Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John stared at the table, his fist clenched on top of the check, the razor-sharp parting words of his attempted date still ringing in his ears. It had gone exactly how he expected it to, exactly how every single attempt to connect with someone else he’d made had gone since—

He still couldn’t even fucking think it.

“May I take your check, sir?”

John glanced up and his breath stopped in his throat. The man standing beside his table was heart-stoppingly familiar, frilly tuxedo and slicked-back hair doing nothing to hide the features he knew like his own. They’d appeared often enough in his nightmares, despite being covered in blood more often than not, for him to have them memorized to the faded scar at the right corner of Sherlock’s upper lip or the way his nose crinkled minutely during the fiercest deductions right before the conclusion.

John stood up, his legs surprisingly steady as he stared. His heart felt like it was simultaneously trying to leap into his throat and stop beating. One second he couldn’t tear his eyes away from that face, and the next he couldn’t bear to look at him.

His check was still fast in his fist. The man before him, without breaking eye contact, reached down and lifted John’s clenched fingers. One digit at a time, he freed the check, then dropped it to the floor in a deliberate gesture and lifted John’s unfurled hand toward his mouth.

In a rush of blood to his head, John came to his senses. His fingers curled back into a fist and he launched a heavy slug at Sherlock’s nose. He felt it crunch underneath his knuckles and Sherlock reeled back, his hands falling away from John’s wrist and cupping his nose, catching the blood that trickled down his philtrum and split at the two peaks of his cupid’s bow, streaming into the corners of his mouth as the flow continued.

John staggered back, shaking his fist to dissipate the shocks of pain that tingled up his forearm from the collision with Sherlock’s face, and drew back to launch another blow. His knuckles landed slightly askew on the side of Sherlock’s face this time, connecting directly with his cheekbone and sending a much more substantial jolt of pain up his wrist.

“Out!” came a bellow. John straightened up in time to see a petite, frail-looking woman storm out of the kitchen, looking nothing like her voice had sounded. Her mop of chestnut hair was piled up in a knot atop her head, and she shoved Sherlock and John out of the door with utterly shocking strength. They stumbled out into the bitter wind, John trying to find anything to say and utterly failing.

The streetlamps cast Sherlock’s face into dramatic shadow, washing all the colour out of him. John met his eyes, and as that cold gaze pierced him for the first time in months rage and grief and relief and disbelief exploded inside him and he barreled forward with an almost-yell, slamming a shoulder into Sherlock’s stomach.

They both staggered backwards and John felt Sherlock slam into a lamppost. He straightened up, fisting Sherlock’s ruffly lapels, and shoved him even harder into the metal, biting out a furious word.

“Two—”

Rage was slowly receding, giving place to utter grief, overwhelming melting horrible grief. The tears were almost there, stinging John’s eyes, making his throat constrict, almost making it impossible to choke out the next word, the next thing Sherlock had to know.

“Years—”

The sobs took him, racking his body. The anger was almost gone. Almost. John didn’t think it would ever be completely gone, didn’t think he could ever really forgive this man for doing what he had done.

John shook, feeling so frail he thought he might fly apart into pieces until tentative hands found his shoulders, pulled him to a broad warm alive body and he cried harder than ever, horrible wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. Sherlock splayed awkward hands on John’s back and rested his cheek on the side of John’s head, and John pressed his own face into Sherlock’s chest and cried.

The embrace lasted far past the reasonable length of anything regularly platonic, but when had this ever been regular? It extended beyond the moment when John could have pulled away, wiped his eyes, and said something shakily brave. It raced past the heartbeat when Sherlock could have held John away from him and asked a quietly concerned question. It went on and on until finally John pulled away, not even bothering to smear the tears from his cheeks as he met Sherlock’s eyes.

“Two years.”

Sherlock stared at him, his demeanor cold and still but his eyes flickering with emotion. He nodded, the simple movement looking like it cost him a great effort. “I’m sorry.”

John stared at him, his heart thumping against his chest like the hoofbeats of a fleeing deer. “You don’t mean that, Sherlock. You’ve never meant that.”

