Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was achingly cold out. Snow flurries were springing up intermittently, and they’d been working non-stop for two weeks tracking down a blackmailer only to hit another dead end… and there wasn’t a cab to be found anywhere. The look of bewildered consternation on Sherlock’s face when he was reduced to using mass transit with mere mortals was priceless. John would probably still be laughing about it if the detective hadn’t slipped in a puddle of melted snow on the stairway down and turned his ankle. They missed two trains as John helped Sherlock down to the platform and found him a pillar to lean against while they waited for the third.

When the train approached, John hustled them through the crowd to get as close to the doors as possible, and, when they opened, they slid quickly into the carriage.

The massive crowd on the platform flowed in even more quickly around them, though, so that by the time they got their bearings, only one seat on the end of the row was still empty. John pushed Sherlock down into it before it was gone too.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, brows drawn together in annoyance.

“I’m getting you that seat before someone else takes it. It’s dog eat dog on the tube, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed. “You’re the one who needs to sit down. You’re so knackered you can barely hold your head up.”

“Yes, well, you’re the one with a turned ankle. And I don’t have to hold my head up,” he said as he gestured at his temple, “I can rest it right here,” he finished as he leaned his head against the pole he was gripping.

As more people pushed their way into the car, John was forced to stand between Sherlock’s spread legs, facing him. He couldn’t keep a grip on the vertical pole behind him and shifted his hold to the horizontal bar above Sherlock’s head. It was a bit of a reach for him and caused the hem of his sage colored jumper to rise above the waist of his trousers, exposing a sliver of the bare skin of his stomach. The train started off with a lurch that forced John to put both hands on the bar, revealing even more skin and putting his chest into very close proximity to Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock blew out a breath of pure irritation over the whole situation. He was torn between wanting to slump down into the collar of his coat to shut out the noisy crowd and wanting to crane his head around like a rather grumpy owl to examine every person in the car. One thing he did not want to do was stare too long at the soft green fabric only a few inches from his face; thinking too long on how supple that wool would feel under his fingers or how velvety the skin underneath would feel against his palms was nothing but an exercise in masochism. Of course, with John right there, with the warmth of his body rippling across his face, the in and out rise of his respirations bringing him teasingly close to Sherlock’s lips with each breath, it was impossible not to think about it. He couldn’t stop the unconscious, miniscule tip of his head toward John each time the man inhaled. He couldn’t stop rubbing his hand against the thigh of his own trousers, desperate in some distant part of his mind to feel the actual brush of wool under his hand as he imagined running it up and down John’s side, under his arms down to his waist.

Neither could he stop the subtle flare of his nostrils as he took in the earthy scent of cashmere and the salty musk that was John’s own personal aroma. Sherlock didn’t know if it was his extraordinary sense of smell or the extraordinary scent of John that made it possible to detect his unique signature amongst the morass of other odours in the crowded car, but it didn’t particularly matter, because smell him he could. When he caught himself about two inches from John’s stomach, his head moving forward with every intention of burying his face in it so he could soak in that fragrance, wallow in it, take some hint of it onto his own body, he decided the best course of action would be to stop breathing through his nose and breathe through his mouth instead.

He leaned his head back, closed his nasal passages, and opened his mouth. He inhaled three full John-free breaths before he realized that it was not helping at all. With the scent of John still in the air, still in his head, his brain decided to remind him how much of the sense of taste actually came from the sense of smell. On the fourth pull of air through his mouth, he suddenly felt as if he were not only smelling John but getting a hint of the taste of him as well. He squeezed his eyes shut, snapped his mouth closed, and held his breath while he ran his tongue over his teeth and gums trying to somehow scrape the taste John off of his tongue.

He rotated his head ninety degrees to the right before he breathed again, this time sincerely hoping for some fresh, not-John air before the combination of hypoxia and arousal made him do something incredibly foolish. It was moderately better. A few mind-clearing respirations later, he noticed that they really weren’t far from the Baker Street stop. Perhaps if he turned his mind to observing the people around him and kept his nasal passages free of parfum de Watson he’d be just fine. For two whole minutes he kept his face firmly averted from John’s abdomen and his eyes moving steadily over his fellow passengers. At two minutes ten seconds, Sherlock decided he was deluding himself because there was no way he could ignore John, especially not when the man wouldn’t stop moving.

Sherlock jerked his head around. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice somewhere between concerned and cross.

