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“You’re going to the gym. You’ve been going to the gym all month,” Sherlock states as John crosses the room to the kitchen. Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa, long feet in their smart shoes propped up on the arm and a thick textbook rising and falling with his chest. With no case, and apparently nothing pressing to interest him, it’s a wonder Sherlock has bothered to get dressed at all, but there he is, looking alert and inexplicably wrinkle-free.
“What gave me away?” John says, looking down at himself. “The trainers or the gym bag?”
“Neither,” Sherlock drops his book and swings his feet to the floor. “You’ve smelt like muscle rub. You’re bored of the fitness centre though. And who wouldn’t be? The same mindless circuit every day, the same boring muscle heads spotting your lifts…I shudder to think. It can’t be anything like training in the army.”
“Army training is about as mindless as you get. That’s the point.” John eyes the clutter on the kitchen worktop. He knows there’s food on it somewhere. Under a sheaf of newspaper he finds an apple that looks relatively safe. Good enough, he thinks as he bites into it. “I’m used to it. And there are a few more women at the gyms in London. Makes up for a lot.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up, posing with his elegant fingers at his slim hips. “Is that why you’ve been wearing your ID tags again? Hasn’t been working has it? Come to my gym.”
“Your gym?” John doesn’t bother to acknowledge Sherlock’s snide remark. “Since when do you go to the gym?” In his imagination, a tiny Sherlock jogs on a treadmill, clad in his wool overcoat and scarf. John struggles to smother a laugh.
“John, I’ve boxed for years. And it’s well documented that physical exercise is excellent mental stimulation.” Sherlock lifts his jacket from the armchair and slides into it. “We can go right now if you like.”
“But when Sherlock,” asks John as they head out of the flat. “When do you go to the gym?”
Sherlock ignores him and hails a cab, the black car appearing apparently out of nowhere. How does he do it? John wonders as he climbs inside. They speed off through the darkening London streets.
***
“Sherlock’s gym” turns out to be a boxing club in a back alley that could have fallen out of a Dickens novel. There is no sign on the door, just peeling red paint, and no windows in the crumbling brick walls. Inside, the fixtures are surprisingly clean and modern. A heavy man with a crooked nose greets them with a gravelly “Mr. Holmes” and a curt nod at John.
Sherlock, it turns out, has his own locker. “And my own key to the building.” Sherlock talks as they change. “Donald out there ran into a spot of trouble a few years ago and appreciated my help.” He waves a hand dismissively.
John shakes his head as they exit the locker room. He should have known. Half of London owes Sherlock a favour. Sherlock probably exercises when normal people sleep.
In the bright weight and circuit room, John hops on a treadmill while Sherlock warms up on a stationary bike. Before John has even hit his stride, Sherlock disappears into the next room, where the only other patron pounds steadily on one of several heavy bags. Out of sight, Sherlock’s fists join in the rhythm.
Donald, the heavy man from the front, pops in as John is finishing up the same circuit he’d have done at his own gym.
“Dr. Watson, I’m heading out now,” he says gruffly, moving about the room checking the equipment. “Would you tell Mr. Holmes to lock up when he’s done mopping the floor with Gerry?” John can’t keep the look of surprise from his face, he’s sure Sherlock hasn’t had time to point him out, and he hasn’t introduced himself.
“How did you…?’
Donald lets out a rumbly laugh. “He’s never showed up here with anyone, and he’s never mentioned anyone except Dr. Watson. Stands to reason you’d be him.”
“He talks about me?” John is astonished. He tries to picture Sherlock dropping his name into a conversation with this man and fails utterly. He can’t even picture Sherlock having a conversation where his name would come up.
“Once. Blamed you for being here less.” Donald finishes his tour of the room and goes to the door. “Can’t be easy being his flatmate, you ought to get in there and fight for who does the washing up. Solid bloke like you might stand a chance.”
I could win a national title and I’d still have to do the washing up, John thinks, crossing into the other room. Sherlock is pulling off his gloves and shaking hands with the broad-shouldered Gerry.
“Are you ready to face me?” Sherlock asks, climbing out of the ring and grabbing a towel from a nearby pile. His sparring partner leaves the room looking gassed. “No gloves. We’ll keep it light.”
“Sherlock, you know I’ve done years of close-combat training?” John follows Sherlock back into the ring. “I may not be a boxer, but I know a thing or two.”
“Since you’re not a boxer, I’ll go easy on you,” Sherlock ignores John’s claims of competence, as usual. “Fists only, no direct hits to the face.”
