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Most days, John Watson was possessed of an almost saintly over-abundance of patience. That this came in quite handy—and was, in fact, required for his continued association with Sherlock Holmes—wasn't a secret to anyone. However, some days, like today, his patience just never switched on.
It was that bloody shirt that set him off first. Not half seven in the morning and Sherlock already sauntering over, hands on hips, buttons straining, to announce that John wouldn't be going to the surgery today; they had a case. Never mind that it would be the third time John had called out that week. Never mind that he needed to make his share of the rent, his funds woefully depleted from being left with the fare of far too many cabs while Sherlock dashed off in pursuit of god knows what. No, they had a case and Sherlock expected John to trail after him without a word, as usual, because of that shirt and the effect it had on certain army doctors.
Sherlock wielded the sinful purple thing ruthlessly, with no more pause than the careless little smiles and compliments he tossed Molly's way when he wanted something at the morgue. And goddamn it, John wasn't Molly Hooper. He wouldn't be manipulated. So he spun abruptly, feigning surprise at Sherlock's sudden proximity, and dumped his tea all down the detective's front. Sherlock roared something about transparent, infantile pranks and stormed off to change.
John smirked. At least the bastard was provokable today. John feared dire and creative consequences the day one of his irritable moods coincided with one of Sherlock's aloof ones.
000
Seven hours and forty-six minute later John dug his hands into his pockets, balling and unballing his fists, and fumed. He didn't know why the bloody idiot insisted John come along if he was just going dash on ahead and barge in on machine gun wielding maniacs by himself anyway.
“You could have been killed, you daft sod! If that gun hadn't jammed, you'd be jam. Spread over three walls and the ceiling, probably...” John trailed off, frustrated. Words weren't working. Maybe punching the bastard would get his point across?
“Colourful turn of phrase, John, but ultimately irrelevant. The gun did jam and, obviously, we both remain very much alive.”
“That's not the point and you know it! I won't just let you go charging off on your own like that! You might be a genius but I'm a soldier and I fucking outrank you when it comes to armed madmen so you'll do well to listen to me for once and stop chasing a bullet in the brain!”
“You won't let me, will you?” Sherlock's lips curled up in scorn. “Who do you think you are, my mother?”
God, the child Sherlock could be. “We both know I'm something else.” The words slipped out before he could clamp his mouth shut around them and, oh fuck, now he'd done it.
“Oh, and what's that, John?” Sherlock's voice twisted cruelly. “Why don't you tell me all about what you are to me and exactly how I ought to behave for you?”
Damn it, he should really be used to hearing things like that by now. “Just...fuck you, Sherlock.” John turned away and focused his attention on Lestrade who chose that moment to stroll over, note pad in hand.
“How about it, boys?” he asked, ignoring the daggers Sherlock was glaring into John's back. “Am I going to get a statement out of you today or do I have to drag your arses into the the station on a Saturday?”
John took Lestrade through the events of the afternoon briskly and Sherlock remained in sulky silence except to offer the occasional one or two word corrections. The ride home passed in mutual disdain for interaction and, once back in 221B, Sherlock installed himself on the couch and John retreated to his room. Just as well. John needed some space to poke his feelings with a stick for a bit before shoving them back under the bed, reviving his patience, and smoothing things with Sherlock back to their own bizarre status quo.
He toed off his shoes and stretched out over the comforter on his bed, forcing himself to relax a little and rest his hands behind his head. The posture really didn't help much but staring at the ceiling was better than tearing out his hair, so he made the effort. A wailing like a demented cat made its way up the stairs and through his shut door and John's face had a small seizure trying to scowl, smirk, and smile fondly all at once. And didn't that just condense his life with Sherlock into a neat, twitchy nutshell.
John ground his teeth and huffed a stream of air out through his nose. He wanted to smack himself. He tried to direct his fury at Sherlock—bloody hell, did he try to direct it at Sherlock, and usually he was pretty successful: It's not like Sherlock had a hard time pissing John, or anyone, off. But really, at the end of the day, he was angry (and a bit terrified) with himself. Because he could forgive himself for the risks involved with moving in with Sherlock. He could forgive his addiction to mortal danger and the sheer percentage of his life swept up in Sherlock's but he couldn't forgive himself falling in love. Because, holy fuck, what was he signing himself up for with that one?