John refused to look down at him, instead acting as if the underground map bolted to the wall in front of him was the most fascinating thing he’d ever laid eyes on. He nodded his head, licked his lips and muttered at the wall, “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

It took almost every ounce of kindness within Sherlock to stop himself from issuing a beleaguered sigh and reminding John, in not particularly pleasant tones, that it was pointless to try to hide things from him. Instead, he calmly but determinedly asserted, “You’re not fine. You’re shifting and squirming, and breathing heavily through your mouth. Are you nauseous or light headed? What’s wrong?”

“Could you keep your voice down, please?” John hissed. “And nothing is wrong. My leg is achy and my shoulder hurts. It’s fine. We’re almost home,” he finished with a sniff.

Sherlock felt an unfamiliar emotion sweep through him. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that it was probably guilt. John’s problem with his leg might be psychosomatic, but that didn’t mean it didn’t actually hurt. The wound to his shoulder was most certainly not a thing of the mind; Sherlock had seen the puckered, angry looking scar that was a stark reminder of the reality of that pain.

Making a swift decision, he moved to rise as he ordered, “Here, switch with me. Take the seat.”

John refused to budge, making it impossible for Sherlock to stand without sending the doctor stumbling back into their fellow passengers. John shook his head and flapped his hand in a “sit down” motion as he replied, “No. No, your ankle is hurt, and you’re going to have to make it from the station to the flat as it is. I’m just fine.”

Of course, right after he uttered the words, the train rocked unexpectedly as it travelled round a curve, and John was unable to hide the wince of pain as his tender joints were jarred.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the doctor and earned an “Oh, shut up.” for his trouble.

Looking back, he’d never know quite why he did it. Well, he’d know why, but not precisely which synapse short-circuited that allowed him to do something so monumentally stupid… but do it he did. He waited for his moment, and when he saw John’s grip relax on the bar for a moment to ease the pressure on his shoulder, Sherlock reached right up, wrapped his long arm firmly around John’s waist, and jerked him down onto his own uninjured leg.

John toppled over onto him, surprise leaving him totally off balance. He reflexively smacked his hand against the wall of the car to keep from collapsing completely against Sherlock as he sputtered in indignation. Sherlock noted with some detached amusement that this might be the first time he’d seen someone literally sputter. He also noted with quite a bit less detachment that he wanted to kiss that indignant, gobsmacked look right off of his friend’s face. Then he noted with even less detachment that he was very firmly in “ass over teakettle” territory with one Dr. John Watson and having the man sputtering and writhing in his lap might not be the best way to keep that little nugget a secret.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing? Let me up this instant,” John demanded through his clenched teeth. Sherlock knew full well that speaking through clenched teeth was the universal Watson-code for I really want to shout at you, you ungodly wanker, but I won’t because we are surrounded by strangers and I am, at heart, a gentleman.

Sherlock shrugged and said in his best snootily dismissive tone, “I don’t think so.” He hoped that John’s unflagging sense of decorum would stop him from smacking Sherlock in the mouth.

He didn’t smack him, but he did grab a fistful of blue scarf and use it to pull Sherlock close as he commanded, “Let me up. I am not a child, and you’re not going to treat me like one. Now, Sherlock.”

It was predictable, but in a comforting sort of way. Sherlock had a hint of a tight smile about his lips as he calmly responded, “I know you’re not a child, you idiot.” In fact, he was quite, quite, quite aware at just that moment John Watson was A Man. All man. All warm, sweet, solid, kind, delicious, slightly podgy, intriguingly sexy man. Ah, and now that nugget wasn’t quite so little.

John’s face was flushing a muted scarlet as his fist tightened in Sherlock’s scarf. “Just because I’m small doesn’t mean you can manhandle me like this. I mean it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was also predictable, but far more annoying. “This has nothing to do with you being smaller than me, John. You’re hurting, I’m hurting, and there’s one seat. This is simply a logical solution to all of our problems.”

John looked furiously unconvinced as his gaze darted around the car to see how many people had noticed his mortifying position.

“Oh, no one on here cares, John. Besides, you’ll never see any of these people again.”

John refused to acknowledge that Sherlock had spoken, but he stopped fighting to rise to his feet, although Sherlock suspected that had more to do with how badly his shoulder and leg were hurting than the sensibility of Sherlock’s words.

John didn’t exactly relax; however, his body went from so taut that it might shatter to agitatedly rigid after a few moments. The tension eased mostly because it turned out Sherlock was right — no one was paying either of them any mind. With a combination of English reticence, accepting indifference, and exhausted disinterest, no one gave a damn if the two of them sat like that. In fact they seemed grateful for the extra space.