“You’re on.”
They knock fists in the centre of the ring. Sherlock steps back and assumes the classic boxer pose – light on his feet, rocking slightly, with fists held up in front of his chin. John knows he has a weight advantage, and he’ll press it, but he’ll see what Sherlock’s got before he works out a strategy.
When Sherlock feints a right and then jabs left, John sees it coming. He expects Sherlock meant him to, that Sherlock is doing the same thing, feeling for a weakness in John’s style. They circle around each other and John wonders if he’ll be forced to give in and make the first move when suddenly Sherlock’s fist is closing in and John lets his training take over.
Before long they’re both panting. John can feel rivulets of sweat racing down his back, and Sherlock’s t-shirt has long since turned from grey to damp charcoal. They keep moving, bobbing toward and away from each other, swapping jabs, looking for a weakness in the other’s defense.
“I thought you said this was going to be better than my gym?” John teases as he weaves away from a right hook. “So far, I haven’t seen anything that beats a pretty girl in a tight t-shirt.”
“It’s hardly my fault if you can’t appreciate the sweet science,” Sherlock replies. “Your style is effective, but inelegant.”
“You haven’t seen effective” John grins. He ducks under the next punch, catches Sherlock around the waist and executes a swift hip throw. Sherlock anticipates the move and pulls John over with him. John lands hard, half on the matt and half on Sherlock. He scrambles to improve his position, shifting to pin Sherlock to the floor, chest against chest. “Let’s change the rules.”
“I may prefer boxing, but I’d be a poor strategist if it was the only thing I’d studied” Sherlock says, bridging his hips upward and rolling John over to the floor. “Jujitsu. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“Oh I can,” John laughs and muscles Sherlock over. They tussle, hands scrambling for holds, personal space long abandoned, Sherlock’s flexibility matching John’s strength. The stiff consulting detective is gone, in his place is a man John sees only rarely, and then usually right after a case: a laughing, mischievous Sherlock. They roll with giddy abandon, gaining and losing the advantage, stuck in a tug-of-war between skill and strength, strategy and experience.
They’re just as evenly matched on the ground as on their feet. They end up on their knees, locking their arms together, each looking for the edge to bring the other down. John moves first, reaches out and pulls Sherlock’s leg out from under him, pushes Sherlock to the ground. Sherlock splits his legs wide as they tumble backwards, catching John around the waist with lean powerful limbs.
They both freeze. John has one hand on Sherlock’s chest and suddenly he is very aware of it, very aware of the damp warmth seeping through Sherlock’s t-shirt, very aware of the pale strip of skin showing above Sherlock’s trousers and very aware of his position, hips locked between Sherlock’s legs.
John’s body misunderstands the situation and sends the feedback usually reserved for the end of a particularly good date. He leans in, breathes in and tries to take in whatever Sherlock’s wide eyes are saying. They’ve become good at speaking without words, but there is still so much about Sherlock’s exceptional mind that John doesn’t know. Does Sherlock want? John wonders. Is his heart thudding because of the exercise, or is it me? Is he considering how he’ll pin me to the ground and snog me breathless - fuck, don’t think about that – or just how he’ll pin me and win this ridiculous fight? Which of us is going to make a move?
“John…” Sherlock’s voice is barely above a whisper, a slow smile widening his lips. He slides his hand over top of John’s arm, long fingers encircling John’s wrist and pressing gently at his pulse point. John feels an unwelcome tightness in his groin and shifts, desperately hoping Sherlock hasn’t felt it.
Sherlock tightens his hand on John’s wrist and pulls, twisting his long body and bringing his leg up around John’s neck. For a disorienting moment John doesn’t know up from down, and then he is flat on his back, Sherlock’s feet framing his head and his arm hyperextended over Sherlock’s hip.
“Damn,” John curses and slaps the mat with his free hand. “Damn, damn, damn.” He can feel his track-suit bottoms tenting up, betraying his state of confusion.
Sherlock chuckles and releases him. They both sit up to face each other.
“I may have taken an unfair advantage there,” Sherlock says, his eyes flicking momentarily down. Of course he’s noticed, thinks John. He always notices.
“I’m…er…a little out of practice,” John says. “I think that’s it for me for the night. Thanks.” He jumps to his feet and flees without a second glance at Sherlock.
