Chapter Text
John woke up with an uncomfortable stretching feeling in his neck. He’d forgotten that he slept on the couch last night, let alone that he’d slept in the clothes he wore the night before. He tried to turn around, but his elbow was met with a hard suitcase and, because the rest of his body was still disoriented, his legs tumbled off the couch and John landed face-first on lined, scrawled note from Mary.
I want you gone by the end of the day!
John was entirely certain that the exclamation point was wholly unnecessary, but he didn’t make any further comments. Instead he sighed and picked himself back up. John trudged over to the kitchen in hopes of making himself some coffee, but found that Mary had removed not only all traces of coffee from the house, but all traces of everything caffeinated, everything John liked, and everything John wasn’t allergic to. ‘Mary?’ he called, sincerely hoping she wasn’t home. He was rewarded with blissful – if aggravating – silence.
Probably deserve it he thought, in disgust, about the coffee. John made his way, still bleary with sleep, to the end table and to his mobile phone so he could call a cab. The phone, however, started ringing when he picked it up.
For the first time, and quite probably the last, John Watson thanked God for Mycroft Holmes.
‘Hello, John. I hope I didn’t wake the Mrs?’
‘We’re not married, Mycroft, and we broke up last night,’ John growled, ‘And I’m sure you’re well aware of that.’
‘Of course I am,’ he hummed cheerfully. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be needing a car to come and pick up you and your things?’
‘Thank you, Mycroft. That would be lovely.’
John made to hang up the phone when Mycroft began speaking again. John rubbed his head in exasperation. It would be just like one of the Holmes boys to begin talking and just expect John to listen, not even asking for him to wait or stop, just blundering by. Nonetheless, John held the phone to his ear.
‘Before I send a car out, I need you to be informed of something.
As you are not a stupid man,’ (John snorted here at the slightly backhanded compliment) ‘You must be well aware, by now, of the nature of my little brother’s feelings for you.’
‘This is the talk, isn’t it?’ John stated more than asked.
Mycroft paused. ‘John, I assure you I do not know this “talk” of which you speak.’
‘Oh like Hell you don’t, Mycroft. This is the part where you tell me that if I break his heart you’ll break my knees.’
‘Neck, more likely, Doctor Watson. That is the general idea, yes. You see, I do not wish for you to pretend to return my baby brother’s feelings out of some fear that you’ll hurt his feelings. I am simply alerting you that if you use him for sex –‘
‘Jesus Christ – Mycroft, I would never do that –‘
‘His suicide will be on your neck.’ John pressed his thumbs into his right thumb and forefinger into his eyebrow, hoping to stave off what he was sure would be a spectacular migraine.
‘What makes you think Sherlock even has feelings for me, Mycroft?’
There was another slight pause. ‘Like Sherlock, I cannot really read you. I watch you go on dates with women you do not care about and flirt with people you have no intention of ever seeing again.
My brother is not like that. The only romance he has ever had was with Victor Trevor during university. Victor professed to love him, only to leave him after six weeks for another boy – Sebastian Wilkes – and admit he was only using Sherlock for sex. Victor said he figured Sherlock would be easy, as he was a virgin. How much of this my brother remembers, I do not know; immediately after his and Victor’s rather terrible parting, Sherlock took to cocaine.’
Mycroft took a breath and John understood that it was more to calm himself down than it was for actual need of breathing. John had never felt angrier in his life than he did now, realizing Mycroft was not simply spouting a low opinion of John out of dislike for the man, but rather out of actual care for his brother. Instantaneously, all of Sherlock’s odd behaviours and opinions concerning other people made sense. His hand was trembling again, but not out of his usual psychosomatic symptoms; John’s hands were trembling because he was angry.
‘I apologize if I seem rather harsh. Sherlock likes to pretend as though he does not understand the emotions of others, and as though he does not have emotions himself. This is not, in the least, the case. I must warn you that if you do choose to enter some form of romantic relationship with my brother, he will be extremely possessive of you and demand an inordinate amount of your attention. He will give his entire self to you. His devotion to you will be nearly equal to that of the work. Why he loves you, I do not know; I doubt very much that he understands it either, but I suppose that must mean it is true.’
‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ John quoted lamely.
Mycroft might have nodded, had he and John been in the same room. ‘The world is like that, John Watson. I can no more understand the ways of love than I can understand how both you and Sherlock missed the fact that Morstan is not Mary’s real last name.’
John was pulled out of his fantasy (throwing Sherlock up against a wall and kissing him silly). ‘Wait, what?’
