Read this fic at: AO3 | firechildren.net

a continuation of ‘in the heart’ — what happens after Sherlock kisses John for the first time?

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John has no idea what is going on here anymore. He thought this was a quiet evening in at 221B, which is kilometres away from a quiet evening in anywhere else.

Now he’s kissed Sherlock, at Sherlock’s instigation (that’s going to bear thinking about later, when there’s more blood to spare for his brain), and Sherlock has got their foreheads pressed together and is giving him a look that is considerably more soulful than usual, seeing as how John is actually believing what those amazing eyes are telling him.

Sherlock deceives. Almost as easily as he breathes. John knows this. He has seen Sherlock slide into and out of personae by the dozen over the last year — but Sherlock’s never done that to him. Oh, sure, Sherlock’s deceived him — look at that business at the pool, good God — but never put on a whole different persona for John.

Therefore, he’s not doing it now.

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A sensation that has become increasingly familiar over the last month is taking up residence in the pit of Sherlock’s belly. It’s vaguely like nausea and a whole lot like excitement and about fifty times stronger than he’s ever felt it before. He would compare it to shooting up, but this is nothing at all like that. Not even close.

He’s putting his whole, tarnished, neglected heart into his eyes, at least he hopes so, as he gazes at John just centimetres away. ‘I really did that,’ he thinks, and ‘now I’m going to do it again’ and he does, he leans forward just that slight bit, and oh, joy! John has leaned forward to meet him halfway across that gaping centimetre …

For only the second time their mouths meet, and Sherlock is momentarily convinced that lightning has struck him. Every nerve in his body seems to light up at once, a single sharp snap, and then the whole sensation retreats back to his genitals, which is at least familiar.

Sherlock slithers forward off his chair, using his greater height and leverage to press John down into the rug. Whatever makes John wear button-downs, he’s glad of it, because they are so much easier to get into; he’s got two buttons open already when John’s hands clasp his busy fingers and stop him.

He risks a glance downward. John tips his face back up, though, and asks, very seriously, very John, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Sherlock gives him a look of disdain. “I always know what I’m doing.” Clearly, Sherlock is not moving along fast enough if John still has enough brain to ask foolish questions. The best solution to that is … ears. Yes. He gives up on the buttons for the moment and curves around to attend to John’s earlobe — there is the sharp intake of breath he was waiting for. Now, what does John like? Sherlock experiments briefly; teeth, tongue, suckling, breath … teeth it is. He nibbles his way around John’s left ear, starting to smile at John’s increasingly inspired writhing beneath him.

It’s very exciting. The trousers are going to have to go soon. Belatedly Sherlock discovers John’s hands have become occupied with the buttons on his, Sherlock’s, shirt, and fairly soon John is going to be more dressed than Sherlock. This is not good.

Sherlock sets about fixing that little problem, and pretty soon both men are bare-chested in the light of the flames, shirts strewn to the sides. Sherlock’s never seen John’s scar quite this way before (‘Obvious!’), and the desire to caress it is irresistable. Fingertips first, delicately brushing over the slight bumps and divots of tissue with the slightest possible pressure, mapping. Then more pressure, teasing out John’s response to the touch: is there pain? Is there sensation at all?

There is some sensation, clearly, as goosepimples rise in a wave up John’s torso. Sherlock flicks a glance at John’s expression. It’s intent, watching Sherlock’s hands, very focussed. He’s licking his lips. Sherlock takes the absence of displeasure as approval and carries on. Mouth, now, against the skin, rubbing his cheek along the texture; John shudders.

He still doesn’t say anything.

Sherlock whispers against the scar, letting his lips and tongue brush it on every word, “This is beautiful.”

That gets a response; John has hold of Sherlock’s wrists (how did that happen?) and then he’s completely turned the tables and it’s Sherlock who is pressed against the floor and John is pinning his wrists down with both hands, kneeling over him like … like a soldier. For half a second Sherlock thinks he’s taken it too far, misread all the cues (he’s never tried to seduce a man before, but he thought John was an open book to him) — and then John’s mouth is on his again, and John’s tongue is coaxing his lips open, and the lightning strikes Sherlock’s whole body again as soon as John’s bare chest touches his.

