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A Bit Better	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3330 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
A/N: READ THIS PLEASE! This is your warning. There are elements of dub-con in this chapter. It is consensual, just not in the way it should be really. No one is permanently hurt, physically or mentally, but it is a very rough scene.

John woke to his phone chirping incessantly, sun just beginning to creep into the room through the window. Rolling over to see his mothers name flashing across the screen he quickly denied the call and set the phone back on the nightstand. He knew what she wanted, and he wanted no part of it. Turning back to Sherlock he curled up against him. Years of military training prevented him from falling back asleep even though they didn’t have any reason to be up early. Instead he closed his eyes, running through the crazy events of the last couple days, a smile playing on his lips as his fingers languidly skirted across the detectives chest.
“Must you wake me when you can’t go back to sleep on your own?” Although Sherlock didn’t always sleep when he should, when he was woken prematurely he could be quite grumpy.
However, this morning, his surly demeanor stemmed from witnessing the denial of his mother’s phone call. John had just been on about Sherlock seeing his own mother, yet he was denying a call from his own. He made a grumpy sound, but wrapped his arm around John anyway, pulling him tight into his chest, and forcing the other man to lay there as he pretended to go back to sleep, snuggling deep into the tanned throat.
Not seeing anything odd with Sherlock’s attitude John pulled him close, contented to lay wrapped up together until the detective was ready to get up.
It wasn’t the only call John had refused to answer from his mother. Over the next few days Sherlock caught John ignoring multiple texts and calls. Brushing them away, saying he’d get around to calling her back later. It wasn’t until four days after their visit to the Holmes Estate that John answered his mother's call.
When the phone buzzed next to him, he had given up keeping the ringer on as the calls had become almost constant, John let out a defeated sigh. Sherlock had run out to the morgue, apparently certain Molly had spare bits and was holding out on him, so pushing out of his chair to pace about the room John answered the phone.
The call followed the same pattern it always did. She chastised him for not calling more and prattled on about Mrs. Soandso, someone he was supposed to have known from his childhood, before turning the attention on John. She had this impossible need to fix John with every and any suitable woman she met and of course, this call was no different.
Her hairstylist’s daughter was visiting from out of town, lovely woman, just a few years younger than him. He was just in the middle of explaining away his mother, his back to the door as he gazed out the window, when Sherlock walked in.
“No.. No I’m no-.. Mum I’m not seeing anyone, I’m just busy.. Yes I’m sure she’s lovely bu-.. We have to work Saturday, okay Mum... Yeah tell her maybe next time she’s in town.. Yes I know that I’m just not really loo-” His words caught in his throat as he turned to see Sherlock standing in the room, the look on his face saying he’d heard enough of the conversation. “looking..”John managed to stammer out, averting his eyes from the detective. “Listen mum someones at the door. I’ll talk to you later. Yeah, Love you too. Ta.”
He rolled the phone in his hand nervously before looking back up at Sherlock.
The detective didn’t say a word, just turned on his heel, the bag of body parts swinging on his wrist. It was obvious he was upset by what he’d heard, but he would never say anything on his own. He did however make a point to arrange the body parts all throughout the fridge so that there was no way to ignore them.
He knew John would want to talk about what he’d just heard, but he would refuse. He needed to work through the overwhelming need to vomit that was coursing through his stomach. Moving back to the sofa, he spread out his long limbs and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
They had not defined their relationship, but he had been under the impression that John had been viewing this just like any other. All the signs were there, yet he’d told his mother he wasn’t seeing anyone. What Sherlock couldn’t fathom more than anything else was why his chest felt so tight.
“Sherlock?” John started cautiously as he moved toward the sofa. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, stopping just a few steps short of where Sherlock was sprawled out across the sofa. “That...” he faltered, trying to come up with some sort of explanation that wouldn’t make things worse, of course Sherlock knew that had been his mum, and he would know everything about the conversation. That was just Sherlock.
“Listen I was just saying those things to get her to let up a bit, I didn’t mean it.” His voice was small, much less sure than the doctor normally was when he confronted Sherlock. For once it was John that had done something a bit not good.
Sherlock held up one hand signalling for John to stop talking. He was silent for a long moment, not really wishing to respond, instead tried to quell the nausea roiling in his belly. When he was sure he could contain himself, he sat up once more, his eyes boring up coldly into the wary blue ones above him.
