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keelywolfeTitle: The Seven-Day Virgin
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:4500, this chapter
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.
~~*~~
The first time the subject came up they were in the sitting room.
"Was it true, then, what Irene said about you and Mycroft," John asked. He was in his chair, laptop on his knees, but his attention was on his flatmate across the room, sitting at the desk and ignoring the tea and toast John had set at his elbow earlier this morning. Sherlock had his own laptop for once, probably only because John was using his, and he was focused on the screen rather than typing, his hands folded, pressed lightly to his mouth.
"Hm?" Sherlock lifted his hands long enough to provide a sound of acknowledgement, which John took as encouragement.
"Was it true?" he repeated. "She said Mycroft was an iceman and you were—" John trailed off, didn't say it aloud. Mycroft had given him the file and it had been relentlessly explicit, not a detail excised. He wasn't fooled into thinking he had any level of access to classified material other than what Mycroft provided him. Details on Sherlock, though, Mycroft offered as a matter of course. At first, John had thought Mycroft was trying to frighten him off with lurid details of drug use, detoxing, days and weeks spent in rehab only to begin the whole thing again some months later.
It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that Mycroft had been trying to brace him for what might happen. Forewarned was forearmed and all that. John comforted himself with the knowledge that if Mycroft hadn't started their association by being a sociopathic prat in his own right, John would have been more agreeable to the exchange of information. Easier, too, was the realization that Sherlock knew that John had read all the files, that he knew all the gory little minutiae of his addiction. He'd never hidden any of the documents and considering that Mycroft had couriered them to John right here at the flat, it seemed as though neither of them had any concerns about it.
His drug use had been laid out in precise medical terms, flatly outlining Sherlock's life over the course of two years before rehab had stuck and that was the information John had received. Occasionally, he offered files about cases, and the little tidbits of insight into Sherlock were all well and good.
Other details, though…
"You're asking if I'm a virgin," Sherlock stated, impassively.
Said like that, it did seem a bit invasive. "I guess I am, yeah," John said, considering.
"Why?" Sherlock finally looked at him and at times like this John felt like his gaze was boring into his skull, examining his thoughts as they came to him with uncomfortable scrutiny.
"I—never mind," John muttered and he looked back at his computer. "None of my business, really."
"No, it isn't. Why do you want to know?" Sherlock continued mercilessly, "Something else for your blog?"
"What?" John blinked, more than a little horrified, "No, of course not!"
Sherlock didn't visibly relax, nothing about his posture or expression changed and yet, John still felt it as though it were a physical force. "Then why?"
"I—just forget it," John said, frustrated. How was he supposed to explain his interest without making it sound unsavoury or lurid? It wasn't like that and he didn't have the words to express it. Sherlock might be interested in all sorts of mysteries, cracking the strangest cases, solving the impenetrable crimes. And John loved it, followed along after him but the case he was trying to solve, the mystery that really interested him, was sitting at the table right now staring at him like he was a bug twisting on a pin.
He took up his typing again, pecking out word after word about their last case that had absolutely nothing to do with his flatmate's sexuality, thank you, when Sherlock finally broke the silence with a single sharp word.
"Yes."
John startled, adding a series of y's and d's to his paragraph as his fingers clattered against the keyboard. He looked up, blinking, but Sherlock had already returned his attention to his own computer. His hands were folded under his chin, his eyes steady and John wasn't entirely sure he'd actually heard him correctly.
"Yes?" John repeated, softly, questioningly.
"Yes. I am," Sherlock said and his hands unfolded as though from prayer, dropping down to his keyboard as he started typing with a fury that John could only match if he didn't mind endless pages of gibberish added to his blog.
"Yes," John echoed, under his breath. "Right. Well. That's all right, then."
"So glad to have your approval," Sherlock replied but it was absent, without any trace of rancour and so John ignored it, smiling a little to himself as he informed his readers about the details of their latest case.
~~*~~
The second time the subject came up was just after they were both sitting on the same hospital bed splattered with three different kinds of blood, two of which belonged to them. The third donor was currently in another room, handcuffed to his bed.