‘The reason – or, I suppose, one of the reasons – Miss Morstan held so much vitriol for Sherlock is that she is the sister of James Moriarty. The two were separated at birth. Morstan is her mother’s maiden name, and as a child she had Mary’s documents changed so that they no longer read “Mary Moriarty.”’
John was left speechless, and although Mycroft didn’t speak John had the feeling that he was being laughed at.
‘Good bye, Doctor Watson. A car will be picking you up in thirty minutes time. I suggest you use that time to determine where you stand with Sherlock.’
There was a click, and the line went dead.
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Sherlock stood in front of the steps to John and Mary’s house and readjusted his tee shirt. He knew that it wasn’t going to get any better; he’d slept in these clothes and declined borrowing Mycroft’s because he didn’t want to look anymore more like Mycroft than he already had the misfortune to bear with. Sherlock sighed and shook his head at himself; there was no way to further prolong this confrontation. It had to happen sooner or later, and it should probably sooner. (Mary was more likely to be present if he waited until later.)
He trotted up the last few steps to find himself face-to-face with the front door. He rested his head against the cool glass of it, bracing himself for whatever he would meet inside. He raised his fist up to knock, but when he leaned further onto the door, it opened itself. Whoever had last left hadn’t closed it all the way, but Sherlock hardly cared. Instead he was now more interested in the music coming from the sitting room piano. It started off soft, and then a deeper, slightly darker voice joined in with the melody.
If I fell in love with you,
Would you promise to be true
And help me understand?
Because I’ve been in love before
And I found that love was more
Than just holding hands
If I give my heart to you,
I must be sure from the very start
That you will love me more than her
If I trust in you,
Oh please, don’t run and hide –
‘You play beautifully,’ Sherlock blurted out. Feeling sheepish, he walked the rest of the way into the sitting room and found John turned on the piano bench, smiling at him.
‘It’s not as good as your playing, on the violin,’ he countered. ‘It’s been quite a while since I’ve played. I’m surprised I still know how to play.’
‘I’ve heard you humming that song before,’ Sherlock said quietly. He sat down next to John on the bench. ‘Is it one of yours? Did you write it?’
John threw his head back and laughed in a way Sherlock hadn’t seen in years. The sight made his heart flutter and he hoped John couldn’t see it through the thin fabric of his tee shirt. The room was becoming steadily warmer and Sherlock felt the urge to lean into John, to soak up the warmth he was radiating.
‘No, you dolt,’ John said, suppressing giggles poorly. ‘It’s a song by the Beatles.’
Sherlock leaned back slightly so he could give John a confused look with his brows furrowed. Sherlock was imagining tiny bugs with large instruments. While the picture might have been funny to anybody else, it was simply frustrating to Sherlock.
John shook his head. ‘Wow. Once we’re back home, I have a lot to teach you.’ Sherlock was still reveling in the warmth when he realized it was leaving. John was standing up from the piano bench and away, fiddling with two suitcases – one old-fashioned, hard case and another bigger, cloth ones with wheels. Sherlock followed John as John’s words sunk into his brain.
Once we’re back home. ‘But John, you are home.’
John paused what he was doing to tilt his head toward Sherlock, looking at him through his eyelashes. ‘No, Sherlock,’ he said softly. ‘This is Mary’s home, and I don’t belong here. We broke up last night.’
Again, Sherlock tried to hide the fluttering in his chest. He knew that this emotion was called hope, and that it was always, always followed by despair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but didn’t really feel.
John shook his head. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s mine, actually. She wanted more from me than I was willing and able to give.’
Sherlock tilted his head and wondered if he had to actually say the words Do you want to talk about it? to get John to tell him what happened.
He didn’t. ‘She wanted to take care of me, to fix me, after you…left. But she wanted me to love her in return. She wanted me to marry her and start a life with her and completely forget about you. When you came back, she wanted me to stop being friends with you. When I said no…’ He sighed, shaking his head again, looking away from Sherlock bashfully. ‘She wanted to have sex last night. I refused.’
Sherlock blinked several times to hide the words Take that, bitch from floating in place of his eyes. ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘She’s reasonably attractive, you’re heterosexual and from what I’ve seen of your other girlfriends she seems like your type –‘
‘Sexuality doesn’t always work that way, Sherlock. You know that. I just…I can’t have sex with people when we don’t have an emotional connection. I’ve tried and it just doesn’t work. So I wouldn’t say I’m straight, entirely. It’s just that, the emotional connections I’ve formed haven’t been with men. Not for the most part.’
