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"Only two. I managed to dispose of the next and left soon after."
"Sherlock, you have the alcohol tolerance of an eight stone Methodist. Last time you had a third glass of wine at Angelo's you sang tunes from Pirates of Penzance all the way home." His mouth twitched at the memory. "Loudly."
Sherlock sniffed, although the indignation might have been more convincing had he not been rubbing his face against John's hand. "I'm an excellent singer."
"Yes, you are," John agreed. "But you're not a bloody pirate king. My point is that your decision may not have been entirely 'you'."
"I knew what I was saying last night, though."
"And did you mean it?"
"Of course I meant it, that was the whole point! I didn't make it up, I just... let it out." He sighed. "I would not normally deceive you deliberately. Not you. I leaned that lesson a long time ago." His eyes flew guiltily to the narrow scar just above John's left eyebrow, legacy of one of Moriarty's snipers. "But would you have taken the chance today, if you hadn't heard my confession? Would you ever have risked it?"
John started to relax. "I never would," he admitted. "I would never have believed that you wanted me if I hadn't heard it from your own lips." His gaze fell to the lips in question, which parted invitingly and John found himself moving inexorably forward, his palm rising to slide into Sherlock's hair once more, as the hand around his hip urged him nearer.
He was breathing Sherlock's air again when the thought struck him, and he jerked his head backwards. "What would you have done if I'd called your bluff and taken advantage?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Tried to ensure that your post-orgasmic haze was sufficiently disorienting to prevent you regretting it in the morning."
John's mouth fell open. "That's a good answer."
"Thank you." Sherlock attempted a modest expression.
"Don't do that face."
Sherlock grimaced. "It's irrelevant anyway; you'd never take advantage of me."
"Don't bet on it."
"It would be impossible."
"What, because I'm such an upright citizen? Sherlock, you'd tempt a saint!"
"No, because I give you permission." He took John's face in his hands and brought it to his own, pressing their foreheads together. "In fact, I'm begging you to." His voice was a growl.
Moments later, they were kissing and John forgot everything else, because really... what did it matter? Sherlock loved him. He really loved him. And wanted him... John wriggled a bit, enjoying the evidence and revelling in the deep groan he drew from Sherlock's chest. His chest... John's hands slipped down, but then he paused, forced himself to think for a moment, and scrambled to his feet.
He looked down at Sherlock, sprawled in his chair, his hair wild from John's fingers, mouth red from his kisses, eyes glazed with lust, and reached out both hands to him. "Your room or mine?"
Sherlock smiled his slow, lazy smile as he stood up, then wrapped both arms around his doctor, accepting the hand which immediately dropped to his bum and smirking with supreme satisfaction.
"Irrelevant," he said.
Author's Note
I have to admit that there's a part of me which didn't want to publish this at all, because I've been trying to improve my writing as I've gone along and I'm pretty proud of Blade, and this piece can really best be described as 'fluff venting'. But then I thought 'Oh, FFS, get over yourself, you stupid cow'. So here it is :D
The Things You Hide (2/2) *Adult Edition*
Sherlock POV, NC-17
"The magic word." John's hand pushed into the curls at the back of Sherlock's head and attempted to draw him nearer, but he refused to budge, arms tense and holding John at bay.
"John, wait… Please. Be sure." He tried to break free. "You're not hearing me," he muttered. "I couldn't bear it if…"
"Shhh..."
Sherlock suddenly found himself engulfed as John exerted some strength and broke his hold with ease, pulling him in close and wrapping both arms securely around his body.
"Don't worry," a warm voice spoke in his ear. "You have nothing to worry about." John pulled back a slight distance, bringing one hand up to his face while keeping the other tightly round him. "If this is truly mutual, if you feel for me even a part of what I feel for you, then there is no going back. I will never leave you. Never. I am yours, Sherlock. Completely and utterly. Whatever you want from me, you can have." The hand on his face resettled itself, thumb stroking along his cheekbone as fingers pushed into his hair.
"If..." Sherlock echoed. "If this is mutual?" He managed a short laugh although his reactions seemed to be all over the place, his brain feeling both sluggish and energised at the same time. He barely registered that he was being lowered until his back hit the cushions. "John?" His enquiry died away as John bent over him, still sitting sideways on the edge of the sofa, bringing both hands up now to cup his face.
"Do you love me, Sherlock?" he asked. "Do you love me, like I love you?"
Sherlock sucked in a breath, registering a phrase he had never heard before from anyone but a family member, and even then, not since he was very small. He nodded.
