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The Want and the Wild

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The day is absolutely ordinary, average, unremarkable.  Adrenaline, delicious and chaotic, not slamming its way through their veins, not palpable in the air between them.  John can practically visualize it during those almost-moments.  The something that inexplicably pulls him and Sherlock within centimeters of each other, only for one of them to turn their head, stop panting, breathe deeply, laugh off the adrenaline the best they can.  John, tugging his body out of Sherlock’s space before everything inside of himself overflows.  Before he takes from Sherlock what he wants against all sense of self-preservation.  He isn’t a coward.  He just can’t make himself close that last bit of air between their bodies.  There’s so much depth inside of John’s heart, all of which: terrifying.  He couldn’t come back from it, not ever.  It’s so dangerous, not in the way that takes John over rooftops on the heels of a madman in pursuit of treacherous villains.  This isn’t the press of gunmetal against the heel of his roughened palm, not a crime scene, not the desert battlefield where blood spills claret on burning sand.

 

 But it is those things, all at once, and so much more.  He could never explain.

 

He shuts it down, stifles it.  He finds a pretty girl, dates her, tries to fuck it away, hide it in another person, have them keep it.  Push the burden off onto another via skin to skin contact.  John’s palms pressed into gentle curves, but his body always there, fucking the world, but without him.  Without whatever it is that intrinsically links every bit of John into something cohesive and whole.  

 

His body spends itself, but the yearning, it stays, burrows downward, permeates every inch of him, his very cells are infected.  If he ignores it, it will consume him.  If he gives in, and finds reciprocation, there will be nothing left of John.  Nothing to call separate.  Neither option hold the guarantee of winning.  

 

It’s choking him.  It’s in his throat, and it’s cutting off the air.  It’s in his head, witholding the sunlight.  It’s in his skin, clawing it’s way into his fingertips.  Wanting. Needing. Craving.  A cavernous hole so specific that no other person can hope to fill.

 

The day is generic, John has had many like it.  He woke up, showered, boiled a kettle, fried two eggs.  The heated oil of the pan popped when he slid in the raw egg, a little red spot burned on the inside of his wrist, he didn’t flinch at all.  Routine dulling the sting.  

 

He heard the groan of the pipes, Sherlock showering.  John made two cups of tea, one with only milk (his), the other with a spoonful of sugar and enough milk to turn the tea the color of caramels (Sherlock’s).  Sherlock emerged within minutes, he opted to stay in pyjamas, his shirt inside out.  John smiled at the puckered seams.  Couldn’t be arsed to turn it out.  Curls, loose and soft, black from wetness, one could practically watch as the waves coiled back into themselves to settle tightly against the nape of his neck, around his ears, the line just above the brow.  

 

John had settled into his chair with the newspaper.  Sherlock took immediately to his microscope.  

 

“Got anything on today?”

“Nothing of any immediate importance,” a pause, long fingers flicking over the coarse and fine adjustments of the microscope, a slide is pinned onto the stage, “..forensic study in regional palynology.  I need to compare last years samples with my most recent specimens.”

“Palynology?”  John asked, watching the white light from the stage of the scope reflect into opalescent eyes.  

“Pollen, John.  Different geographical locations, different amalgamations of pollen.  It’s terribly relevant.”

And then John left out to do the shopping.  Simple. Easy.

 

John climbs the 17 steps it takes to get back up to the flat, two large paper bags under each arm holding practical things like milk, cotton balls, bread, dish soap.  The brown paper is damp from the rain that started up in earnest on his walk back home.  If he doesn’t hurry, the half gallon of milk will plummet from the bag and onto the floor. The door is already nudged open in anticipation of his arrival, he walks in without another thought, shuts the door with a foot.  He walks a few paces, and is frozen in place, for no obvious reason at all.  John’s brain shouts out to him, tells him that there’s nothing to be done here, keep moving, put up the shopping.  But he can’t.   All of a sudden, absolutely nothing is different, but everything is different.  

 

Sherlock is standing there at the dining room table.  Clear safety goggles pulled down over his eyes, gloves covering his hands, obviously in the midst of some experiment.  He’s still in pyjamas, light grey t-shirt, seams still showing their ragged stitches.  He cut out the tag so it wouldn’t chafe his neck, but the shirt is turned inside out so it doesn’t even matter.  John has seen him like this over a hundred times before. And he can’t look away.  The thought that he could walk off and let the moment pass like all the moments that came before, intolerable.  Unforgivable.

