Letters, Resolved (7/14)
Dec. 8th, 2013 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - Letters, Resolved (7/14)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Adult
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - The letters have been written, read, and discussed. But that doesn't mean anything's been resolved. Yet.
Author's Note - Thank you toarctacuda for the beta and flawedamythyst for the Britpick.
Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Sherlock was out of bed when John woke up. He’d called for room service and was sitting on the veranda with the tray and the laptop on his lap. John snagged a croissant, yawned a good morning, and stumbled into the shower.
When he got out of the shower, Sherlock said, “Let’s go into town.”
“Can I have a cup of coffee first?” John asked, pouring himself one.
Sherlock sighed heavily as if John were the most troublesome human being on the planet and commenced to drumming his fingers on the counter. Repeatedly. Not stopping.
John took a few sips of his coffee before deciding that he’d rather just go to town. “Never mind,” he said, putting his mug down. “You can buy me some coffee when we get to town.”
“I will do nothing of the sort,” sniffed Sherlock. “I am shopping when we get to town.”
“Yes. Shopping for coffee for me,” replied John. “Let’s go.”
Sherlock seemed distracted as he drove. He cursed the other drivers the way he usually did, but it was more force of habit than true irritation.
“What are you shopping for anyways?” John asked.
Sherlock gave him a brief, withering look. “Your French dinner, of course.”
“Oh,” John realized. “You don’t really have to cook me a French dinner. I was only joking about that last night.”
Sherlock frowned. “Do you think I can’t cook a French dinner?”
“Sherlock, I think you can do anything you put your mind to. You just don’t need to—”
“Well, now you’re just being patronizing,” said Sherlock. “Do you like red snapper?”
“I suppose. I generally like seafood.”
“Excellent. Then red snapper meuniere. That’s what we’re having for dinner.”
John cocked his head and thought of the laptop on Sherlock’s lap that morning. “Did you look that up on the Internet this morning?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, which was a dead giveaway.
John wanted to reiterate that Sherlock really didn’t need to cook him dinner, but Sherlock was never swayed from an idea once he’d decided upon it, so John decided to pick his battles. He left Sherlock haggling with the seafood shack and went to buy coffee from the nearby stand. He turned around with his freshly procured coffee and nearly spilled it all by walking directly into Sherlock.
“Jesus,” he said. “You are determined that I not have coffee this morning, aren’t you?” He sipped it and looked at the paper package Sherlock was holding. “Get the fish?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, he looked up at him. “What?”
Sherlock had a strange look on his face, stiff and stricken, and, to John’s surprise, he reached out and pulled John roughly against him, leaning down to press his head into the curve of John’s neck. John, his coffee squashed uncomfortably between them, lifted the one free hand he had and patted Sherlock’s back. “Okay?” he asked, uncertainly.
“I turned around and you weren’t there.”
“I went to get coffee,” said John. “I told you.”
“I know. I know you did. You weren’t there, and I thought, he went to get coffee, he told you he was getting coffee. But I still couldn’t—couldn’t—”
“Deep breath, Sherlock,” John interrupted him. “Remember? Like I taught you. Nice deep breath, hold it, let it out slowly. There you go. Just like that.”
After a moment, Sherlock released him and stepped back, displeasure evident on his face. “I hate this,” he spat out.
“I know,” said John, because he did. He hesitated, unsure whether to suggest they go back to the villa. He finally settled on inquiring, neutrally, “Are we all set here?” There was no way they were—Sherlock had done nothing but buy some fish—but he thought it sounded better than Let’s go home so you don’t have a panic attack on the pavement.
“No,” said Sherlock, staunchly. “We are going shopping.” And then he marched toward the supermarket.
John followed in his wake, pushing the trolley and paying very little attention to what Sherlock was throwing into it. He was busy thinking about the fact that Sherlock still couldn’t seem to let him out of his sight without it provoking severe anxiety, and about what John could do to make Sherlock feel safe. John thought there was probably nothing he could do, which was the worst part. It would just take time. And all of Moriarty’s men dropping dead. Maybe Mycroft was taking care of that for them.
John blinked, suddenly becoming aware that Sherlock had just thrown lube in with the flour and the butter and the tarragon.
“Um,” said John, picking it up. “What’s this?”
Sherlock, now picking out a lemon, glanced at him. “It’s lubricant, John. Which is exactly what the label says that it is.”
“Right. But...” John paused, unsure of what to say next, which was ridiculous because he was a grown man and he could surely just ask his sexual partner what he intended to do with the lube.
“Put it back, if you like,” said Sherlock.
John looked at him. He was fiddling with the lemon he’d chosen, looking uncomfortable. “Is this because you think I want this? Or because you want this?”
Sherlock looked up at him, exasperated. “John, honestly, you think too much about everything. I thought it could be useful for a number of activities, and I thought we would discuss them at home, but if you’d rather we ruminate on our more desired sexual positions in the middle of this supermarket, then, by all means, let’s. I thought that I might like being penetrated by you.”
An older woman who had stepped up to examine the lemons shot them a look and bustled away.
“Oh,” said John, voice strangled.
“But if you don’t like the idea,” Sherlock continued.
“No,” said John, slowly. “It’s not that.” John tried to determine how to go about saying that he’d never actually done that before. He didn’t know why he didn’t just say I’ve never done that before.
Sherlock sighed and suddenly reached a hand out, pressing his fingers against John’s forehead firmly, rubbing just slightly. “Stop,” he said.
John blinked in confusion, going a little cross-eyed with trying to look at Sherlock’s fingers. “Stop what?”
“Your face is doing that scrunched-up thing it does when you’re thinking too hard. You’ll have a headache by nightfall and I’m cooking you dinner and I will be very cross if you’re feeling too poorly to enjoy it. So stop.” Sherlock dropped his fingers, and John tried to make his face not-scrunched-up, although he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. “You’re a doctor,” Sherlock went on. “I’d expect you’d be cleverer than most about locating my prostate. Now, Tabasco sauce.”
Sherlock scurried off, and John tried a small smile on the young couple blatantly staring at him.
“John Watson, what is your life,” sighed John to himself as he turned and followed Sherlock.
***
Sherlock had sent him to the beach. Well, Sherlock had sent him out of the villa, but, given Sherlock’s moment of terror that morning, John had decided not to go any farther than the beach. He was really a bit surprised that he’d been encouraged to leave Sherlock’s sight, but he also knew that Sherlock had been appalled by how quickly he had panicked and was determined to do better than that, and no one was more stubborn than Sherlock Holmes.
So John sat on the beach with one of Sherlock’s true crime books and watched the ocean and considered Sherlock’s mental state. John had really thought that Sherlock had been getting better. The bruises had almost all faded now, and he’d gained back a bit of the weight that he’d lost. His eyes were clearer and brighter than they had been, and he laughed a bit more frequently, and he smiled more openly. He was still self-conscious about the scars on his back, but, having experience with scarring himself, John thought it not an unusual amount of self-consciousness.