You just didn't fall in love with Sherlock. That had to be some kind of rule somewhere. The man was self-involved, obsessed with homicide, and tried his very hardest to be sociopathic. Yeah, stunning recipe for amorous success. Not to mention the nutter tried to get himself killed every other week. No, no, the words 'in,' 'love' and 'with Sherlock' went way beyond a bit not good and into the realm of truly godawful ideas.
John could have left it at that—really, he could have—if it had been just his godawful idea. He'd had a lifetime of English culture to develop his stiff upper lip, not to mention thirteen years of military stoicism. He knew how to put away irrelevant and inappropriate emotions.
But, damn it, Sherlock felt something, too, and that just took the fucking cake—because he wouldn't do anything about it. Not really. Oh, he'd pull John in for a quick snog after a case, or when he'd 'conducted light' or whatever it was Sherlock thought he did, but that was it. Once the moment of Sherlock's whim was gone, he darted away and made sure to say something truly horrible within the next twelve hours.
The first time it happened, Sherlock had asked if stupid questions were a life long affliction and added that if so, maybe Harry'd had the right idea, and could John pour him a brandy if he planned to continue nattering? John would have punched him that time if it hadn't felt so much like the bottom was dropping out of his stomach. And, just like that, the inconsiderate wanker made everything completely impossible. There'd be no forgetting about it- and no acting on it. Yeah, wonderful.
John brought his fist down to thump ineffectually against the mattress. Enough. He couldn't control Sherlock's insanity but he could damn well control his own, even if all that meant was calling Greg to go out to the pub with him that night. It would be better than moping around here while Sherlock sawed away for hours on that thing he called an instrument. And maybe John would see what he could do about getting laid. Greg seemed like a good wingman and, who knew, maybe it would help get Sherlock out of his system. He shoved down the voice in his head muttering, 'Yeah, right. Good luck with that, mate.'
It could work, damn it.
000
Sherlock finished his musical train of thought with a flourish of apparently random notes, gave John a quick once-over, and said, “No.”
“What now, Sherlock?” He didn't quite snap, but it was a near thing.
“No, you're not going out.”
“Thing is, actually, I am going out.”
Sherlock sighed, set his violin down on floor beside the couch, and actually covered his eyes with the back of his hand. John would have laughed if he hadn't been so pissed off. “I'm afraid that simply isn't going to work, John. You see, you are going out tonight in order to get mildly sloshed and find someone to 'get off with,' as you so charmingly phrase it, and that's unacceptable.”
“No, as you've made quite clear, it's none of your business. And I don't even want to hear how you deduced I'm going on the pull.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, John. You've got two condoms shoved into your wallet, you can barely close it, and there's a tube of lubricant in your left pocket. Adventurous optimism? Or are you craving something, mmm, more specific? Masculine, maybe?” Sherlock moved his hand away from his face to glance pointedly down at his own body.
“God, I said I didn't want to know. And you know what? You don't get to do this. You don't get to be jealous and you certainly don't get to be a prick about it.”
“Oh, don't flatter yourself, I'm experiencing a perfectly normal side effect to the chemicals you seem to stimulate in my brain.”
“Mmm, yep. Yes, you are. And that 'chemical side effect' happens to be called jealousy.”
“Ugh, the semantics are trivial. The point remains that it causes me great discomfort when you interact sexually with other people and so you must stop. It's not as if it'll be a hardship for you. All your girlfriends leave when they realize you prefer me anyway. This is simply more efficient.”
“You arrogant, hypocritical...! D'you want to know why you're not allowed to be jealous?” John didn't wait for a reply. “Because, as you assured me earlier, I am nothing to you.”
Sherlock flinched before turning his head to glance at John.