John lets the brown paper bags slide against his thighs to the floor.

Sherlock looks up, eyes distorted underneath the false barrier of goggles.  John knows he’s being observed, he could hardly care. He stares back, gaze possessive over the white column of throat,  the impossibly long lines of demarcation keeping all the lovely insides from getting out, faintly pink lips pursed into a heart.  

 

Beautiful.  Not in the way that women are beautiful.  But in the way that lightning striking wet earth is beautiful.  An unstoppable force of nature, brilliant and profound in its existence.  

 

“John?”  His name formed into a baffled question.  “What..?”  Sherlock’s resonant tone, off-kilter from its typical air of certainty; as if he’s discovered evidence and finds it ill-fitting.  

John is burning, his fingers, his blood, his teeth, there’s no choice but to allow for this.  He puts himself in Sherlock’s space, feels the current that ripples between the lines of their bodies, the magnetism that has drawn them to one another’s side since the moment they met.  Can’t Sherlock see that he’s exploding?  Want, and need, it’s a supernova under his skin and he wants it out.  He shuts his eyes briefly against the onslaught of everything he’s worked so hard to contain and define.  It’s impossible to feel so much, to feel this much, and risk exposing himself.  

He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care.  John breathes deeply, lets the air fill his chest, clenches his fists, unclenches them, clenches them again because Sherlock is right there and he wants to touch, set lips and tongue and fingers and cock to warm skin, and he can’t.  Not yet. 

He opens his eyes to Sherlock, it must be written all over this face.  Something far beyond simple sentiment.  Sherlock pulls up the goggles to rest on top of his head, messy curls falling back into place after the upward drag of flexible plastic.  They stare at one another.  Warm breaths against the other’s cheek.

“Please,” John begs, “Please, just.. let me.”  He lifts up a bit onto the balls of his feet, sighs along Sherlock’s neck, but doesn’t brush the skin with his lips.  He could bury his face there, inhale Sherlock’s scent.  The heady combination of something like bitter tomato vines and burning leaves.  The smell of their home, mixed with Sherlock’s own internal chemistry.  John hears a soft catch of breath, feels them both shiver.  Sherlock pulls back, blinks rapidly, lips still pursed.  

“What is it that you are asking of me?  What do you want?”  Sherlock pins the question to him, pursuing the information he needs.

John gives a desperate laugh past the lump that for some nameless reason has formed in his throat.  He shakes his head, voice pitched high with urgency, “Everything,” he whispers, “Everything.”  Because he can’t imagine not laying claim to every bit of this man.  He wants, he’s breathless with it, every bit of skin trembling with the need to substantiate it.

“For how long have you felt this way?”  

Christ.  He doesn’t know, his subconscious doing the work of quietly internalizing, by the time he realized the truth of the matter, it was too late.  He was already consumed.  Answer honestly, but a bit vaguely,  “I don’t know.  Months.  Months and months.”  Can I have you yet?  God, please, let me keep you.

Sherlock shuts his eyes, looking conflicted, as if he can’t depend on the evidence right in front of him.  He moves backward, then exhales roughly, steps suddenly forward again, bending down to nudge his brow into John’s.  A hand splayed on the table top for support.  He takes a deep breath, John moves to chase the air back to its owner but Sherlock draws his chin inward.

“Your behavior is in disaccord with your self-assessment of sexual orientation.”  Sherlock points out the obvious, their foreheads still pressed together, his voice low and even,  “John.. “  And without saying it, John knows Sherlock is asking him to make sense of of this.  But there isn’t any sense left.  John is flesh and blood and nerve endings, he needs and he needs and he needs.

“I don’t know if I can,” John doesn’t even know he’s doing it, crowding himself toward Sherlock, backing him up toward the sofa.  At some point he pressed off the safety gloves, grasped Sherlock’s wrist, and started scratching his nails against the thin skin on its underside, he touches a thumb to the surging pulse.  

“Why?” Sherlock’s only request, equal parts frustrated and imploring.  “Explain."

“Why?  Why, can’t you see?”  And John matches Sherlock’s tone, desperate to adduce himself.