John had really started to relax a bit. John was happy. He was happier than he’d ever been in his entire life, here, with Sherlock, with Sherlock. He had forgotten, just a bit, that Sherlock was still recovering. Getting better, John thought, yes, but still nowhere near his old self. John thought he might never achieve old-self-ness, but John would settle for a close approximation of it.
John would settle for a Sherlock who was excited about things. There had been flashes of that excitement, and the enthusiasm with which he was tackling dinner was a welcome thing to see, but still, they had been in Anguilla for a while now, and Sherlock had never once complained of boredom. John was flattered that he was that engaging, but he knew he really wasn’t. He knew that a normal Sherlock would have at least woken John up at one point for a distracting shag. Sherlock hadn’t done that.
He loved Sherlock fiercely, and he didn’t want to pressure Sherlock, and he was very, very happy with how things currently were, but he also couldn’t help a pang of regret over the Sherlock he seemed to have lost, the Sherlock he might have to miss forever. He had never given himself a chance with that Sherlock, and he hated himself for the lost opportunity. But he supposed it went both ways. He supposed Sherlock lamented not ever having had the John Watson he had been before all of this had happened between them.
“John?” came Sherlock’s voice from the doorway of the villa.
John turned on the sand, squinting up toward the villa in the dying light of the sunset. “Am I allowed to come in now?”
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, very properly, like he was suddenly the maître d’ at a snobby restaurant.
John picked himself up, brushed sand off of the T-shirt and trunks he was wearing, and headed up toward the villa. Sherlock was waiting for him by the door, and he was dressed in one of his suits, wearing the plum shirt, which John had not seen since, well, since.
“You’re all dressed up,” he remarked, in surprise.
Sherlock glanced down at himself. “This is what I normally wear.”
“I know, but, I mean…” John came to a stop next to Sherlock and gestured to the shirt. “You weren’t wearing that before.”
“I was under the impression it was your favorite,” explained Sherlock.
John blinked. “Oh. Yes. It is, actually.”
“Then,” said Sherlock, as if now everything should be clear, “come along, it’s all going to get cold.”
John walked into the villa but only made it one step before stopping dead. Because Sherlock had lit candles and put them on the table, and there was a bowl full of fresh flowers, and there was even a tablecloth, pristine white linen. Sherlock stepped around John’s still figure, reaching for glasses of champagne on the table, handing one to John.
“Where did you get all this?” John managed.
“Room service. Didn’t you see the tray come?”
“I just thought you were cheating with the food,” said John, dazedly. “I didn’t think you were…”
“I don’t cheat, John. Did you want to toast?” Sherlock lifted his champagne flute expectantly.
John tore his gaze away from the tableau, back to Sherlock, said, stupidly, “Oh,” and then recovered himself enough to say, “Oh. Yes. To us.” He clinked his glass against Sherlock’s and sipped.
Sherlock sipped his as well, then said, briskly, “Now, then, have a seat. I’ll bring you your plate.”
John sat and stared at the bowl of flowers and the flickering candlelight. He felt as if his mind was moving sluggishly. He had expected Sherlock to turn out to be good at cooking, because Sherlock was generally good at the things he decided to be good at, but he had not expected all of this.
Sherlock slid a plate in front of him, and John looked down at it.
“Red snapper meuniere. Arugula salad. French bread,” recited Sherlock, although the food seemed fairly self-explanatory to John.
John reached for his fork and knife, saying, “Thank you. It looks delicious.”
Sherlock sat opposite him with his own plate and picked up his own fork and leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs and generally looked so cool and calm and collected that John thought, My God, he’s actually nervous about this.
John took a delicate bite of his fish, prepared to lie, but he didn’t have to lie because it was heavenly. John’s eyes closed involuntarily, and he heard himself say, “Oh my God.”
“Is it good?”
John opened his eyes. “Good? Sherlock, seriously, how have you let me be the one cooking all this time?” John went for another bite eagerly. “It is…brilliant. It is breathtaking. It is—”
“It’s fried fish, John,” said Sherlock, sounding amused.
“No, no, it’s divine,” corrected John, around a full mouth.
Sherlock had started eating now, looking more relaxed. “Glad you like it. Told you I could do it.”
“I never doubted you for an instant,” said John, before saying, “Even the salad’s delicious. You’re unbelievable.”
Sherlock flickered a smile and ate his fish with a lot more delicacy than John, who was gobbling his down. Sherlock noticed. “There’s more, if you want—”
“Yes, I would love some more,” said John, immediately, standing.
Sherlock stood and pushed him lightly back down into his chair, taking his plate from him and retreating back into the kitchen with it. Odd, because normally Sherlock pestered John to clear Sherlock’s plates for him. He was cooking and being helpful.
Sherlock returned with more food for John, and John ate it more slowly, in companionable silence for a bit, enjoying the food and the candlelight and the way Sherlock looked in the candlelight.
Finally John said, “What is all this?”
Sherlock took a second to answer, sipping his champagne. Then he said, plainly striving toward casualness, “I thought it was a date.”
“I got that impression, yes.”
Sherlock looked abruptly relieved. “Good.”
“Did you think I’d miss that? What with the candlelight and all?”
“I didn’t know what to expect. We’ve never been on a date before.”
“Well, other than all those times Angelo put a candle on our table for us.”
“Those weren’t really dates,” Sherlock pointed out, looking tetchy as he picked at his food.
“I know,” said John, and brushed his foot against Sherlock’s calf by way of apology, the fabric of his trousers feeling decadently and expensively soft against his skin. “This is lovely. Thank you.”
Sherlock shrugged but looked pleased. He wasn’t really eating but John wasn’t surprised. Sherlock’s interest in food ebbed and flowed, and John expected him to skip a meal every now and then.
“So,” remarked John. “If we’d met under different circumstances, is this what you would have done?”
“Define the different circumstances.”
“Met at a party.”
“I don’t go to parties.”
“Mycroft made you go.”
“Mycroft made me go to a party that you were at, too?” Sherlock looked dubious about the plausibility of that.
Of course Sherlock wouldn’t just play along, thought John. Of course Sherlock would make him work for it. “It was…a party honoring war heroes. Those wounded in action.”
“And why did I have to be there?”
“Because one of us was leaking classified information from our time in the field and Mycroft wanted to know which one. So you had to observe us in person.”
“What clues was I looking for?”
“Sherlock,” sighed John.
“All right, all right, fine.” Sherlock waved his fork. “So Mycroft forces me to go to this party, I’m observing wounded veterans, and one of them is you.”
“One of them is me,” John confirmed.
“I would think: What a pity, he appears to be heterosexual, wonder if I can manipulate him into a flatshare.”
“What if I was gay when you met me?” asked John, patiently.
“Oh, well, now that changes everything. You should have begun with that premise straightaway.”
“Sorry,” said John, trying not to look as amused as he felt, because Sherlock was now looking very thoughtful, suddenly taking the entire exercise seriously. “So would you have asked me out?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, clearly seeing a John who he was meeting at a fictional party and not the John sitting in front of him. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “I would have.” And then, more decisively, with a little nod, “Yes.”
“And would you have done this? Cooked me a candlelight dinner?”