“Don’t feel that you need to explain yourself John, it was I who requested that we don’t put a label on what has been going on between us. Therefore your statement to your mother was quite accurate.” His voice was calm and even, a stark contrast to the roiling in his mind and stomach, “It’s quite alright.” He tried to keep his tone from belying how not alright he was feeling.
The detective couldn’t sit still anymore and moved to stand. He would pace if he had to , but he couldn’t sit still with his thoughts any longer. He wondered idly as he pushed past John lightly if he could delete the incident without consequence. He would have to weigh the pros and cons.
John stared after Sherlock incredulously as he began to move about the room idly. There was a bit of irritation bubbling inside him at the detectives words, and he was fairly certain he would have been happier had Sherlock just gotten pissed like a normal person.
“I was under the impression we were... I don’t know, something..” His hands rose and fell, unsure of how to get through to Sherlock. “I just didn’t want to deal with my mother Sherlock, and that has nothing to do with not having a bloody label.”
He glared back at Sherlock defianty. John knew he’d been the one to botch things up this time, but that little bit of knowledge did nothing to quell his irritation with just how daft Sherlock could be.
The detective whirled around to face the blonde. Glaring, feet set apart, arms crossed over chest, lips pursed together and to the left not the right. Sherlock’s brows raised and his eyes narrowed deadly sharp. John was angry. What right did he have to be angry?
“Regardless of whether we are something or not, I have been nothing but honest. We just returned from my mother’s estate not four days ago, and against my better judgement. When you insisted that I go I acquiesced.” He did not mention the unconventional nature of their argument before, he didn’t think it would further his cause.
“I expressed explicit interest in not wishing to see my mother at all, but I did take you to meet her properly. Now I find that you are denying your mother the right you struggled so hard to obtain for mine, and on top of it you are lying to her. It is obvious that you are using the fact that you do not want to deal with her nagging as an excuse, and it is also obvious that you are angry with me, but I can not fathom why. It is you John who are being the hypocrite here. Furthermore, if you were under the impression that you and I were, ‘I don’t know something’ as you so ineloquently put it, then why are you so quick to deny it?” Towards the end of his little monologue he had gotten angrier, and his words had come faster and sharper. The need to strike out and make the doctor feel like he did had come unbidden and he pushed it back now, not quite sure where it had come from.
He turned his back when he found that he could no longer look into John’s eyes without wanting to strike the man. That would solve no one’s problem. “Do make up your mind John.” The words were sharp as he moved to the window.
Jaw clenched, John breathed slowly, trying to calm himself before he answered Sherlock. The detectives biting words might as well have been a blow. His family was nothing like the Holmes, he knew Sherlock would have figured that out by now. Mind racing far too quickly for his liking John tried to counter Sherlock.
“Going to see your mother had nothing to do with what we were or weren’t, you were gone for three years Sherlock. The poor woman thought you were dead! It’s not the bloody same.” John’s voice rose so he was just beginning to yell now. He felt like grabbing Sherlock, turning him to face him and forcing him to listen to reason, but he didn’t. John stood his ground, fists clenched at his side as he desperately stumbled over his words.
“I lied to my mother, but I’m sure half of London knows we’re together, you don’t see me denying it to any of them. Not my fault she hasn’t noticed.” When Sherlock still didn’t deign him with a response John spat out, particularly bitterly, “Coming out to her wasn’t worth the trouble it’d cause.”
Somewhere in the back of John’s mind he knew that was the turning point of this argument, and he didn’t want to hear the fall out. Slightly panicked John turned away, grabbing his coat as he headed straight for the door.
“I’m going out.”
He didn’t stop to look back at Sherlock, or to properly say goodbye. It wasn’t until he was halfway down the street that he stopped, placing a frustrated kick at an aluminum bin outside one of the shops as he cursed under his breath. John spun on the spot, ignoring the odd glances he was getting from passersby, torn between leaving and going home.
Finally resolved to work out his anger away from Sherlock he pulled out his phone, sending off a text to Mike and Greg as he headed for the pub.
….
Sherlock didn’t move from his place by the window all throughout John’s tirade, however when the door slammed, his words were echoing through the detective’s mind. Wasn’t worth the trouble. John wasn’t like Sherlock in the respect that 90% of things weren’t worth it, and the words were not taken lightly. He stood there for a vast amount of time that could have been anywhere from ten minutes to a few hours.