“The risk..”  Sherlock starts, John tries to listen past the blood pounding in his ears, hammering through his heart, “If I were to give everything to this,” He gestures between them, “the risk to me outweighs the risk to you.”

John shakes his head, he always figured the danger was his own, proven by Sherlock’s ever mercurial nature. Sherlock stops their slow retreat, his eyes meeting John’s in full force.  Sparkling orbs of green and blue and gray, they pierce into John’s more steely, cobalt.  John holds the gaze. Notes Sherlock’s right eye, a fleck of dark brown, as if part of the pupil leaked out, tried to escape and in doing so, found itself caught in the gleaming spectrum.  

“You’ve had a lifetime of developing a heteronormative identity,”  Sherlock says, his inflection one of simple statement of fact, “I am not your preferred gender, nor would I provide you with a conventionally opportune consociation.  I prefer not to experiment with my..  affectivity.”  Sherlock looks at some abstract point past John’s ear.

John blinks in quick succession, he feels his lashes brush against his furrowed brow, “You’re worried I’ll change my mind.  That I’ll hurt you.”

He expects Sherlock to to deflect, roll his eyes, deter John’s words away from a perceived weakness.  But instead he balls up his fist against John’s chest, foreheads resting together again, and sighs as if the action pains him.  

“Is it difficult for you to imagine, “ Sherlock begins, vulnerability echoing into his words, only ever exclusively for John to hear, “--to think that I would be so very different from you,” he steps back, establishing space.  “--in this one area?  Self-preservation is a perfectly natural instinct.  I am already compromised enough, as it is.”

John’s mind does pirouettes in his skull, a paradoxical mix of elation, terror, conviction, and incertitude.  All because this is a verbal admission of reciprocity, and it’s more than John ever thought he’d get.

 “I wouldn’t, Sherlock.”  And it’s a feeble statement.  John wants to tell him that this has nothing to do with orientation.  If his ability to succeed in a romantic relationship with another man is in direct correlation to his physical experience with one, he has nothing to hang his hat on.  One drunken grope and snog with a boy in uni, they avoided each other afterward.  He had never acted on his curiosity, otherwise.  Nothing else. His heart is already tied into Sherlock. 

John does love women.  He's been in love with women.  He’s maintained easy relationships with them, in the past.  

But he aches for Sherlock.  

Down to the very marrow in his bones, he yearns for this one person.  John can’t compose the thoughts to tell him that he wants to weave himself so firmly into Sherlock that neither can discern where one begins and the other ends.  That John wants to hold, and never stop holding.  Wants in a way he hasn’t wanted another person before.  

But the words catch in his throat, cloy there like a glob of honey and slide back down to the pit of his gut where all his self-truths live.  

Instead he pushes forward, once again reclaiming Sherlock’s space, tips his face upward, a torturous few centimeters from perfectly full lips.  It might as well be a kilometer for how distinctly John can feel the breadth of air.  He pleads, the vicious need to convert those unsaid words into something demonstrable pummeling through his chest with each heartbeat, “Please, let me.  Let me show you.”

Sherlock brushes his nose against John’s, it’s all the consent John needs and he’s wrapping his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down, the moment their mouths meet it’s as if a burden has wrenched itself from John’s shoulders.  

Sherlock’s mouth is soft, warm, tastes like the honeyed tea Mrs. Hudson makes, the forgotten mug on the tabletop.  (Rain against the window)  A tentative brush of tongue to John’s and lightning cracks down his spine, like a trigger being pulled.

Yes..” And John is grasping at a sharply boned hip, fingers tangling into inky curls, they twine themselves around his fingers.  The protective goggles find themselves snagged on a patch of hair, John hears several strands break as he tries to untangle the mess.

“Stupid, buggering, goggles!” A single curl holds on for dear life, follicles pull taut, “Sorry!  How did you manage this?”

“Careful!”  Sherlock bats John’s hand away, pulls the hair free, throws the glasses off somewhere, they collide with something, both items thudding to the floor, “It’s fine! It doesn’t matter!”

John surges onto his toes, fitting their mouths together again, tracing the philtrum of Sherlock’s upper lip with the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock breathes out a soft moan into John, his hands flail, and John wonders absently if Sherlock’s ever done this before.  He should ask, he should, but then Sherlock’s palms are sliding up his ribs, one long arm finds its way around to the small of John’s back and pulls the shorter line of John’s body flush against his own. Now its John’s groan escaping, getting lost in Sherlock’s mouth.  He hears Sherlock utter a quiet curse as the detective’s hips twitch toward John at the sudden friction, and fuck fuck fuck John is short, and Sherlock can’t seem to draw himself even and stay that way.