“No,” Sherlock answered, musingly. “You wouldn’t like that. You’re old-fashioned. This is too intimate for a first date. You’re unimaginative when it comes to first dates. I would have just taken you to dinner. Neither too posh nor too shabby, so you’d relax.”
“You’d show off by deducing everyone in the room. I’d find it ridiculously hot.”
“Of course you would. You wouldn’t even make it through the pudding before suggesting we go off somewhere for a shag.”
“A shag? Really? On the first date? Do you really think I’m that sort of man?” he asked, teasingly.
“Oh, I’d make you that sort of man,” replied Sherlock, confidently.
“Would you? You think you’d have successfully seduced me on the first date?”
“The deductions would have done most of the work for me. You’ve an irresistible attraction to my voice. So long as I kept talking, I could keep your head positively reeling.”
Sherlock had pitched his voice to a lower timbre so that it felt like warm velvet stroking over John’s skin, and John fought against the impulse to shiver with it. Sherlock knew, of course, the effect of that; he’d begun using it in bed with an unforgiveable ruthlessness that John adored.
“So you’re—” John cleared his throat and took a sip of champagne so that he didn’t have to look at Sherlock being smug. “So you’re just going to deduce me to a seduction.” There. Better. Not a squeak at all.
Sherlock shifted about in his seat. “Do you think I couldn’t do it?”
If John was going to be honest, Sherlock had practically deduced him into seductions when John had still been clinging to heterosexuality. A gay John wouldn’t have stood a chance. “No, I think you could do it,” John said.
“Anyways, as I said, the deductions were only going to do half the work.” Sherlock’s socked foot suddenly appeared on the seat, resting in between John’s thighs. John automatically made room for it while being simultaneously astonished. “That would do the rest,” continued Sherlock, and brushed his toes along John’s crotch.
“Oh,” John managed. “That’s…” He wished it wasn’t obvious to Sherlock how hard he’d just got and how quickly it had happened, but Sherlock’s foot was in a very good position to measure such things.
Sherlock’s lips twisted into a smile of filthy triumph. “Of course, the thing is,” he said, keeping his voice pitched low and pressing lightly with his toes. John’s hands clenched into fists and he realized he had clutched at the tablecloth. “At about this time I’d stop talking about the deductions. Or deductions about other people. I’d tell you how elevated your pulse rate is right now; I’d tell you how hard you’re breathing; I’d tell you that you’re attracting attention in the perfectly respectable restaurant I’ve taken you to.” Sherlock leaned closer over the table, the expression on his face maddeningly casual when his foot was doing that. John heard the strangled gasp he made, unable to look away from Sherlock’s pale, calculating eyes. “I’d tell you,” Sherlock continued, his voice dropping impossibly lower, and John’s hips actually made an involuntary motion in reaction, “that you have the most spectacular eyes I’ve ever seen. Do you know that? They’re so very you. Anyone would think they’re completely ordinary until they get up close to you and then they are breathtaking. I would tell you that all of that leashed strength you cover in unassuming jumpers has distracted me into innumerable fantasies when I should be thinking of other things. I would tell you that I want those surgeon’s hands of yours on me desperately. So what do you say?” Sherlock’s voice was an obscene purr drifting over him, and his gaze was heavy-lidded and full of promise.
John could think of nothing to say. The combined power of Sherlock’s illegally hot voice and Sherlock’s illegally clever foot had wiped his head clean.
Sherlock retreated just a touch, drawing his foot out of direct contact, and John actually scooted forward in his chair to get it back.
“Is that good?” asked Sherlock, sounding faintly amused.
John promised himself he would worry about wiping that smirk off his face later. “It is bloody spectacular and you know it.”
Sherlock dropped his foot back to the floor, wiggling about as he shifted it back into his shoe. John blinked, dazedly trying to pull himself back from the brink, telling himself he couldn’t just grab for Sherlock’s leg.
“And that,” said Sherlock, with a grin, “is how I would have seduced you on the first date.” Sherlock stood, picking up their plates and inquiring, innocently, “Pudding?”
“Pudding?” John managed, eventually, when he’d got his voice back.
“Yes.” Sherlock walked back out, holding two dishes of it. “Chocolate mousse. This is room service, I didn’t make you chocolate mousse from scratch.”
“There is no sodding way we’re having pudding right now,” John informed him, standing and pulling him in for a rough and demanding kiss.
Sherlock returned it for only a second before drawing back, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “But John, the mousse is delicious,” he insisted, putting one of the dishes down on the table and sticking two fingers into the other dish before putting them in his mouth and very carefully licking and sucking them clean.
John narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m going to murder you,” he decided.
Sherlock laughed and darted out of his grasp, but John caught him easily, pulling him into an embrace and backing him up at the same time. “Are you upset because I cheated with the pudding?” Sherlock asked, all teasing coquettishness, and John marveled for a second at how gorgeous he was when he was playful and happy. “Because it really is excellent pudding.”
“Shut up about the pudding,” said John, and pushed him back onto the bed.
He went with characteristic grace, still balancing the dish of mousse, and pointed out, “This is the wrong bedroom.”
John followed him onto the bed, straddling him and pinning him in place, leaning down over him. “You’re lucky it’s a bed.”
Sherlock smiled up at him. “You’ve no intention of murdering me.”
“Haven’t I?”
“Shagging me, that’s a different story,” said Sherlock, and suddenly swiped a handful of mousse across John’s face.
John sputtered, pushing it off his face inelegantly. “Wanker,” he said, and Sherlock giggled, and he kissed the giggle out of him, thinking, This is what Sherlock Holmes’s laughter tastes like. I bet no one’s ever tasted that before. Sherlock’s amusement died after a moment, and he began to respond to the kiss in earnest, wrapping one hand around the back of John’s neck. John ran his mousse-covered hand up Sherlock’s neck and broke the kiss to lick up the trail it had left behind. Sherlock’s hand clenched in the hair that was growing shaggy on John’s neck, his nails against the skin, as he leaned his head back to give John more access.
“Good call on the mousse,” John said, huskily, licking up specks of it on Sherlock’s face. “It’s delicious.”
“I thought we were shutting up about the pudding,” said Sherlock into John’s mouth, and then rolled them over, kissing John hard, pressing him into the mattress, hands already pushing off John’s trunks. “The lube’s in the other room,” he mumbled.
“We are not stopping to get it,” said John. “For God’s sake, would you touch me already?”
Sherlock was apparently no longer in the mood to tease, because he did nothing but comply, and John groaned and pulled him back down for a kiss, wet and messy. Sherlock was squirming around on top of him, fighting with his belt and his trousers and his pants, and John thought that it served him a little bit right for wearing so much bloody clothing all the time. And then John stopped thinking because Sherlock managed to line them up beautifully, and the friction he’d been craving since Sherlock’s foot had started teasing him made his vision go white around the edges.
“Bloody Christ,” he muttered, and Sherlock sucked at the skin on his neck, and John pushed, rolling them over and pinning Sherlock’s hands by his head.