John was looking away from Sherlock as if embarrassed or ashamed, but Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. He thought about it while Mycroft’s men came and helped Sherlock and John pack their things and leave. He thought about it on the drive to Baker Street.
They were back on Baker Street (newly re-modeled, Mrs Hudson would hate it but she’s still at her sister’s), John fetching the milk and Sherlock organizing books on a bookshelf, when Sherlock realised what it was.
The emotional connections I’ve formed haven’t been with men. Oh. For the most part. Oh. For the most part. OH!
The book in Sherlock’s hand went flying as Sherlock flailed, limbs running amok from his body. He was certain he’d started spinning, but wasn’t sure how that was happening when he couldn’t even feel his body moving any more. His entire existence was in his head, in his chest, in his heart. John meant me, John meant me, John meant me. Sherlock kept turning until his vision went spotty and he fell on the floor.
‘Please be careful Sherlock. We’ve only just got back and I don’t want to be checking you for a –'
John was unable to finish his thought with concussion because Sherlock had launched himself on John, wrapping both arms and legs around him. John could feel him trying to grab and hold onto his hair, but the strands were too soft and too short. Sherlock nuzzled his face into John’s neck and said, with no regard to the irrelevancy of the statement, ‘I thought you were going to get milk,’ before kissing John harshly on the mouth.
John drew his hands around Sherlock’s waist to hold him close, pursing his lips more to deflect the feeling of Sherlock’s teeth just beyond his own lips. ‘I’ kiss ‘forgot’ kiss ‘my’ kiss ‘wallet’ kiss.
Sherlock began to squirm against John’s body, losing the grip he had on John’s neck and shoulders. John sniggered against his cheek and took Sherlock by his hips, extracting Sherlock’s body from his own and depositing him on the floor. Sherlock frowned, saddened by the loss of contact until John placed a hand on each of Sherlock cheeks and kissed him softly.
It was sweet and soft, brushing their lips together. It was also far too slow for Sherlock, who had been dreaming about this and fantasizing about this for hours and days and years. Finally, finally, John took Sherlock’s top lip between his two lips, did the same with his bottom lip, and slipped his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth.
And oh, he could come from that alone. His hands were flailing again, tracing John’s outline until John grabbed Sherlock’s arms by the wrists and placed Sherlock’s hands on his hips, putting his own hands on Sherlock’s. They were pressed up against a doorframe now, and although it was terribly uncomfortable on Sherlock’s spine it allowed John better leverage to slip his knee and thigh in between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock moaned wantonly, rubbing his cock against John’s thigh.
Sherlock backed up and slammed his head against the dorm frame, covering his mouth with a hand.
‘No, no, Sherlock, don’t do that. This isn’t some sort of secret tryst, and Mrs Hudson isn’t here. So let me hear you.’ John pulled Sherlock’s hand from his mouth and Sherlock let it drop mesmerised as John pushed another closed-mouth kiss against his lips.
Then John dropped to his knees, pulling Sherlock’s trousers down and exposing his silk pants, starting to soak at the front. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand to calm him down before pressing closed lips to the bulge in his pants.
Sherlock’s breathing grew terribly erratic, heart fluttering so hard he thought it might burst through his chest. John let his mouth fall open and his tongue begin to loll out. John licked through the pants at Sherlock’s balls and left open-mouthed kisses along the shaft.
Sherlock groaned again and his head slammed against the doorframe in response. John giggled, standing up. ‘Come on you, let’s get you a pillow.’
It was a good thing that John took his hand, because Sherlock was so blinded by lust he could hardly see in front of him. They had to stop halfway to pull Sherlock’s trousers up because he couldn’t even walk.
They stopped just outside of Sherlock’s door and John asked ‘Do you have anything we’d need?’
Sherlock blinked dumbly, then realized what John was asking. ‘John, John,’ his hands were caressing his face, his hair, his chest. ‘I’m sorry, John.’
John frowned. ‘Sorry about what?’
‘I don't have anything. I don't... I didn't... I haven't...’
John kissed his lips softly. ‘It’s okay. I have condoms and lube in my shaving kit. But Sherlock, you've been tested, right? Is there anything I should know?’
'I'm actually clean, improbable as that may seem,' Sherlock said, blushingly and began kissing soft bites into John's neck, plotting out hickeys; where he wanted everybody to see that Doctor John Hamish Watson was his, and nobody else’s. John growled low in his throat and drew Sherlock into the room. 'I'm really glad to hear that, Sherlock.'