Finally, he decided that his mind might calm down with a shower. However, after thirty minutes with no luck under the shower and the water started to run cold, he resigned to play his violin.
When he came out of the bathroom, a breeze from Mrs. Hudson stepping out swept up the stairs and the door to John’s room squeaked as it fell open slightly. Ever since things had started between them, John had not returned there except to bring his clothes down to Sherlock’s room. Perhaps a clue would lie inside as to why John was being so insufferable.
He hadn’t been in the room really since he’d been back, and even the one time he had been, he hadn’t really looked around as he’d been practically shoved out as soon as he’d made it in. Now, long fingers pressed against the wood, feeling it move beneath his touch. It was dark, but Sherlock could still see quite clearly.
The single bed was made with military precision, and the room looked empty save for it and a desk. The desk had been cleared, and when he rummaged around in the drawers he found nothing but the typical stationary things inside. Finding nothing of interest, he turned his full attention to the only thing on the wall, It was half hidden by the door when it was open but as he pushed it closed, he raised his fingertips to his lips and slowly sank to the floor, his eyes never leaving the cork board tacked to the wall.
...
John leaned heavily against Greg’s shoulder as they rode through London in the back of the cabbie. After a few too many drinks the doctor had quickly unloaded on the two men. Mike stayed quiet, refilling their drinks when needed, but Greg listened, speaking up at all the right moments. The only other person that understood the Holmes like John did.
It had taken Greg and Mike a bit longer than he would have liked to meet him at the pub, so sitting at the bar John began drinking by himself. Shamelessly wallowing in his predicament. He almost didn’t notice the woman that slid onto the barstool next to him, almost. Stealing a sideways glance John saw that she was in her mid to late twenties, far too young for him, brunette, good looking, and obviously staring. When she caught his eyes glancing at her she smiled seductively. John quickly looked away, he’d noticed her yes, but he was in no way interested in starting any conversation with the girl.
After a few quiet moments she made a move towards him. Sliding one hand along his thigh quickly as she slipped off of the stool so she was standing just to his side and behind him, her breath cascading down his exposed neck.
“You look lonely love.” Her voice was delicate, but in no way innocent, and a sickly sweet perfume engulfed John’s senses as she swooped closer. A small hand, nothing like the strong hands he was used to, trailed along the inside of his leg quickly until her hand was rubbing against the not quite hard bulge in his trousers. “I could give you some company.”
John was a bit taken aback by the sudden proposition, so it took him a moment to pull away. Almost falling off his own barstool John pulled away from the girl, his heart rate ridiculously elevated.
“I.. No..” He stammered before finding his composure. “I’m fine, just waiting for some friends.” He gave her a pointed glance that said he was not interested before turning away.
Greg and Mike still weren’t due for a half hour or so, and he didn’t want to sit back down next to the girl, so John made his way to the back of the pub, slipping into the restroom. Splashing cool water on his face he tried to erase the event that had just transpired. Already slightly buzzed from the first two drinks he’d downed John’s mind began playing with him cruelly.
With his eyes closed John felt the caress of the woman’s breath on his neck, alcohol fuelled arousal stirring within him. Locking himself in the smaller stall John let his mind wander, the girls high sweet tones quickly replaced by the baritone one he’d grown so attached to. The small frame and breasts cast aside in favor of imagining Sherlock’s nimble fingers working across his skin. Taking his throbbing member in his hand John easily gave into his drunken desires, any thoughts of the girl quickly leaving his mind.
Half an hour later found John at one of the many booths at the pub, sitting with Greg and Mike, the entire incident a distant memory. Instead his focus was on why he’d left the flat in the first place. He explained how his mother had been trying to set him up with women since he’d returned from Afghanistan, apparently worried that between Harry and him she would never see grandchildren. She’d stopped when his depression set back in, but since Sherlock had been back, and John’s attitude had improved, she’d started up again. As the night progressed John’s tirade became less and less coherent. When it turned into him muttering defeatedly into a half drunk pint Greg finally stepped in.
“I’m not hiding him. Stupid sod.” John tried to take another drink from the pint, but found the glass a bit too heavy for his liking. Setting it back down on the tabletop he shook his head and kept rattling on, just loud enough that Greg could catch his words. Mike had taken his leave half hour earlier with a sympathetic glance at John. John had barely noticed. “I just don’t want my mum to ruin everything... She always ruins things.. Poor Harry..”