John laughed bitterly. “So how about this: You want to have a say in who I sleep with? Well, we have to be something first because, right now—”
Sherlock stood, his scorn firmly back in place. “Oh, what, do you want to go on dates? Shall I woo you with flowers and hold your hand in front of Lestrade? What about anniversaries? Shall I ring Angelo for a reservation? I'm sure he'd be thrilled to provide a candle for the table!”
“God damn it, Sherlock, I live with you! How much do you really think I care about convention? I could give a toss about being boyfriends but it might be nice if you didn't feel the need to cut me down to size after kissing me! Hell, it might be nice to have a shag every once in a while. And not with you running away or insulting me after.”
“Mm, no. You've been perfectly wretched; I'm not going to reward that kind of behavior with sex.”
“I've been wretched? Because I don't want you dying on me? Oh, that's rich coming from the man who wants to forbid me leaving the flat because it causes him 'discomfort.'”
Sherlock took a step forward, taking full advantage of his height and crowding John's personal space. “That is precisely why I say you've been wretched! You exhibit all the signs of being attracted to me,” and without pausing, he pressed two fingers under John's jaw, digging into his pulse point, “and yet you continue to seek sexual and romantic partners elsewhere. It would be an easy fix if I weren't able to read so clearly why you do it.” His voice filled with disgust. He started to pull his hand away but John caught it at the wrist.
“And why would that be, hmm?” John's anger hadn't gone anywhere but it had started to shift, his thumb rubbing circles over the paper thin skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrist.
The detective paused for a moment, staring at the point of contact, before his eyes hardened. He slipped John's grip easily and, in an instant, reversed the hold, pinning both of John's hands behind his back and catching him in a loose embrace in the process. He spoke low, his breath hot against the side of John's face. “Because you're ordinary, John, and you want ordinary things. You want a nice, stable relationship; you want to make pure, careful, straight-forward, love; and you want everyone to be able to understand it. You will never get that from me so you continue your pointless search for it in pubs, at the surgery, and everywhere else you happen to find human contact.”
“You got it so figured out. What am I doing here, then?” John challenged, tilting his head slightly, his lips almost brushing Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock swallowed and tightened his grip, tugging John slightly away from him. “You fancy yourself in love with me.” The words came out cold.
John didn't know where Sherlock was going with this but it didn't take a genius to see it could end very badly very easily. John needed to be completely clear. “Well, maybe I am, smart arse. Ever think of that?” He rolled his weight forward onto his toes and pressed his lips against Sherlock's.
Sherlock responded instantly, licking John's mouth open and sucking on his tongue before pulling back and leaving him breathless. “Which, to you, means that, every once in a while, you think you can make me fit into your little picture perfect idea of a happy couple. I can tell you now, I won't.”
“Sherlock, all that Hallmark stuff might be what I'm used to but it's not what I want. Not when you're around.”
“Isn't it?” Sherlock lowered his head to bite John's lip cruelly without actually kissing him. “I can see it right now, playing out across your face. You want to undress me slowly, then spend some time telling me how beautiful I am. The word alabaster will probably make an appearance. You have such an overwrought sense of poetics. Then you'll be obscenely reverent, making sure any room left over for fucking is taken up with pillow talk and the erroneous self assurance that you've managed to domesticate Sherlock Holmes.”
Was he mad? As if that were even possible. “You'd eat me alive if I tried.” Please do, he added silently. The sentiment must have shown on his face because some of the indecision wrinkling between Sherlock's brows and around his eyes smoothed away.
“I might anyway.” Sherlock pitched his voice low in John's ear before taking the lobe between his teeth and pulling hard. He drew in a sharp breath (insanely loud to John's ears) and manhandled John to the couch with one hand, his other hand fumbling at John's belt. For a while John was oblivious to everything except being kissed (devoured, more like) until he tried to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair and found he couldn't. The sly bastard had managed to secure John's hands behind his back using the belt. John strained and twisted his wrists against the bonds and felt a punch of arousal in his gut when it didn't do any good. He was so hard it hurt.