He turned, strode away, the icy wind making the untucked tail of his shirt flicker in the breeze. Inside the warm well-lit restaurant, a silver right-handed adjustable-height cane leant against a green jacket.

Forgotten.

Chapter Text

They’d been following him for ten minutes now. John glanced around, tensing, ready, his hand slipping into his right pocket. His fingers scrabbled against fabric, the pocket empty. Only a mobile in the left one. Damn. He kept his hand on the phone, straining his ears for footsteps, breathing, anything. The sound of quickened strides behind him reached his ears.

John turned immediately out of the narrow gloomy shortcut, joining the stream of Christmas shoppers flooding the streets and shops. Many-coloured lights decorated awnings and window displays, spray-painted snowflakes and Merry Christmas banners glittering behind the glass of the shop fronts. The hubbub of hundreds of Londoners searching for the perfect gift filled the air, dropping automatically into the back of John’s hearing as he glanced over his shoulder at the shadowed alley he had just emerged from. He could see nothing.

He had been being followed, he was sure of it. It wasn’t a hallucination, not a figment of his imagination.

Not Sherlock.

He hadn’t seen his former flatmate for a week, not since he’d stormed away from him outside the restaurant. He hadn’t returned for his jacket or his cane either. John didn’t think he could bear to be back in that place. He sighed. Yet another restaurant he would forever associate with Sherlock.

John veered onto a smaller, less busy street, heading for the flat he’d been leasing for almost two years. He moved quickly, all his senses alert in case his shadow made another appearance.

Halfway down the narrow side street, it did. A thin, hooded figure was moving along the sidewalk that ran parallel to John’s, several paces behind him but unmistakably, inexorably following him.

Speeding up, John managed three more streets until he turned once again into another back alley that led past two streets. The footsteps quickened behind him, and he glanced back yet again, considering breaking into a run. He turned right, down yet another, even narrower alley, and stopped dead, obscenities exploding like fireworks in his mouth, dying before they could pass his lips, as the sight of a dead end met his eyes. He turned around, straining his eyes in the dim yellow light for any sign of his pursuer. Running footsteps drew closer. John slipped his hand into his pocket again, considering and rejecting the idea of calling for help, and was bracing himself for the attack as the footsteps came closer and closer to the turn-off when something grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him into a ridiculously cramped space wherein he found his entire back end pressed flush against the front end of someone much taller and thinner than himself and a large warm hand pressed over his nose and mouth, filling his nostrils with the scent of the ridiculously expensive blackberry and spearmint shampoo Sherlock had always made the entire flat smell of whenever he bathed.

John wriggled, trying to get free, but another hand snaked around his waist, somehow worming its way in between the rough stone wall scraping at his front, and held him firm. Struggling to turn his head, John managed to glimpse a silhouette of the hooded figure, framed against the dim light. Its head turned left, right, and it waited. One minute. Two. John inhaled the shampoo and tried not to move.

Finally the figure turned, moved slowly out of the alley, and the footsteps faded. John’s captor kept him in a tight hold for thirty more seconds, then let him go.

John stumbled out into the alley, brushing himself off before lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. The tall thin man squeezed out of their hiding place and shook out his coat, straightening his collar, and looked slowly up at John. His eyes were pale and glittering, silver in the shadows. John straightened up and cleared his throat.

“You were right,” Sherlock half-whispered. He looked shocked once the words had left his mouth to hang in the air between them, as though he hadn’t intended them to sound like that. He coughed and carried on in a more familiar, coldly emotionless tone, “I never have meant it before. I’ve never really apologized.”

John waited, not breaking their eye contact, not saying anything. Sherlock’s mask was on the point of breaking when he finally rasped out, “I want—I want to mean it.”

“Learn how,” John responded abruptly.

“Teach me.”

John raked his gaze over the man’s body, almost letting a denial pass his lips, fighting down the indiscernible storm of emotions rising in his chest, until finally he managed to piece the words he needed to say together from the shattered phrases pricking his heart.

