![[Manip by glassdildo - link to AO3 - And a happy birthday present to raggedy-spaceman! :D]
Moonlight Sonata
When Sherlock decides to spend the night playing the violin, John always knows the next is going to be a tough day. If there is a case or a problem he would compose until the answer would magically pop in his brain – because really, who could think while composing? Doesn’t that require concentration? – and they could all go to sleep; other days he would spend the whole night playing something absurdly complicate that John couldn’t even name; this time, he seemed intent on just plucking the strings and torturing the poor instrument, like he did when he visited his “Mind Palace” and decided to wander there for a while.
If John had not heard him play multiple times, he would have thought the violin was just part of Sherlock’s cool attire alongside with his coat and cheekbones but, alas, he was too aware of the man’s ability. And yet, at times Sherlock would just like to create annoying noises that didn’t let John sleep, not after his military training of waking up at the smallest hint of danger. Which apparently included snapping strings, muffled curses and resuming noises from an abused Stradivari.
Eventually, Sherlock put the instrument aside some time around half past three in the morning, and John could sleep without a pillow pressed against his ears. When he awoke to the sound of his alarm going off at seven thirty the next morning, he did the mistake he hated the most: turned it off, rolled on the other side and thought that he had to be to work in an hour, so he could afford five more minutes, just to indulge a bit more in the dream he was having and enjoying so much. When he awoke again, it was twelve minutes to nine.
Jumping up and running to the bathroom to get a shower, then back to his room to get dressed and down the stairs, snatching his jacket and ignoring breakfast, had become a far too familiar ritual since he moved in with Sherlock. Not a problem when it was for a case, but John had always been the perfect employee when he trained at Bart’s, even later in Afghanistan’s military hospitals, and arriving late was something he hated, particularly when he had no better reason than “Sherlock didn’t let me get enough sleep,” because he knew the innuendos to come. He had had that conversation with Sarah and other colleagues many times, and yet it seemed to never cease. Today was no exception.
“Was he ‘playing the violin’ again?” she in fact asked. It wasn’t as if he needed to defend his being straight, because he had to admit he wouldn’t mind swimming in the other direction with Sherlock, but since the man had once stated his not being sexual at all to a courting woman, John didn’t pay any mind to what he would have liked. Sexuality wasn’t that important, after all, very overrated. What he defended was Sherlock’s right to be recognized as an independent man who didn’t need a relationship to live, and therefore the lack of one between them.
“Not really, just plucked at it until he snapped a string.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it,” if there wasn’t mild rancour for their failed dates there, John had no idea what this was, “It’s not acceptable to come to work more than an hour late. As usual, I’ll detract it from your salary, alright?”
John knew he never really risked his job, being practically a veteran, voluntary doctor that helped when he could mostly by filling in other’s shifts, but it still was annoying not being able to work when he wanted to because a mad man decided to be noisy until late at night, even more so when his only income of money came from this job. He still got his army pension, but it was barely enough to pay his half of the rent and a cup of tea at the end of the day. Which he would surely need today.
So, instead of trying to talk some sense into Sarah’s head like he did that time Sherlock had decided to play the Danse Macabre – “Sure it wasn’t another kind of ‘dance’?” had been her reply – John simply nodded and headed to his office, where he proceeded to assist a couple dozens of patients with their minor health issues, usually simple colds and sore throats with the eventual lump on the ‘I-think-it’s-cancer’ woman’s neck that revealed itself to be an engorged lymph node.
When he was finally off his shift, which took an hour longer so he could regain a bit of his pay, it was around seven in the afternoon. He was hungry, but as he had noticed during his lunch break, due to the morning rush he had left his wallet on the kitchen table and only had with him twenty quids. More than enough for lunch, thankfully, and for his so needed evening tea.
There was a tea room he liked particularly, which served every brand and brew known from America to Japan, going East of course, but despite his love for oriental teas John decided to set with a simple bag of Earl Grey; the kind of black, strong tea that he wanted at the moment. For the second time that day though, his military training went against him. Being in the army meant no wastes, and therefore he had gotten used to placing the used teabag on the hollow of his spoon and winding the string around it, squeezing the last drops of it into the mug. It wasn’t difficult, and it usually worked without problems with the brand he always got at Tesco’s, but this particular teabag didn’t seem to like his technique as it practically split in half, pouring wet leaves into the cup, which then John managed to half-spill over himself in a vain attempt at putting the treacherous bag away. With that, his desire for tea was gone. If anything, the water wasn’t too hot and he avoided cursing. That is, until he got out of the tea room with two pounds and twenty-five cents left, and the damp-yet-cold air of London’s October froze his jeans clad thigh and managed to make him sweat at the same time.
He was cold and he was tired, and it was getting quite late, so John decided to duck into a tube station as a substitute to the cab he would have taken, had he had the money, to get home. Once down there, though, another thought got to him: again, he had left his wallet home. Which meant he didn’t have his Oyster Card, as well as money, with him. Other curses followed as he took all the way home by foot and managed to get lost after turning in that alley that seemed ‘the one Sherlock used that time’, and that instead took him to a whole new part of the town. A part he never wanted to see again but feared he would have to, most likely after a multiple murder, seen the faces he met there.
When he finally, finally got home, the flat was dark. After looking for his mobile, making sure to have taken it at all, and checking lost calls or texts secondly, John frowned and entered the building. No case, obviously, or Sherlock would have called him despite his being at work, but he couldn’t be asleep: case or not, Sherlock wasn’t the sleeping kind of lazy. Rather the ‘I-wouldn’t-move-were-London-on-fire’ kind of lazy. The more John climbed the stairs, the more he waited to hear for any noise or sign of danger, adrenaline ready to flow within his blood, but as soon as he opened the door something else went through him.
Sherlock was standing in the living room, his not unusually stark naked body almost framed by the window as he stretched his arms above his head leisurely, looking somewhat like a ballerina frozen in the middle of a step. His expression was a relaxed yet thoughtful one, bright eyes unfocusedly digging holes in the ceiling as he concentred on something that was solely in his mind, lips parted as if in wonder, one leg slightly lifted as he stretched its muscles as well, using the leverage his right foot’s toes could provide if he put his whole weight on their tips and his other foot, solidly planted to the floor. The moon weakly shining through the window had his pale skin nearly glowing, and if during the day sunlight made his hair almost auburn, creating a sort of angelic aureole around his head, the white light he was now bathing in made it silver as it traced the lines of his face.
Every tendon in Sherlock’s body seemed to be exposed, every muscle tensed as he slowly pulled at them one by one, his ribcage prominent under the thin skin as he breathed and the inward curve of his spine inhumanly perfect, a clear contrast with the outward curve of his rear. John observed the game of shadows the faint light created in the many hollows of his body, from his cheekbones to his ankles, passing by his throat and down to his navel, all the way down to his hipbones and knees. John could almost imagine the hollows he couldn’t see, the ones on Sherlock’s soft lower back that would plead him to be licked, or the minuscule ones created by the curves of his penis’ glands, hidden by his thigh. At the same time he was grateful for the curtains that hid that sight to outsiders’ eyes and hated the ones that hid Sherlock’s hands partly. John felt something electric in his brain, as if his neurons had decided to order him all together to approach Sherlock and run his hands down that smooth skin, tracing his bones and caressing his perfect curves, exploring his body with teeth, tongue and lips. Oh, how he would have liked to pull the detective close to sink his teeth in his neck, like a starved animal, to touch him like he was an unknown creature to discover. He could have. Minutes since he had entered and Sherlock was still in pretty much the same position, oblivious about John’s presence and focused on thinking God knew what. It would be simple to surprise him now that he was so vulnerable, easy to pin him against a wall and press himself over that body, learning him with skin on skin, lips on lips, hands on hands…
“Sherlock?” He would have never dared. Sherlock snapped out of his trance at the sound of his name, blinking a few times and turning his head to look at John.