Lestrade was actually shouting at them from the look of him, or so John supposed. He was still half-deaf from the explosion and what little hearing he did have seem to consist of a constant ringing sound. From his arm flapping and the spit flying from his lips, though, he'd say Lestrade was having a right proper row with them right now and John was sorry to be missing it. Donovan seemed to be enjoying it from her position in the corner, arms folded over her chest as she watched like this was a particularly good round of footy with the local boys.
He did manage to pick up a few words, important seeming ones, like civilians and explosions and what he'd do to their arses if they pulled a stunt like this again. It was only when Lestrade rounded on him personally that John pulled his expression into something he hoped was close to remorseful.
"And you! Him, I expect it from but you-- I thought you had more sense than this, John!" Lestrade snarled and he looked nothing more than like John's da, lecturing him after a scuffle at school. It was so familiar, right down to the aching nose, the blood drying on his face and the, 'oh, so disappointed in you' look on Lestrade's.
He might have been able to pass the first sound off as a snorty sort of inhale; his nose had been bleeding quite freely when they'd first arrived and his breathing did sound rather snotty and painful. The second, though, was never going to fly as anything less than a giggle and in less time than it had taken him and Sherlock to nearly get themselves killed, John was howling, sprawling into Sherlock as huffs and bursts of laugher choked free of him. And of course Sherlock was no help at all, he barely had a modicum of self-control on days they hadn't just nearly died and John laughing set him off like a chain reaction, the two of them giggling together on a hospital gurney with the blood on them still wet.
A glance at Lestrade showed that the Inspector was goggling at them, mouth agape, and that set him off again, John laughing until he couldn't breathe, again, second time this night he couldn't breathe only this time was much more enjoyable, what with no wall falling on him and Sherlock to nearly flatten them.
"You—" Lestrade bit off whatever he was going to say and John was genuinely sorry for it. Whatever it had been would surely have been a simply brilliant display of temper and swearing, considering the shade of red that was currently rising up from under Lestrade's collar.
He spun on his heel away from them, gesturing curtly at Donavan before he stormed out the door, her right behind. Tomorrow, John knew, there would be statements to be made and paperwork that Sherlock would ignore until John filled it out, but today, he was laughing through the aching pain in his ribs and head, his entire body was like a gigantic bruise scattered with abrasions. He was giggling madly even though it hurt and Sherlock was next to him, alive and breathing and laughing right along because they were all mad here, weren't they? Christ, yes, they were.
Their laughter had trickled back down into the occasional chuckling breath mingled with shared smirking by the time the nurse returned. They were given release forms to sign and John had a large plastic bag filled with the pieces of his clothing that he wasn't currently wearing. The scrubs John had been given were a kind alternative to the mud-soaked and blood-spattered jumper and trousers he'd been wearing.
Wheelchairs should have been the standard to transport them to the front door and that they weren't offered gave John a bit of a pause. Someone would be in a good spot of trouble over that. Not that he protested, already on his feet to chase Sherlock out the door. His coat swirled at the calves as he turned a corner and Sherlock seemed unconcerned that the length of it was besmirched with mingled speckles from earth and person.
"Dinner?" Sherlock asked, blithely, and if he was walking a bit gingerly only John would notice. A normal person would think he was only shortening his strides so a good friend could keep up. John wasn't normal, no shade of it, and so he knew better, and he wasn't at all disturbed to see Sherlock knew his way through the winding corridors. Probably had every Emergency Department in London charted out somewhere in his head, along with all the streets and traffic lights.
"Not sure," John rubbed his sore ribs tenderly. "What sort of takeaway goes with a near-death experience?"
Sherlock gave him a pitying glance, "I thought we'd established early on that Chinese was the appropriate venue."
That set him off again and John had to lean against the wall as he laughed, snickering painfully. It set of warning flares off pain in his ribs that shot straight through the layers of medication. He could have sooner performed surgery with the scalpel between his teeth than not laugh though, and Sherlock was right there with him, leaning against him as the two of them cackled like loons in the middle of the hospital corridor.