As this realization set in, John calmed until his face was closer to its normal shade and his fist wasn’t squeezing Sherlock’s scarf into a tight, blue wad. Eventually, he let go of the material altogether and rested his hand in his lap. He kept his other hand on the wall of the car so that he didn’t lean so heavily into Sherlock’s body, and refused to look at Sherlock, sitting unnervingly motionless.

The car clicked down the rails, swaying slightly from side to side in an almost mesmerizing fashion. At the next stop, a grand total of three people who had seats exited the car, and those were snatched up before John could even blink. Even more people shoved their way into the car Sherlock feared oxygen content was going to become a real problem.

People pressed up against Sherlock’s knees, and there was a backpack smacking against John’s arm whenever he tried to sit up straight. He quickly gave up the fight and leaned in toward Sherlock’s body. Sherlock, frankly, didn‘t care for being surrounded by so many people, but he liked those people surrounding and touching John even less. Whereas before he’d been making an effort not to touch John more than necessary, now he felt compelled to wrap his left arm around John’s back and his right arm over his knees and pull him in and away from all those strangers, cradling John to his chest, though neither of them would have phrased it quite that way.

Oddly enough, though, John only briefly stiffened in surprise before relaxing wearily into Sherlock’s hold. When the doctor’s comforting weight settled against his chest, Sherlock’s breath stopped dead in his lungs and his throat tightened to the point of pain. God, if felt so good, so perfect. John fit in his lap and in his arms like he’d been specially created to fit there. Sherlock would only have to lean forward a couple of inches to nuzzle the delicate skin behind John’s ear. He could so easily run his tongue over the little patch of tissue where the lobe met jaw, suck that lobe into his mouth, and nibble it until John was moaning and writhing in his arms. If John tilted his head down ever so slightly, he’d be at the perfect angle to do the same to Sherlock… and then they’d be at the perfect level for their mouths to meet. John could rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder as they kissed deeply and slowly until the end of the line. Sherlock pressed his lips together and swallowed the moisture that had gushed into his mouth at the thought of kissing John as the underground train gently rocked the doctor in his arms. He disappeared into a fantasy made up of firm lips and straight teeth and a tongue that never seemed to stop moving.

He didn’t even realize what he was doing or the effect it was having on his body until John finally shifted slightly in his lap and brought it abruptly to their attention. They immediately froze, dead still, not even breathing as Sherlock’s stomach dropped somewhere down around his shoes. John had obviously just felt Sherlock’s rather notable erection pressing into his bottom. And, Christ, wasn’t that a turn up?

Sherlock was the first to move again, sitting up straighter but averting his eyes so he didn’t have to see the anger he knew would be rolling across John’s face. A brief moment later, John finally let his breath out in a great whoosh and sucked it back in with a stuttering gasp. Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to look at his friend. John steadfastly refused to make eye contact and his face was turning red again, but he didn’t look angry. Was he embarrassed then?

The doctor had his eyes shut so tightly that every little line around them was brought into stark relief. He had his lips pressed so hard together that they were turning white, and he had his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s scarf again. When Sherlock instinctively cradled him in even closer to his body, John’s other hand that had been pressed against the wall suddenly buried itself in the hair on the back of Sherlock’s head.

“John?” he whispered, his voice completely lost in the wash of realization. “John?”

John, ever the soldier, finally mustered the courage to open his eyes and look at Sherlock. His face was the picture of misery. He made a little choking sound and convulsively clutched the mass of curls in his hand. “Sherlock,” he whispered back, eyes wide with panic, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. “

“I think that’s my line,” Sherlock answered breathlessly.

John shook his head as his Adam’s apple bobbed in a visible gulp. “No, I know it’s not for me. I know it isn’t. It’s just the rhythm of the train or something.”

“Is that why you—?“

He shook his head again. “I’m just exhausted and hurting, and I didn’t control myself. But I can control myself; I do control myself. Fuck, I didn’t want you to know this. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Listen, I’d understand if—“

And that was enough of that. Sherlock stopped the frantic babbling by grabbing the back of the doctor’s head and pulling it down firmly until their foreheads were pressed tightly together. “Wrong,” he asserted fiercely. “It is you, it’s just you. How do you still not know this?” he asked, the disbelief clear even in his hushed tone.

They sat there blinking at each other, breathing in each other’s air, both almost stupid with shock. Sherlock would have been less surprised if aliens landed in Piccadilly Circus than he was to find out that John Watson was attracted to him, that John wanted him. Sherlock’s hardness pressed up against him didn’t infuriate John or disgust him, it made him gasp and flush and coil into a heated knot. It was all Sherlock could do not to growl in absolute triumph.