“John,” he greeted him with the usual neutrality, letting his arms fall back to his sides but keeping his knee lifted. “How was your– You spilt your tea.”
The good doctor nodded and looked firmly into Sherlock’s eyes, waiting to be deduced. A rapid scan of these orbs, and the other man finally returned his stare.
“Tiring day, I gather.”
Another nod was John’s reply. No need to say it had been Sherlock’s violin to keep him up and start the whole chain of unfortunate events, the now innocuous looking instrument resting on the living room’s table.
“You tried your new strings?” John asked absently.
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he took the few steps that separated him from John with four long strides of his legs, swiftly avoiding all obstacles without even looking at them. He stopped in front of John, whose eyes were still focused on Sherlock’s, and spoke calmly again, as if being naked in front of one’s best friend was completely normal.
“Don’t worry about Sarah’s suggestions, it’s just her repressed jealousy talking.”
“I know, they don’t worry me. They’re just a bit annoying. But well, I’m getting old. It’s not as if girls are going to fight over me like in my dreams, so she can say all she wants,” John shrugged.
“In your dreams?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just one, actually. Tonight I was in a sort of pizzeria with two naked women and we were just chatting about the place’s prices, displayed on the shop’s ceiling, before they started arguing over me. But I’ve been in that position – it’s not as nice as many would think.”
“You had dates with two naked women?”
John glared at Sherlock, but the man was smirking at his own joke and he said nothing.
“It wasn’t anything erotic, though. Probably my virility just feels wounded by the lack of female suitors and my subconscious replied with this,” he said, sarcastic.
“Your ‘virility’, huh? Wouldn’t you rather say your sexuality?”
There was something in the tone Sherlock used that had John looking more intently into his eyes.
“That has been for a long time, if you must know.”
Sherlock slowly nodded and then brought a hand to his mouth, hiding a yawn against its back, his face not scrunching up like many people’s, including John’s, did; how he managed to look so elegant even when sleep deprived… Right, he probably hadn’t slept at all in two, maybe three days. As a side effect of his yawn goosebumps blossomed on Sherlock’s skin, causing a shiver to run down John’s spine as well. Oh, right, he was also naked and probably freezing cold. John took his jacket off and silently offered it to Sherlock as if that was the only way a man could have warmed up in a perfectly furnished flat, receiving a confused stare back. Or maybe it wasn’t confused, and it was just his sleepy brain seeing things.
A moment of silence followed, and John could have heard a pin drop, until Sherlock gently cupped John’s nape and pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn’t sudden, the movement of his hands was slow enough for John to escape or avoid it had he wanted to, but he really didn’t bother with asking to himself what he wanted, as he didn’t question Sherlock or his reasons. He simply let himself be caught in the kiss, returning it almost automatically as he lowered his arm, letting the jacket hit the floor carelessly. It started just as slowly, a firm press of plump lips against thinner ones, two pairs of different blue shaded eyes staring at each other for a moment before Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his lips gently against John, who followed and returned the movement, docile. Minutes later there was a tongue probing at his lips, and even then he asked no question to let himself be snogged by Sherlock. Only when he felt his warm body press against his clothed one, a slightly interested member pressing against his lower belly, John decided to pull away with a gentle hand on Sherlock’s chest.
“If it’s sex you’re looking for, I’m too tired,” he said quietly, but the way Sherlock’s eyes seemed to drill holes in his cranium had his body nearly burn up with hidden energy.
“Follow me,” Sherlock said simply. He moved to grasp John’s hand, but when the two came in contact he brushed them together hesitantly and went for the wrist instead, as he calmly lead him to his own bedroom.
“Strip. Lie down. On your belly.” An order followed the other, all softly whispered, and John complied. “I’ll take care of everything,” Sherlock reassured him as he buried his face in a soft pillow, taking in the other man’s scent.
Two, four, ten seconds went by during which John could feel Sherlock’s eyes peel his skin of, and somehow that made him feel more naked than taking his pants off had. Then two fingers traced his spine gently, the pressure just enough to have him sighing and closing his eyes. John heard Sherlock’s other hand open a drawer of the bedside table and closing it soon after, and he forced himself to reopen his eyes.
“Sherlock…”
“No.”
John relaxed again, half ravelling in the satisfying feeling of being able to understand Sherlock and be understood in turn with just a glance, or in this case a word, and half hoping he had understood correctly. He knew he had when he felt a plastic bottle’s cap being opened and a cold liquid being unexpectedly poured between his shoulder blades, followed by the sound of it closing and the feeling of a warm hand catching a drop from dripping on the covers. Soon John had two hands on him, and he felt a knee settle itself between his shins as the bed dipped under the weight; he spread his legs a bit more, and Sherlock knelt completely between them as he let his hands run up and down John’s back, the lubricant working wonders as massage oil. John didn’t bother asking himself why ‘non sexual’ Sherlock would have such a thing in his drawer, too focused with not moaning as his skin was pressed, pulled, teased and stroked expertly, long fingers tracing every bone like John wanted to do to their owner. Those fingers. They could create the most horrid noises or the most wonderful symphonies known to men, and even yet unknown ones. But John had never thought of what they could have done to his body, the way they could have glided over the underside of his arms or pressed at his sides, pinching with enough force to keep the small sting pleasurable, thumbs pressing small circles beside his spine for a moment before smoothly stroking their way downwards, along with eight other fingertips, until Sherlock was holding two handful of John’s soft rear. The moan that inevitably escaped his lips couldn’t be helped, the surprise in his relaxed body to the pleasurable squeezes too great to be contained.
“Sherlock,” John called weakly once again, trying to turn his head. Soon hands were back to his neck, massaging the base of it as well as the cervical vertebras.
“Hush. I’ll take care of everything,” the man repeated and oh, how John wanted to believe it. How taken care of he felt, despite Sherlock never saying it was for him in particular or what he would take care of, but everything felt so alright that the next time he felt those skilled hands move from his neck down to his thighs, squeezing them just like he had with his buttocks, just before grabbing them again, John said nothing. He remained pliant under Sherlock’s touches, allowing himself to moan freely and enjoy everything he could get.
Sherlock backed away a bit to have more space, and John vaguely thought that his knees must have become numb, before he felt something probe at the cleft of his arse. He tensed but didn’t turn away, didn’t protest as these bony thumbs parted his cheeks, didn’t as much as cry out when he felt something hot and slick teasing his entrance, pleasure overwhelming and foreign when it came from a wet tongue in that particular place. Saying something coherent stopped being an option when Sherlock swept his tongue across his hole again, before pressing in: John was quick to relax around the muscle, and even more so to moan out the other man’s name in delight as he enjoyed the sensation. John felt his hips buck back against Sherlock’s face, pointed cheekbones digging in his flesh as they both tried to get deeper and deeper still, a louder moan erupting from John’s throat as Sherlock squeezed his cheeks before pulling away, kissing him reverently.
