Chapter Text
The next morning was awkward and delicious at the same time. They had slept apart, a remarkably uneventful night considering the (strangely peaceful) turmoil they’d been in recently, and John, yawning, padded downstairs after a good long shower, clad only in a bathrobe, with a hankering for a good, steaming cup of tea, the paper, and a comfortable chair drenched in morning sunlight. Fifteen quiet minutes later, he lowered himself into his seat with a groan and flipped the paper on the table beside him open.
Quiet minutes kept passing. Tea disappeared. Newsprint was slowly, meaninglessly threaded in one ear and out the other. Content filled the space. Sherlock came out into the living room in John’s jumper.
It took roughly two point five seconds for John to realize the actual fuzzy, red-white-and-black knitted glory crowning Sherlock’s lanky torso. The woollen-clad man crossed in front of John’s utterly dumbfounded gaze, barely containing a strut and obviously trying extremely hard not to look at him. The silk pyjama trousers fit oddly well with the jumper, and as John’s head turned inexorably to follow his—flatmate’s? boyfriend’s? problem’s? progress across the room, his gaze skipped down Sherlock’s body and halted abruptly somewhere around the backs of his knees before climbing slowly back up to fix on the strip of bare, porcelain lower back bared by the far-too-high waist of the jumper.
After about six more seconds, John managed to get up out of his chair and followed Sherlock into the kitchen, where the curly-headed man was fiddling with something at the sink. He stilled as John approached him, and was stiff as a board when two strong arms enfolded his waist from behind.
Just as he had been at the start of the kiss yesterday, Sherlock was frozen for about two seconds until he relaxed, though John could still feel the underlying tension strung along the bony lines of his body. Pressing his cheek to the back of Sherlock’s shoulder, he tightened his grip slightly around the bare skin between the silk below and wool above. A bit more of the tenseness left Sherlock’s body with his next breath out.
“This . . . er, this may be a bit too early, or strange, or whatever—” John’s face was flushing, but he plowed on, knowing if he stopped know he would destroy the fragile balance that was just starting to take place between them again. He took a deep breath in. “But you look just a little bit hot in that.”
He could feel the slight, proud curve of Sherlock’s spine as his words sank in, and stretched up on tiptoe to press a light, tentative kiss to the nape of his neck, inhaling his own scent from the jumper mingled with Sherlock’s shampoo.
The next breath Sherlock took in hitched in his throat and he reached down to grip John’s wrists. Smiling against the back of Sherlock’s neck, John pressed another, now open-mouthed kiss to a spot slightly to the right of the first kiss, and several discernibly shaky breaths later, Sherlock had turned to face the room and grasped John’s face in two trembling hands, bowing his head to press lips to parted lips.
He tasted like minty toothpaste and pressed his tongue into John’s mouth with surprising eagerness. John splayed his hands on Sherlock’s lower back, rucking up the black wool until he managed to pull it over Sherlock’s briefly raised arms, a small giggle escaping him when Sherlock made a small, indignant noise as John pulled away. Their mouths met once more with a brief, low, almost relieved-sounding hum from deep in Sherlock’s throat, and with an echoing near-chuckle of satisfaction, John pressed his palms against a bare chest and hummed before pressing a line of kisses down Sherlock’s jaw to his neck, where he exhaled a warm sigh over the pale skin before latching on with teeth as well as tongue and lips.
For the first time, Sherlock made a completely audible noise, a ragged moan that sounded as if it had been torn from his mouth. His breathing quickened and his hips gave a tiny, presumably involuntary undulation, and without thinking, John pressed a thigh between Sherlock’s. He could clearly feel the growing hardness there, and it terrified and aroused him in equal measure.
He broke away, gripping Sherlock’s shoulders far too tightly and breathing heavily as he stared at the trail of dark hair that led down into the waistband of the silk pyjama trousers. He could clearly see the outline of Sherlock’s erection, and hear the panting breaths ruffling his hair. The pause stretched on, until Sherlock finally flexed his arms briefly and said, very quietly:
“You’re not an idiot, John. You must have known how I thought of you. How often. Even when I was—gone, I thought of you. So often.”
“You broke me, Sherlock,” John hissed, running his hands roughly down Sherlock’s arms to pin his wrists to the counter. “That day, when you lied all those lies—and you broke yourself, you broke me when you broke yourself and I had to live broken for two years and then you prance in here large as fucking life and this happens and you have no idea, no idea how much it cost me—”
Sherlock pressed his face downward, mouthing at the side of John’s neck, and involuntarily he tipped his head to bare more of his skin to Sherlock’s mouth.
“I want this,” he murmured warm against John’s skin. “You. I want you. I mean—”
With a heavy exhale, John threw caution to the winds and thrust his thigh more firmly against Sherlock, drawing an almost mewling sound from the trapped man, and pressed a kiss to his jawline before reaching a hand down between them, very effectively shutting Sherlock up. He traced a path under the elastic of the waistband, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s collarbone as he took him in hand.
It was remarkably less strange than he’d expected it to be. John had a fairly wide sexual repertoire, but he’d never actually laid hands on another man while completely sober. Sherlock’s erection throbbed in his palm, a touch thinner than his own but had the same feeling of steel under velvet, the same silky motion when he gave it a long, slow, experimental pull.
Sherlock’s hands were gripping John’s arms tight enough to hurt, and his head was thrown back, his breaths long and shuddering. He looked so shocked, wrecked, and ecstatic a pulse of arousal shot straight through John as soon as he looked up at the man he was now stroking with slow, even strokes.
Gaining confidence, John gave a twist of his wrist and Sherlock let out a ragged moan, tossing his head fitfully to the side, his eyes squeezed shut as pre-come pearled at the head of his cock. John caught it on his fingers and drew it down Sherlock’s length, letting out a shaky breath as the grip on his arms flickered. His own erection was throbbing now, and he hooked a leg around one of Sherlock’s pulling the man’s thigh between his legs so he could get some friction as well.
It took barely six more strokes before Sherlock choked out a cry and pulsed hot and wet over John’s knuckles. Withdrawing from Sherlock’s trousers, John didn’t bother to clean up before undoing his dressing gown and taking himself in hand, stumbling backwards to brace himself against the table.
Sherlock slid down the cabinet to his knees, his eyes closed, a sheen of sweat gilding his jawline and cheekbones, chin tilted up and mouth open, his chest still heaving. John watched him hungrily, stroking himself fast and hard, and let out a muffled groan when Sherlock finally opened his eyes and drew in a shocked breath, his eyes widening, when he saw John.
Rocking forward on his heels, still on his knees before John, Sherlock gripped the backs of his thighs and watched him with such hunger and curiosity in his eyes, his lips parted, that John couldn’t help it. Reaching down, he cupped Sherlock’s face in one hand and pulled him a breath closer to his erection. It took barely two seconds for Sherlock to realize what John was asking for, and he swallowed once, licking his upper lip, before tilting forward and slipping his lips over the head of John’s cock.
So close to coming, it took only one swipe of a warm, wet tongue across the tip of his erection for John to cross the line. Sherlock drew back slightly in surprise as the first pulse splashed his mouth, but moved forward again and sucked softly, cautiously, gagging a little at the sheer amount of come but keeping on until John, completely spent, slid down to join him on the floor.
Sherlock wiped come from his cheek as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and unable to bear it, John lurched forward, claiming Sherlock’s mouth with a small growl. They kissed for a long time, there on the kitchen floor, in the morning light, and however fucked-up this might have been to John two years ago, it seemed perfectly fine right now.