The announcement that they were approaching their stop piped through the speakers. It took long seconds for the notice to register with either man, and when it did, Sherlock caressed his hand up the back of John’s head and said with a thick voice, “Not here. Home.”

John pushed back into the warmth of his hand and nodded. “Yes. Home. Let’s go home.”

When the train stopped, he let John stand and rose behind him. As people began pouring out the doors, he grabbed the doctor’s elbow and guided him onto the platform and over to the stairs. John stopped abruptly at the foot of the staircase and cautioned, “Sherlock, your ankle….”

Sherlock shook his head firmly once as he pushed them into movement again. “My ankle is fine. Fuck my ankle.”

Neither of them spoke a word as they walked. Sherlock’s head swam as he contemplated the myriad ways events might unfold when they reached 221B. Would John shove him against the wall in the hallway, reach up on tip toe and kiss him for all he was worth? Would he bite Sherlock’s neck and press his hip rhythmically against the taller man’s erection as he straddled and rode Sherlock’s thigh till they both came in their trousers? Would he drag him upstairs and take him to bed so that he could kiss every inch of Sherlock’s skin and suck on his cock until Sherlock’s come flooded his mouth? Would he bend Sherlock over the back of his chair, lick him out until he was sobbing, and slide in with one smooth push? It was too much. There was no way to make any sort of accurate prediction, and, frankly, he wasn’t thinking with his usual precision. Anything would be good for Sherlock.

When their doorway came into sight, both men picked up speed. John fumbled for his key as they approached the black door. His grip was still tight on John’s arm, so he was caught unaware when the smaller man opened the door, twisted around, and pushed him through first. John placed his warm, wide hand in the small of Sherlock’s back and directed him toward the stairs. No hallway groping, then. Sherlock’s knees nearly buckled when the thought, “Maybe later,” drifted through his mind. God, he hoped they’d have a later. When he swayed slightly on the stairs, John moved up flush behind him to stop him falling.

“Let’s go,” the doctor urged, his voice deep with both worry and arousal.

They reached their flat and all but stumbled through the door, shucking off their coats and leaving them in a pile on the floor. Sherlock moved to crowd John back up against the door, but John steadily pushed back against his biceps as he insisted, “We’ve got to get you off that ankle, Sherlock.” Sherlock allowed himself to be steered backwards; when the back of his knees hit the sofa, John rasped, “Lie down. I need to have a look.”

Sherlock was all for getting horizontal as soon as possible, so he didn’t balk at following John’s orders. He lay back on the leather, steadily watching John gently removing the shoe from his swollen foot.

When John dropped to his knees in front of the sofa, Sherlock gasped and felt the wetness oozing from his cock seeping into his pants. John’s eyes dropped to Sherlock’s zipper and his hand clasped Sherlock’s knee as he ground out, “Not yet.”

“I didn’t mean to. I can’t help—“

“I have to look at your ankle. Make sure you’re okay,” the doctor repeated, voice sounding miserable and frustrated.

Sherlock hated hearing that tone in John’s voice. This was getting ridiculous. “Then hurry up. Please.”

John took another shuddering breath at the plea and pressed the palm of his hand against his own erection for a brief moment. Finally, he managed to concentrate on the injured joint, pressing gently around the tendons and rubbing his thumb down the visible bones of Sherlock’s foot. The detective had never realized before that the skin of his foot was somehow hardwired directly to his cock, but he hadn’t realized a lot of things before John Watson. Just when Sherlock thought he might actually screech in frustrated arousal, John sat back on his heels and said with a wavering voice, “I don’t think it’s broken, but you need to stay off of it. We need to put some ice on for the swelling.”

That was it. Sherlock had reached his limit with his damn ankle. He sat up, gripped John under his arms and pulled the doctor on top of him. He sank his fingers into the short, fine hair at the smaller man’s nape, and pulled John’s head down till their lips finally met in a long, biting clash of teeth and a bruising compression of lips. Sherlock broke away with a deep groan and latched his wet mouth onto John’s neck. Sucking livid marks into the man’s flesh and leaving behind broad swipes of moisture that cooled swiftly in the air each time he moved on to another patch of skin. When Sherlock bore down with a particularly hard bite, John took hold of the man’s hips and pulled up as he pushed his own down, grinding their erections together with a fierce grunt.

Sherlock pulled away from John’s neck and threw his head back to give a strangled shout. John started thrusting steadily, and Sherlock soon caught the pace, synchronizing the undulation of his hips with John’s more forceful movement. It was glorious, it was perfect, and it was going to last about two minutes if they didn’t stop right now.

