Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John closed the door to 221 just as a crash came from upstairs. He flew up the stairs, hitting the landing in time with another crash. Bursting into the living room, he looked about - no Sherlock. Turning quickly to the kitchen, he saw Sherlock perched calmly on the countertop by the sink, hand outstretched and teacup in hand.

Sherlock dropped the teacup.

John's eyes followed it as it fell and broke into shards. After a long moment, in which John stared at the pile of broken glass and ceramic, he drew his eyes back up to look at Sherlock. "Right, then. Where's my mug?"

Without looking at him, Sherlock replied, "On the mantelpiece, by the skull."

Looking over his shoulder, John saw it sitting there, safe and in one piece. He was tired and his head ached. First, he was going to sit and watch crap telly, then he would call out for Thai, eat it from the containers and go to bed. In the morning, he would have a discussion with Sherlock about the proper care of household items. He would carefully explain that one does not shatter the dishes because one is bored. John planned on explaining very loudly.

By the time John had dug the remote from the cushions of the sofa, six feet of mad lanky git had moved between him and the television. He dropped down onto the sofa with a sigh.

Sherlock looked at him with a frown. "You like me, don't you, John?"

John leaned around Sherlock, trying to point the remote at the telly. He thought about the state of the kitchen. "Yes. Most of the time."

The look Sherlock gave him was full of disdain. "'Most of the time' is extremely vague and hardly quantifiable. You could make the same statement if you liked me 100% or 51% of the time."

John hit the remote with his free hand, trying to get it to work. "I love you... I don't know, 99.44% of the time. How's that?" The television still didn't come on. "Hell, damn and fuck." He dropped the remote, glancing up at Sherlock. "What?" he asked, seeing the worried frown on Sherlock's face.

"This is completely unacceptable!" Sherlock exclaimed, his hands flying to his head. He started pacing wildly.

To say that John was confused would have been an understatement. "It's bad that your flatmate and best friend likes you?" He shook his head. "I don't get it."

"Don't be any more of an idiot than you already are," Sherlock tossed out.

In all of this, John latched onto the attack on his intelligence. "I'm not an idiot!"

Sherlock gave him a scornful look.

"Not even compared to you. Relatively speaking, I'm an imbecile. I would thank you to remember that." John crossed his arms to punctuate his statement.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock declared, waving his hand in the air. "You said 'I love you... I don't know, 99.44% of the time.' That is unacceptable."

John started. God, he had said that, hadn't he? Sod this headache! It had made him drop his guard for just a moment and he had been stupid. Stupid! "Just delete that bit, yeah?" John suggested hopefully.

Sherlock turned and glared at him "It's not that simple, is it? You have an unfortunate predilection for shagging the people you care about. It's deplorable."

"But I'm not gay!" John shouted, hiding behind a false facade of heterosexuality. Sherlock had brushed off his advances at Angelo's long ago. Then everyone, everyone, had assumed they were a couple. John had feared that the external pressure would eventually annoy Sherlock past the breaking point and he would be asked to move out of the flat. Oh, Sherlock denied being bothered by other's assumptions about them, but he also denied being bothered when people called him a freak. John knew that for the blatant lie it was. Declaring himself "not gay" had seemed to be his best bet for reassuring Sherlock of his lack of interest and being able to keep his home, being able to keep Sherlock.

The look John received was pitying. "Obviously, you are." Sherlock glared at John, as if accusing him of something. "Well, I should say bisexual, your false proclamations notwithstanding."

John couldn't believe this, not coming from Sherlock. "Is that a problem?!" Sherlock was the last person he had expected to react like this.

"Yes!" Sherlock's pacing renewed itself and his hands went to his hair, frantic.

John slipped into fight or flight, torn between punching the surprisingly homophobic git and storming out of the flat.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and glared at the wall, not wanting to meet John’s eyes. "You'll get sexually frustrated. Eventually, you'll redirect your affections to someone else and move out."

The carpet was pulled out from beneath John’s anger and the adrenaline combined with the flood of relief that he was feeling caused him to start giggle uncontrollably. Sherlock’s glare redirected itself towards him. “It just that,” John wheezed as he struggled to catch his breath, “I thought you were…” He dissolved into laughter once again.