“What the hell,” John weakly mumbled, and shivered again as Sherlock’s thumb caressed across his arsehole to collect the spit left there.
“An experiment,” the reply. If anything, Sherlock sounded just as breathless as he was. And yet, John tensed and felt the blush on his face subside as he nodded, and hugged the pillow tighter. When had he slid his arms under it, anyway?
“Experiment. Alright. Great way to finish the day. Can I go to sleep now or you want to play some Tchaikovsky later tonight?” The sentence didn’t finish how John had planned it to, but the more he talked the angrier he became.
“John–”
“Because if you want you can just crave some holes into me, attach strings to my back and use me as a fucking violin, so I would at least be of some use!”
“John, turn over,” Sherlock ordered again in his soft voice, and John not only found it hard to ignore it, but to obey too. He had started trembling with rage, and he was sure frustrated tears of anger and frustration were flowing down his face.
When he did manage to turn around, though, he found Sherlock straddling his lap and looking down at him. Still slick fingers tried to erase the lines of salty water on his cheeks, managing only to make them messier. None of them said anything as Sherlock grabbed the tube of lubricant again, and John had decided to ignore the erection the massage had caused, preparing himself to have his front stroked as well. He was surprised to see how Sherlock only coated few fingers in the clear substance and brought them behind his back, staring in his eyes with concentration before gasping and suddenly jerking on top of John, shifting his hips enough that the doctor could see, upon glancing down, the middle finger the man had buried in himself. He parted his lips in surprise and felt his anger disappear, but as soon as he looked back at the other man and thought of something to say as a form of protest, Sherlock was leaning down uncomfortably and kissing him fiercely, with a passion their previous kiss didn’t hold. John could only return it as his hands flew to Sherlock’s hair, pulling at the soft curls as he kept the infuriating man closer, breaking the kiss only when he heard a breathy moan against his lips to check and see if– yes, he had two fingers in now. John thought again about the length of these things and shivered, looking back to Sherlock’s eyes in confusion. Avoided another kiss with a roll of his head, John managed to ask.
“What?”
“You… said you were… too tired for sex. I, I said I would take care of everything, did I not?” A deep moan interrupted the gasp punctuated sentence, a backwards roll of lust darkened eyes sending blood rushing away from John’s face and directing it somewhere else, where it was more needed. “This seemed… the most logical solution.”
“But…” John’s sentence was aborted when Sherlock rolled his hips, grinding their erections one against the other. He tried again, taking a steading breath as he let his hands grab these slim hips. “Why this experiment? I thought you said you weren’t sexual.”
Sherlock jerked and moaned again, louder, moving his hand faster. “Do I look asexual to you?” he asked, lifting his hips against John’s restraining hands as if to prove a point.
“I didn’t say that,” John shook his head. “You said that once, and… oooh…” Sherlock had grabbed the lubricant again, letting it drip onto John’s heated erection before tossing the bottle aside to stroke him.
“I said that… to that widow hitting on me… I had no interest in her,” Sherlock explained, panting visibly by the time he stopped both hands.
By the time John finally understood, Sherlock had shifted forward so his knees were resting beside John’s stomach and was using one hand to direct his cock towards his well stretched entrance. The doctor’s hands were still on his hips, barely gripping anymore as a thought struck him. But he never got to voice it as Sherlock decided to use that moment to lower himself onto John, who slid inside that burning body surprisingly easy, the pressure causing him to arch his back upwards and cry out Sherlock’s name as the detective impaled himself moving downwards, yelping as well at the unexpected jerk. Less than a minute later John was getting used to the heat and Sherlock to the stretch, and they simultaneously made an experimental movement, both moaning in delight and biting their lips. Sherlock to tolerate his aching muscles, John to avoid calling the other’s name until he went hoarse. It was just too much, the sight of that perfect body carefully moving on top of his, muscles dancing under the pearly skin of his chest and shoulders as Sherlock threw his head back, curls bouncing with every thrust, his throat vibrating with moans every time John’s hands clenched and unclenched on his hips to guide his movements, shifting in time to provide the best support and the best fuck he could. He could feel his orgasm already building in as Sherlock stroked him with his inner walls, leaving John breathless with sentiment. Because he had let John inside, both physically and mentally, allowing him to be his friend first and now… this. Sex, he had always thought, was something incredibly intimate that didn’t just need attraction and love, but a discouraging amount of trust. He still remembered how hard it had been for his younger self to find a girl he liked and trusted enough to be naked in front of her, to be touched by, and was still reluctant when it came to sex. But Sherlock…
“Oh, John, there! Yes! Please!”
John complied, angling his thrusts to bump on that same spot again and again, causing Sherlock to soon become an incoherently moaning mess. And it was amazing, the way he was letting this wanton, needy side out just for John, taking and giving, not ashamed of the way his body quivered and eagerly embraced John’s, and not caring if he showed his irrational side to someone else, if he bit on his fingers to keep from screaming too loud, or if he groaned like an animal. Being tired never felt as far away as it did in that moment, and John sat up just pulling Sherlock down and using his abdominals, causing Sherlock to gasp. He had been so lost in their world it took him a moment to understand their current position, and he blinked a few times rapidly as if to put John in focus once again with his dilated pupils. They were so close John could have seen himself reflected in them with enough light, but instead he simply stared at the other, slowly thrusting upwards once again. He briefly wondered when did their frantic rhythm stop, but decided to ignore yet another question as Sherlock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him closer, kissing him. Slow, sweet at first, but soon passionate once again. John returned the kiss happily and started moving again, swallowing every small sound Sherlock made and feeding him with his own. This position didn’t allow the long slides of skin on skin they had indulged in earlier, so they resumed their pace with shallow, quick thrusts, heat once again too much to bear, skin too tight to be their own, bodies too far apart for their likes as they fit one into the other over and over again, almost becoming one but never managing to.
Sherlock is the first to go. Between the engorged flesh pumping inside him and his own member caught between the soft skin of their stomach in this new position, he took a moment to pull John’s mouth away and scream his name as he came, his hand still tangled in his hair as the doctor’s lips moved downwards, kissing and nipping at that delectable neck, groaning against the skin he licked sweet sweat from. His come coated their chests and his muscles spasmed madly around John, who moved even faster as he held Sherlock close, one hand leaving his hip and settling in the middle of his back to press them chest to chest, the sticky substance almost gluing them together as he came as well, orgasm leaving him like a dying star, expanding inside the other at first and imploding on himself then, the feeling of being just one person instead of two foreign to him after all this. He collapsed on the bed and found his trembling limbs still tightly wound around Sherlock, the man’s warm breath puffing gently against his ear. Had he still be sensitive, that would have tickled. And yet, he felt incredibly numb after the best orgasm he had ever had, only few parts exceedingly sensitive as they were still trapped in someone else’s body.
When he felt himself soften too much to still be held in by Sherlock’s muscles, John reluctantly pulled away with the sensation of these same muscles fluttering around him, as if to keep him there. But the attempt was too weak, as was John, and in order to look at Sherlock’s face again he had to roll onto his side and lay him gently on the mattress, unable to lift his chin and leave him sprawled on top of him as he wished to. He looked into Sherlock’s dazed eyes for a while, before breaking into a small smile. John knew this was usually the moment for the ‘you were amazing’s, and ‘alright?’s, and the ‘I love you’s, but this was Sherlock, not an average partner, so he said nothing until Sherlock returned the smile and pressed their lips together once again, softly. The detective had already closed his eyes when John pulled away, but that didn’t stop the doctor from grinning and running his nose sweetly over the bridge of Sherlock’s straight one.