“John,” Sherlock pants against his lips.

“Hmm,” John manages between sucking kisses.

“It’s been..” Sherlock’s head falls back when John palms experimentally at the hardening bulge hidden under Sherlock’s pyjamas, “Huuhh…  Awhile, since..yes, I’ve done this.”

“About how long?”  John asks, pulling back and licking his lips before dipping fingertips just below the elastic band of pants.

“Approximately thirteen years.”  Sherlock’s laughs, if not a bit self-consciously, the breath turns into a hiss as John pulls him down to graze teeth along an ear lobe.

 

Wait. Oh.  That’s a long time.  

 

“I can stop, it’s fine if you’re not..” John tries to say and is interrupted.

“I don’t want you to stop,” the dark haired man rasps, a panicked edge in his voice, he clutches John to him as if expecting him to bolt out of 221B in an instant.  

John doesn’t even realize he had begun walking Sherlock backward again until he has him pinned against the arm of the sofa, half sitting, and suddenly the height difference is negligible.  Sherlock’s hands dig into John’s hips, pulling him into the V at the apex of long legs.

John ducks, nips at the sensitive skin where the shell of ear slopes into throat, Sherlock bites his kiss-swollen bottom lip, bares his neck.  John immediately turns his attention to the snowy shock of his madman’s throat, kissing, scraping his teeth along the pulse point, and trying to refrain from sucking bruises there.  He fails miserably in that exercise in self-control.  Hopefully Sherlock will appreciate the evidence.  John licks at freckles that dot under his jawline and is rewarded with a low keening noise that vibrates under John’s lips and he needs more of that.  He needs the noises Sherlock makes, the answering hardness they are currently pressing against each other.  Their lips lock onto one another in an instant, an awkward click of teeth, but it couldn’t possibly matter less.  Sherlock’s bites into John’s bottom lip, he assuages the vague sting with his tongue.

Spidery fingers under John’s jumper, against his back, fingernails scratch, then dig into muscle.  John lines up their hips and presses forward with a groan.  Sherlock’s eyes screw shut for a moment, air sucked into a sibilation.  It’s glorious, it’s fantastic, and it’s not enough.  Too many clothes.  Sherlock is burning through John, they’re going to crumple into cinders before John can even undress the man.  Pin him down.  Smear their skin together.

 John gets his hands underneath Sherlock’s soft t-shirt, grasps the hem and pulls it up and over the man’s head.  Sherlock shakes his hair out, he looks debauched already, and John thinks this rumpled and kiss-bruised version of Sherlock might quite be the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.  They’re kissing again, John running his palms over the dips and planes of Sherlock’s back and shoulder blades, his explorations rewarded with undulating quakes and shivers. John registers, a bit sadly, that despite Sherlock’s naturally demonstrative and tactile nature, he’s utterly touch starved.

Sherlock has wrapped a leg around John’s and is battling the leather belt around his waist with one hand, rucking up both John’s blue and black striped jumper, and the white shirt underneath with the other.

“Off, John,” Sherlock is breathlessly demanding, “Why are you still dressed?”  And John squirms, pulling his top clothes off, he feels his belt give under Sherlock’s ministrations, as well as the button and zip of his jeans.  During John’s hasty attempt at removing his jumper, his head and right elbow have managed to tangle themselves in some ridiculous sort of way in the wad of clothes and John is furious at the injustice of it all.  First the goggles, and now this.  He utters curses, and hears Sherlock’s breathy laugh at John’s predicament.

There’s the sound of soft cloth sliding off leather, sudden air against John’s chest, a long leg no longer urging him inward, and he knows Sherlock is moving.  John startles momentarily when he feels heat, then a damp kiss along his iliac crest, individual fingertips running across his stomach, he let’s out an involuntary giggle and doubles over a bit in reaction, still continuing to struggle against the opaque burden of clothes.

“Gargalesis response,” Sherlock rests a hand along the lower portion of John’s torso, nuzzling and kissing in a downward route that has John gasping.  “You’re ticklish, just here,” he strokes the sensitive skin of John’s hip, the sandy hairs that trail southwardly.