“Don’t be an idiot! Of course I’m not homophobic.” Sherlock placed his hands on his hips. “That would be rather hypocritical of me.” At least this time, John’s look of confusion was understandable. “No I’m not gay, John, but I do belong to the LGBTA community.”

With those words, everything crystallised for John and he figured it out. “You’re asexual,” he pronounced certain that, for once, he had made an accurate deduction. “And it’s ‘imbecile’ to you.” Why it was important to say that right now, wasn’t clear to John, but he didn’t think he was going to ever let it go, not even during a discussion as earth shaking as this.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to laugh and it felt good. The tension had been building and making everything uncomfortable. Now, everything was relaxed between them and things didn’t seem so dire. That was part of the wonder that was John. When he stopped laughing, he looked at John fondly, “Well, grey-A. Asexual-ish.” Sherlock hated using such an imprecise term, but his sexuality is imprecise. John was smiling at him. He found he was smiling back.

The look on Sherlock’s face was one that John had caught glimpses of for months and, for the second time today, John’s mind connected dot to dot and this, too, became clear. “You’re asexual-ish and you love me.” He said it with amazement in his voice and he felt warm with a glow of excitement.

Sherlock continued looking at him and calmly responded, “Yes, I do.”

“I get it,” John assured him. “I really do.” He dredged up the little that he knew about asexuality and tried to fit it to Sherlock, then he realised how absurd he was being. He simply needed to ask. “Do you like kissing?” The little moue of distaste on Sherlock’s face was answer enough, John thought, but, of course, he was wrong.

Sherlock had had this conversation before and he wasn’t one to dither once a decision had been made, so he took a deep breath then started talking fast, his words forming a rapid fire explanation. “I don’t like kissing on the lips, too slick and wet. I do like to be kissed on my neck and torso. I also enjoy kissing dry, clean patches of skin. I enjoy being touched intimately, but I don’t like someone trying to bring me to orgasm. The whole thing is too messy. I enjoy bringing my partner to orgasm so long as I have warning and don’t have to come in contact with the resulting ejaculate.” He closed his mouth thinking that covered the basics. If John still showed interest in him, then they could have a deeper discussion about it all later. John gave a sharp nod and patted the sofa, in indication that Sherlock should sit down. Sherlock lowered himself next to John, waiting for whatever was to come next.

The doctor reached out slowly, giving Sherlock time to object. When he didn’t, John grabbed his shoulder and pulled him near. As he leaned towards the detective, he felt Sherlock stiffen in anticipation. John pressed his lips to a smooth pale cheek in a gentle kiss. “Alright?” he asked.

“Alright,” Sherlock affirmed, letting his eyes fall shut. He felt slightly chapped lips wandering from his cheek down his jawline and along his neck. They felt wonderful, not too wet, but wonderfully fluttery and soft. The doctor had deduced what Sherlock liked on his own. “Mm,” Sherlock purred with contentment. It looked like John’s continued presence at 221B would be acceptable after all.

Chapter Text

Sherlock reached out and pushed John back, creating space between them. He studied the doctor for a moment, stunned at how perceptive John was. It was amazing, really, unprecedented in his experience, and he realised that he couldn’t breathe.

The doctor’s face took on a look of concern. “Alright? Did I get it wrong? Pushed too far?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” Sherlock agreed, still a bit stunned and really, breathing was becoming an issue.

“Breathe, Love,” John urged, “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

Sherlock lay there on the sofa, his hands pressed to John’s chest, as he concentrated on filling his lungs with air, then expelling it. He realised that he was breathing in John’s breath, the same air that had filled John’s lungs. His breathing steadied with that realisation and it slowly matched the doctor’s own. He wondered idly if their hearts were beating in time with one another. It was a lovely thought, far too romantic, soppy even, but Sherlock found he liked the idea.

John’s shirt was in the way, it had to go, so Sherlock started unbuttoning it. He stroked his fingers along the doctor’s exposed flesh as it was revealed, inch by inch.

John smiled at the detective and pulled back. “What’s this?”

“I need data,” came Sherlock’s reply. It was accompanied by a cheeky grin that made the doctor’s heart flutter.

“That’s alright, then. Take your time. Gather as much data as you like,” John said, but he realised his voice was shaky. He thought he had understood what the detective was trying to tell him earlier, but apparently he was wrong. Sherlock had said he didn’t mind getting his partner off, but this seemed like more than that. Yes, the detective was on a mission to ‘gather data’, but his touch was amazingly tender, sensual even.