“So this wasn’t the experiment…” he started. “Obviously,” he added before Sherlock could, and watched him smile in satisfaction.
“Something I would like to try next time,” he said instead, vaguely, and John chuckled as he nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own. He feared for a moment he was being too cheesy when Sherlock opened one eye to look at him, but the issue that came was another. “I told you I played violin at night.”
“That wasn’t really playing. And I do like violin, you know that. I prefer piano, the notes aren’t as high and it’s more relaxing, but we wouldn’t fit one in here anyway, so.” John shrugged minutely, and ran a hand in Sherlock’s amazing curls to brush some away from his face. He really had no problems with that. And yet.
“Stay here,” Sherlock said as he promptly jumped out of bed.
John giggled at the way his wobbly legs prevented his usual confident striding. At least, he laughed until a smug smile broke on his slightly flushed face. He got up, shaking as well, and moved the covers aside before gathering them around himself, sighing contently at the transmitted heat on his rapidly cooling skin, not really caring to soil them. He didn’t have the time to drift off that Sherlock was back, violin in hand, and John had something like five seconds to be confused before the tall, naked, handsome man in front of him smiled, and it was all wonderfully clear. He relaxed back and smiled in turn, watching as Sherlock trapped the violin between chin and shoulder and let the bow fly on the strings, starting to play an arranged version of the Moonlight Sonata.
He watched his concentred expression and the drops of sweat of undubious cause on his forehead until he fell asleep. When he awoke to the sound of his alarm going off at seven thirty the next morning, he did for the first time what would come to be the mistake he loved the most: he woke up Sherlock as well and proceeded to snog him for several minutes, eventually enjoying a morning wank with him, loving the way he arched back against his body and called his name, hoping he would in turn like the way John called his.
He then leisurely stood up and got Sherlock in the shower with himself, cleaning them both and snogging him some more, just before enjoying breakfast with the detective and a bit more of cuddles while he tried to get decently dressed. When he arrived to work half an hour later than he was expected to, Sarah raised an eyebrow in his direction, probably because of the cheerful smile he threw in her direction.
“Was he ‘playing the violin’ again?” she asked.
“Yes,” John answered, still smiling happily. “Yes, we were.”
If he missed the shocked expression on her face, it was just because he was too busy striding confidently towards his office, whistling the Moonlight Sonata to himself.
—-
Post-production notes: this was basically my day - strange dream about women wanting me, splitting teabags and spilling mugs and getting lost in Venice because I had no money for the ferry in the cold, damp October air, sweating and being cold, with the difference that there were 14.000+ people in San Marco. Thanks, Pope.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbwhy6lMpg1qlxt64o1_500.jpg)
[Manip by glassdildo - link to AO3 - And a happy birthday present to raggedy-spaceman! :D]
Moonlight Sonata
When Sherlock decides to spend the night playing the violin, John always knows the next is going to be a tough day. If there is a case or a problem he would compose until the answer would magically pop in his brain – because really, who could think while composing? Doesn’t that require concentration? – and they could all go to sleep; other days he would spend the whole night playing something absurdly complicate that John couldn’t even name; this time, he seemed intent on just plucking the strings and torturing the poor instrument, like he did when he visited his “Mind Palace” and decided to wander there for a while.
If John had not heard him play multiple times, he would have thought the violin was just part of Sherlock’s cool attire alongside with his coat and cheekbones but, alas, he was too aware of the man’s ability. And yet, at times Sherlock would just like to create annoying noises that didn’t let John sleep, not after his military training of waking up at the smallest hint of danger. Which apparently included snapping strings, muffled curses and resuming noises from an abused Stradivari.
Eventually, Sherlock put the instrument aside some time around half past three in the morning, and John could sleep without a pillow pressed against his ears. When he awoke to the sound of his alarm going off at seven thirty the next morning, he did the mistake he hated the most: turned it off, rolled on the other side and thought that he had to be to work in an hour, so he could afford five more minutes, just to indulge a bit more in the dream he was having and enjoying so much. When he awoke again, it was twelve minutes to nine.
Jumping up and running to the bathroom to get a shower, then back to his room to get dressed and down the stairs, snatching his jacket and ignoring breakfast, had become a far too familiar ritual since he moved in with Sherlock. Not a problem when it was for a case, but John had always been the perfect employee when he trained at Bart’s, even later in Afghanistan’s military hospitals, and arriving late was something he hated, particularly when he had no better reason than “Sherlock didn’t let me get enough sleep,” because he knew the innuendos to come. He had had that conversation with Sarah and other colleagues many times, and yet it seemed to never cease. Today was no exception.
“Was he ‘playing the violin’ again?” she in fact asked. It wasn’t as if he needed to defend his being straight, because he had to admit he wouldn’t mind swimming in the other direction with Sherlock, but since the man had once stated his not being sexual at all to a courting woman, John didn’t pay any mind to what he would have liked. Sexuality wasn’t that important, after all, very overrated. What he defended was Sherlock’s right to be recognized as an independent man who didn’t need a relationship to live, and therefore the lack of one between them.
“Not really, just plucked at it until he snapped a string.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it,” if there wasn’t mild rancour for their failed dates there, John had no idea what this was, “It’s not acceptable to come to work more than an hour late. As usual, I’ll detract it from your salary, alright?”
John knew he never really risked his job, being practically a veteran, voluntary doctor that helped when he could mostly by filling in other’s shifts, but it still was annoying not being able to work when he wanted to because a mad man decided to be noisy until late at night, even more so when his only income of money came from this job. He still got his army pension, but it was barely enough to pay his half of the rent and a cup of tea at the end of the day. Which he would surely need today.
So, instead of trying to talk some sense into Sarah’s head like he did that time Sherlock had decided to play the Danse Macabre – “Sure it wasn’t another kind of ‘dance’?” had been her reply – John simply nodded and headed to his office, where he proceeded to assist a couple dozens of patients with their minor health issues, usually simple colds and sore throats with the eventual lump on the ‘I-think-it’s-cancer’ woman’s neck that revealed itself to be an engorged lymph node.
When he was finally off his shift, which took an hour longer so he could regain a bit of his pay, it was around seven in the afternoon. He was hungry, but as he had noticed during his lunch break, due to the morning rush he had left his wallet on the kitchen table and only had with him twenty quids. More than enough for lunch, thankfully, and for his so needed evening tea.
There was a tea room he liked particularly, which served every brand and brew known from America to Japan, going East of course, but despite his love for oriental teas John decided to set with a simple bag of Earl Grey; the kind of black, strong tea that he wanted at the moment. For the second time that day though, his military training went against him. Being in the army meant no wastes, and therefore he had gotten used to placing the used teabag on the hollow of his spoon and winding the string around it, squeezing the last drops of it into the mug. It wasn’t difficult, and it usually worked without problems with the brand he always got at Tesco’s, but this particular teabag didn’t seem to like his technique as it practically split in half, pouring wet leaves into the cup, which then John managed to half-spill over himself in a vain attempt at putting the treacherous bag away. With that, his desire for tea was gone. If anything, the water wasn’t too hot and he avoided cursing. That is, until he got out of the tea room with two pounds and twenty-five cents left, and the damp-yet-cold air of London’s October froze his jeans clad thigh and managed to make him sweat at the same time.