An abrupt rush of motion, John feels his jeans and pants being tugged to pool loosely at his hips and, “Sherlock,”  wet, torrid heat enveloping John’s cock, a slick, gliding suck back up to the glans.  He jolts before his mind fully processes what’s happening, John bucks against the firm hold at his hip.  Clever git that he is, Sherlock seemed to anticipate that reaction and positioned his mouth in such a way so as not to be gagged.  Soft tongue swirls around the head of his cock, and then all of John’s attention is devoted to the steady sucking laps that travel at an agonizing speed up and down his length.  Too slow to drive him to completion, too quickly to leave John coherent.  He’s hazily aware of the muffled noises he’s making, echoing into the cloth pressed against his mouth.  

Rapidly, John becomes accutely cognizant that he’s missing everything, the great ruddy jumper is wrapped around his eyes and he can’t see.  This isn’t a garment, it’s a fucking prison, and John might break his neck and dislocate a shoulder getting out of it.  But it will be worth it.  It will definitely be worth it, his shoulders wriggle at the constraint, trying not to dislodge and/or choke Sherlock in the process.  John thinks he might never have been more motivated in his entire life to be rid of something.  He can feel the bob of Sherlock’s head, yearns to set fingers into silky curls, but he can’t see it, and he needs his arms, and life is terribly unfair.

“Bloody thing!” He feels Sherlock actually rumble out a laugh around his prick,  “Oh Christ, but that’s jjjuuuhh,” and his words stutter off in unknown directions as he feels himself being licked root to tip, delicate dip of tongue into the slit.

John flounders and yes!  Sweet freedom!  He isn’t sure how he managed it, maybe in a sudden fit of telekinetic energy, but the tangle of clothing gives and John sets it sailing across the room like a bloody bird in flight.  

And there, finally, John yanks his head down, finding his gaze locked into seafoam green eyes.  

Sherlock.  On his knees.  Full lips around John’s cock.  Watching him.  

 

Sherlock.  Knees.  His mouth.  John’s cock.  Watching.

 

John briefly slams his eyes shut, voluntarily blocking himself from the sight at this point.  It was choice between that, and coming immediately.  

When the tensing in his spine calms, he re-opens his eyes.  John doesn’t recognize the sound that emerges from his mouth.  Some bizarre thing straining between a moan and mewl, simultaneously frenzied and breathless.  He manages to choke it off, his fingers finally threading into coils of hair.  The bounce of Sherlock’s head, the wet noises of his saliva being dragged up and down John’s erection.  It’s magnificent.  

And it is going to be over rather quickly, and one-sidedly, if John doesn’t do something.

“Sherlock..” John murmurs.  Sherlock hums, John bucks a bit, “Ah! Oh dear..” no pause in  pace at all and John frantically debates whether or not to interrupt this rather spectacular blow job, but he still so wants to spread his body out over this man.  Press their skin together, put everything he feels into some sort of tangible form, give Sherlock irrefutable proof of John’s devotion.  

Sherlock is no longer conveniently sitting on the couch, there’s no way to tackle him and land on the cushions.  Floor it is.  John tugs gently at hair, coaxing Sherlock backward, he pulls off John’s cock with a slurping pop, and well that’s just..  “Jesus.” 

Sherlock looks smug, lips reddened, begins to say something about John’s habit of calling upon deities despite his agnosticism and is almost immediately cut off.  John rushes down to the man, knocking him on his back.  Long arms come up in surprise, and encircle John’s waist as they squirm and then settle (somewhat) on the rug, and they’re kissing again.  It’s not soft and exploratory, no little sipping kisses at the corners of lips, but open mouthed and deliciously filthy.  John tastes the hint of bitter saltiness from his pre-ejaculate as they lick into one another’s mouth.  Its saliva, and teeth, and bruising force, and John grinds his pelvis into Sherlock.  He can feel the heat of the other man’s cock through the thin pyjama bottoms.