Nothing in Sherlock’s experience has ever been quite like the sensation of skin on skin, and just as soon as John lets his hands go he is going to have them all over John. This is definitely a thing he wants more of, just as soon as possible.

But John’s not letting his hands go. Why is John not letting his hands go? Sherlock arches up into John, twisting his wrists against the shorter man’s firm grip. A stifled gasp breaks from John’s throat, although he still doesn’t so much as loosen his grip, and Sherlock blinks rapidly while he figures out what he did that caused that sound.

Oh. Oh. He wants to shout his exultation. His own erection is swelling unattended below the line of John’s hips, but that’s John’s erection pressing along his waistline — the corner of Sherlock’s mouth curls in his favourite sideways smile, and he bucks slowly again, deliberately pressing upward into that line of heat against his gut.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John hisses, “I thought you were a virgin.”

“Was,” Sherlock replies smugly, and — undulates is the only possible word for what he makes his body do, but it makes John whimper. It makes John whimper, and press his face against Sherlock’s shoulder, kissing along the arc of collarbone that is so much more prominent on Sherlock than on John.

With the sharp decisiveness that is so much a part of John’s character, he flexes his arms and pushes off Sherlock’s body. It’s Sherlock’s turn to whimper, instantly missing the warmth and pressure and touch. John regards him with a steady eye and the crinkled smile that means he’s pleased with Sherlock. It’s a look that’s only for Sherlock.

(Sherlock thinks it might have been just that look that aroused his sentiment for John.)

John presses down on his knees, rolling to stand upright. Sherlock sits up, bewildered, and then accepts the hand John holds down to him. “Up with you, to bed,” John says, and comprehension wells through Sherlock.

“You are wearing too much,” he ripostes, but it’s over his shoulder, already turned and striding toward his bedroom. His bed is wider, and his sheets are nicer, and anyway there’s no point in climbing the stairs when it’s right here.

John’s huff of laughter is right behind him. “Could say the same for you.” Pausing, Sherlock turns around to John’s expectant smile and bends down just enough to demonstrate his command of kissing technique, slow and sensual and slightly toothy. He breaks it off with a nip to John’s bottom lip, and throws a wink in for good measure as he swivels back around and undoes his belt.

Hands in his back pockets are helping him draw his trousers down, and for once he could really care less where they end up, especially after he hears the sound of John’s zip slice the stillness. Then John is pressing against his back, and there’s so much more warmth than there was before, and he’s not quite aware of how he came to be moving toward the bed, but there it is.

And those are John’s arms wrapped right about his middle and John’s hands sneaking (‘not very subtle, John’) down beneath the waistband of his pants and then wrapping around his phallus, which is extraordinarily nice and not at all comparable to any of Sherlock’s previous experiences because John knows what he’s doing. Sherlock summons up his willpower, which used to be considerable, and takes the last three steps to the bed before he falls down.

His knees bump the edge of the bed, and then his determination runs out and all he can do is brace himself on his arms against the duvet while John flexes his hips against Sherlock’s arse and and John’s mouth wanders his back and John’s hands do amazing things to his phallus. Sherlock would like to return the favour; after all, he started this and now somehow John has quite taken over the direction. But his legs are trembling slightly and his thoughts seem to have mostly scattered (although the little voice at the back of his mind that never ever stops is making notes of all things) and all in all it’s really just easier to let John have his way.

John’s way seems to be bringing them both to the point of no return, and Sherlock’s eyes have fallen closed and somewhere in the last minute or so his pants have slipped off his narrow hips and they are both completely skin on skin — then there is a sudden and complete absence of John at his back. Sherlock starts, for about the fifth time since he first kissed John, to panic, and then sturdy hands have pushed him down onto the bed entire, and he gets over on one elbow in time to experience John’s command of kissing technique.