Sherlock blinked up at him. He was covered in smears of mousse, along his face, in his hair, and the plum shirt was pretty much a disaster, but John thought he had never looked so irresistible. John leaned down, spoke into Sherlock’s ear. “I thought it was my leashed strength that attracted you.” He nipped at Sherlock’s earlobe, and Sherlock made a pleasing, bitten-down sound. “And my hands on you, wasn’t that what you wanted?” John moved his hand, giving Sherlock exactly what he’d said he wanted, exactly the way John now knew he wanted it, exactly the right amount of pressure to make Sherlock’s back arch and his eyelids flutter, and John kept at it, relentless, because he wanted Sherlock as completely overwhelmed as he’d made John feel at the table.
“John,” gasped Sherlock, and closed a hand on his T-shirt to pull him in for a kiss.
“Is this how it would go?” John asked, his teeth against Sherlock’s ridiculously lush bottom lip. “Our first-date shag?”
“No.” Sherlock tried to shake his head and kiss John at the same time. “This is—better—it’s—better—”
John pulled his mouth away from Sherlock’s, suddenly feeling like he couldn’t breathe, like this was all too much for him and if he loved Sherlock any more then his heart would simply give out over how full it was. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s and panted with him and whooshed out, “You…” but he didn’t even know what he wanted to say to him.
Sherlock said John’s name, desperate and begging, for him, wanting him, and John put his mouth at Sherlock’s ear and said, “I love you,” and Sherlock gasped and came.
And then, not even pausing to catch his breath, with the characteristic spark of energy that always seemed to sweep over him after an orgasm, Sherlock pounced on John and pulled him into his mouth, and John didn’t even realize how close he’d been to the edge until Sherlock had pushed him so effortlessly over it.
Sherlock crawled back up his body and murmured, “I love you, too,” and kissed him and tasted of chocolate mousse and John, and John’s head swam with contentment.
Sherlock settled on John’s chest, tucking his head under John’s chin, and John concentrated on breathing. Once he’d got that under control he allowed himself to consider the fact that the bed was unpleasant, and that it wasn’t just them. Probably the duvet was covered with chocolate mousse. Sherlock had taken an entire bowl of it onto the bed with him and John had no idea what had happened to it.
The thought John had after that was that he didn’t bloody care.
Sherlock brushed a kiss over John’s chest and went to move away.
John blindly closed a hand into Sherlock’s shirt and pulled him back, refusing to open his eyes because it seemed like too much effort. “Don’t,” he complained. “Don’t. Just pretend sex exhausts you the way it does all normal people and cuddle with me for a second.”
“John, we are a mess.”
“Mmm, but it’s a good mess.” John tried to stroke his hand through Sherlock’s hair, which he knew Sherlock loved, but his hair was a matted mess of chocolate mousse. Sherlock was vain about his hair. He was probably going to complain about that. Shower sex, thought John, and drifted into the fantasy.
He was half-asleep when Sherlock extracted himself, too much asleep to do anything other than make a sharp sound of displeasure.
“I’m coming right back,” Sherlock whispered to him.
John wanted to make some sort of threat about what he would do if Sherlock didn’t come right back, but that would have required energy, so he settled for just making the threat in his own head. Sherlock came back with a flannel, cleaning with typical efficiency.
“We need showers,” Sherlock said.
“In a minute,” John slurred out. He wasn’t sure it was understandable.
Sherlock curled back up on his chest and sighed, a sound of pure and utter happiness, and John opened his eyes, suddenly wide awake. Because this was what Sherlock had wanted all along. He liked sex, John was fairly sure he did, he initiated too much of it not to. But it wasn’t what he had wanted from John. He had wanted cuddling, he had wanted dates with candlelight, he had wanted to tease and be teased and tumble into bed laughing. They were really such basic desires, and John thought of who Sherlock was to the rest of the world, in his sharp, untouchable suits and his sneering prickliness. John thought that he wasn’t sure he could ever get Sherlock to understand how humbled he felt by being given the gift of Sherlock the way he was with John, the way he was with no one else, Sherlock in all the vulnerable simplicity at the heart of his complexity, and John lifted his arms and tightened them around Sherlock, pressing him as close as he could get.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sherlock, surprised, wriggling a bit in the new grip.
“I am going to love you for the rest of our lives,” John promised him, roughly. “I’m going to make you laugh. I’m going to make sure you’re never bored. I’m going to keep you safe.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment before shaking off John’s grip just enough to pull himself up and align them so he could look down at John’s face. He spent a long moment just studying John, and then he repeated back, “I am going to love you for the rest of our lives. I’m going to make you laugh. I’m going to make sure you’re never bored. I’m going to keep you safe.”
John flickered a smile at him. “Well, that’s that then. All settled.”
And Sherlock smiled back at him and then tucked his head back onto John’s chest.
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Adult
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - The letters have been written, read, and discussed. But that doesn't mean anything's been resolved. Yet.
Author's Note - Thank you to
arctacuda for the beta and flawedamythyst for the Britpick.Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Sherlock was out of bed when John woke up. He’d called for room service and was sitting on the veranda with the tray and the laptop on his lap. John snagged a croissant, yawned a good morning, and stumbled into the shower.
When he got out of the shower, Sherlock said, “Let’s go into town.”
“Can I have a cup of coffee first?” John asked, pouring himself one.
Sherlock sighed heavily as if John were the most troublesome human being on the planet and commenced to drumming his fingers on the counter. Repeatedly. Not stopping.
John took a few sips of his coffee before deciding that he’d rather just go to town. “Never mind,” he said, putting his mug down. “You can buy me some coffee when we get to town.”
“I will do nothing of the sort,” sniffed Sherlock. “I am shopping when we get to town.”
“Yes. Shopping for coffee for me,” replied John. “Let’s go.”
Sherlock seemed distracted as he drove. He cursed the other drivers the way he usually did, but it was more force of habit than true irritation.
“What are you shopping for anyways?” John asked.
Sherlock gave him a brief, withering look. “Your French dinner, of course.”
“Oh,” John realized. “You don’t really have to cook me a French dinner. I was only joking about that last night.”
Sherlock frowned. “Do you think I can’t cook a French dinner?”
“Sherlock, I think you can do anything you put your mind to. You just don’t need to—”
“Well, now you’re just being patronizing,” said Sherlock. “Do you like red snapper?”
“I suppose. I generally like seafood.”
“Excellent. Then red snapper meuniere. That’s what we’re having for dinner.”
John cocked his head and thought of the laptop on Sherlock’s lap that morning. “Did you look that up on the Internet this morning?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, which was a dead giveaway.
John wanted to reiterate that Sherlock really didn’t need to cook him dinner, but Sherlock was never swayed from an idea once he’d decided upon it, so John decided to pick his battles. He left Sherlock haggling with the seafood shack and went to buy coffee from the nearby stand. He turned around with his freshly procured coffee and nearly spilled it all by walking directly into Sherlock.
“Jesus,” he said. “You are determined that I not have coffee this morning, aren’t you?” He sipped it and looked at the paper package Sherlock was holding. “Get the fish?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, he looked up at him. “What?”