John looked up at him, his split lip smarting from his grin, and said, "You do know you are—"
He trailed off, whatever he'd been about to say forgotten because he hadn't realized just how close Sherlock was to him until he'd looked up at the same moment Sherlock turned his head to look down at him. Their mouths were close enough that John could feel Sherlock's breath, taste the taint of pain killers on it, the apple juice Sherlock had chase the pills down with. He was breathing against John's face and they were both alive, not dead at all, and adrenaline was thrumming as warmly through his veins as his own blood. Dimly, John realized he could hear the beat of his own heart, drumming in his ears alongside the high whine of explosive-induced tinnitus.
Sherlock was looking at him, the grey of his eyes obscured by the wideness of his pupils. Pharmacological reaction, John knew; they were both high on a cocktail of legal drugs and exhilaration, and Sherlock's mouth was right there, teeth still faintly stained with his own blood.
His mouth tasted like coppery apples, his breath pushing softly between John's lips as he exhaled and John only realized they were kissing when Sherlock's hands touched his face, long fingers trembling. Not pushing him away, not holding on, and his mouth was still beneath John's, lips together and unmoving.
Soft, John registered hazily, soft and lovely, and he didn't pull away, just wanted to feel Sherlock breathing into him. Alive, they were both alive, and long moments passed of the two of them simply breathing, their mouths touching in an absurdly chaste kiss that somehow made perfect sense.
It was only when John started to pull away, regretfully, aware that insanity aside, they were still in a hospital corridor, that Sherlock came to life beneath his hands. Lips parting, his tongue sliding curiously against John's mouth and when he let his own lips open, it slid inside, testing his own with odd little flicks and glides. Of course, of course kissing Sherlock would be more like some sort of strange experiment and suddenly this was a great deal less about proving to himself that Sherlock was breathing and a considerable amount more about Sherlock suddenly wrapped around him, arms tight against John's bruised ribs and his mouth a little slobbery and gloriously eager.
Hospital. Right.
"Sher—Sherlock," John managed to pull away long enough to gasp and was more than a little surprised to find that Sherlock took that as an invitation to explore the line of his jaw with his teeth. Good god, was he licking the scratches on John's face? He couldn't even be ashamed at the bright surge that sent through him. "Not here," John mumbled, although he was resisting a great deal less than he should.
Instantly, Sherlock's head shot up and the little cuts on John's left cheek throbbed sadly at losing their chance.
"No, no, of course not, not here," Sherlock muttered, and John was forced to stumble into motion when Sherlock snatched up his hand, dragging him along through the corridor. Left, another left, and then Sherlock was pulling him through a door. He caught a glance at the sign that indicated this was a solo, gender-neutral bathroom and then the door was closing behind him.
The heavy sound of it shutting was loud as a gunshot, clapping straight through the ringing in John's ears. It slapped through his brain like waking up from a dream and John might have even tried to protest, as always the absurdly weak voice of reason from within their communicable insanity. Might have, only Sherlock had him slammed back against the door before he'd done more than drawn a breath, his newly inhaled air leaving him in a startled gust as Sherlock ducked his head and pressed their mouths together again.
He smelled like smoke, charcoal-filthy, mingled with the rusty iron tang of blood, the flavour of it carried into John through his own sharp huff through his nose, reinforced by Sherlock's tongue against his own. Smoke and blood, apples and narcotics, a wild blender-drink of fucking crazy, was kissing Sherlock, all messy saliva and wet lips.
Sherlock seemed like he didn't know how to make himself short enough to make kissing John easy, the tilt of his head awkward and wrong. Until John finally reached up and slid his hands into Sherlock's hair and tilted his head for him. Thick curls twined through his fingers, gritty and filthy with smoke, dirt, god knew what else, and their teeth clicked together once, painfully, and then…oh, god. Perfect, hot, eager mouth on his own, their tongues sliding over and under. Wet enough to be slick, hot enough to make John tip his head up in a silent plea for more.