“Then come home.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock looked so utterly out of place in John’s threadbare flat that he wasn’t entirely sure that the tall, Belstaff-clad man wouldn’t simply vaporize on the spot. This thought clung to his lingering tendrils of anxiety so fiercely he had to disappear into the bathroom and remember how to breathe properly for a minute or two. When he had worked up the resolve to exit the haven of the loo, Sherlock had raided the fridge and was wolfing down a slightly disgusting-looking mix of congealed Chinese food atop an ancient chicken sandwich, balanced on the edge of the sofa that made up half the furnishing of the sitting room along with a cheap, clunky television on a stool. John watched him with memories spinning him round the room, horrified to feel the almost-painful lump in his throat. He cleared his throat and Sherlock looked up, the harsh kitchen light casting his undernourished features into painful light.

The differences before-death Sherlock had with after-death Sherlock were piercingly obvious. He was dramatically thinner, the hollows of his cheeks even darker and his cheekbones even more prominent. His shoulders had a new slump to them and his hair was longer and hung more raggedly in his face, and his face was full of the same desperate almost-fear it had taken on in the alley.

“I was hungry,” he offered after a few tense minutes, and John laughed. Instead of easing the tension, the wannabe-cheerful stutter only strengthened the tautness in the air between them. John sat down on the couch beside Sherlock, the distance between them as wide as it could be.

“Eat,” he ordered, picking up the remote and switching on the telly.

As a ridiculously explosion-filled action movie filled the screen, Sherlock finished the cold leftovers, glancing at John every once in a while. He stayed perched like a great bird on the edge of the sofa for a while longer, but eventually he scooted back, half-relaxing against the cushions, sneaking quick looks at John every few minutes.

The movie filled a blissfully internal-conflict-free hour, but it ended eventually, and Sherlock stood up at once.

“Are you leaving?” John asked, his voice unintentionally needy-sounding, and Sherlock wavered, looking from the sofa to John to the door.

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“No,” John said, silently cursing himself. “No, it’s fine, it’s. Yeah.”

He stood, moving down the hall toward the door. Sherlock followed, his footsteps uncertain. John stopped, his back against the wall, and almost smiled as Sherlock moved into the space beside him. He couldn’t quite muster up the muscle power to twitch the corners of his mouth upwards even a fraction.

Sherlock reached out, his hand resting on the door handle, but not doing anything with it. John glanced back toward the sofa, then up at Sherlock’s face. Those eyes were pressing him farther back into the wall, not letting him go. Sherlock took a minute step forward, his expression flickering from uncertain to triumphant to apologetic to incredibly, unbearably happy almost faster than John could keep track of. His hand not resting on the doorknob came up to press against the wall beside John’s head, caging him in. Sherlock moved forward again, looming into John’s space.

“I missed you.” Confidently. Too confident. The bastard, the fucking confident bastard—

John couldn’t move. His throat was so tight he couldn’t even squeak, let alone form words. Sherlock was searching his face as though it held the answers to every question he’d ever asked, the fire below his ice mask burning through, and his second hand slipped from the doorknob to join his first hand against the wall, boxing John in yet more effectively. His face was looming closer, his eyes half-closed, his lips slightly parted. He ducked his head down, almost nuzzling forward, and as the tip of his nose brushed against John’s, an arm was shoved sharply away and a shin was kicked viciously and Sherlock stumbled back, looking horrified at what he had done and coming to rest against the door, his ice mask freezing over again.

John took several steps back, breathing heavily, glancing from the man who had just tried to kiss him to the rest of his flat over his shoulder. “I—I should—you should be—”

“I’ll go,” Sherlock said instantly, straightening up and half-opening the door. As he took a step outside the flat, he looked back once more. “Will you do this again? I mean—” He was flushing pink now. “Meet me at that Thai place? The one. Well. You know the one. Tomorrow evening. Please.”

He whisked out of the door in a swirl of coattails and panic. John stood dumbfounded. His former flatmate returned-from-the-dead had just saved him from a serial killer, eaten the last of his food, watched a movie with him, tried to seduce him, and asked him out in the space of one evening.