Sherlock pushed John's vest and jumper up over his head, letting the fabric strain across the back of his shoulders when it caught on his bound arms. This both exposed John's chest and made him feel even more restrained than before. “I'm not going to hold back, you know, I won't sham normal,” Sherlock paused and his eyes flicked rapidly over John's face, trying to read something in the dark sliver open between his lips or the upward angle of his brows. “Tell me that's what you want.”
“God, yes, I want it all,” he practically panted. Sherlock's mouth was on his in an instant, drinking him down. The detective quickly divested John of his trousers, pants, and footwear, leaving him completely naked save for the half-on-half-off jumper and vest. God, he was laid out for Sherlock like a buffet and he was staring at John with dark, hungry, eyes. Sherlock was probably the only person alive who could manage to look calculating with pupils blown that wide.
“Wait here,” Sherlock instructed and strode out of the sitting room.
What? John craned his neck after Sherlock but it was useless. Where the bloody hell was he going with John still naked, trussed up, and achingly hard in the middle of the flat? Oh god, Sherlock had warned him though, hadn't he? No holding back. John had thought that meant he was in for a little bit of rough sex, some hair pulling maybe, more biting. He'd been looking forward to it. He should have known Sherlock wouldn't warn him for something so mundane as that. That nutter was probably off finding materials for the most bizarre, thoroughly Sherlock-y sex he could think of—just to push John's buttons.
And then, in a moment of insight he'd call Sherlockian if the man had had any grasp of emotional finesse, John realized that was exactly what Sherlock was doing. All the residual anger drained right out of him. Fuck. Sherlock was about to expose himself in the most intimate, shocking way he knew how, all to see if it would make John run away. Before John could even start to figure out what to do with that little tidbit of emotional fuckery, Sherlock re-entered the sitting room holding John's wicker laundry basket.
“Close your eyes, John.” John's eyes snapped shut immediately and he didn't even think of protesting. After all, there really was only one thing to do now and that was whatever the hell Sherlock wanted him to. He felt a simultaneous tug in his chest and groin at the thought.
He heard the sound of the basket being set down on the floor and then Sherlock was covering his eyes with something heavy and knotting it behind his head. “I'm going to block your hearing and sense of smell and you won't be permitted to speak so this is the last time we'll be communicating until this is over. Tell me now what you will say if you need it to be.”
John swallowed hard and said the first thing that came to his mind, “Lauriston Gardens.”
“Good,” Sherlock replied. His voice sounded clinical, detached enough that John could tell he was modulating it carefully.
Sherlock stuffed plugs into John's ears and withdrew his hands for a moment before pressing moistened fingertips into John's nostrils until all he could smell was whiskey. His whiskey, the nice stuff Greg had given him last Christmas as a thank you for, well, no one could really keep Sherlock out of trouble. But Lestrade had assured John that the Consulting Detective used to be much worse. Wasn't that a terrifying thought? Almost as terrifying as the fact that the man in question currently had John entirely at his mercy.
Another rush of blood filled John's cock. Who was he kidding? He loved terrifying. Good thing, too, because, as Sherlock's touch left him, the world seemed to close in and open up all at once, making it hard to remember he was still sitting on his own couch, in his own flat. The smell of liquor was making him dizzy and he felt himself sway slightly, his sense of balance shot to hell. Then Sherlock's fingers, covered in nitrile this time, pulled at the skin of his clavicle and fastened something freezing to it. John hissed at the sudden sensation, what was that? Clothespin maybe? It would have to be metal though, to get that cold. John bit his lip as the pinch and temperature combined into an isolated point of pain. His cock twitched and Sherlock repeated the process on the other side.
Sherlock fastened more clothespins, each one frigid, in a double line down John's torso, the lines curving in to follow his iliac crest. He moaned when two pins clamped down on his nipples. God, not being able to judge his volume did a number on his head. This whole thing did a number on his head. And that was the point, wasn't it? He couldn't feel anything but what Sherlock made him feel. Sherlock had narrowed John's world to one of Sherlock's own devising, taking control of every variable. Perfect laboratory conditions. Fuck, Sherlock had barely even touched him yet and he was harder than he'd been since leaving his twenties behind.