***
I’m losing it, John thinks as he strips for the showers - Communal showers. Damn. He’s rolled with men and women before, a thousand times if he’s done it once, and it’s never been anything more than a fight. Sex doesn’t come into it when one wrong move could have you pinned, breathless, begging, completely at the mercy of the other person and oh God that does sound like sex doesn’t it? Damn good sex. He’s becoming painfully hard. Could he manage a quick wank before Sherlock comes back to the showers? Or should he turn the water over to cold and douse his undesired desire? Fuck. He hasn’t felt this way since secondary school.
It’s just been too long. It was just the contact, the heat of Sherlock, the strong, solid presence of him that confused John’s body. It was all very well in the army – a quick shag with another bloke didn’t get complicated, it was war, he was human – but he sure as hell isn’t going to get into it now, not with his flatmate, not with Sherlock, no matter what the memory of those long muscular legs wrapped around his hips is doing to him. With Sherlock, everything gets complicated. He reaches for the shower dial. Cold water it is.
“John” Sherlock’s supple voice echoes off the tiles. John turns on the water, as hot as it will go. He’ll try a different tactic.
“John.”
Bloody hell Sherlock, John thinks. Can’t you give a man five fucking minutes alone? John doesn’t turn, he lets the water beat down on him, lets it sear his skin, holds out to see how much he can take. How much of Sherlock can he take? He can feel Sherlock close to him now; he’s reading John like he reads everyone and he’ll cut John down the way he does everyone who dares show an interest.
“John?” There is a delicate edge to Sherlock’s voice now, hesitation that doesn’t become him. John doesn’t know what to do with that, but he is done enduring. He turns the water down to a comfortable heat, and turns to face his friend.
Sherlock’s mess of curls is plastered to his head, sticky with sweat. His cheeks are burnished and those impossibly expressive lips are moist and tempting. Where the hell did that thought come from? John thinks, breaking eye contact and looking down. But that’s worse. Sherlock’s chest could be chiseled from marble. His stomach is flat and subtly rippled, covered in fine hair that thickens and darkens as it trails down and oh God his cock, his cock is as hard as John’s own and it’s gorgeous, it’s practically humming. John has never had such a thought, not even about his own fucking cock. He tears is eyes away and returns them to Sherlock’s face.
“Do you want this John?” Sherlock says, jaw set, lips barely moving. “If you don’t, I can walk away now, erase this from my memory. As far as I’m concerned it will never have happened.” His face is impassive, his body steady, but his eyes - his eyes have that defiant but pleading look they wear on the rare occasion he doesn’t know the right answer. Sherlock Holmes can get by alone. Sherlock Holmes, insensitive, arrogant consulting detective, does not need anyone or anything. Sherlock Holmes, living, breathing, feeling man, needs something very desperately. He needs not to be rejected. John will never be offered this again. “Do you want this?”
There are beads of water scattered across the expanse of Sherlock’s chest. Without meaning to, John reaches out to touch one, to feel the warmth of Sherlock’s damp skin. Something inside him cracks open. I want only this, he thinks, this, and whatever it means and all that comes with it. Complications be damned. His hand moves to grip Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Yes,” he whispers. “Sherlock…yes.”
Sherlock steps in closer and lays his hands on John’s face. The shower is raining down over both of them now, splashing off Sherlock’s nose and sliding down John’s cheeks. The smooth tips of Sherlock’s fingers glide up into John’s hair and he leans in, their eyes locked together. How could I have missed this? John thinks as Sherlock’s lips brush his own – wet, trembling, expectant. How could I have wanted anything else?
The kiss is soft, hesitant, tender. Sherlock’s lips embrace John’s and set off a flood of sensations that race through him. John parts his lips and lets Sherlock in. This is Sherlock, John thinks. This is Sherlock, naked and vulnerable and human and pressed up against me. Sherlock. Sherlock leans John back against the tiled wall and deepens the kiss, and John gives up thinking altogether.
Sherlock releases John’s mouth and runs kisses down his chest, detouring to tongue his nipples in slow circles. John is fascinated by that mouth, can’t take his eyes from its progress down his abdomen. Then Sherlock is down on his knees on the hard tiles; he looks up at John with a sly smirk and those lips, Oh mother of all that is holy, those lips, are opening softly over his tip. John sinks his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders, begging. A moment’s hesitation and then Sherlock opens those lips and takes all of John in.
John’s vision clouds over. All he can feel is Sherlock’s mouth enveloping his cock in warmth, Sherlock’s lips moving around him in a tight, tense circle, Sherlock’s tongue lapping at the fluid that’s begun leaking from him. Sherlock is everything. Sherlock, who picked him up when he was broken, who let John into his impossible life, who calls John an idiot in tones that make it sound like “dear”. That Sherlock, powerful, arrogant, brilliant, is giving John the single greatest blowjob of his life.