His voice trailed off a bit, a nostalgic look in his eyes. Finally looking back to Greg, as if he just noticed he was there he swallowed hard against the rising lump in his throat. “I love him....” Then, as if he’d realized what he’d just admitted, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, leaning into the table.
“God how am I going to fix this?”
That had been the last thing Lestrade needed to hear. Tugging John to his feet he began guiding him out of the pub. “You’re going to go home and talk to him.”
Lestrade didn’t say anything again until the cab was pulling up outside of 221b. Nudging John up and out of the cab he put one hand on his shoulder, “Not to throw your advice back at you, but you need to tell him how you feel John.”
“I can’t.” John said, swaying slightly. He knew what Lestrade was talking about, the thought he’d been pushing out of his mind for quite some time now. The thought alone sobered him a bit, “He doesn’t... I’d rather not know for sure anyways, less painful.”
He stepped away from Greg, staring up at 221b, the building seemed to loom over him, like it knew just how scared he was of facing Sherlock. John chuckled to himself a little at the thought, he really was drunk.
“Thanks Greg.. I’ll just..” John motioned towards the door as he rummaged through his pockets for his keys.
Greg sighed and leaned halfway out of the cab. “John, I think you’d be surprised. For all the world, they act like they don’t have feelings, but it just takes them a little time to show it. I’ve said it before, I have the more competent Holmes, but they’re more alike than you would think... Just... Don’t wait until it’s too late alright mate?” Greg made a gesture and waited until John was safely inside before nodding to the cabbie on home.
Once inside John leaned back against the door, more worried about how he’d find Sherlock, or if he’d even still be home, then when and if he should tell the man that he loved him. Stumbling up the steps to the landing John attempted, unsuccessfully, to keep the drunken stagger out of his gait. He was just about to head for the sitting room when he saw light pouring out of his old room, the door was cracked open.
His body was on alert all at once. Slowly he made his way up the second flight of stairs, his own anxiety as to what he would find helping to clear the haze from his mind a little, but he still leaned heavily on the rail. At the top he pushed the door open to find Sherlock sitting cross legged on the floor, staring at the one thing John had managed to keep hidden since his return.
“You saved every newspaper clipping that had to do with my death or our cases before that.” He said, his eyes scanning each one in turn. “Every criminal whose sentence was reduced because of the implications of my character. Every supposed sighting. That one was me...” he said pointing to a photo on the top left., “That one is obviously not...” he pointed to one somewhere lower down.
“Was it your desire to keep the idea of me alive that compelled you to keep all of this, or did it simply help you feel like more of a victim?” He turned to look at John then and his brows knit together. His eyes flickered over John’s body taking in everything, and the dislike of what he found was evident on his face.
“You smell like a woman, and you’ve been drinking... decide that there wasn’t something between us after all?” His words were sudden and sharp. The time apart hadn’t eased his temper at all.
John’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his addled mind still processing the fact that Sherlock had found the one thing that showed how desperately John had been searching for any little piece of the detective during his absence. Finally realizing what Sherlock was saying John shook his head desperately.
“No. Sherlock.” he stumbled, surprised the detective had managed to smell the woman’s perfume from across the room, especially through the alcohol. “That’s not what happened.” His words were slow, trying to seem as competent as possible.
Sherlock was on his feet in seconds, and was drawing close to John, his head inclined towards the man. He took a deep breath and when their eyes met once again they were cold and sharp. Grabbing John’s lapels he pulled him just inside the room so he could push him up against the wall.
“You smell like semen,” Sherlock said, his hands gripping tight, the deduction doing something to make him feel more secure. “But... it’s only her perfume on you, not her bodily fluids... Which means you ejaculated on your own. Did she get you off? No, her smell is only on your clothes... She excited and left you to your own devices. Tell me, you must have gone to the bathroom to bring yourself to orgasm...Were you thinking of her when you had your wank in the toilet?”
His voice was deep and dangerous, and his face was close to John’s. His fists were still balled in the front of his jacket as his upper lip twitched slightly in irritation.
John’s breath hitched, surprised by the dangerous gleam in Sherlock’s eye as he was pressed against the wall, but he loved it. The reason John had followed Sherlock in the first place all those years ago, this was it. It was intoxicating, being pulled apart bit by bit under those knowing eyes. If Sherlock got off on the cases, than John got off on the brilliance and mastery of the deductions.