He was cold and he was tired, and it was getting quite late, so John decided to duck into a tube station as a substitute to the cab he would have taken, had he had the money, to get home. Once down there, though, another thought got to him: again, he had left his wallet home. Which meant he didn’t have his Oyster Card, as well as money, with him. Other curses followed as he took all the way home by foot and managed to get lost after turning in that alley that seemed ‘the one Sherlock used that time’, and that instead took him to a whole new part of the town. A part he never wanted to see again but feared he would have to, most likely after a multiple murder, seen the faces he met there.
When he finally, finally got home, the flat was dark. After looking for his mobile, making sure to have taken it at all, and checking lost calls or texts secondly, John frowned and entered the building. No case, obviously, or Sherlock would have called him despite his being at work, but he couldn’t be asleep: case or not, Sherlock wasn’t the sleeping kind of lazy. Rather the ‘I-wouldn’t-move-were-London-on-fire’ kind of lazy. The more John climbed the stairs, the more he waited to hear for any noise or sign of danger, adrenaline ready to flow within his blood, but as soon as he opened the door something else went through him.
Sherlock was standing in the living room, his not unusually stark naked body almost framed by the window as he stretched his arms above his head leisurely, looking somewhat like a ballerina frozen in the middle of a step. His expression was a relaxed yet thoughtful one, bright eyes unfocusedly digging holes in the ceiling as he concentred on something that was solely in his mind, lips parted as if in wonder, one leg slightly lifted as he stretched its muscles as well, using the leverage his right foot’s toes could provide if he put his whole weight on their tips and his other foot, solidly planted to the floor. The moon weakly shining through the window had his pale skin nearly glowing, and if during the day sunlight made his hair almost auburn, creating a sort of angelic aureole around his head, the white light he was now bathing in made it silver as it traced the lines of his face.
Every tendon in Sherlock’s body seemed to be exposed, every muscle tensed as he slowly pulled at them one by one, his ribcage prominent under the thin skin as he breathed and the inward curve of his spine inhumanly perfect, a clear contrast with the outward curve of his rear. John observed the game of shadows the faint light created in the many hollows of his body, from his cheekbones to his ankles, passing by his throat and down to his navel, all the way down to his hipbones and knees. John could almost imagine the hollows he couldn’t see, the ones on Sherlock’s soft lower back that would plead him to be licked, or the minuscule ones created by the curves of his penis’ glands, hidden by his thigh. At the same time he was grateful for the curtains that hid that sight to outsiders’ eyes and hated the ones that hid Sherlock’s hands partly. John felt something electric in his brain, as if his neurons had decided to order him all together to approach Sherlock and run his hands down that smooth skin, tracing his bones and caressing his perfect curves, exploring his body with teeth, tongue and lips. Oh, how he would have liked to pull the detective close to sink his teeth in his neck, like a starved animal, to touch him like he was an unknown creature to discover. He could have. Minutes since he had entered and Sherlock was still in pretty much the same position, oblivious about John’s presence and focused on thinking God knew what. It would be simple to surprise him now that he was so vulnerable, easy to pin him against a wall and press himself over that body, learning him with skin on skin, lips on lips, hands on hands…
“Sherlock?” He would have never dared. Sherlock snapped out of his trance at the sound of his name, blinking a few times and turning his head to look at John.
“John,” he greeted him with the usual neutrality, letting his arms fall back to his sides but keeping his knee lifted. “How was your– You spilt your tea.”
The good doctor nodded and looked firmly into Sherlock’s eyes, waiting to be deduced. A rapid scan of these orbs, and the other man finally returned his stare.
“Tiring day, I gather.”
Another nod was John’s reply. No need to say it had been Sherlock’s violin to keep him up and start the whole chain of unfortunate events, the now innocuous looking instrument resting on the living room’s table.
“You tried your new strings?” John asked absently.
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he took the few steps that separated him from John with four long strides of his legs, swiftly avoiding all obstacles without even looking at them. He stopped in front of John, whose eyes were still focused on Sherlock’s, and spoke calmly again, as if being naked in front of one’s best friend was completely normal.
“Don’t worry about Sarah’s suggestions, it’s just her repressed jealousy talking.”
“I know, they don’t worry me. They’re just a bit annoying. But well, I’m getting old. It’s not as if girls are going to fight over me like in my dreams, so she can say all she wants,” John shrugged.
“In your dreams?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just one, actually. Tonight I was in a sort of pizzeria with two naked women and we were just chatting about the place’s prices, displayed on the shop’s ceiling, before they started arguing over me. But I’ve been in that position – it’s not as nice as many would think.”
“You had dates with two naked women?”
John glared at Sherlock, but the man was smirking at his own joke and he said nothing.
“It wasn’t anything erotic, though. Probably my virility just feels wounded by the lack of female suitors and my subconscious replied with this,” he said, sarcastic.
“Your ‘virility’, huh? Wouldn’t you rather say your sexuality?”
There was something in the tone Sherlock used that had John looking more intently into his eyes.
“That has been for a long time, if you must know.”
Sherlock slowly nodded and then brought a hand to his mouth, hiding a yawn against its back, his face not scrunching up like many people’s, including John’s, did; how he managed to look so elegant even when sleep deprived… Right, he probably hadn’t slept at all in two, maybe three days. As a side effect of his yawn goosebumps blossomed on Sherlock’s skin, causing a shiver to run down John’s spine as well. Oh, right, he was also naked and probably freezing cold. John took his jacket off and silently offered it to Sherlock as if that was the only way a man could have warmed up in a perfectly furnished flat, receiving a confused stare back. Or maybe it wasn’t confused, and it was just his sleepy brain seeing things.
A moment of silence followed, and John could have heard a pin drop, until Sherlock gently cupped John’s nape and pulled him in for a kiss. It wasn’t sudden, the movement of his hands was slow enough for John to escape or avoid it had he wanted to, but he really didn’t bother with asking to himself what he wanted, as he didn’t question Sherlock or his reasons. He simply let himself be caught in the kiss, returning it almost automatically as he lowered his arm, letting the jacket hit the floor carelessly. It started just as slowly, a firm press of plump lips against thinner ones, two pairs of different blue shaded eyes staring at each other for a moment before Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his lips gently against John, who followed and returned the movement, docile. Minutes later there was a tongue probing at his lips, and even then he asked no question to let himself be snogged by Sherlock. Only when he felt his warm body press against his clothed one, a slightly interested member pressing against his lower belly, John decided to pull away with a gentle hand on Sherlock’s chest.
“If it’s sex you’re looking for, I’m too tired,” he said quietly, but the way Sherlock’s eyes seemed to drill holes in his cranium had his body nearly burn up with hidden energy.
“Follow me,” Sherlock said simply. He moved to grasp John’s hand, but when the two came in contact he brushed them together hesitantly and went for the wrist instead, as he calmly lead him to his own bedroom.
“Strip. Lie down. On your belly.” An order followed the other, all softly whispered, and John complied. “I’ll take care of everything,” Sherlock reassured him as he buried his face in a soft pillow, taking in the other man’s scent.
Two, four, ten seconds went by during which John could feel Sherlock’s eyes peel his skin of, and somehow that made him feel more naked than taking his pants off had. Then two fingers traced his spine gently, the pressure just enough to have him sighing and closing his eyes. John heard Sherlock’s other hand open a drawer of the bedside table and closing it soon after, and he forced himself to reopen his eyes.