Sherlock, submissive, down on his knees to John, is not the Sherlock John wants right now.
“Sherlock…sweet Christ…Sherlock,” John has a hard time making his voice obey his brain; his body would like to argue that this is, in fact, exactly what he wants. “SHERLOCK. NO.”
John’s cock is abruptly released. Sherlock’s eyes are wide; he backs away, looks ready to run but John still has hold of him.
“Sorry, I thought…”
“No, Sherlock… come up here.” John hauls Sherlock up by his armpits; Sherlock rises willingly, a tight frown marring his precious lips. John cups Sherlock’s jaw lightly with his left hand, and slides his right up around his shoulders, holding them flush against one another. “I didn’t want it like that,” he hesitates, “not this time.” Will there be a next time?
Sherlock’s frown splits wide and his lips capture John’s. John can still taste the faint bitterness of himself in Sherlock’s mouth. This time it’s like sparring all over again. Sherlock’s lips crush against John’s; his tongue invades John’s mouth, advancing and retreating, dominating and yielding. John matches him move for move. He slides his hands along Sherlock’s sides, back down to where their cocks are brushing against each other, and wraps his fingers around them both. One of Sherlock’s lithe hands joins him.
Their bodies crush together – Sherlock’s jaw against John’s forehead, John’s mouth at Sherlock’s collarbone, Sherlock’s teeth along the white scar tissue on John’s shoulder, John’s nose pushing into Sherlock’s hair – and all the time their hands pressing, pulling, stroking. The heat and the water and oh fuck Sherlock’s hands make it hard for John to breathe.
“Sherlock. Sherlock, right there, yes…”
Heat storms through John’s body, leaves him fragile in Sherlock’s arms. The shower rinses the sticky mess from their abdomens and John softens, but Sherlock’s cock is still thrumming. John tenderly untangles his hand from Sherlock’s, then takes Sherlock’s cock back in his left hand, his right arm looping around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock arches and moans and presses his hands to the tiles on either side of John. A cascade of water streams down his porcelain neck. John increases his pace, his hand twisting and stroking Sherlock’s length.
“John…oh yes…John…I can’t….don’t…don’t ever…” Sherlock’s customary eloquence is reduced to tight, panting breaths and garbled phrases. “John, I’m close...”
Just another minute, John thinks. Just another minute and I’ll have Sherlock in pieces in my arms. This is the surrender he wants. He wants to hold Sherlock up and know that he gives something to this extraordinary man.
“You’re incredible Sherlock,” John whispers. Sherlock’s lips return to John’s face. They press frantic kisses to his brows, his cheeks, his lips, his jaw, unable to cling to any one place for long. Torrents of water run down between their bodies. Sherlock’s lips lose purchase again as he thrusts his hips into John, John’s hand tugging the last resistance from his cock.
From across the room, the shrill chime of a phone rings out.
Sherlock comes with a guttural cry. He presses his cheek to John’s, spent, and murmurs incoherent syllables.
“John.” Sherlock drapes his arms over John’s body and leans his head against John’s shoulder. John stays silent, holding Sherlock close, rubbing lazy circles over his smooth wet skin. Don’t think, he tells himself. There may never be another moment like this, just…don’t think. They lean there together until the phone rings again.
“Mmmgh” Sherlock grumbles as he pushes himself away from John. He sticks his face under the water and runs his hands through his hair. In spite of the still-warm water, John feels cold; his body misses the heat of Sherlock already. Without a word, Sherlock turns on his heel and heads for the bank of lockers. John watches the curve of his arse as he moves. Fucking hell, what have we done? He stays still under the water, letting it pound against the back of his neck. What have we done?
“It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock calls from the lockers. “He’s finally admitted he needs help with that jewel theft. I thought I’d have to volunteer.” He pops back into John’s view, already half dressed, his angelic skin disappearing as he buttons his shirt. “Come on, get dressed, we’re meeting him at the Yard.”
“Sherlock, we just…” John doesn’t know what he expected, but this isn’t it. I shouldn’t be surprised, he thinks. A good crime scene is better than a cuddle for Sherlock.
“There’s new evidence, John!” Sherlock’s face does betray a hint of colour, and his eyes and lips are turned up in the suggestion of a smile as he disappears back behind the lockers. John wonders if it’s from him, or the prospect of a good mystery. With a sigh, he turns off the water and follows.