Not bothering to fight against the hands twisted in the fabric of his coat John shook his head. His own blown pupils meeting Sherlock’s.
The detective wasn’t sure why John’s sudden contrite attitude was making him so mad, but rage coursed through his veins none the less. Strong hands pulled him away from the wall and shoved him backwards, towards the small bed, “Answer me John.” he growled.
Pushing him again, the doctor stumbled back onto the bed. When he didn’t respond Sherlock kneeled over him, grabbed his lapels again, shaking the doctor, “Answer me dammit!” His heart was beating in his throat and for the moment nothing seemed more important than an answer to his question.
The alcohol still coursing through his veins kept John pleasantly calm as his hands came to rest over Sherlock’s, still gripping his lapels tightly. His brow furrowed slightly, was Sherlock jealous? Scared?
Again John shook his head, but this time he spoke, his words slow, but no longer slurred. “I didn’t think about her Sherlock, just you.” There was no point in going into more detail, Sherlock had deduced the entire situation perfectly, it was always that one detail he’d get caught up on. There was always something.
His chest rose and fell heavily, giving way to the adrenaline coursing through his veins thanks to Sherlock’s new demeanor.
The anger seemed to drain from him then. Brows knit together in a puzzled expression, and his lips pursed.Long fingers slipped from the material, and balled into fists at his side as he spoke.
“An attractive female, probably just your type, rubbing all over you and you went into the bathroom and wanked at the thought of me? It’s always one thing or another isn’t it?” He gave a small chuckle that sounded suspiciously close to a sob of relief for someone like Sherlock. He pressed the heel of his hand into his left eye socket, his head shaking in disbelief. The action caused his leg to shift where he had placed it between John’s own sprawled limbs to shake him, and now he felt an impossible heat pressing against his thigh.
“John. You’re aroused right now.” he said matter of factly, “You have an erection... I was about to punch you, this is hardly the time...” His tone was snarky, however when he shifted again another wave of the woman’s perfume washed over them both and he swore he would have to leave his own behind just to get it to go away.
“And now?” His voice was thick, deeper than it had been before now that the detectives weight was pressing against his growing arousal. “Still feel like punching me?”
He wanted to apologize. To tell Sherlock everything he had told Greg and Mike, but he couldn’t. The gripping fear of denial left him resorting to circling his hips against the detectives leg. This bit they were good at. Sex was easy, emotions were not.
Sherlock slipped into that aspect of their relationship easily. The overwhelming need to possess and show ownership was crashing over him, and he really didn’t want to examine why. Sex was simple for him, but the reasons behind it really weren’’t.
“No,” His voice was a predatory purr, “What I want is to erase her from you.” He leaned down, his nose tracing the left side of his throat and then the right. He made a noise and sat back on his heels.
“She came up to you on your right side from behind, her perfume is mostly on the back of your shoulder and throat...” He stepped off the bed and yanked John to his feet roughly. Once he had gotten to his feet, the detective stepped behind him and wrapped a hand around his right side, bending slightly so that his long fingers gripped low on his hip. , his nose and lips traveling up the right side of his neck.
“She propositioned you, and she tried to make it seem like a good idea... She touched you.” The last was said dangerously low as his hand slipped up his thigh to grope John’s hastily thickening erection, “And you were already slightly hard weren’t you?”
John moaned unabashedly, pressing into the pressure of the detectives sure hand. He didn’t want to answer the question, and he knew Sherlock didn’t need him to. It was heady, walking back through the scene with the mystery woman, but this time it really was Sherlock’s body pressing against his back. Holding him steadfast with just his intoxicating voice.
The world spun as he closed his eyes, but John just leaned into the firm body behind him, arching his neck where he felt Sherlock’s breath. His head fell back to Sherlock’s chest, leaving his neck open and vulnerable to the detective.
“But you told her no didn’t you?” he said, his hand massaged the bulge it cupped. He sucked a light mark to the doctor’s neck before continuing with his onslaught of the blonde’s alcohol ridden mind.
“Are you going to tell me no?” his left arm wrapped around the other’s chest, pulling him tight back so that he could feel Sherlock’s cock grinding into his back. His right hand left the buldge only long enough to flick his belt open and undo his trousers before slipping inside his pants and gripping his shaft. John shook his head. “No you won’t. Why is that John?” His teeth nibbled over the shell of his ear.
