled off the knickers with his teeth and then knelt between Sherlock’s legs. He lifted Sherlock's calves over his shoulders and began to stroke his penis. Sherlock keened and whimpered, as his cock finally got the attention it needed. Then, John sunk into him once more. This time he was gentler, slower, watching Sherlock’s face as it contorted in ecstasy. John loved watching Sherlock like this. He rolled his hips as he stroked his lover, knowing that this was not going to take long. Sherlock was so very ready.“Ohhhhh!" Sherlock cried out, as his whole body trembled and he came so hard that drops of milky come landed on his chin. As his arse clenched, John breathed “Oh god, Sherlock”, and he came too. When they had caught their breath, John slid out and lay beside Sherlock on the sofa with his head on his shoulder. He swiped a fingertip over Sherlock's chin and licked it clean. They lay together for several minutes in silence. And then, Sherlock said the words that John loved to hear, that thrilled him to the very tips of his toes every time. “Johhhnnn… Johhhnnn…Johhhhhn,” whispered almost like a mantra, or a prayer. Then they both spoke at once, talking over one another.“Sherlock, I'm sorry I pushed you.”“John, marry me.”
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John was dumbfounded.“I’m sorry, what?”“Marry me.”John pulled himself up to one elbow, staring at Sherlock.“You’re joking.”“Have you ever known me to joke, John?”“No, but I’ve never known you approve of the institution of marriage either.”“Maybe I’ve changed.”“I don’t believe you.”Sherlock took a deep breath.“John, what you said to me Friday, about me only thinking about myself, you were right. I’ve been selfish. You have been working so hard, and I’ve been a complete dick about it. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, and I hurt you on purpose, just to get your attention. You’re also right that I don’t give a toss about marriage, but I know that you do. As far as I’m concerned, I belong to you for the rest of my life, and no ceremony, no piece of paper, and no ring is going to change that. I never expected to love anyone, and then I met you. You complete me John Watson--I know that sounds like a corny film line, but it’s true. I can’t imagine life without you, and I want you to be happy. If getting married will make you happy then it will make me happy too.”“Sherlock, are you sure? It’s a big step.”“I’m sure.”John kissed Sherlock's forehead, and then said, "As I said, I owe you an apology as well. I let my jealousy get the better of me."“Oh, I enjoyed it immensely," Sherlock grinned. "I love it when Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers comes out and takes charge. Maybe next time you'll wear your uniform while you order me around."John laughed, then got serious. "But I pushed you, Sherlock. That was wrong. It won't happen again. I promise.""I believe you," Sherlock said. John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, and they kissed tenderly. John thought that there was nothing more delicious than Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock thought that there was nothing more warm and constant than John’s love. They fell asleep on the sofa tangled together.
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John and Sherlock did get married. It was a simple affair, attended by family and close friends. They exchanged rings and pledged themselves to one another. I was going to say that they lived “happily ever after” but of course this could never be completely true. Sometimes John was tired and cranky. Sometimes Sherlock’s experiments exploded and wrecked the flat. Sherlock still didn’t do his share of the chores. John still wore his hideous jumpers. Sex was sometimes spectacular and sometimes ordinary. Occasionally, the knickers made an appearance, sometimes jam. Through it all, our boys at 221B loved each other fiercely and well, and really, no one could ask for more than that.