Sherlock had a strange look on his face, stiff and stricken, and, to John’s surprise, he reached out and pulled John roughly against him, leaning down to press his head into the curve of John’s neck. John, his coffee squashed uncomfortably between them, lifted the one free hand he had and patted Sherlock’s back. “Okay?” he asked, uncertainly.
“I turned around and you weren’t there.”
“I went to get coffee,” said John. “I told you.”
“I know. I know you did. You weren’t there, and I thought, he went to get coffee, he told you he was getting coffee. But I still couldn’t—couldn’t—”
“Deep breath, Sherlock,” John interrupted him. “Remember? Like I taught you. Nice deep breath, hold it, let it out slowly. There you go. Just like that.”
After a moment, Sherlock released him and stepped back, displeasure evident on his face. “I hate this,” he spat out.
“I know,” said John, because he did. He hesitated, unsure whether to suggest they go back to the villa. He finally settled on inquiring, neutrally, “Are we all set here?” There was no way they were—Sherlock had done nothing but buy some fish—but he thought it sounded better than Let’s go home so you don’t have a panic attack on the pavement.
“No,” said Sherlock, staunchly. “We are going shopping.” And then he marched toward the supermarket.
John followed in his wake, pushing the trolley and paying very little attention to what Sherlock was throwing into it. He was busy thinking about the fact that Sherlock still couldn’t seem to let him out of his sight without it provoking severe anxiety, and about what John could do to make Sherlock feel safe. John thought there was probably nothing he could do, which was the worst part. It would just take time. And all of Moriarty’s men dropping dead. Maybe Mycroft was taking care of that for them.
John blinked, suddenly becoming aware that Sherlock had just thrown lube in with the flour and the butter and the tarragon.
“Um,” said John, picking it up. “What’s this?”
Sherlock, now picking out a lemon, glanced at him. “It’s lubricant, John. Which is exactly what the label says that it is.”
“Right. But...” John paused, unsure of what to say next, which was ridiculous because he was a grown man and he could surely just ask his sexual partner what he intended to do with the lube.
“Put it back, if you like,” said Sherlock.
John looked at him. He was fiddling with the lemon he’d chosen, looking uncomfortable. “Is this because you think I want this? Or because you want this?”
Sherlock looked up at him, exasperated. “John, honestly, you think too much about everything. I thought it could be useful for a number of activities, and I thought we would discuss them at home, but if you’d rather we ruminate on our more desired sexual positions in the middle of this supermarket, then, by all means, let’s. I thought that I might like being penetrated by you.”
An older woman who had stepped up to examine the lemons shot them a look and bustled away.
“Oh,” said John, voice strangled.
“But if you don’t like the idea,” Sherlock continued.
“No,” said John, slowly. “It’s not that.” John tried to determine how to go about saying that he’d never actually done that before. He didn’t know why he didn’t just say I’ve never done that before.
Sherlock sighed and suddenly reached a hand out, pressing his fingers against John’s forehead firmly, rubbing just slightly. “Stop,” he said.
John blinked in confusion, going a little cross-eyed with trying to look at Sherlock’s fingers. “Stop what?”
“Your face is doing that scrunched-up thing it does when you’re thinking too hard. You’ll have a headache by nightfall and I’m cooking you dinner and I will be very cross if you’re feeling too poorly to enjoy it. So stop.” Sherlock dropped his fingers, and John tried to make his face not-scrunched-up, although he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. “You’re a doctor,” Sherlock went on. “I’d expect you’d be cleverer than most about locating my prostate. Now, Tabasco sauce.”
Sherlock scurried off, and John tried a small smile on the young couple blatantly staring at him.
“John Watson, what is your life,” sighed John to himself as he turned and followed Sherlock.
***
Sherlock had sent him to the beach. Well, Sherlock had sent him out of the villa, but, given Sherlock’s moment of terror that morning, John had decided not to go any farther than the beach. He was really a bit surprised that he’d been encouraged to leave Sherlock’s sight, but he also knew that Sherlock had been appalled by how quickly he had panicked and was determined to do better than that, and no one was more stubborn than Sherlock Holmes.
So John sat on the beach with one of Sherlock’s true crime books and watched the ocean and considered Sherlock’s mental state. John had really thought that Sherlock had been getting better. The bruises had almost all faded now, and he’d gained back a bit of the weight that he’d lost. His eyes were clearer and brighter than they had been, and he laughed a bit more frequently, and he smiled more openly. He was still self-conscious about the scars on his back, but, having experience with scarring himself, John thought it not an unusual amount of self-consciousness.
John had really started to relax a bit. John was happy. He was happier than he’d ever been in his entire life, here, with Sherlock, with Sherlock. He had forgotten, just a bit, that Sherlock was still recovering. Getting better, John thought, yes, but still nowhere near his old self. John thought he might never achieve old-self-ness, but John would settle for a close approximation of it.
John would settle for a Sherlock who was excited about things. There had been flashes of that excitement, and the enthusiasm with which he was tackling dinner was a welcome thing to see, but still, they had been in Anguilla for a while now, and Sherlock had never once complained of boredom. John was flattered that he was that engaging, but he knew he really wasn’t. He knew that a normal Sherlock would have at least woken John up at one point for a distracting shag. Sherlock hadn’t done that.
He loved Sherlock fiercely, and he didn’t want to pressure Sherlock, and he was very, very happy with how things currently were, but he also couldn’t help a pang of regret over the Sherlock he seemed to have lost, the Sherlock he might have to miss forever. He had never given himself a chance with that Sherlock, and he hated himself for the lost opportunity. But he supposed it went both ways. He supposed Sherlock lamented not ever having had the John Watson he had been before all of this had happened between them.
“John?” came Sherlock’s voice from the doorway of the villa.
John turned on the sand, squinting up toward the villa in the dying light of the sunset. “Am I allowed to come in now?”
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, very properly, like he was suddenly the maître d’ at a snobby restaurant.
John picked himself up, brushed sand off of the T-shirt and trunks he was wearing, and headed up toward the villa. Sherlock was waiting for him by the door, and he was dressed in one of his suits, wearing the plum shirt, which John had not seen since, well, since.
“You’re all dressed up,” he remarked, in surprise.
Sherlock glanced down at himself. “This is what I normally wear.”
“I know, but, I mean…” John came to a stop next to Sherlock and gestured to the shirt. “You weren’t wearing that before.”
“I was under the impression it was your favorite,” explained Sherlock.
John blinked. “Oh. Yes. It is, actually.”
“Then,” said Sherlock, as if now everything should be clear, “come along, it’s all going to get cold.”
John walked into the villa but only made it one step before stopping dead. Because Sherlock had lit candles and put them on the table, and there was a bowl full of fresh flowers, and there was even a tablecloth, pristine white linen. Sherlock stepped around John’s still figure, reaching for glasses of champagne on the table, handing one to John.
“Where did you get all this?” John managed.
“Room service. Didn’t you see the tray come?”
“I just thought you were cheating with the food,” said John, dazedly. “I didn’t think you were…”
“I don’t cheat, John. Did you want to toast?” Sherlock lifted his champagne flute expectantly.