“What is it that I give you that no one else can?” Sherlock growled as he rocked his hips against the curve of John’s back. His question however, was one that had been repeating in his mind for sometime now. He both did and didn’t want an answer, so he pressed on to cover up the moment of vulnerability, “What is it that filled your mind as you touched yourself in that bathroom stall?”
John gasped and, as his breath returned, moaned at Sherlock’s touch, his mind too slow to answer promptly. The overwhelming sensations, from Sherlock’s hand in his pants and the unmistakable hardness pressing into his back, only made his world spin more.
Because I love you.
The words were there on the tip of his tongue, but even drunk and desperate John knew better than to say it, so instead he focused on the last question. What had filled his mind as he’d got off in the dark stall. His hands, his body, the way his voice sounded like utter sex at times like this.
“God Sherlock,” John breathed heavily, one hand reaching around to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Just...” He couldn’t find a way to vocalize any of it, so finally, with soft keening sound he managed to breath, “Everything.”
Sherlock shoved the jeans down over his hips and let them pool around his ankles before turning, and shoving him to bend over the unused bed, his hands running up under his shirt and jumper, pushing it up before his nails scratched pleasantly down John’s back. He adjusted John’s arms so that they were bent beneath his chest as his voice wrapped around the doctor in a blanket of silky seduction. The blonde’s hips were still up in the air, and Sherlock’s body was heavy, not allowing John to go anywhere.
“Everything? You thought of my hands, all over your body? My lips on your cock? I see the way you stare at them and palm at yourself when you think I’m not looking. Or were you thinking about me being deep inside of you? Fucking you until you cry out?” His fingers lightly brushed against the pucker that was bared open to him, “That’s what you’re thinking about right now aren’t you? Me fucking you into this mattress?” He pressed his hips forward to let John feel the impossible hardness behind his pajama bottoms.
There was no way for John to tell if the thought had come into his mind of it’s own accord, or if it was Sherlock’s perfect deduction that left him desperately aching for just that. It was hard not to. He could feel Sherlock’s member pressing against him and John couldn’t help but roll back into the detective, making his desires obvious.
John managed to find his voice as his hand balled into the musty bedsheets. “Yes Sherlock. That’s what I want.” His words trickled off into a desperate ramble as he rolled what little he could of his hips, looking for more contact. “God.. I need that, please.”
This was something no one else could give him. No one else could excite him like Sherlock did, and being under the detectives scrutiny was obscenely hot. To know that all of the brilliance of that mind was working to pull him apart, to figure out how and where he wanted to be touched, was enough to leave John aching for Sherlock.
Sherlock pulled back and coated a few of his fingers with saliva. He pressed one finger inside of the doctor, and just as he felt John relaxing, he pressed another finger inside of him. The detective was desperate, and he wanted to be inside of the other right now. All he could think about was that the woman at the bar had trespassed on territory that was his, and he was going to claim it back.
While he was fingering the blonde beneath him, he wrapped the fingers of his other hand around John’s jaw, cupping just beneath his lips. “Spit.” came the deep command. When he sensed a bit of hesitation, he leaned down nipping just hard enough to bring blood to the surface of his neck. “I know you don’t have lube in here. Spit or I’m going in dry.” he growled.
The threat, however empty, was enough to make John quickly spit into the upturned hand, a blush creeping across his cheeks as he did so. He knew Sherlock was upset. They’d fought and John had left, only to come back smelling like some woman. This was not them making up, or getting over things, it was a desperate attempt to use physical intimacy to delete their argument.
Even still John moaned as the hand pulled away from his jaw, the fingers inside of him wasting no time expertly preparing him just enough.
Sherlock slipped his fingers out of the doctor and pulled his member easily from his pajama bottoms, pushing them down just enough to free it. Using the saliva he’d obtained from John, along with a bit of his own, he slicked himself before flattening his hand on John’s lower back and pushing himself inside. It was almost painfully tight and he found a small cry ripped from his chest before he bent over the prone man beneath him.
Thin arms slipped beneath his chest and up to grip his shoulders as he pulled out slowly then pushed back in. He gave John three thrusts to get used to it before he started in on a hectic pace, his hips snapping roughly into John. Bending down, he rested his forehead against John’s left shoulder, his voice coming in short bursts between his thrusts.