John shook his head incredulously and turned away, moving back into his flat, but he knew in the back of his mind that he would accept Sherlock’s offer. They would see each other again, regardless of what things John tried or didn’t try to do.

And who knew what those things would be, considering what had just happened?

Chapter Text

It had snowed that morning, and the white blanket crunched under John’s feet as he made his way up the sidewalk, following the old route to the tiny little Thai place he and Sherlock had occasionally gone to when they had mustered up the resolve to eat out.

At the door, John paused, cupping his hands to the glass and peering inside. He couldn’t see Sherlock, but he was sure he’d be in there somewhere. The vehemence and desperation in his voice when he’d asked John to meet him was unmistakable. Nevertheless, John’s nerves made an unpleasant appearance as he stepped inside the spicy warmth of the tiny restaurant. Weaving between the tables, he looked around, finally spotting Sherlock in a corner seated at a tiny two-person table with his great coat hanging from the back of the chair, staring at the tea candle that flickered in the middle of the tabletop. Frozen, John stared at him. He was wearing a slim-cut black suit, a pearl-gray shirt peeking out between the lapels. His hair was fluffed out into a familiar, artistically tousled mess, and his lips were pressed together in a look of anxiety that was quickly becoming much too accustomed to, accompanied with a slight furrow between his eyebrows. He looked up as John managed to move forward, sliding into the chair opposite Sherlock with considerable stiffness and letting out a sigh-groan as he settled into the seat.

Sherlock was looking at him with almost palpable worry radiating from him. “I didn’t think you would come,” he told John, fiddling with the napkin in his hands.

“You were wrong,” John replied, not bothering to keep the coldness out of his voice but feeling slightly guilty for the harshness all the same.

“I already ordered.”

“You? Getting dinner for me? On Christmas Eve?”

“Consider it my gift to you,” Sherlock replied, with the hint of a smirk around his lips. John sat back, folding his arms and studying the man across from him. After a long, tense pause, Sherlock finally burst out, “I owe you an explanation.”

“There’s the genius I was looking for.”

Sherlock sat forward, his elbows resting on the table, the napkin still between his fingers, and started talking. He talked for a long time, his words painting a picture John had been aching to know the story behind for two years. Their food came and slowly disappeared as Sherlock talked and talked. He explained everything, starting out with precise technical descriptions, motivations, and actions carried out in a deadly dance that had almost taken him away from this world, but slowly deteriorated into apologies and finally, with his eyes downcast and his lower lip caught between his teeth, a request for forgiveness.

John nearly choked on his last bite, but managed to get it down and paused, staring at the man staring at the table before him. He reached across, his palm cupping Sherlock’s jaw for a second, tipping his head up to face John before he snatched his hand back across the table to the safety of his lap.

It had started to snow again, John noted as he glanced over to the front of shop and out of the glass door. The delicate flakes drifted down to the ground, huge and lacy and exquisite.

“Yes.”

The word was raspy and half-whispered and not at all the graceful, triumphantly-tinged thing John had imagined, but it was worth it to see Sherlock’s face practically glowing as a weight lifted from his shoulders, a weight that looked as if it had been pressing down on him for a long time, the light in his face melting the ice mask more thoroughly than John had yet seen it.

“Yes, of course I forgive you.”

Sherlock glanced down at his still mostly-full plate, then back up at John. “Let’s go home.”

It was one of those things that just clicks, some unknown puzzle piece falling into place and the world falling back into order. John hadn’t been back to 221B or talked to, let alone seen, Mrs. Hudson, for months, but he knew, now, he could go back.

He caught Sherlock’s gaze with his own and slowly, deliberately, nodded. “Let’s go home.”

The grin that spread across his flatmate’s face was so genuine and rare John had to bite back the lump that threatened to form in his throat. He stood, waiting while Sherlock took care of the check for once, tipping the waiter unnecessarily generously. Then he stood as well, swinging his coat over his shoulders, and followed John out of the restaurant into the snowy night.