The shock of their two completely naked bodies meeting is overwhelming. Sherlock’s pretty sure this must be what having an out of body experience is like, because he’s never felt like this ever in his whole life, and he’s not entirely sure some of what he’s feeling is physical at all. John’s hands are roaming over all the places his mouth was before, and Sherlock’s hands are buried in John’s hair, wrapping around the back of his neck. Sherlock’s whole body feels like it’s on fire, a fire that starts right at the base of his genitals and is going to consume him whole and he does not care.

John is kissing and licking along his cheekbones, now, and whispers hotly in his ear, “Your hands are bigger than mine. I think you should take us both to the top.”

It takes Sherlock a second to decipher John’s euphemism, but his gasp of realisation is simultaneous with sliding his right hand down John’s back (‘There’s the other side of that scar, must look at that later.’) and over John’s arse, just because he can, and then over John’s hip, and the blood is beating in his fingertips as he wraps his long fingers around both their phalluses together — it is the most brilliant thing ever. It takes less time than that for the two of them to establish a mutual rhythm. Sherlock’s pretty sure there are fireworks going off on each individual nerve down there.

Something swells right up through him and then he is completely undone, his climax climbing the length of his spine like a rocket and taking the top of his head off with it. He has no idea, and not enough awareness, if John has taken that rocket too, but as much as he can he keeps rocking his hips, and then he feels John’s neck arch backward into the cup of his left hand, and John’s explosive and ragged gasp of his name heats his face.

“That was … amazing,” John gasps in his ear, and just like that Sherlock remembers the very first night, the very first time they spent any time together at all, and how John had said exactly that same thing about Sherlock’s deduction. The memory makes him smile, and the juxtaposition makes him snicker, and John heaves himself up enough from his collapse over Sherlock’s chest to meet his gaze — and then they are both laughing, glorious warm enveloping mirth, John’s higher giggle blending with Sherlock’s deeper chuckle.

They laugh themselves even more breathless than they already were, and John manages to roll himself over to lay beside Sherlock, entwining their two hands together. “What,” he asks, “took you so long?”

All Sherlock can do is shrug. With the aftermath of glory still streaming through his body and John’s hand firmly clasped in his own, he couldn’t even begin to deduce his own motivation for delay. He knows someone who could help him work it out, but right now the whole idea is completely irrelevant. Instead he murmurs, turning his head to look at John, “What happens now?”

John takes a deep breath, which Sherlock notices does lovely things to his pectoral muscles, and sits up. “Now? I fetch a damp flannel and you stay put. After we’ve cleaned up … well, I guess I’ll have to stop saying we’re not a couple.”

“Are we a couple?” Sherlock asks, before he can stop himself.

John stops, and twists to look over his shoulder. The look on his face — possessive, passionate, and very suggestive — brings heat to Sherlock’s face and speeds the blood in his veins. John’s voice is low and rough and utterly, utterly certain. “Oh, God, yes.”

Read this fic at: AO3

Late night in 221b. The fire in the grate is dying to bare coals, John is swirling the last of his whiskey in the glass idly without drinking it. For once the telly is off, displaced by Sherlock’s violin. Summer sprawls in the floor on her belly, her feet in the air and Sherlock’s on her back. The silence is mellow, easy, open, the only light in the room from the low flames.

Sherlock drops another few notes into the air, each one as distinct as crystal. Twisting over onto one elbow, Summer says softly, “How did you come to learn the violin anyway?”

John flicks his glance up to Sherlock’s face, interest in his eyes. Sherlock lays down another few notes.

“It was a distraction,” he says, shifting through fingerings without actually plying the bow. “In school. If I concentrated on my playing, I couldn’t hear the other students whispering.”

“About you?”

“Sometimes. I wasn’t their only target, just the favourite.”

Summer makes a soft sound of sympathy.

“They resented me for being better than they were. All they ever had to do was open their eyes to the world, but I suppose it was easier to continue coasting along obliviously.” A few bars escaped the violin.

“I can’t imagine that what you knew about them helped any.”

“No.” A coal pops in the fire. “Mycroft was gone. I was alone.”

“Your parents?”

“Father was – dead. Mummy … “

“Distracted?” Summer supplies.