“I’m not going to touch you. And you’re not going to touch yourself either. If you want to come you’ll have to do it with me fucking you.” He started placing just painful bites all across John’s shoulders. The need to strike out against the doctor too much to ignore.
John whimpered in response as the detective bit him, his back arching into the body pressed against his desperate for as much contact as he could get. The alcohol made him deliciously pliant under Sherlock’s hands, moaning louder with each snap of the detectives hips.
Desire coiled within him, but he was unsure if he would manage to come in time. Sherlock’s fast pace could only be held out so long before he would be filling him. He could hear Sherlock’s breath changing, quickening, a sure sign that his release was imminent. Wriggling against the detective he began begging in a way he never had before.
“Please touch me,” his voice was barely a whimper as he pressed his forehead into the mattress in frustration. He sounded absolutely wanton. “Fuck. Please Sherlock.”
The younger man’s fingers bit into John’s shoulders as he just took what he needed from John. He groaned low in his throat at the pleas tumbling from the doctor’s lips. They urged him closer to the edge, and he was practically panting now.
“Beg all you want, the answer is no.” Shifting up onto his toes, he began thrusting in a new angle and felt his knees weaken as the doctor’s internal muscles clenched around him. “Do you feel it John? I’m marking you, claiming this arse for myself, and you like that.” His words were squeezed between grit teeth.
John gasped at Sherlock’s words, the new angle brushing against the sensitive bundle of nerves inside of him with each stroke, reducing him to clenching his fists in the bed sheets as moans bubbled up from inside of him in response. The thrusts against his prostate and the ridiculously possessive growl in Sherlock’s voice pushed him towards the edge. It was nearly enough to block out the burning ache from the lack of proper lube.
Sherlock’s breath was coming shorter, and his hips were beginning to stutter with every thrust. “You are mine John, and if you don’t like that you need to make up your mind now.” He leaned forward even more, his lips ghosting over the doctor’s ear. Each word was slammed home with a thrust of his hips. “While we’re together, while we’re fucking each other? I’m yours and you. Are. Mine.” The last word was a growl and he bit down on John’s neck hard enough to leave a bruise as he slammed his hips one more time, emptying himself into the body beneath him.
The rough bite to the back of his neck had been what did John in. With Sherlock’s hips shuddering against him, he came hard. Moaning and shuddering as the orgasm ripped through him suddenly. Sherlock’s words replaying in his mind as the world went white for a moment.
‘Mine.’
Sherlock shuddered, and collapsed onto the blonde, breathing hard. His mind was blissfully empty for a few moments, but when he came back into himself his heart skipped a few beats. Pulling out, he winced slightly and rubbed a gentle hand over the red scratches as he backed away. “Come on John, let’s get you on the bed.” his voice was soft and low. Careful.
“I’m-” John’s voice failed him, his throat painfully dry. He took a shaky breath, swallowing thickly before continuing. “I’m fine.” It was still just barely above a whisper.
Barely dragging himself to his feet John collapsed into the bed, still turned away from Sherlock. He was spent, sore, half-drunk, and, probably the worst, uncertain of exactly what had just happened between them. Wrenching the covers from side of the bed John pulled them over himself before relaxing, leaving the next move to Sherlock. He knew he should say something, but he just couldn’t.
“I’ll be right back, I’m just going to get a flannel.” Sherlock moved quickly to the bathroom, running warm water over a few rags in his hands. The entire way back he berated himself for being so harsh. This was why sentiment was weakness, why feeling things was not his forte.
When he returned to the room, he moved to the bed and easily helped John remove his clothes and shoes. He was silent the entire time he cleaned up the smaller man on the bed, wiping first a warm cloth between his legs and over his stomach. Depositing the dirty rag on the floor, he took one of the clean ones and kneeled on the bed next to the doctor, quietly running the warm rag over his shoulders, finally folding one and holding it gingerly against the part of his neck Sherlock had viciously attacked. This was the closest to an apology the doctor would get from him.
“Are you still alright?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His free hand ran up and down the doctor’s spine, spidery fingers carefully attempting to massage away his own transgressions.
John had relaxed considerably, letting Sherlock move him about without so much of a sound or acknowledgement that there was anything off about the situation. The muscles of John’s back clenched and relaxed as Sherlock’s fingers skirted across the skin.
Letting out a deep sigh John nodded, turning back towards the detective, batting away the rag being pressed to his neck. “Yeah, I’m alright Sherlock.” His voice was softer, and he tried to offer him a half smile, but it faltered after a moment.