***
Nearly three days, eighteen cab rides, six half-eaten takeaway meals, 12 cups of terrible coffee, two chases through London back alleys and one arrested jewel thief later, John stumbles into 221B Baker St behind Sherlock.
“Your phone is useless on the internet,” Sherlock shoves the phone back at John’s chest with a sneer of disgust.
“Yes, well I use my phone as a phone, so it doesn’t bother me,” John says, pocketing his mobile. “If you’d remembered to charge yours, you wouldn’t need mine.”
“I almost missed it though, John. He baked the jewels into the cakes! Brilliant. There’s tons of prison escapes with files in cakes, but thefts?” Sherlock hangs his coat on the rack and goes straight towards laptop on the desk. “Someone must have done it before, but why can’t I think of it?”
“Sherlock, that’s my…” John doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. Sherlock is tapping the desktop, his mind apparently running through its memory banks while he waits for the computer to start up. “I haven’t slept in…I don’t know when, and neither have you. I don’t give a damn about the historical precedent of theft-by-baked-goods. I’m going to bed. You should come to bed too.”
“Mmm…” Sherlock waves a thin hand dismissively.
So much for subtle, John thinks as he climbs the stairs. You knew it’d be complicated, you knew it might be a one-time thing, you knew it was Sherlock. He’d worry over it, but he barely has the strength to step out of his jeans and pull off his jumper before collapsing into bed and sleep.
***
When John resurfaces to consciousness, he can tell from the buzzing in his head that he has not been asleep long enough. Something has woken him. “Something” is Sherlock, sitting in the doorway in his pajamas and dressing gown, chin resting on his knees.
“Sherlock,” John groans. His whole body aches. Right. Before the running and the not sleeping there was weight lifting and boxing and wrestling and...Sherlock. “How long have you been sitting there?”
“You might consider the answer to that question a little…odd.” Sherlock pushes himself to his feet, his back sliding along the door frame.
“How long have I been asleep then? Why aren’t you asleep?” John switches on the light and looks at his watch. “Fuck, it’s not even midnight. What time did we get in?”
“Ten. John…” Sherlock runs his hands through his hair and pulls on the sleeve of his dressing gown. “Earlier, you said I should “come to bed”…you normally tell me to “go to bed.”
John has to close his eyes to prevent them from rolling.
“Noticed that did you?” John sits up and moves himself to one side of the bed, in case Sherlock’s ability to deduce applies in the bedroom. “‘Normally’, yes, I’d have said ‘go to bed’, but then again, ‘normally’ I wouldn’t have recently had my cock in your mouth, so I’d say ‘normally’ might need to be redefined.”
“John…” Sherlock takes a step into the room and pauses. “I don’t, I mean, I have, obviously, but…I’m not…I’m no one’s boyfriend John.”
“It’s fine, Sherlock, it’s fine.” John realizes that it is. Having Sherlock, touching him, naked, wet, hungry, was incredible, but everything about Sherlock is incredible and if he can’t have that again, he’ll have whatever is given. “You offered, I accepted, I knew what I was getting into. Now I’m offering, same deal. I’ll forget about it if that’s what you want.”
“What are you offering?” Sherlock is standing by the bed now. John wonders if he’s just playing along, or if Sherlock really can’t tell what John wants. “Because I’m not going to change John, I’m not going to treat you any differently and I’m certainly not going to talk about my feelings…”
“Right now, I’m offering you a place to sleep,” John flips back the covers and pats the pillow beside him. “In the morning, I may offer you a spectacular blow job, and who knows what else. I will also continue to provide services in the areas of blogging, making tea, washing up, forcing you to eat, sending texts and whatever else you can’t be arsed to do yourself. But seriously Sherlock, right now, sleep.”
Sherlock’s cheeks crease as his lips open into a sincere smile. He slides his dressing gown from his shoulders and slides himself into the bed. John shuts the light and shuffles back under the covers, surprised to feel Sherlock curl himself against John’s side. Sherlock does cuddle. He finds Sherlock’s hand and pulls it across his stomach, twines their fingers together and sighs contentedly. “Whatever you’re offering, Sherlock, I’ll take whatever you have to give.”
“Mmmm…tomorrow,” Sherlock’s voice has already grown heavy with sleep, as if his mind just needed the reassurance in order to turn off. “Tomorrow I will offer you more than a blow job. But don’t expect me to call you ‘darling’.”
John doesn’t mind. He likes the sound of “idiot” better anyway.