Dimly, John realized he could hear a bit, soft, thick sounds penetrated the fog surrounding his hearing, and he was faintly embarrassed. Christ, it was just a kiss, a filthy, perfect kiss, but still…then it clicked in his head, a switch turning on and he was abruptly aware it was Sherlock making those sounds. Sherlock, whose hands were clenched tight in the loose fabric of John's borrowed scrubs, Sherlock who was kissing him hard enough that John banged his head back against the door and any stars he hadn't used already trying to get a concussion earlier danced in front of his eyes.
Sherlock who was shaking, sucking in sharp breaths of air, Sherlock who was scrunching down against him and Jesus, he was just awful at this, gangly-tall and John squirmed, helping Sherlock fit himself against the smaller line of John's body until he could feel the firm pressure against his belly, Sherlock's cock hard against him through his trousers.
It's all right, John couldn't say, there was no speaking here because Sherlock was barely allowing him to get enough air to breathe, much less produce words. His lips felt bruised, each kiss drawing a wince, and John pressed back into each and every one. Petted Sherlock's hair, tried to soothe him as he whimpered, the upturned collar of his coat rough against John's exposed wrists.
The sudden introduction of a knee between John's legs finally made him wrench his mouth free, gasping in a startled, garbled sound as Sherlock pressed his long thigh up against John's crotch. Oh, oh, fuck, John didn't, couldn't say, tipping his head up to stare at the too-bright fluorescent lights above them, riding the awkward, stumbling rhythm that Sherlock offered. The hard slide of leg against him, Sherlock's hips moving in stilted little thrusts, rubbing and pushing, and John was only wearing thin scrubs, no barrier at all to any of this.
He was trapped, surrounded by Sherlock and lingering smog of smoke, clogged memory of being buried alive, choking through the haze of brick dust and the thick taste of his own blood until they'd been pulled clear. Sherlock had been there then, too, on top of him from beneath a pile of rubble and he'd tucked John's head against his chest with a hand on the back of his neck. His hand was there now, sliding up and John followed its insistent tug blindly, lifted his head and found Sherlock's mouth with his own. Tasted his breath, tasted the sweetness of mingled apples and blood as he rocked against Sherlock's thigh and came.
"Oh…" he felt it against his mouth, teeth scraping together as Sherlock shuddered, teeth sinking briefly into John's sore lip sending a wash of fresh iron-flavoured heat into John's mouth. His own blood spilled half a dozen times over now and John only swallowed it away, let Sherlock settle into trembling against him.
Orgasm was nearly as good a painkiller as any opiates but the effects were much briefer. Every single injury John had sustained this evening, beginning with an explosion and ending in a public bathroom, were starting to come to life, throbbing earnestly. The door, which had seemed comfortable enough during the glow of mutual insanity, was now extremely hard and uncomfortable in the light of John's bruised ribs. Sherlock was still tight against him, pressing their foreheads together, his breathing slowly easing into something resembling normal.
It was only when Sherlock lifted his head that reality clicked back into place with an almost audible snap. He didn't step back, their faces close enough that John had to blink a bit against the threatening blur. A bright flush of red was still high on Sherlock's cheeks, his eyes were vastly wide, lips bitten and swollen. John had to swallow hard, forcing back the dozen or so urges that had just leapt up in the back of his mind because Sherlock looked so shocked, lines at the corners of his eyes smoothed away and the illusion of youth nearly made John cringe. Oh, Christ, just what had they done here?
"Sherlock," John said, distantly amazed at the calmness of his own voice. "We discussed before that you were a virgin."
"I haven't forgotten in the span of less than a week," Sherlock cleared his throat slightly and finally stepped back, hands wandering aimlessly through the air before he clasped them together; a familiar pose of thoughtfulness, his fingertips pressing against his lips, only John had never seen it before with those lips softened, kiss-bruised.
"Mmhmm. Right," John had to clear his own throat, mentally blaming it on smoke inhalation rather than…anything else. "So you haven't had sex."
"Hadn't," Sherlock corrected. The shockiness in his eyes was easing, the lines of his face smoothing back to normal. "That is the standard definition of virgin, I believe."
John took a deep breath, let it out slowly. That was an argument for another time. "Have you ever kissed anyone?"