John tore his gaze away from the tableau, back to Sherlock, said, stupidly, “Oh,” and then recovered himself enough to say, “Oh. Yes. To us.” He clinked his glass against Sherlock’s and sipped.
Sherlock sipped his as well, then said, briskly, “Now, then, have a seat. I’ll bring you your plate.”
John sat and stared at the bowl of flowers and the flickering candlelight. He felt as if his mind was moving sluggishly. He had expected Sherlock to turn out to be good at cooking, because Sherlock was generally good at the things he decided to be good at, but he had not expected all of this.
Sherlock slid a plate in front of him, and John looked down at it.
“Red snapper meuniere. Arugula salad. French bread,” recited Sherlock, although the food seemed fairly self-explanatory to John.
John reached for his fork and knife, saying, “Thank you. It looks delicious.”
Sherlock sat opposite him with his own plate and picked up his own fork and leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs and generally looked so cool and calm and collected that John thought, My God, he’s actually nervous about this.
John took a delicate bite of his fish, prepared to lie, but he didn’t have to lie because it was heavenly. John’s eyes closed involuntarily, and he heard himself say, “Oh my God.”
“Is it good?”
John opened his eyes. “Good? Sherlock, seriously, how have you let me be the one cooking all this time?” John went for another bite eagerly. “It is…brilliant. It is breathtaking. It is—”
“It’s fried fish, John,” said Sherlock, sounding amused.
“No, no, it’s divine,” corrected John, around a full mouth.
Sherlock had started eating now, looking more relaxed. “Glad you like it. Told you I could do it.”
“I never doubted you for an instant,” said John, before saying, “Even the salad’s delicious. You’re unbelievable.”
Sherlock flickered a smile and ate his fish with a lot more delicacy than John, who was gobbling his down. Sherlock noticed. “There’s more, if you want—”
“Yes, I would love some more,” said John, immediately, standing.
Sherlock stood and pushed him lightly back down into his chair, taking his plate from him and retreating back into the kitchen with it. Odd, because normally Sherlock pestered John to clear Sherlock’s plates for him. He was cooking and being helpful.
Sherlock returned with more food for John, and John ate it more slowly, in companionable silence for a bit, enjoying the food and the candlelight and the way Sherlock looked in the candlelight.
Finally John said, “What is all this?”
Sherlock took a second to answer, sipping his champagne. Then he said, plainly striving toward casualness, “I thought it was a date.”
“I got that impression, yes.”
Sherlock looked abruptly relieved. “Good.”
“Did you think I’d miss that? What with the candlelight and all?”
“I didn’t know what to expect. We’ve never been on a date before.”
“Well, other than all those times Angelo put a candle on our table for us.”
“Those weren’t really dates,” Sherlock pointed out, looking tetchy as he picked at his food.
“I know,” said John, and brushed his foot against Sherlock’s calf by way of apology, the fabric of his trousers feeling decadently and expensively soft against his skin. “This is lovely. Thank you.”
Sherlock shrugged but looked pleased. He wasn’t really eating but John wasn’t surprised. Sherlock’s interest in food ebbed and flowed, and John expected him to skip a meal every now and then.
“So,” remarked John. “If we’d met under different circumstances, is this what you would have done?”
“Define the different circumstances.”
“Met at a party.”
“I don’t go to parties.”
“Mycroft made you go.”
“Mycroft made me go to a party that you were at, too?” Sherlock looked dubious about the plausibility of that.
Of course Sherlock wouldn’t just play along, thought John. Of course Sherlock would make him work for it. “It was…a party honoring war heroes. Those wounded in action.”
“And why did I have to be there?”
“Because one of us was leaking classified information from our time in the field and Mycroft wanted to know which one. So you had to observe us in person.”
“What clues was I looking for?”
“Sherlock,” sighed John.
“All right, all right, fine.” Sherlock waved his fork. “So Mycroft forces me to go to this party, I’m observing wounded veterans, and one of them is you.”
“One of them is me,” John confirmed.
“I would think: What a pity, he appears to be heterosexual, wonder if I can manipulate him into a flatshare.”
“What if I was gay when you met me?” asked John, patiently.
“Oh, well, now that changes everything. You should have begun with that premise straightaway.”
“Sorry,” said John, trying not to look as amused as he felt, because Sherlock was now looking very thoughtful, suddenly taking the entire exercise seriously. “So would you have asked me out?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, clearly seeing a John who he was meeting at a fictional party and not the John sitting in front of him. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “I would have.” And then, more decisively, with a little nod, “Yes.”
“And would you have done this? Cooked me a candlelight dinner?”
“No,” Sherlock answered, musingly. “You wouldn’t like that. You’re old-fashioned. This is too intimate for a first date. You’re unimaginative when it comes to first dates. I would have just taken you to dinner. Neither too posh nor too shabby, so you’d relax.”
“You’d show off by deducing everyone in the room. I’d find it ridiculously hot.”
“Of course you would. You wouldn’t even make it through the pudding before suggesting we go off somewhere for a shag.”
“A shag? Really? On the first date? Do you really think I’m that sort of man?” he asked, teasingly.
“Oh, I’d make you that sort of man,” replied Sherlock, confidently.
“Would you? You think you’d have successfully seduced me on the first date?”
“The deductions would have done most of the work for me. You’ve an irresistible attraction to my voice. So long as I kept talking, I could keep your head positively reeling.”
Sherlock had pitched his voice to a lower timbre so that it felt like warm velvet stroking over John’s skin, and John fought against the impulse to shiver with it. Sherlock knew, of course, the effect of that; he’d begun using it in bed with an unforgiveable ruthlessness that John adored.
“So you’re—” John cleared his throat and took a sip of champagne so that he didn’t have to look at Sherlock being smug. “So you’re just going to deduce me to a seduction.” There. Better. Not a squeak at all.
Sherlock shifted about in his seat. “Do you think I couldn’t do it?”
If John was going to be honest, Sherlock had practically deduced him into seductions when John had still been clinging to heterosexuality. A gay John wouldn’t have stood a chance. “No, I think you could do it,” John said.
“Anyways, as I said, the deductions were only going to do half the work.” Sherlock’s socked foot suddenly appeared on the seat, resting in between John’s thighs. John automatically made room for it while being simultaneously astonished. “That would do the rest,” continued Sherlock, and brushed his toes along John’s crotch.
“Oh,” John managed. “That’s…” He wished it wasn’t obvious to Sherlock how hard he’d just got and how quickly it had happened, but Sherlock’s foot was in a very good position to measure such things.