Huhhh,”  The taller man pants into John’s mouth, “Oh god, oh god oh god, “ and apparently it’s Sherlock’s turn to call upon the Lord.  John shimmies down his body, nipping at the delicate skin that covers the clavicle, mouthing his way toward a light pink nipple.  He licks the peak, bites down with the barest edge of teeth and oh, Sherlock arches like a bow under him, whimpering.  John shudders, filing that alluring bit of responsiveness away for later.  He teases, moves back up toward Sherlock’s neck, sucks another bruise onto his shoulder.  He wants to stroke and sample, and grind his palms into Sherlock, but the man is flat on his back with John nuzzling into his neck, and shoving frantically at John’s loosened jeans.  A bell goes off in John’s head alerting him to the fact that Sherlock is still covered below the waist too, and their arms tangle as they pull at one another’s remaining garments.

John holds his body aloft for a moment and feels Sherlock use a foot to shove the offending barrier down.  John manages them the rest of the way off along with his shoes that came untied much earlier.  Sherlock’s cock is free from the constriction of his own pyjamas, but he’s still wriggling and focused on thrashing a leg to toss the blue pin-striped pants from his body.  His head is thrown back with his shoulders, giving leverage for his lower body to maneuver the pants off.  John takes that second to just look.

He touches his index finger to the ribs of a lithe body, the moonlight skin, nimble muscles, the erection flushed with blood.  All the way up the expanse of throat where the red blossoms of John’s love bites appear, the petulant lower lip, the cupid bow of the upper, pink tongue trapped behind white teeth, the jutting cheekbone, the tilted eyes spaced so far apart.  A composition of hauntingly ethereal symmetry.  

“Gorgeous,” John breathes out, Sherlock freezes for a moment to search John’s face, “Just.. absurdly exquisite.”

A twitch to those perfect lips, Sherlock’s eyes dart side to side as if unsure John’s statement was rhetorical or not, “...Thank you?”  

John gives a light, helpless giggle, surging up to the madman’s face, kisses him desperately.  He tentatively strokes his fingertips along the shaft of his flatmate’s erection, and is rewarded with a light gasp.  He uses a thumb to smear a drop of pre-come around the tip of the glans and, “John,” somehow Sherlock turns his name into something that sounds completely indecent to be uttered in civilised company.  John groans and drops his hips into Sherlock’s, rolling upward, the action pressing them together.  And yes, and more, John thinks.  

Sherlock’s mouth drops loose and open at the sudden change in friction, eyes wide as if he’s surprised by the sudden press of hot flesh into hot flesh.  He groans out John’s name again, pants hot air against his shoulder.  John reaches up and runs his thumb along the sharp, twin ridges of Sherlock’s front teeth.  Then a hand, “Fuck, ah, fuck, Sherl…” a hand wrapped around them both, and Sherlock is pulling at John’s hip, dragging him down into a needy, thrusting rhythm.  

John slams a fist down, just above Sherlock’s shoulder, reaching down between them to close his dominant hand on top of Sherlock’s, and they move in sync with one another. Their cocks slick, wet from pre-ejaculate, sweat, remnants of Sherlock’s saliva.  Biology mixing, culminating.

Rains beats itself against the glass pane of the window, John can barely hear it over Sherlock’s increasingly audible pants.  He feels Sherlock’s hips stutter, he’s trembling like a leaf against John’s chest, muscles going tight with strain, fingers digging into John’s hip.  He’ll have crescent shaped indentations from the cut of fingernails.  John knows the signs, knows them well.  Sherlock bites his lip, moves his head quickly from one side to the other.

“You’re trembling,” John whispers roughly against Sherlock’s mouth, “God, but you are.”  

John catches Sherlock’s mouth at the moment his orgasm impacts.   The desperation, the madness, arousal, and relief, John seizes onto it.  He can taste it on him.  Intoxicating.  He pulls back in time to watch the crescendo, feel the hard rut of urgency, watch Sherlock’s eyes screw shut then fly back open.  Wide and wild and wrecked, body shaking as familiar warmth pulses against John’s stomach and hand.  

John, John, John,” a soft and worshipful litany as he shudders and melts underneath the limits of John’s frame.

“Brilliant,” John praises, also on the verge of giving himself over to climax as well.  He uses his right hand to pet at Sherlock’s hair, damp from sweat and absolutely insane.  He presses at a wisp of curl that sticks out perpendicular from his head.  