Just the way Sherlock hesitated, the calculating light in his eyes, made John's stomach sink down to his heels, "Your mum doesn't count, Sherlock," he said, tightly. "Or any other friends or relatives giving you a Christmas peck. I mean a kiss, a real kiss, like we were just doing."
Beneath the fine layer of soot and bruises, Sherlock's face was impassive, "If you're finished qualifying the question, then no. No one else has ever kissed me like we were just doing."
That was just exactly the opposite of what John had been hoping to hear and he covered his face with his hands, groaning, "Oh, God."
"John—" The thin thread of exasperation he could hear was not helping a bit. They were standing together in a public bathroom at the hospital, both of them covered in three different blood types, soot, filth, and now, of all times, they'd decided to add a mutual exchange of semen to the mix. He was afraid to look down at his borrowed scrubs, already knew just what kind of wet splotches he'd see soaking through; medical school wasn't all that long ago.
He could feel the night starting to pile up on top of his nerves, dark spots starting to waver in front of his eyes and instantly, hands were firm on his upper arms. "Deep breaths," Sherlock commanded.
It was incredible, really, how sudden resentment could stifle an emotional breakdown. John wrenched away from him, ducking under his arm to lean against the only remaining wall that wasn't occupied by the toilet or sink. He glared back at Sherlock balefully, "I can resect someone's bowel after they've been gutted with explosives, I know how not to faint."
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, "You aren't much for pillow talk, though. Must we stay here all night or can you have your conniption later? I'd like to get changed and out for dinner before the late shifts start occupying the tables."
Really, it was like having two separate conversations. "You—" John sputtered, "Dinner? That's what you're thinking about right now, dinner."
"Yes, aren’t you hungry?" He sounded honestly perplexed and John had no doubt that he was. The case was finished, they'd lived to fight another day, and concluded with a quick rub off amongst the porcelain. In Sherlock's mind, it was time for Chinese food and conversation. Obviously. "Why are you so upset about this, Doctor? I'm sorry I don't have a bowel for you to resect but all things considered, I suspect I'll have a chance for you to try again sometime."
John's hair was entirely too short to pull out in frustration but Sherlock's was starting to look tempting. "Maybe, just maybe, I'm upset because it appears I just took your virginity in a dirty bathroom in public?"
"This bathroom is perfectly clean," Sherlock retorted, gesturing at the sparkling white fixtures, the tidily swept floor. "And while my virginity or lack thereof, is currently a subject for debate, it is, or was, in fact, mine, so I can't begin to fathom why you are so upset about it."
"Oh, why do I try?" John groaned. He looked up at the fluorescent lights and said it directly to them in the hopes that perhaps if the other living person here couldn't understand him, perhaps the inanimate objects might step up. True to their nature, they had no reply and he was forced to ask his questions of Sherlock. Who, also unfortunately, remained true to his nature as well. "I am here, aren't I? You can see me, can't you, I'm not some figment wandering about in dirty scrubs."
It was rare that Sherlock ever stared at John as though he was the insane one and John treasured each occasion, marked it on a mental calendar. He added this one, right alongside his previous notation of First Incident of Minor Shagging; Hospital Bathroom.
Sherlock recovered from his lapse all too quickly, venturing with uncharacteristic concern, "You did tell the doctor that you didn't hit your head, is it troubling you now? Perhaps we should go back--"
"No, no," John spared a glance down at the crotch of his borrowed scrubs and didn't bother hiding his wince. Ah, well, wouldn't be the first time he'd ever scurried shamefully from a hospital. "Let's just go, dinner sounds wonderful. You're buying," he added, as he opened the door and peered out. No one around, perhaps God did smile down at him from time to time.
He kept that thought close to him as Sherlock followed him in blissful silence, taking the lead towards what John sincerely hoped was the doors to the outside. Freedom was within sight when someone shouted Sherlock's name and he stopped, no, no, turning towards the sound of it.
Lestrade. Of course it was. John withdrew any and all charitable thoughts he'd had about higher deities.
"Inspector," Sherlock nodded at him civilly and didn't even seem to notice John crowding in close to him, taking what advantage he could of having a tall friend with a good coat to hide behind.