Sherlock’s lips twisted into a smile of filthy triumph. “Of course, the thing is,” he said, keeping his voice pitched low and pressing lightly with his toes. John’s hands clenched into fists and he realized he had clutched at the tablecloth. “At about this time I’d stop talking about the deductions. Or deductions about other people. I’d tell you how elevated your pulse rate is right now; I’d tell you how hard you’re breathing; I’d tell you that you’re attracting attention in the perfectly respectable restaurant I’ve taken you to.” Sherlock leaned closer over the table, the expression on his face maddeningly casual when his foot was doing that. John heard the strangled gasp he made, unable to look away from Sherlock’s pale, calculating eyes. “I’d tell you,” Sherlock continued, his voice dropping impossibly lower, and John’s hips actually made an involuntary motion in reaction, “that you have the most spectacular eyes I’ve ever seen. Do you know that? They’re so very you. Anyone would think they’re completely ordinary until they get up close to you and then they are breathtaking. I would tell you that all of that leashed strength you cover in unassuming jumpers has distracted me into innumerable fantasies when I should be thinking of other things. I would tell you that I want those surgeon’s hands of yours on me desperately. So what do you say?” Sherlock’s voice was an obscene purr drifting over him, and his gaze was heavy-lidded and full of promise.
John could think of nothing to say. The combined power of Sherlock’s illegally hot voice and Sherlock’s illegally clever foot had wiped his head clean.
Sherlock retreated just a touch, drawing his foot out of direct contact, and John actually scooted forward in his chair to get it back.
“Is that good?” asked Sherlock, sounding faintly amused.
John promised himself he would worry about wiping that smirk off his face later. “It is bloody spectacular and you know it.”
Sherlock dropped his foot back to the floor, wiggling about as he shifted it back into his shoe. John blinked, dazedly trying to pull himself back from the brink, telling himself he couldn’t just grab for Sherlock’s leg.
“And that,” said Sherlock, with a grin, “is how I would have seduced you on the first date.” Sherlock stood, picking up their plates and inquiring, innocently, “Pudding?”
“Pudding?” John managed, eventually, when he’d got his voice back.
“Yes.” Sherlock walked back out, holding two dishes of it. “Chocolate mousse. This is room service, I didn’t make you chocolate mousse from scratch.”
“There is no sodding way we’re having pudding right now,” John informed him, standing and pulling him in for a rough and demanding kiss.
Sherlock returned it for only a second before drawing back, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “But John, the mousse is delicious,” he insisted, putting one of the dishes down on the table and sticking two fingers into the other dish before putting them in his mouth and very carefully licking and sucking them clean.
John narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m going to murder you,” he decided.
Sherlock laughed and darted out of his grasp, but John caught him easily, pulling him into an embrace and backing him up at the same time. “Are you upset because I cheated with the pudding?” Sherlock asked, all teasing coquettishness, and John marveled for a second at how gorgeous he was when he was playful and happy. “Because it really is excellent pudding.”
“Shut up about the pudding,” said John, and pushed him back onto the bed.
He went with characteristic grace, still balancing the dish of mousse, and pointed out, “This is the wrong bedroom.”
John followed him onto the bed, straddling him and pinning him in place, leaning down over him. “You’re lucky it’s a bed.”
Sherlock smiled up at him. “You’ve no intention of murdering me.”
“Haven’t I?”
“Shagging me, that’s a different story,” said Sherlock, and suddenly swiped a handful of mousse across John’s face.
John sputtered, pushing it off his face inelegantly. “Wanker,” he said, and Sherlock giggled, and he kissed the giggle out of him, thinking, This is what Sherlock Holmes’s laughter tastes like. I bet no one’s ever tasted that before. Sherlock’s amusement died after a moment, and he began to respond to the kiss in earnest, wrapping one hand around the back of John’s neck. John ran his mousse-covered hand up Sherlock’s neck and broke the kiss to lick up the trail it had left behind. Sherlock’s hand clenched in the hair that was growing shaggy on John’s neck, his nails against the skin, as he leaned his head back to give John more access.
“Good call on the mousse,” John said, huskily, licking up specks of it on Sherlock’s face. “It’s delicious.”
“I thought we were shutting up about the pudding,” said Sherlock into John’s mouth, and then rolled them over, kissing John hard, pressing him into the mattress, hands already pushing off John’s trunks. “The lube’s in the other room,” he mumbled.
“We are not stopping to get it,” said John. “For God’s sake, would you touch me already?”
Sherlock was apparently no longer in the mood to tease, because he did nothing but comply, and John groaned and pulled him back down for a kiss, wet and messy. Sherlock was squirming around on top of him, fighting with his belt and his trousers and his pants, and John thought that it served him a little bit right for wearing so much bloody clothing all the time. And then John stopped thinking because Sherlock managed to line them up beautifully, and the friction he’d been craving since Sherlock’s foot had started teasing him made his vision go white around the edges.
“Bloody Christ,” he muttered, and Sherlock sucked at the skin on his neck, and John pushed, rolling them over and pinning Sherlock’s hands by his head.
Sherlock blinked up at him. He was covered in smears of mousse, along his face, in his hair, and the plum shirt was pretty much a disaster, but John thought he had never looked so irresistible. John leaned down, spoke into Sherlock’s ear. “I thought it was my leashed strength that attracted you.” He nipped at Sherlock’s earlobe, and Sherlock made a pleasing, bitten-down sound. “And my hands on you, wasn’t that what you wanted?” John moved his hand, giving Sherlock exactly what he’d said he wanted, exactly the way John now knew he wanted it, exactly the right amount of pressure to make Sherlock’s back arch and his eyelids flutter, and John kept at it, relentless, because he wanted Sherlock as completely overwhelmed as he’d made John feel at the table.
“John,” gasped Sherlock, and closed a hand on his T-shirt to pull him in for a kiss.
“Is this how it would go?” John asked, his teeth against Sherlock’s ridiculously lush bottom lip. “Our first-date shag?”
“No.” Sherlock tried to shake his head and kiss John at the same time. “This is—better—it’s—better—”
John pulled his mouth away from Sherlock’s, suddenly feeling like he couldn’t breathe, like this was all too much for him and if he loved Sherlock any more then his heart would simply give out over how full it was. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s and panted with him and whooshed out, “You…” but he didn’t even know what he wanted to say to him.
Sherlock said John’s name, desperate and begging, for him, wanting him, and John put his mouth at Sherlock’s ear and said, “I love you,” and Sherlock gasped and came.
And then, not even pausing to catch his breath, with the characteristic spark of energy that always seemed to sweep over him after an orgasm, Sherlock pounced on John and pulled him into his mouth, and John didn’t even realize how close he’d been to the edge until Sherlock had pushed him so effortlessly over it.
Sherlock crawled back up his body and murmured, “I love you, too,” and kissed him and tasted of chocolate mousse and John, and John’s head swam with contentment.
Sherlock settled on John’s chest, tucking his head under John’s chin, and John concentrated on breathing. Once he’d got that under control he allowed himself to consider the fact that the bed was unpleasant, and that it wasn’t just them. Probably the duvet was covered with chocolate mousse. Sherlock had taken an entire bowl of it onto the bed with him and John had no idea what had happened to it.
The thought John had after that was that he didn’t bloody care.
Sherlock brushed a kiss over John’s chest and went to move away.
John blindly closed a hand into Sherlock’s shirt and pulled him back, refusing to open his eyes because it seemed like too much effort. “Don’t,” he complained. “Don’t. Just pretend sex exhausts you the way it does all normal people and cuddle with me for a second.”