After the placement of the clothespins, minutes ticked by without any new sensations. His body heat began to warm the metal, bringing it from freezing to more or less room temperature. Just as he was starting to fidget, Sherlock stroked a finger across John's lips. He darted his tongue out to lick Sherlock's gloved finger, sucking when Sherlock pushed into his mouth. A moment later, the finger withdrew before pushing an ice cube between John's lips. Sherlock closed John's mouth around the ice and pulled away again.
John writhed slowly, angling for more contact but not knowing which direction to move in. The ice was so cold, numbing his tongue, and John just wanted to be touched. He wanted to be touched so badly that he could almost feel the pain of the clothespins melting into warmth and making his skin buzz.
No, wait, he wasn't imagining that. The clothespins were definitely heating up. A moan caught in his mouth, humming around the ice. Oh god, how was Sherlock doing that? He'd need some sort of flame to heat the metal...and no, no, John was not going to pursue that train of thought. The clothespins steadily went from warm, to hot, to searing, and suddenly John was grateful for the ice in his mouth. It did nothing to lessen the burning of the pins lining his chest (and, god, his nipples were on fire) but it at least provided a contrasting sensation to focus some of his attention on.
Then, he felt another spot of liquid cold tracing a crescent around his Adam's apple and dipping into the hollow of his throat before moving down to draw a line between pectorals. Sherlock turned the ice cube on its side and circled John's left nipple, leaving behind a swath of melt water like a snail trail dripping down his chest. The sensation of his nipples hardening even further under the pinch and burn of the pins was unbearable and John's head tilted forward, his mouth open in a gasp. The remaining ice tumbled off his tongue and Sherlock's hand paused abruptly. Both pieces of ice withdrew, leaving John bereft and mildly uneasy. Keeping the ice in his mouth had been a task, hadn't it? And he'd clearly failed. Now what?
John inhaled sharply, almost hissing, as a piece of ice ran brusquely over his erection. Well, that answered that. He grimaced as his cock wilted uncomfortably. He'd definitely avoid punishment from now on.
After a moment, Sherlock removed the ice and John sighed in relief. Sherlock's gloved fingertips stroked lightly up and down the insides of John's thighs, almost apologetic, but not quite. Moments later, they pulled away, only to return slicked, Sherlock's other hand lifted John's feet up, hooking his knees over Sherlock's shoulders and coaxing his arse to the edge of the couch. His bound hands pressed uncomfortably into the small of his back.
The tip of a finger pressed against his entrance and, oh fuck, starting this while he was still soft was going to be a special kind of torture. But, then again, it was supposed to be, wasn't it? John felt a small rush of blood flow south in anticipation. Counterproductive to Sherlock's purposes, perhaps, but appreciated nonetheless.
Sherlock pushed his finger in, careful but insistent, and slid in to the second knuckle. John tightened his lips at the intrusion, the sensations not yet resolving into pain or pleasure. Then, Sherlock did something to tug on the pins on John's nipples without releasing them and the jolt of pain sent a flush over his whole body and he was bucking into Sherlock's finger.
Until now, John wouldn't have pegged himself as much of a masochist—outside the occasional round of aggressive sex—but something about being the sole object of Sherlock's attention made him want to experience anything and everything that crossed the madman's mind. Right now that meant more of those fingers please, and maybe more, oh, oh, yes—
The pins were heating again and Sherlock twisted the one on John's clavicle cruelly. When that distraction had faded, John realized that one, he was already half-hard again and two, Sherlock now had a second finger up his arse.
Sherlock scissored his fingers for a minute or so, letting John get used to the stretch, then pulled off a feat of coordination to make him curse and contort his spine wantonly. He curved his fingers to stroke John's prostate just as he pulled something to yank off the clothespins pair by pair, drawing a V of pleasure-pain directly down to John's cock. Half-hard rapidly became fuck-me-right-now-I-need-it-now-please-Sherlock!