Chapter Text

It probably wasn’t the best idea to break into 221 Baker Street while Mrs. Hudson was away with her sister for Christmas, but John and Sherlock did so anyway, with many suppressed giggles and covert grins. Sherlock darted up the stairs ahead of John, opening the door for him just as he had that first time. They moved together into the center of the sitting room, John stifling a cough. It was unbearably dusty. He crossed to the drapes and heaved them aside, cold sunlight streaming in to illuminate the dust swirling in the air.

Sherlock moved immediately into the kitchen once the drapes had been opened, the clinking of porcelain and noise of cabinets being slammed open and closed quickly commencing full-throttle. John gave the kitchen a fond look and set about exploring the rest of the flat, a new bout of coughing striking him every time he opened a new door.

Sherlock’s room was untouched, the bed still unmade and cold and picture still hung immaculately straight above the headboard. John threw open the wardrobe doors and proceeded to investigate the bathroom and returned to the living room, busily uprooting the sofa and chair cushions and shaking them out, beating the dust out into the air. He picked up the Union Jack pillow with a certain sadness, then fluffed it up and rested it back on his favorite chair.

Passing through the kitchen, John nearly grinned at the sight of Sherlock rummaging through all the cabinets, a formidable mess already accumulating in the countertops and table. He was grumbling as he went through his clearly meddled-with collection of science equipment. John opened the fridge, reeling back as a truly horrendous smell hit him. Covering his nose and mouth with a hand, he extracted a bag of what looked like ancient intestines and dropped it into the wastebasket, making a scoffing noise partially at Sherlock and partially to clear his throat of the rich stink. Sherlock ignored him and John made an incredulous face at his back before moving back out of the kitchen.

John made his way upstairs, climbing the stairs stiffly and leaning heavily on the railing. He paused in his bedroom, all-too-vivid memories washing over him. This was the place in which he’d done the most of his grieving. He remembered, all too clearly, sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, fighting back tears and sometimes succumbing. John let out a tiny laugh that almost sounded like a sob, trying to fill the still-gaping hole in his heart with the knowledge that Sherlock was back and most definitely not a ghost.

A floorboard creaked behind him, and John turned. Sherlock was standing there, John’s favorite mug dangling from a limp hand. He looked stricken.

John gaped like a goldfish, searching desperately for something apologetic to say, finally stumbling out a broken “No, it’s. It’s fine. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Sherlock breathed. “I’m sorry.” He moved forward almost tentatively, as though treading on thin ice, and reached a hand out to John, the mug’s handle still hooked in his ring and pinky fingers.

“I know I am this time.”

John flicked his eyes from the mug to Sherlock’s face, then to his lips, and reached out, grasping Sherlock’s face gently and pulling that mouth down to his.

Sherlock didn’t move, his lips still and confused against John’s for two seconds, and a heartbeat’s second thoughts crept into the back of John’s mind, but then Sherlock let out a tiny noise and brought his hands up to grasp John’s face fiercely, the cold porcelain of the mug bumping against his neck. He opened his lips, on instinct it seemed, and John followed suit, tilting his head and pressing upward, nearly rising onto tiptoes, straining to get more of Sherlock against him. There was a flicker of tongue against tentative tongue and a shudder ran through Sherlock as he shifted his grip on John’s face to hold him more firmly.

John dipped deep into Sherlock’s mouth, rolling his tongue against the other man’s, and something thrilled high in his abdomen, a jolt that cut the all the world but for the contact with Sherlock to white noise. He drew back with a small press of mouth against open mouth, stroking the pale cheek he held with his thumb. Sherlock looked utterly stunned.

“Did you just—” he finally managed.

“Yes,” John murmured.

“And you want—” The next broken phrase came as a ragged gasp.

“I do.”

There was a pause, then Sherlock managed three words in a helpless, breathless rush. “It’s Christmas, John.”

“Consider it my gift to you,” he whispered in reply, smiling for the first time in a long while.

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.