“John. John, stop. Wait a minute.”

John went utterly still on top of him and lifted his head to look at Sherlock with an absolutely stricken expression. “I. I thought you wanted… I’m sorry—“

“I want this more than anything,” Sherlock reassured him with a gentle thrust of his hips, “but I don’t want to just come in my pants after a quick rut on the sofa. I want you naked, I want to see you and touch you.”

Sherlock felt John go weak with relief. “Yeah, I want to see you too. You’re so beautiful, so damn gorgeous.”

John stood, and Sherlock sat up as they moved to undress themselves. Neither man needed the tease of a slow disrobing right now; they simply needed to be naked as soon as possible. John, more efficient in his movements and more simply dressed, was nude by the time Sherlock started working at his belt. The doctor watched as he undid his trousers and hooked his thumbs under his pants, trying not to put any pressure on his bad ankle as he lifted his hips to shimmy his pants and trousers down. When they reached his knees, John leaned over and pulled them the rest of the way off, removing Sherlock’s other shoe in the process.

They stopped for a moment just to look at each other, to bask in milky skin and starburst scars and pink nipples and a soft stomach. John’s breath snagged in his chest at the exquisite splendour of the man laid out before him. Sherlock reached his arms up to beckon John down into his embrace, but John shook his head no. Instead, he took Sherlock’s hands and pulled him until he was sitting in the middle of the sofa. He took two of their throw pillows, stacked them on the coffee table, and propped Sherlock’s leg on them. He then put his knee down by Sherlock’s hip and swung the other leg around until he was astride Sherlock’s thighs. He sank all the way down until he was sitting in the detective’s lap, their cocks pressed together between their stomachs, and their mouths locked in a kiss that was far more gentle than their previous one.

When Sherlock bent his head to lick across John’s nipple, John cradled his head against his chest and ran his fingers through thick curls, placing delicate kisses on the top of his head and caressing his sharp shoulder blades. They slowly began rocking together, settling into a tempo that satisfied them, rolling and surging and swaying together until they were both on the edge.

They were both so close when John suddenly stopped moving.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked anxiously.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, I just want to see your face. I need to watch you when you come.” With that the doctor used both hands to bring their erections together. He leaned back into the support of Sherlock’s arms and stroked them, his calloused fingers dragging over sensitive skin as their cocks slid back and forth against each other. The friction, the extra pressure, the sight of John’s tan hands jerking him off, quickly had Sherlock coming with a strangled shout. He kissed and bit at John’s arms and shoulders as the man stroked him through his climax, the wet slide of his hands sounding wonderfully obscene in the quiet room. Sherlock was finally drained dry, but John wasn’t there yet. He was still tugging on himself, working furiously to get himself off. Sherlock, ever impatient, wanted to see John come, and he wanted to see it now, so he slid one long-fingered hand under the doctor’s plump behind and grazed his fingertips along the groove of his ass. He watched goose bumps rise on John’s flesh before he finally slid one finger up inside the warm crease and pressed just the tip of it against the doctor’s tight hole. John came hard with a convulsive jerk and closed-mouth scream.

He slumped forward into Sherlock’s embrace, and the detective pulled him in tight. Burying his face in the side of John’s neck as John buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair. They stayed like that until they were breathing normally and the painful exhaustion they’d been ignoring reared its head. John somehow mustered the strength to stagger to the bathroom where he washed his stomach and dampened a flannel for Sherlock. He made a detour to the kitchen to fetch a bag of ice on his way back. When he returned, he maneuvered Sherlock back flat on the sofa, wiped him clean, and put the bag of ice on his swollen ankle. He lay down on his side next to him, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and an arm around his waist.

Sherlock yawned deeply before saying, “I suppose we need to talk about this,” his words slurred with fatigue.

John nodded against him. “I suppose we do, but not right now. All I need you to know right this minute is that I love you.”

Sherlock caressed the arm that was draped across him and replied, “I love you too. I’ve wanted this for so long, John. I didn’t think—“

John pressed two fingers over the man’s full lips. “Shh. Not right now, Sherlock. We’re both shattered.”

“Tomorrow you’ll crawl up in my lap and let me tell you the story?”

John’s grip around his waist tightened briefly, “I suppose I will. I like it there,” he finished, sounding endearingly self-conscious.

Sherlock kissed his forehead as he murmured, “I like you there.” A few moments later, they slipped into slumber, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. Right where they belonged.