“Sherlock…”
“No.”
John relaxed again, half ravelling in the satisfying feeling of being able to understand Sherlock and be understood in turn with just a glance, or in this case a word, and half hoping he had understood correctly. He knew he had when he felt a plastic bottle’s cap being opened and a cold liquid being unexpectedly poured between his shoulder blades, followed by the sound of it closing and the feeling of a warm hand catching a drop from dripping on the covers. Soon John had two hands on him, and he felt a knee settle itself between his shins as the bed dipped under the weight; he spread his legs a bit more, and Sherlock knelt completely between them as he let his hands run up and down John’s back, the lubricant working wonders as massage oil. John didn’t bother asking himself why ‘non sexual’ Sherlock would have such a thing in his drawer, too focused with not moaning as his skin was pressed, pulled, teased and stroked expertly, long fingers tracing every bone like John wanted to do to their owner. Those fingers. They could create the most horrid noises or the most wonderful symphonies known to men, and even yet unknown ones. But John had never thought of what they could have done to his body, the way they could have glided over the underside of his arms or pressed at his sides, pinching with enough force to keep the small sting pleasurable, thumbs pressing small circles beside his spine for a moment before smoothly stroking their way downwards, along with eight other fingertips, until Sherlock was holding two handful of John’s soft rear. The moan that inevitably escaped his lips couldn’t be helped, the surprise in his relaxed body to the pleasurable squeezes too great to be contained.
“Sherlock,” John called weakly once again, trying to turn his head. Soon hands were back to his neck, massaging the base of it as well as the cervical vertebras.
“Hush. I’ll take care of everything,” the man repeated and oh, how John wanted to believe it. How taken care of he felt, despite Sherlock never saying it was for him in particular or what he would take care of, but everything felt so alright that the next time he felt those skilled hands move from his neck down to his thighs, squeezing them just like he had with his buttocks, just before grabbing them again, John said nothing. He remained pliant under Sherlock’s touches, allowing himself to moan freely and enjoy everything he could get.
Sherlock backed away a bit to have more space, and John vaguely thought that his knees must have become numb, before he felt something probe at the cleft of his arse. He tensed but didn’t turn away, didn’t protest as these bony thumbs parted his cheeks, didn’t as much as cry out when he felt something hot and slick teasing his entrance, pleasure overwhelming and foreign when it came from a wet tongue in that particular place. Saying something coherent stopped being an option when Sherlock swept his tongue across his hole again, before pressing in: John was quick to relax around the muscle, and even more so to moan out the other man’s name in delight as he enjoyed the sensation. John felt his hips buck back against Sherlock’s face, pointed cheekbones digging in his flesh as they both tried to get deeper and deeper still, a louder moan erupting from John’s throat as Sherlock squeezed his cheeks before pulling away, kissing him reverently.
“What the hell,” John weakly mumbled, and shivered again as Sherlock’s thumb caressed across his arsehole to collect the spit left there.
“An experiment,” the reply. If anything, Sherlock sounded just as breathless as he was. And yet, John tensed and felt the blush on his face subside as he nodded, and hugged the pillow tighter. When had he slid his arms under it, anyway?
“Experiment. Alright. Great way to finish the day. Can I go to sleep now or you want to play some Tchaikovsky later tonight?” The sentence didn’t finish how John had planned it to, but the more he talked the angrier he became.
“John–”
“Because if you want you can just crave some holes into me, attach strings to my back and use me as a fucking violin, so I would at least be of some use!”
“John, turn over,” Sherlock ordered again in his soft voice, and John not only found it hard to ignore it, but to obey too. He had started trembling with rage, and he was sure frustrated tears of anger and frustration were flowing down his face.
When he did manage to turn around, though, he found Sherlock straddling his lap and looking down at him. Still slick fingers tried to erase the lines of salty water on his cheeks, managing only to make them messier. None of them said anything as Sherlock grabbed the tube of lubricant again, and John had decided to ignore the erection the massage had caused, preparing himself to have his front stroked as well. He was surprised to see how Sherlock only coated few fingers in the clear substance and brought them behind his back, staring in his eyes with concentration before gasping and suddenly jerking on top of John, shifting his hips enough that the doctor could see, upon glancing down, the middle finger the man had buried in himself. He parted his lips in surprise and felt his anger disappear, but as soon as he looked back at the other man and thought of something to say as a form of protest, Sherlock was leaning down uncomfortably and kissing him fiercely, with a passion their previous kiss didn’t hold. John could only return it as his hands flew to Sherlock’s hair, pulling at the soft curls as he kept the infuriating man closer, breaking the kiss only when he heard a breathy moan against his lips to check and see if– yes, he had two fingers in now. John thought again about the length of these things and shivered, looking back to Sherlock’s eyes in confusion. Avoided another kiss with a roll of his head, John managed to ask.
“What?”
“You… said you were… too tired for sex. I, I said I would take care of everything, did I not?” A deep moan interrupted the gasp punctuated sentence, a backwards roll of lust darkened eyes sending blood rushing away from John’s face and directing it somewhere else, where it was more needed. “This seemed… the most logical solution.”
“But…” John’s sentence was aborted when Sherlock rolled his hips, grinding their erections one against the other. He tried again, taking a steading breath as he let his hands grab these slim hips. “Why this experiment? I thought you said you weren’t sexual.”
Sherlock jerked and moaned again, louder, moving his hand faster. “Do I look asexual to you?” he asked, lifting his hips against John’s restraining hands as if to prove a point.
“I didn’t say that,” John shook his head. “You said that once, and… oooh…” Sherlock had grabbed the lubricant again, letting it drip onto John’s heated erection before tossing the bottle aside to stroke him.
“I said that… to that widow hitting on me… I had no interest in her,” Sherlock explained, panting visibly by the time he stopped both hands.
By the time John finally understood, Sherlock had shifted forward so his knees were resting beside John’s stomach and was using one hand to direct his cock towards his well stretched entrance. The doctor’s hands were still on his hips, barely gripping anymore as a thought struck him. But he never got to voice it as Sherlock decided to use that moment to lower himself onto John, who slid inside that burning body surprisingly easy, the pressure causing him to arch his back upwards and cry out Sherlock’s name as the detective impaled himself moving downwards, yelping as well at the unexpected jerk. Less than a minute later John was getting used to the heat and Sherlock to the stretch, and they simultaneously made an experimental movement, both moaning in delight and biting their lips. Sherlock to tolerate his aching muscles, John to avoid calling the other’s name until he went hoarse. It was just too much, the sight of that perfect body carefully moving on top of his, muscles dancing under the pearly skin of his chest and shoulders as Sherlock threw his head back, curls bouncing with every thrust, his throat vibrating with moans every time John’s hands clenched and unclenched on his hips to guide his movements, shifting in time to provide the best support and the best fuck he could. He could feel his orgasm already building in as Sherlock stroked him with his inner walls, leaving John breathless with sentiment. Because he had let John inside, both physically and mentally, allowing him to be his friend first and now… this. Sex, he had always thought, was something incredibly intimate that didn’t just need attraction and love, but a discouraging amount of trust. He still remembered how hard it had been for his younger self to find a girl he liked and trusted enough to be naked in front of her, to be touched by, and was still reluctant when it came to sex. But Sherlock…
“Oh, John, there! Yes! Please!”