“I shouldn’t have left this afternoon.” It was the first acknowledgment that this had stemmed from their fight earlier in the day, “I’m sorry, about all that.”
Sherlock turned away, placing one elbow on his knee, running the thin hand through his hair, however his other hand found John’s and squeezed softly.
“You were angry. I was angry. We needed space.” He ran his hand down his face and rested his cheek in his hand turning to look over his shoulder at the smaller man tucked into the blankets. He didn’t know how to express all the questions swirling around in his mind, so he decided not to ask them. Giving a fake half smile, he squeezed John’s hand one more time before pulling away and heading towards the door.
John pushed himself up so he was halfway sitting, the blanket pooling around his waist. He watched Sherlock for a moment, confused. Yeah they had been angry, but they’d had their space, and ridiculously hot, albeit a bit concerning, angry sex to finish it off. The last thing John wanted was for Sherlock to think he wanted him to leave.
“Oi!” John started, getting Sherlock’s attention. His voice considerably more normal “Where are you going?”
“Downstairs...” he said slowly, “I had assumed you might want some time.” Sherlock stopped at the door and turned back to see John sitting up. He didn’t see any anger on his face. He could tell that the whole ordeal had shaken him up, but he was still calling him back with his eyes.
The detective turned and made his way back to the bed, sitting on the edge. “If you want me to stay... your bed is quite small, however given how we normally sleep I don’t believe it will be too much of a problem...” His eyes found John’s and he felt himself relaxing in his gaze.
“We can move downstairs if you want,” John said softly, not making a movement either way. “But I don’t want time, rather the opposite actually.”
His hand sought out Sherlock’s, returning the reassuring pressure Sherlock had been offering him moments before. John couldn’t help but fear that something had been changed between them. The detectives movements were painfully deliberate, any semblance of comfort gone.
“That okay?” he asked tentatively, as it had finally dawned on him that maybe it was Sherlock that needed space.
“Yes.” He said simply. Normally they slept naked together, but he only pulled off his robe before sliding in behind the other, and beneath the blankets,slipping one arm underneath his torso. He curled his hand back toward his chest, resting his palm over the doctor’s heartbeat. His other hand rested on John’s shoulder, thumb gently brushing over the already darkening mark in a ring on the back of his neck.
Each swoop of his thumb sent another shot of guilt through his stomach. Was this what he had bested Moriarty for? Was this what he had overcome his addiction for? So that he could lose control and do things like this to the only person who selflessly cared for him? He pressed a small chaste kiss to the mark before bowing his head to rest against the blonde’s shoulder. The hand that had previously been stroking the back of John’s neck now joined the other on his chest.
Laying his hands over Sherlock’s John rubbed small circles over the back of his hand with his thumbs. A gentle reminder that they didn’t need to be angry any more. He could almost hear Sherlock’s thoughts as he gingerly touched the sensitive mark on the back of his neck. It didn’t take much deduction to feel how torn Sherlock was.
Overwhelmed by the need to reassure Sherlock John pulled Sherlock’s hand up to press a lingering kiss to it gently. Then he whispered, his lips brushing against the calloused skin just loud enough that he knew Sherlock would hear, the word’s he’d been purposefully avoiding for weeks now.
“I love you Sherlock.”
He said it quite plainly, and then closed his eyes, content to fall asleep. John didn’t think for a moment that he’d hear those words returned now, if ever, but surprisingly he didn’t mind. The most he hoped for at the moment was that Sherlock would stay. John would be happy to take whatever Sherlock could give, love, lust, friendship, he just needed him to stay.
The detective’s fingers tightened on John’s skin marginally, the only signal that he’d heard him. John loved him. John loved him. The fact that it had been repeated in his mind made him wary of what that phrase was doing to him. John couldn’t love him, he wasn’t supposed to.
He worked hard to keep from altering his breathing, fought with his brain to remain calm, and placed a soft kiss to John’s shoulder. He couldn’t return the doctor’s sentiment, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock hated it. Almost reflexively he curled closer, enveloping the doctor with his lithe body.
He wasn’t sure who needed the contact more, him or John. But the longer he lay there, the more uncomfortable he got. His stomach gave a particularly unpleasant roll, and he told himself once John was asleep he’d find something to occupy him until the wee hours before John would naturally start to rouse.
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