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands sliding around John’s torso, he placed a kiss to the doctor's chest. It was a dry kiss, but it was so full of obvious caring and interest that John whined a bit, deep in his throat. The detective looked up, surprised at the sound, and the look he found on John’s face brought a genuine smile to his lips. His hand slid down, cupping the doctor’s erection. It felt nice against his palm, the firm bulge that John was sporting just for him.

John spread his legs wider, in silent entreaty, before he remembered himself. “S… s… sorry.” He brought a shaky hand to his face and covered his eyes.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock reassured him. “I want to see you react.” Sherlock’s hands slid down the doctor’s back, shoving up his shirt and vest so that he could feel John’s warm, dry flesh. He wondered what other parts of John felt like, skin on skin. “Please,” he breathed, “Can I see you?”

John blinked slowly, his lips parted and face flushed.

Sherlock tugged on the back of John’s jeans. “Take these off.”

He was just about to ask if Sherlock was certain, then he realised that if the detective weren’t, he wouldn’t have asked. “Yeah, that’s, yeah.” He had his flies open and his jeans down in record time.

Sherlock pushed John back so that he could look at him. There was a drop of precome at the tip of the doctor’s cock. Hesitantly, almost painfully slow, Sherlock reached out and touched the glistening moisture with the tip of his finger. He made a face – it was warm and wet and slightly off-putting. Now his fingertip was wet.

John reached out and wiped the liquid from Sherlock’s finger with a giggle which caused Sherlock to frown and pull away slightly. “No, no, no, Love. I’m not laughing at you.” John’s eyes crinkled at the corners with mirth. “Alright, I suppose I am, but I’m not trying to take the piss.”

His smile was so open and honest that Sherlock smiled hesitantly back.

“It’s just, that day you rode the tube and you showed up brandishing a harpoon and covered in pig’s blood…” He shook his head, took Sherlock’s hand and pressed his dry lips to the detective’s palm. “I didn’t think anything could bother you.”

“I’m not bothered,” Sherlock tried to explain, finding himself lost for words. “It’s all in the context. Kissing with tongues is intrusive and the rest of it,” he shook his head. “It’s too much, too… I’m sorry. It’s not normal. I’m not normal.” Sherlock spit the hated word at the end, drawing further away from John.

“Don’t.” John captured Sherlock’s hand, drawing him close again. “When it comes to sex, no one is normal. Normal is a myth.” His eyes shown with his earnestness. “We all have kinks and limits. No two people are alike.” John shrugged, “Maybe there’s some sort of typical, I don’t know, but there’s no such thing as normal.” Now, the doctor kissed Sherlock’s palm again, then turned his hand over and kissed the back. He worked his way up the detective’s arm until he could place dry kisses along Sherlock’s neck. “Good?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock purred again, his momentary anxiety brushed away by the doctor’s lips. He reached out once again, this time wrapping his fingers around John’s cock. It was firm, hot and silky to the touch. Sherlock started stroking John’s cock gently, his hand and fingers occasionally straying down to fondle the doctor’s bollocks and perineum. John reacted in a beautiful fashion, letting out little moans and gasps as Sherlock explored. It was data, data, data. It was invaluable and it was all about John. 

John’s eyes were closed and his hand went down to Sherlock’s crotch almost involuntarily. He froze for a moment, then opened his eyes. He dreaded seeing a look of displeasure on Sherlock’s face, but it wasn’t there.

“I told you, I like being touched. Firm touches are best. Just don’t…”

“I remember,” John whispered. He let himself simply feel Sherlock. The detective was hard, which John found slightly surprising, but Sherlock hadn’t said that he didn’t get hard. “You feel amazing and, Christ, you’re beautiful.”

Sherlock’s hand started moving faster on John’s cock and he gave it a little twist on each upward stroke, causing John to tremble. Suddenly, John pushed Sherlock's hand away. “Coming… Christ. Oh fuck.” The detective pulled away just in time as John came, his ejaculate coating his own stomach. It took a moment for the doctor to settle back down to earth, back into reality. “That was…” John gave a full body shudder. “Amazing.”

Sherlock smirked, pleased by the praise and looking like the cat who got the cream. John, his John, had called him amazing, but it was John who was amazing, brilliant, gorgeous. John was everything.