John complied, angling his thrusts to bump on that same spot again and again, causing Sherlock to soon become an incoherently moaning mess. And it was amazing, the way he was letting this wanton, needy side out just for John, taking and giving, not ashamed of the way his body quivered and eagerly embraced John’s, and not caring if he showed his irrational side to someone else, if he bit on his fingers to keep from screaming too loud, or if he groaned like an animal. Being tired never felt as far away as it did in that moment, and John sat up just pulling Sherlock down and using his abdominals, causing Sherlock to gasp. He had been so lost in their world it took him a moment to understand their current position, and he blinked a few times rapidly as if to put John in focus once again with his dilated pupils. They were so close John could have seen himself reflected in them with enough light, but instead he simply stared at the other, slowly thrusting upwards once again. He briefly wondered when did their frantic rhythm stop, but decided to ignore yet another question as Sherlock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him closer, kissing him. Slow, sweet at first, but soon passionate once again. John returned the kiss happily and started moving again, swallowing every small sound Sherlock made and feeding him with his own. This position didn’t allow the long slides of skin on skin they had indulged in earlier, so they resumed their pace with shallow, quick thrusts, heat once again too much to bear, skin too tight to be their own, bodies too far apart for their likes as they fit one into the other over and over again, almost becoming one but never managing to.
Sherlock is the first to go. Between the engorged flesh pumping inside him and his own member caught between the soft skin of their stomach in this new position, he took a moment to pull John’s mouth away and scream his name as he came, his hand still tangled in his hair as the doctor’s lips moved downwards, kissing and nipping at that delectable neck, groaning against the skin he licked sweet sweat from. His come coated their chests and his muscles spasmed madly around John, who moved even faster as he held Sherlock close, one hand leaving his hip and settling in the middle of his back to press them chest to chest, the sticky substance almost gluing them together as he came as well, orgasm leaving him like a dying star, expanding inside the other at first and imploding on himself then, the feeling of being just one person instead of two foreign to him after all this. He collapsed on the bed and found his trembling limbs still tightly wound around Sherlock, the man’s warm breath puffing gently against his ear. Had he still be sensitive, that would have tickled. And yet, he felt incredibly numb after the best orgasm he had ever had, only few parts exceedingly sensitive as they were still trapped in someone else’s body.
When he felt himself soften too much to still be held in by Sherlock’s muscles, John reluctantly pulled away with the sensation of these same muscles fluttering around him, as if to keep him there. But the attempt was too weak, as was John, and in order to look at Sherlock’s face again he had to roll onto his side and lay him gently on the mattress, unable to lift his chin and leave him sprawled on top of him as he wished to. He looked into Sherlock’s dazed eyes for a while, before breaking into a small smile. John knew this was usually the moment for the ‘you were amazing’s, and ‘alright?’s, and the ‘I love you’s, but this was Sherlock, not an average partner, so he said nothing until Sherlock returned the smile and pressed their lips together once again, softly. The detective had already closed his eyes when John pulled away, but that didn’t stop the doctor from grinning and running his nose sweetly over the bridge of Sherlock’s straight one.
“So this wasn’t the experiment…” he started. “Obviously,” he added before Sherlock could, and watched him smile in satisfaction.
“Something I would like to try next time,” he said instead, vaguely, and John chuckled as he nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own. He feared for a moment he was being too cheesy when Sherlock opened one eye to look at him, but the issue that came was another. “I told you I played violin at night.”
“That wasn’t really playing. And I do like violin, you know that. I prefer piano, the notes aren’t as high and it’s more relaxing, but we wouldn’t fit one in here anyway, so.” John shrugged minutely, and ran a hand in Sherlock’s amazing curls to brush some away from his face. He really had no problems with that. And yet.
“Stay here,” Sherlock said as he promptly jumped out of bed.
John giggled at the way his wobbly legs prevented his usual confident striding. At least, he laughed until a smug smile broke on his slightly flushed face. He got up, shaking as well, and moved the covers aside before gathering them around himself, sighing contently at the transmitted heat on his rapidly cooling skin, not really caring to soil them. He didn’t have the time to drift off that Sherlock was back, violin in hand, and John had something like five seconds to be confused before the tall, naked, handsome man in front of him smiled, and it was all wonderfully clear. He relaxed back and smiled in turn, watching as Sherlock trapped the violin between chin and shoulder and let the bow fly on the strings, starting to play an arranged version of the Moonlight Sonata.
He watched his concentred expression and the drops of sweat of undubious cause on his forehead until he fell asleep. When he awoke to the sound of his alarm going off at seven thirty the next morning, he did for the first time what would come to be the mistake he loved the most: he woke up Sherlock as well and proceeded to snog him for several minutes, eventually enjoying a morning wank with him, loving the way he arched back against his body and called his name, hoping he would in turn like the way John called his.
He then leisurely stood up and got Sherlock in the shower with himself, cleaning them both and snogging him some more, just before enjoying breakfast with the detective and a bit more of cuddles while he tried to get decently dressed. When he arrived to work half an hour later than he was expected to, Sarah raised an eyebrow in his direction, probably because of the cheerful smile he threw in her direction.
“Was he ‘playing the violin’ again?” she asked.
“Yes,” John answered, still smiling happily. “Yes, we were.”
If he missed the shocked expression on her face, it was just because he was too busy striding confidently towards his office, whistling the Moonlight Sonata to himself.
—-
Post-production notes: this was basically my day - strange dream about women wanting me, splitting teabags and spilling mugs and getting lost in Venice because I had no money for the ferry in the cold, damp October air, sweating and being cold, with the difference that there were 14.000+ people in San Marco. Thanks, Pope.
Master
John had always been a dog. He never cared, and why should he? Since the day he was born and sold he had been raised like an animal, like many others in the world. It didn’t bother him; he had never known anything else but this. He didn’t see how similar he and his owners were.
When he grew up he was sold again, because his first family only wanted a puppy. When he was about ten years old he was passed to someone else, and then someone else, and then again someone else, until he lost memory of the faces of his owners and only remembered their hands. Some were gentle and petting, some were harsh and punishing, but none ever lasted long.
There was only one owner John would never forget, and that was Sherlock Holmes. He still remembered the day his older brother bought him at the market and brought him home, presenting him to a lanky, skinny fourteen years old that initially didn’t seem intentioned in having anything to do with him, even as John had stood on his knees to greet him every day when he came back from school. He was sixteen at the time, perhaps.
John had liked the Holmes estate, where no one seemed intentioned in beating him. They didn’t care much about him either though, and after one week with barely enough to drink John had curled himself in front of Sherlock’s door, waiting for his young master to acknowledge him in some way, show a bit of interest, or wait for the pain in his rumbling tummy to stop at once.
Sherlock exited his room only hours later and stumbled in an almost starved John, whose half naked form lied now limply in his way. The boy seemed to understand that his sense of responsibility was being tested, and finally decided to give some attention to the poor boy he now understood he owned, and was at his mercy only.
John had gratefully eaten the food Sherlock gave him, though he seemed reluctant to let him eat from a plate on the floor. When John was sated and barked happily Sherlock tentatively patted his head, only to be rewarded with an affectionate nuzzle against his knee. John looked up and tilted his head to the side, not understanding the pity in the other’s eyes.
As time went by the two became inseparable. Sherlock would hardly take John as far as the mansion’s garden’s border, but it was an awful lot of space for someone like him, and John never complained. He actually enjoyed following Sherlock’s order, rolling on his back or giving his hand to the boy happily.