Sherlock, happy to oblige, positioned himself at John's opening and holy fuck, there was the skin-to-skin contact Sherlock had denied him since starting this little game. As Sherlock pressed in, John felt fabric brush his thighs. John's imagination enthusiastically provided the visual his eyes were blind to: Sherlock, sweat making the fine linen of his suit cling even more than usual, violinists hands hidden under nitrile, and finally, flushed prick jutting obscenely from his flies and lodged balls deep in John's arse. John clenched around him, holy god fuck, he'd be wanking to that thought for years.
Then Sherlock started to move and John was very nearly overwhelmed. The blocking of his other senses made everything almost unbearably tactile, and John could feel the weave of Sherlock's trousers, the scrape of his zip, a heated stretch of neck where John's calf wrapped around it. He was completely covered in Sherlock Holmes, whole body enveloped in him, possessed and occupied from the inside out. And,God, he could feel himself breaking apart. There was no pacing now, no coy teasing or slow measured strokes, John rocked up into Sherlock's thrusts single-mindedly, the tears in his eyes and tightening of his throat just another part of this, now, here, this. This.
The sounds coming from his mouth could have been moans or sobs but, either way, Sherlock leaned in to capture them with his mouth, folding John almost double. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he accepted that he'd pay for that tomorrow—there were ways veterans pushing forty simply shouldn't bend—but Sherlock's tongue snaking over his palate took precedence.
Need was building tight in his balls and the maddening brush of Sherlock's stomach against the head of John's prick only made him more desperate. He wasn't supposed to speak, couldn't even hear himself other than that strange between-the-ears echo you get on an aeroplane, but he pleaded nonetheless. “Sherlock, Sherlock, I need—”
And then Sherlock's hand, still gloved, still slick with lubricant, was on John's erection, pulling him endlessly, not stopping, never stopping until John spilled everything over Sherlock's fingers, the whole world emptied out through his cock.
Sherlock dug his forehead into the crook of John's neck, sweat sticking and sliding as his thrusts sped up and lost their rhythm. The earplugs mostly muffled Sherlock's groan but John heard it anyway and felt an aftershock roll over him as Sherlock seized.
The entire time he'd known Sherlock, the man had taken up a very likely unhealthy amount of John's life. Bloody hell, he'd shot a man to save the Consulting Idiot the day after they'd met. But now he seemed to be breathing the man; the sex was over, Sherlock was slipping out, and John kept taking in great gulps of air, and tasting Sherlock and them and fucking, and he couldn't see how there was anything else in the world that wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Despite just having come, John's heart continued to race and try to make its way up into his throat.
Touching him wasn't enough. Where was Sherlock, John needed to see Sherlock, he needed to see—suddenly Sherlock was pulling off the blindfold and plucking the plugs from John's ears. Seeing him, hearing him catching his breath, had an immediate, grounding effect. John tipped forward to press their foreheads together and just breathed for a few moments, taking in Sherlock's face from up close. His mouth was parted, his fringe plastered between them, and his cheeks flushed pink. Absolutely gorgeous.
“I'm still going to call you beautiful, you know. But I'll tone down the poetics if you promise to keep making me come like that.”
John felt a sudden, sharp exhalation of air across his face, and then Sherlock was laughing and giggles were bubbling up and out of John's chest, too. “D'you mind getting this belt off me?” He gasped, and that just set Sherlock off again. John rubbed feeling back into his wrists once Sherlock finally managed to undo the belt, and caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. “Is that your blowlamp?”
Sherlock smirked. “I maintained the flame at least 15 centimeters from your skin at all times. Perfectly safe.”
John considered pursuing an argument but found that post-orgasmic bliss did wonders for his patience. He rolled his eyes. “Wear safety glasses next time. I can't very well patch you up when I'm on sensory black out and have my hands tied behind my back.”
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow up but nodded. “Mm.”
John shook his head with amusement. Of course he'd fallen in love with this ridiculous, ridiculous man. Of course a blowlamp was a sex toy. Obviously, he mimicked Sherlock's voice in his head and felt giggles threaten to rise up again. “Oh, c'mere you.” He pulled Sherlock towards him and rearranged their bodies to fit long ways on the couch.
“Cuddling, John? Really?” Sherlock smirked but gave John a squeeze and pressed a kiss against his temple anyway.