They collided into each other and onto a bed, much bigger and softer than the one Sherlock used to have, and resumed kissing as they removed the clothes that didn’t require their lips parting to take off. Soon they were pressed against each other, clothed chest to clothed chest and naked erections sliding against each other. John rolled his hips as his tongue darted in and out of Sherlock’s mouth obscenely. Sherlock continued his whorish groans as John growled, pulling his lips away from Sherlock’s and removing his shirt, snapping his hips harshly when Sherlock began to remove his own, slowly.
When the shirt was stuck at Sherlock’s elbows and covered his head, John leaned down and bit Sherlock’s right nipple.
Sherlock’s back arched up off the bed and his moan sounded like a scream, high-pitched and breathy. John took this opportunity to rest his hand just above Sherlock’s arse.
John moved down the bed, petting Sherlock’s arse as he went. Sherlock looked down at him with bedroom eyes, body unwittingly bucking towards John’s face. John pushed the packet of lube toward Sherlock’s hand wordlessly as he sucked the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.
Sherlock actually screamed this time, fingers twisting in the sheets and neck exposed. His body slid down as his knees bent, toes also curling in the sheets. John slipped his mouth down as far as he could over the shaft and pulled back, repeating the motion and bobbing his head as he grabbed the lube packet and pushed it firmly into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock gasped, finally getting the message and ripping it open, applying some of the lubrication onto his fingers. He knew what to do, but only just; he and Victor had broken up just before attempting anal sex. Perhaps it was because Sherlock said no that Victor broke up with him…
All thoughts of Victor were erased from Sherlock’s mind as John sucked particularly hard and fondled his balls, sliding his tongue up the shaft to suck at the head of his cock again. Sherlock closed his eyes, took a steadying deep breath, and inserted his fingers into himself.
He started with too many and had to remove two; but again, he’d never done this before and he wanted to get the preparation over with as quickly as possible (even with the wonderful feeling of John pressing kisses to his penis, oh god, he was going to come if John didn’t stop, playing with the foreskin now -).
John pressed a last kiss to the head and groaned at the vision of Sherlock pressing his own fingers into himself. John crawled up to the top of the bed, kissing Sherlock’s forehead and cheeks as he went, and pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder as he grabbed a pillow, lifted Sherlock’s hips and placed the pillow under them. John applied one of his own fingers next to Sherlock’s inside his body. ‘God, you’re so tight,’ he whispered. Sherlock groaned in exasperation, sticking another finger in and slamming himself down on the three. John used a free hand to push back Sherlock’s hair and kiss his forehead again. ‘Shh, that’s not a bad thing. Just need to be a little looser, a little more relaxed. I don’t want to hurt you.’
John turned Sherlock’s face so he could kiss him and calm him down. Sherlock sighed into the kiss, leaning in and running his tongue over John’s lips. More relaxed now, John moved his fingers with Sherlock’s inside his hole, bumping over his prostate.
Sherlock broke the kiss and howled. John smiled into Sherlock's neck, kissing and sucking gently as he continued to work his fingers, stretching Sherlock and massaging his prostate. When Sherlock's moans and groans became incoherent panting, John removed his fingers and pulled the condom over his cock, picking up what was left of the lubricant package and spread it on his fingers, slicking his cock quickly. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s soft belly. 'You alright, love?' John asked, searching Sherlock's face as he pressed up against his hole.
'Yes! Yes, please, John,' Sherlock panted as he wrapped his legs around John’s waist and tried to pull him in. John nudged his cockhead through the tight ring and slowly, as Sherlock relaxed, sank deeper and deeper, until his penis was completely engulfed in that tight heat. Sherlock moaned and squirmed against him, attempting to make the cock hit his prostate. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips to hold him still and pulled out slightly before rocking back in. Sherlock moaned, a deep guttural sound that John felt in his cock. He leaned close to Sherlock’s right ear and whispered ‘God, I love you so much, do you know?’
Sherlock seemed unable to talk and so nodded instead, pushing his forehead against John’s and kissing him, sparks flying behind his closed eyes from all the points of connection: his arms around John’s neck, John’s hands on his hip, their mouths and tongues touching as Sherlock’s legs sat lazily now at John’s ribcage as the snaps of John’s hips began to pick up speed and pound into Sherlock’s body.