No one ever came to visit Sherlock, so no one knew about John, but John knew about them. Often his master would come home upset, and John would be there to hug him as he cried and told him about his school days. John whimpered at the thought of not being able to protect his owner, and he would have lowered his ears if he had been an actual dog.
Sherlock was day after day more reluctant about John’s state, but his family didn’t worry about having a human fully acting like a dog on the leash around the house on a daily basis, so he couldn’t do much about it.
But in secret Sherlock had started a sort of experiment on John. It started when he had asked him if he understood everything people said, to which John had barked in affirmative response. At that point, Sherlock had demanded him to bark once for a yes and twice for a no to every question he would lay, and he got one bark back.
Could he talk? Could he read? Could he write? At the negative responses, Sherlock’s mood had sunk a bit, but then he had asked: would he have liked to learn? John had tilted his head in confusion, his furrowed brows letting out his doubts. Could he? Sherlock had smiled gleefully at his one-bark response, and petted his head gently.
It was easy, Sherlock had explained. He only had to let the air pass through his throat, form a sound different from a bark, imitate what Sherlock did with his lips and say something, anything, morphing his thoughts into words. John thought about something to say, something worth being said and came out with something. But would he be able to? He was just a dog, but after all he could try. So he opened his mouth, letting the air hiss through his too gritted teeth or come to a stop against his tongue, no sounds coming out. At first. And then he did it, he managed to form a word when his master’s hopes seemed to shrink, he did it for him.
“Sherlock,” he had said, his lips feeling uncomfortable around the difficult letters.
It was far from perfect, but Sherlock’s smile had been so bright with joy that he had smiled back and leaned in to receive some pats and some praising as a reward.
After that Sherlock had started introducing him to letters, their pronunciation and written form, and then to more and more complex words, until John had managed to read a fairytale from a book Sherlock bought for him. The expression on his master’s face was so prideful that John put everything he could into learning more and more.
Then came numbers. He wasn’t as good with them as he was with letters, but with Sherlock’s guidance he managed to find his way through the simplest counting, eventually starting to even enjoy very simple equations and proportions.
When the boy went off to college, John felt very lonely and feared he would be sold again, but it didn’t happen. Instead he lived in Sherlock’s room most of the time, fed by the maids and butlers of the mansion, never bothering or being bothered by the Holmes’ parents. John kept studying in secret, and even with his slow pace he slowly managed to read every book held in Sherlock’s room. And every time Sherlock would come back he was always the first to greet him on the door, hugging his long legs and waggling his rear in the air, dragging him to his bedroom to speak up and show him his progresses.
Then Sherlock moved to London to live on his own, and brought John with him. He got a room of his own and could lay around the flat doing whatever he wanted to. The two-legs walking lessons Sherlock had gave him time ago were now used fully almost every day, and John started doing the chores he had seen so often done by the maids when it became clear Sherlock wouldn’t be able to do them alone.
He still had no documents and was less than a person, but his intellect had improved greatly since he had started reading. He had even ate up the school books of his masters and now knew everything any teenager would about history, astronomy, philosophy and literature, though he didn’t see the point in great part of that stuff.
Sherlock still was so pleased with him, and praised him constantly for the simple fact he was walking, that John was more than willing to do anything the man wanted.
This didn’t mean that sometimes there weren’t problems. Every once in a while it would happen to John to wake up from a strange dream that left him hot and distressed, and being the only accurate anatomy text books in the old mansion’s library, upon the ones he didn’t dare approach, John didn’t know what it was. It was scary, his mind was distracted by it, and he didn’t like the way it took away his already poor ability to talk.
When it started he was younger and Sherlock was in the college, not with him, but the first time it happened in their new house in London John had rushed to his master’s bed, half walking and half crawling like he was used to do. He leapt onto the bed and shook him awake, whining a small bark that no one would be able to interpret.
No one but Sherlock, because after only one look Sherlock had him strip and lay down and started rubbing his chest and belly like he had many times, to relax him, before he started rubbing his hand against that spot that ached so much- but oh, his owner’s hands made it feel so good.
These accidents didn’t happen very often, but every time John would panicky run to Sherlock, trying to form his needs in words that were never needed. Sherlock always made it better. Until one day John noticed that his master had these accidents too and offered to help, but he wouldn’t let him do that and would blush instead.
One day as they ate breakfast Sherlock had looked over at John and asked, in a small voice, if the other loved him.
“Yes,” John had replied without hesitation, smiling at his master.
Sherlock had smiled and said that he, too, loved John. Then he stood and stroked his hair, smiling at him and saying that he had raised him to be such a good person, and he was so proud of John, that he could only follow both his canine and human instinct, leaning up to lap gently at Sherlock’s lips. For a moment he froze, and John was afraid he would be punished for misbehaving, but then Sherlock’s cheeks coloured of red and he smiled more as he hugged John.
Some time later Sherlock had one of these accidents that scared John so much, and when help was offered he didn’t turn it down. John had started carefully, imitating his master with gentle caresses at his naked chest and stomach before letting his hands touch the hardened flesh between his legs.
John had watched with fascination at Sherlock’s reactions, so clear and beautiful on his face, wondering how he looked when he was being touched that way. He tried to remember how he liked it, and stroked Sherlock tentatively, drunk with the sounds he was making.
When John whined at the hardness between his own tights Sherlock had asked him to strip as well, and John complied and happily seated himself beside Sherlock, so they could touch each other.
After that time it came less and less like an accident, and more like something they both wanted. John started to like these sensations, and he liked he could let Sherlock feel them too.
To John’s delight they kissed a lot, sometimes even spent hours at it, and Sherlock was always happy when John told him he loved his master, so he said it often and heard it in return.
When Sherlock started working with the police, John was at a loss of what to do around the house other than his chores, and when one day Sherlock decided to bring him along John had let out a bark of happiness. He started following the man everywhere he went, protecting him when he could and growling at people he knew Sherlock didn’t like. He once even went as far as to bite a man threatening Sherlock with a gun.
Until one day it was all gone. Sherlock was gone, and John felt like he had lost the best part of himself. No, not as if, he had. And without knowing what to do, John continued keeping the flat clean, going through his chores automatically, waiting and waiting for a person who wouldn’t come back.
The elder Holmes, Mycroft had shown up to offer him documents, a name, a job that John refused and money that he had to accept. But he wouldn’t move, barely left the house in the hope that someday Sherlock would be back to him.
He waited loyally, thinking that this wasn’t that much different from college, and sometimes he found himself in the bed he and Sherlock had lied in so often with tears in his eyes and a burn in his chest. He was grateful that Sherlock had taught him how to write and use a computer, and that Mycroft who knew this all somehow didn’t try and sell him again despite his being much more human.
John often wondered if it would have been harder going through this had he still not known how to put his thoughts into words, without being able to link his memories to intelligible sounds that meant more than gestures, or if the pain he felt would have extinguished more easily had he been unable to express himself. He only knew that he didn’t want to forget his master, the way his lips smiled and kissed him and the way his hand patted him gently. He wondered if he would ever love someone else like that, and if there would ever be someone else to love him that much.
And then one day, after he fell asleep by Sherlock’s door like when he was little more than a pup, he felt these loving fingers stroke his head as gently as ever to wake him up. As he did so without opening his eyes, John’s lips cracked in a smile, and he leaned into the touch like he always had.
“Master.”