“That will do. There was no one. Anyone I … tried to be friends with became the new target. Soon no one wanted to try. I was the freak.”

The words slip out of Sherlock slowly, and John thinks it’s like draining a wound.

“No wonder you lash at Donovan.”

“Mm. Not quite.”

“You use the truth like a battering ram, Sherlock. On purpose. It’s totally a lash.” There’s enough amusement in Summer’s soft voice to let Sherlock ignore the implied insult.

“Hmph. I’ve got no reason to let their opinions affect me.”

“So true,” Summer sighs. “Stupid people shouldn’t breed.”

“Then there would be no puzzles to occupy Sherlock with,” John comments.

Sherlock shudders. “Perish the thought. There are so few worthy of my time now.”

Summer snorts a laugh. “And a bored Sherlock is even less to be thought of. Bullets are expensive.”

“Walls are expensive,” John adds.

On his dignity, Sherlock replies, “I haven’t shot the wall in weeks.”

“Because Mrs Hudson threatened to throw you out on your ear the next time,” John ripostes.

“And she’s the one person you actually respect,” Summer adds.

Sherlock squawks. “Not true! I respect other people.”

“Who?” the other two chorus, sharing a smile.

“I respect you, John.”

Summer rolls herself onto her back, leaving Sherlock’s feet on her stomach. “Does he respect you in the morning John?” Her grin is positively wicked.

John’s mouth is wry and slightly bitter. “We’re not a couple.”

Summer laughs, outright and delighted.

“I’m serious,” Sherlock says, his voice taking on a deeper timbre. “I do respect John.” He sits up straight in the chair, planting both feet on the floor and dropping both violin and bow to his lap.

“You never listen to me,” John mutters, gulping the last of the whiskey.

“That has nothing to do with respect.”

Summer is trying valiantly to stifle her giggles, but at John’s raised eyebrow she loses it again.

“All right then, what do you respect about me?” John folds his hands over his raised knee and regards Sherlock with a level gaze.

“Your nerves of steel,” Sherlock responds promptly. “Your support.”

“That all? just that I make a good ego prop?”

This time it is Sherlock’s mouth that twists. He leans back, transferring his gaze to the coals over Summer’s head. John leans forward in response.

Barely at the threshold of hearing, Summer whispers, “Go on.”

“That you still try to take care of me,” Sherlock says finally. He still doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “Even after … everything, you’re still here, reminding me to eat, and sleep, and helping me stop smoking. Watching out for me. Always watching out for me.”

John’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His gaze is completely fixed to Sherlock’s profile, which wears an expression of vulnerability John has never seen before.

He doesn’t see Summer give a tiny nod, but Sherlock does, and so John is completely unprepared for the impact of Sherlock’s eyes when Sherlock says, “I would, truly, be lost without you, John,” looking right at him.

John is aware that somehow this has gone from gently needling Sherlock to something else entirely, and it flashes through his mind that this is the closest to a confession Sherlock is ever likely to make. Completely at a loss for words, he tries to make actions speak for him, holding out his hand to the other man holding his gaze. He’s utterly forgotten Summer’s presence at his feet, wholly absorbed in the remarkable expression on Sherlock’s sharp features. It looks like yearning and tenderness.

John is not really aware of pulling Sherlock forward, or of leaning forward himself. Everything has narrowed down to the face of his best friend, the person he cares for the most in the entire world, the person he has wished would care for him. Summer hastily sitting up and pulling her legs from beneath his descending knees is, barely, distracting enough to catch his attention, and he jolts, reality crashing into his awareness.

Sherlock frowns massively, flicks a quick glance at Summer, and jerks on John’s hand, pulling the shorter man roughly into his knees. Half a breath passes, and then Sherlock’s lips are pressed to John’s and something swoops sharply in John’s stomach.

Then nothing else matters except that his hands are in Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock’s hands are around his face, and Sherlock tries to break the kiss, but John is not about to let that happen now that he’s finally got the answer he didn’t know he wanted. He swipes his tongue at Sherlock’s mouth – tea, and biscuits, and Sherlock – and then he has to let go just a little bit because he cannot breathe.