‘I love the way you take everything so seriously, even when nobody else believes it. Like with Henry Knight.’ Sherlock whimpered in response. John’s cock nudged against his prostate with each stroke. ‘And the way you try to teach me how to do what you do, like I’m actually worth your time.’
‘You are – unghhh –‘ Sherlock moaned against his lips. John’s left hand drifted from Sherlock’s hip to the bed, grabbing on for support. He lifted Sherlock’s hips up onto his knees and his cock sank further into Sherlock, making both of them groan. John set up a furious rhythm and Sherlock was moaning loudly enough that, John thought, were Mrs Hudson home, she would have heard it clearly. (She was and she did. She blushed horribly as she heard Sherlock yelp ‘Oh, God, John, yes! Yes! Yes! There! God, harder! John! Fuck! John!’ with such startling clarity that she feared they were fucking on the stairs next to her door. She climbed out of a back window so she wouldn’t have to see, just in case.)
Sherlock’s body began to clamp down on John’s cock as he neared orgasm, pushing John almost to the edge. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and he arched up, fucking his body down onto John’s penis, then up into his fist. Sherlock came with a shout, spurts of come hitting John’s chin which sent John over the edge, pulsing into Sherlock as the aftershocks continued to stroke his cock. Rocking together, murmuring happy sounds, John slowly withdrew and kissed Sherlock’s chest.
‘I’ll be right back, love. Just need to clean us up –‘
When Sherlock could see again, he opened his eyes. Everything seemed brighter and more intense; he was starving, he was exhausted, and he felt so filled with love his mind was imploding. Sherlock sighed. It was perfect.
John disposed of the condom, cleaned them both off and pulled the sheets back so he could settle in, his front to Sherlock’s side. ‘You okay, love?’
‘Love…’ Sherlock sighed. ‘Please, don’t ever not call me that.’
John blinked. ‘That’s a little too convoluted a sentence for me to figure out right now, love.’
Sherlock turned and laid a hand on his cheek. He crawled closer and kissed him, lips pursed to avoid the bruises where they’d bitten each other. He hadn’t even noticed.
‘Never said it, but I mean it. I love you, love you, love you.’
John nodded and smiled, running a hand up and down Sherlock’s back. He kissed Sherlock’s nose. ‘I’m yours, you’re mine.’
‘Forever,’ Sherlock confirmed. ‘Nobody else can have you.’
‘Nor nobody you.’
They were silent for a few moments before Sherlock, despite the overwhelming exhaustion, began to squirm.
‘John?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘I need to pee.’
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Life at Baker Street changed, and it didn't. John introduced Sherlock to the Beatles and Motown. Cases were plentiful, John switched surgeries. A lot of their time together was spent cuddling and kissing – not that they didn’t enjoy sex, but it wasn’t necessary for every day and simply wasn’t possible when a case was on (and after one particularly painful venture, when one of them was seriously injured; as in, had a broken limb). Mrs Hudson now warned everybody to knock before entering, and no matter how hard John and Sherlock tried to convince her that it simply wasn’t necessary (and that they weren’t having sex in the stairway that first time) she remained convinced that it was still a necessity.
Mycroft was still confused, even more so when Inspector Lestrade asked him for a date.
‘What do I do?’ he hissed at John over the phone.
John was beginning to lose feeling in his harm because Sherlock was using him as a pillow. He really had no desire to continue this ridiculous conversation. ‘You accept, Mycroft,’ he told him, and he hung up.
About three months later, when Sherlock gained a sudden interest in their future (‘I’d like to keep bees when we retire,’ he informed John one day, playing with his hands. ‘Mm?’ asked John, reading a book and not fully paying attention. He set the book down. ‘We’re going to retire?’ ‘Of course,’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘It won’t be practical or safe after we have children.’ ‘…Sherlock, we can’t have children, we’re men.’ Sherlock looked back and kissed him on the chin. ‘We can adopt, though. I’m just pleased you didn’t say “no”.’ ‘Why would I say “no”?’ Sherlock shrugged. ‘You might not always want me.’ John sighed and said, ‘Allow me to demonstrate how terribly wrong that idea is,’ and that was the end of the verbal conversation), they received a wedding invitation in the mail.
‘Well, Mycroft and Greg are moving fast,’ John laughed, but Sherlock’s face paled.
‘It’s not for them. It’s for…Victor and Mary…actually.’
He and John exchanged horrified looks before John said ‘Oh, Hell no,’ and that was the last time they ever thought about Victor and Mary – let alone the two of them together.