"Tell me," John insisted. "Tell me, tell me." His blue eyes were intent.
"I love you." The words felt odd on his tongue, alien and strange, as if they knew they shouldn't belong in the speech of a sociopath. Certainly they'd never ventured near before, until this apparently ordinary man had arrived and brought the world in with him. Sherlock was about to say more, when John took his mouth. And, oh God, John's tongue was running along his top lip, and Sherlock tried to remember how many nerve endings were present in that location and if there was any research to indicate that they became more sensitive over time, because it had been a number of years since anyone had kissed him but the feeling had in no way been comparable.
The thought drifted off as John delved deeper, the tip of his tongue now teasing at Sherlock's, encouraging him to stop analysing and start joining in and Sherlock realised that his arms were lying uselessly at his sides, which was ridiculous when for the last ten months the urge to wrap them around this man had been growing inexorably stronger. He raised them, one hand coming to rest on John's head and the other settling over his spine, but that wasn't enough so he stroked down and tugged at clothing until he could slide his hand back up across bare skin.
John seemed to be in favour as he gave Sherlock's bottom lip an approving nip, although how a nip could be approving Sherlock had no idea, but clearly it was, as the accompanying groan corroborated, then John sealed their mouths together and just invaded, his tongue stroking and circling Sherlock's own and Sherlock was immediately fascinated by this progression, frowning in concentration as he tried to identify what made it so completely different to any kiss he had submitted to in the past, which was clearly an incalculable puzzle, since he had been kissed by several other people but that kissing had not been remotely analogous to the John-kissing which was currently taking place... and he should be recording this experience via every means available so that he would have something to fall back on if John ever realised what a very, very short straw he had drawn and...
"I won't leave you."
Sherlock heaved in a lungful of air as John's sudden words freed his mouth, then he remembered that he had a perfectly functional nose which could have been doing the job all this time. He curved a hand around the back of John's neck and pulled him down again.
And now this... this was different in a new way, because Sherlock had allowed people to kiss him before but he had never been the instigator; never particularly wanted to press his mouth against someone else's or to tease their lips apart and dip inside, to entice their tongue into his own mouth and suck on it. But now he did. Oh, how he did. And John seemed so deliciously eager to be enticed. There were hands in his hair, one slipping lower to rub a knuckle up and down the back of his neck and Sherlock arched into the feeling, exhaling sharply as John's mouth left his and moved along his jaw then down his throat, starting to suck just above his collar bone until he paused and lifted his head a fraction.
"May I?"
"God, yes!" Sherlock tugged him back down, tipping his head back to help, and felt the pressure as John marked him, already planning which open necked shirt to wear tomorrow to best show it off. Probably the purple, John always seemed to like the purp... His thoughts derailed because John's hands had moved again and suddenly there were thumbs rubbing over both of his nipples.
"Oh, God." Sherlock became extremely aware of his erection. For a previously trouble-free area, it had become increasingly demanding ever since John moved in, years of relative dormancy overturned that very first evening: travelling across town in a black London cab, John had said 'amazing' and Sherlock's cock had twitched a 'thank you'. He could still recall the surprise he had felt at the time, and the full four seconds it had taken him to come up with a verbal response.
Nor was he proud that it had been three weeks and several 'Thank God for my coat's before he had worked out that it was John causing the odd reaction, and not just the novelty of receiving a genuine compliment. He'd actually had to start wanking again, which had been hugely annoying.
With a final kiss to the side of his neck, John sat up, but he didn't move his hands. "So responsive," he murmured, his fingers circling Sherlock's nipples through the T-shirt until they were hard and aching. Sherlock wanted to watch his face but kept looking down instead, struggling to believe that this man's hands were actually on his body. He glanced back up and John was watching him.
Blue eyes burned into his as John's fingers pinched together. "I can't believe I'm touching you."
Sherlock quivered but held his gaze. It felt unbearably intimate to expose this side of himself, allowing John to see the arousal he provoked, after so long spent hiding it. "I have dreamed of this," he admitted, his voice low and shaken. "So many nights I've touched myself, imagining it was you." He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, the feelings immediately more intense. "Wishing it was you."
One of John's hands left him, giving way to something warm and wet sucking through the thin material, and Sherlock curved an arm back over his head and pushed up into that heat. He didn't need to hide from John any more, didn't want to, wasn't sure he could.
"God, John, that's..." The tight knot of sensation was radiating outwards and Sherlock could feel the flush rising up his chest. He arched off the sofa gasping, "Stop!"