Sherlock, still breathing a bit hard, begins to regroup.  He offers his mouth up to John who takes it like the gift that it is, and quite out of nowhere John is being gathered hard against Sherlock and flipped onto his back.  John’s gasp of surprise is immediately swallowed by more pressing kisses, kisses and sweet licks that trail from his jaw to his throat. He tries to reach down between his legs again, but Sherlock seizes his wrists, fitting them perfectly in just the one hand, and pins them above John’s head.  He presses his weight into the hold, stay.  John stays.

Sherlock crawls down John’s body.  He pauses only to nudge his nose in a caress against the ruined skin at John’s shoulder where a bullet found a home before he’d even realized a life with Sherlock in it.  

It’s the same lapping heat as when John was trapped in the humid confines of his jumper, but this time Sherlock establishes an immediate keening pace.  Wet suction, and friction that jackhammers its way through John’s body and wraps around his spine.  It’s sloppy and inexpert, and marvelous beyond the telling of it all.  

The weight of Sherlock’s body on top of him, their combined heat, his polychromatic eyes searing into John’s, everything Sherlock touches smells like burned leaves, and the static sound of pelting rain.  A place in John’s mind wonders if this is what it’s like for Sherlock; he feels helpless against the sheer amount of input.

A wet finger reaches below his testicles, circles and then presses against his perineum.

Sherlock,”  and then, “Oh, oh god, I’m going…”

Sherlock pulls his mouth away with a broad lick up the shaft, sets his hand to John’s cock, thumb circling the glans.  He easily fits himself over John, face to face, too far away to kiss, pupils wide and fervid.  John knows when Sherlock is cataloguing him, he’s inches away and observing every twitch and moan and flick of John’s tongue.

“Come, John,” he appeals in that rich voice.  

And John comes, of course he comes. Sherlock’s name dissolving into a series of definitive consonants on his tongue, color, pattern, noise, scents, coalescing.  Months of yearning and unrequited love (love? God. That’s the word) fighting its way out of him.  All John sees are the bright points of Sherlock’s ever-watchful eyes, now immense and greedy.  His orgasm throbs, Sherlock strokes him through it, grounding him with his touch.  

John exhales loudly when the sensation of climax washes away, leaving two entangled, (and messy) men in its wake.  

Sherlock’s breath on his cheek. It’s lovely.  He collapses off to the side of John’s shoulder and reaches up behind them onto the couch, snagging his t-shirt.  He uses it to clean the combined mess from their stomachs and promptly drops it on top of John’s head.

“Arse.” John says without conviction, tossing the soiled thing over to the side.

“We’re going to be cold in a moment, after our heart rate and blood pressure stabilises.”

John looks over to Sherlock, he’s turned over onto his stomach, face buried into an arm, barely a few centimeters away from tucking himself against John.  He smiles and turns on his side, gathers himself toward the taller man until they touch.  He sees the white expanse of Sherlock’s back tip up then down in a little sigh.  Relief, or contentment?Irritation?  John should make sure.  He runs his fingers down the indent of spine, hoping Sherlock will accept post-coital affection.  

 

Moments pass.

 

“I want this,” he states plainly, ”I’ll have it, all of it.”

“You just had all of it.”  Deep tones muffled into a crooked elbow.

John’s lips quirk fondly at the weak deflection, “Has anyone ever claimed you for their own?”

The silence is loaded, Sherlock slowly turns his head to peer up at John, “No one has ever wanted to,” he nestles his ear against a forearm, “Not everything, not really.”

John joins Sherlock in his sprawl, linking a leg, setting their foreheads together.  Sherlock juts his chin out in a tentative gesture, John kisses him softly, just ghosting kisses until Sherlock pulls back and settles again.  

“I want everything,” John whispers against the man’s nape, dark curls tickling his face, the smell of sex.  Bitter tomato vines.  Burning leaves.  He says it, as if it could amend the loss of anyone that came before him.

John watches the rain against the window, droplets merging together and creating rivulets that run amok.  Grey light filters throughout the room. Wet, shadowy streaks against glass project onto pearlescent skin, creating patterns that fan out like dark, greedy fingers across an unclaimed land.  John strokes a hand over and over the plane of flesh, as if he could somehow erase the sight.

“I’ll have you too.”  Sherlock says quietly, after a long time.  John smiles into his shoulder.  He’s never heard an admission so transcendent of its owner.

Rain spills.  Groceries lie forgotten before the threshold.  

They grow cold together.