“John, we are a mess.”
“Mmm, but it’s a good mess.” John tried to stroke his hand through Sherlock’s hair, which he knew Sherlock loved, but his hair was a matted mess of chocolate mousse. Sherlock was vain about his hair. He was probably going to complain about that. Shower sex, thought John, and drifted into the fantasy.
He was half-asleep when Sherlock extracted himself, too much asleep to do anything other than make a sharp sound of displeasure.
“I’m coming right back,” Sherlock whispered to him.
John wanted to make some sort of threat about what he would do if Sherlock didn’t come right back, but that would have required energy, so he settled for just making the threat in his own head. Sherlock came back with a flannel, cleaning with typical efficiency.
“We need showers,” Sherlock said.
“In a minute,” John slurred out. He wasn’t sure it was understandable.
Sherlock curled back up on his chest and sighed, a sound of pure and utter happiness, and John opened his eyes, suddenly wide awake. Because this was what Sherlock had wanted all along. He liked sex, John was fairly sure he did, he initiated too much of it not to. But it wasn’t what he had wanted from John. He had wanted cuddling, he had wanted dates with candlelight, he had wanted to tease and be teased and tumble into bed laughing. They were really such basic desires, and John thought of who Sherlock was to the rest of the world, in his sharp, untouchable suits and his sneering prickliness. John thought that he wasn’t sure he could ever get Sherlock to understand how humbled he felt by being given the gift of Sherlock the way he was with John, the way he was with no one else, Sherlock in all the vulnerable simplicity at the heart of his complexity, and John lifted his arms and tightened them around Sherlock, pressing him as close as he could get.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sherlock, surprised, wriggling a bit in the new grip.
“I am going to love you for the rest of our lives,” John promised him, roughly. “I’m going to make you laugh. I’m going to make sure you’re never bored. I’m going to keep you safe.”
Sherlock was silent for a moment before shaking off John’s grip just enough to pull himself up and align them so he could look down at John’s face. He spent a long moment just studying John, and then he repeated back, “I am going to love you for the rest of our lives. I’m going to make you laugh. I’m going to make sure you’re never bored. I’m going to keep you safe.”
John flickered a smile at him. “Well, that’s that then. All settled.”
And Sherlock smiled back at him and then tucked his head back onto John’s chest.
Next Chapter
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no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 02:56 am (UTC)*goes looking for tissue box*
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 04:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 04:20 am (UTC)The sexy date was so wonderfully sexy. And "Shut up about the pudding" made me laugh aloud. Such a great chapter.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 04:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 06:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 01:57 pm (UTC)Well, that and what followed virtually wiped my head clean, too – I’m not sure my comments will make any sense!
”This is what Sherlock Holmes’s laughter tastes like. I bet no one’s ever tasted that before.”
That’s one of the best lines I’ve read this year . . .
”Sherlock crawled back up his body and murmured, “I love you, too,” and kissed him and tasted of chocolate mousse and John, and John’s head swam with contentment.”
It’s quite marvellous seeing them in this situation – something quite unexpected (longed-for, but still unexpected) and – of course – it really works!
”John thought that he wasn’t sure he could ever get Sherlock to understand how humbled he felt by being given the gift of Sherlock the way he was with John, the way he was with no one else, Sherlock in all the vulnerable simplicity at the heart of his complexity, and John lifted his arms and tightened them around Sherlock, pressing him as close as he could get.”
There really isn’t anything to say after that : perfect.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 02:49 pm (UTC)*Sighs*
Shame about the mousse though. It's always a little sad to see chocolate go to waste.
Also, I kind of went crosseyed at the alternate meeting John and Sherlock made up. Mmm John in uniform...
no subject
Date: 2013-12-10 04:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-10 01:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-10 11:53 pm (UTC)Well, there are worse things he could do on the pavement. (Seeing the words Sherlock and pavement in the same sentence always makes me nervous. :D)
John blinked, suddenly becoming aware that Sherlock had just thrown lube in with the flour and the butter and the tarragon.
I can assure you I never saw lube as an ingredient for a fish meunière.
An older woman who had stepped up to examine the lemons shot them a look and bustled away.
Foolish woman. She doesn't know what she's missing.
“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock went on. “I’d expect you’d be cleverer than most about locating my prostate. Now, Tabasco sauce.”
Shopping with Sherlock must be such an interesting experience.
he also couldn’t help a pang of regret over the Sherlock he seemed to have lost, the Sherlock he might have to miss forever
Damn. I hope the key-words are seemed and might!
he was dressed in one of his suits, wearing the plum shirt, which John had not seen since, well, since.
Aaaaaaah, the Purple Shirt of Sex! The most long-awaited comeback of the year, after Sherlock's.
John took a delicate bite of his fish, prepared to lie, but he didn’t have to lie because it was heavenly. John’s eyes closed involuntarily, and he heard himself say, “Oh my God.”
Yep. French cooking. *is smug* :D
Then he said, plainly striving toward casualness, “I thought it was a date.”
And that's what boyfriends do: feed you up. :D
Sherlock’s interest in food ebbed and flowed, and John expected him to skip a meal every now and then.
OR it's because he drugged the food. With an aphrodisiac, probably. *is paranoiac*
Anyone would think they’re completely ordinary until they get up close to you and then they are breathtaking.
They're beautiful indeed!
http://sc.aithine.org/sherlock/100/04/sherlock-100-03764.jpg
The combined power of Sherlock’s illegally hot voice and Sherlock’s illegally clever foot had wiped his head clean.
“Chocolate mousse. This is room service, I didn’t make you chocolate mousse from scratch.”
OH MY GOD. My favourite pudding and my username. I feel so involved in this chapter.
“But John, the mousse is delicious,” he insisted, putting one of the dishes down on the table and sticking two fingers into the other dish before putting them in his mouth and very carefully licking and sucking them clean.
*chokes with lust*
Sherlock crawled back up his body and murmured, “I love you, too,”
Squeeeeeeeeeee! He said it at last!
Shower sex, thought John, and drifted into the fantasy.
Oh look, a prompt! ;-)
“I am going to love you for the rest of our lives. I’m going to make you laugh. I’m going to make sure you’re never bored. I’m going to keep you safe.”
Aww, this sounds like marriage vows.
What a chapter! First, you prove that French cooking leads to wonderful sex and declarations of love, which is a scientific fact. :D Second, you give us chocolate-moussed sex, which is a wonderful kind of sex. Thirdly, you hint at, er, interesting developments. *looks hopefully at the lube* Sherlock deducing John to a seduction is hot as hell and you end on a tender and sweet note. *sighs happily* I'm like John, my head swims with contentment. :-)
P.S. Did I mention that I approve of the chocolate mousse?
no subject
Date: 2013-12-11 04:11 am (UTC)Okay, that photo of John's eye is amaaaaaazing.
Yup. Those feet. ;-)
Ha! I didn't even think about how it was your username!
:)
Date: 2014-01-03 12:52 pm (UTC):)
Date: 2014-01-04 02:35 pm (UTC)