Lestrade looked considerably calmer and John didn't need to be a detective to notice the sharp scent of cigarette smoke emanating from him. Honestly, Sherlock was a one-man force in keeping the tobacco companies in business, dragging in clientele from all angles.
"All right," Lestrade sighed out, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck with something resembling embarrassment. "Look, come down to the station tomorrow and we'll get the statements and paperwork sorted." He said it to the both of them but it was John he was looking at because that was a lesson they'd all learned a long time ago. It was the cases that Sherlock loved; getting through the tedium of paperwork was John's area and all of them knew it.
"Of course, Inspector, John and I will be by in the morning," Sherlock said smoothly, as though it wasn't a bald-faced lie and John wouldn't have to drag him down there, sulking and morose.
"Uh huh," Lestrade leaned a bit to look around Sherlock at John, who was standing firmly behind Sherlock where he was trying to beam a vibe of 'nothing to look at here, Detective, nothing at all' straight into Lestrade's head. A shame it appeared that his telepathic abilities weren't going to manifest for him just now, either. Today was simply full of oddities and disappointment, it would seem.
"We'll be there," John agreed, hastily, would have agreed to a full cavity search at this point to get his ruined clothes out of the sight of their main connection to Scotland Yard who was nowhere near as unobservant as Sherlock maintained he was.
"I don't know why you always wait for John to agree, he's the one who has trouble getting out of bed in the morning," Sherlock said blithely, "Never fear, Inspector, I'll have him up and dressed and in your office promptly at nine. Evening!" He was already striding away, calling the last over his shoulder. John darted hastily after him so he wouldn't have to look at the way Lestrade's mouth dropped open.
He took the fact that the Earth didn't open up and swallow him whole to spare him all this as further proof that there was no God.
Continued In Day Two
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:4500, this chapter
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.
~~*~~
The first time the subject came up they were in the sitting room.
"Was it true, then, what Irene said about you and Mycroft," John asked. He was in his chair, laptop on his knees, but his attention was on his flatmate across the room, sitting at the desk and ignoring the tea and toast John had set at his elbow earlier this morning. Sherlock had his own laptop for once, probably only because John was using his, and he was focused on the screen rather than typing, his hands folded, pressed lightly to his mouth.
"Hm?" Sherlock lifted his hands long enough to provide a sound of acknowledgement, which John took as encouragement.
"Was it true?" he repeated. "She said Mycroft was an iceman and you were—" John trailed off, didn't say it aloud. Mycroft had given him the file and it had been relentlessly explicit, not a detail excised. He wasn't fooled into thinking he had any level of access to classified material other than what Mycroft provided him. Details on Sherlock, though, Mycroft offered as a matter of course. At first, John had thought Mycroft was trying to frighten him off with lurid details of drug use, detoxing, days and weeks spent in rehab only to begin the whole thing again some months later.
It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that Mycroft had been trying to brace him for what might happen. Forewarned was forearmed and all that. John comforted himself with the knowledge that if Mycroft hadn't started their association by being a sociopathic prat in his own right, John would have been more agreeable to the exchange of information. Easier, too, was the realization that Sherlock knew that John had read all the files, that he knew all the gory little minutiae of his addiction. He'd never hidden any of the documents and considering that Mycroft had couriered them to John right here at the flat, it seemed as though neither of them had any concerns about it.
His drug use had been laid out in precise medical terms, flatly outlining Sherlock's life over the course of two years before rehab had stuck and that was the information John had received. Occasionally, he offered files about cases, and the little tidbits of insight into Sherlock were all well and good.
Other details, though…
"You're asking if I'm a virgin," Sherlock stated, impassively.
Said like that, it did seem a bit invasive. "I guess I am, yeah," John said, considering.
"Why?" Sherlock finally looked at him and at times like this John felt like his gaze was boring into his skull, examining his thoughts as they came to him with uncomfortable scrutiny.
"I—never mind," John muttered and he looked back at his computer. "None of my business, really."
"No, it isn't. Why do you want to know?" Sherlock continued mercilessly, "Something else for your blog?"
"What?" John blinked, more than a little horrified, "No, of course not!"
Sherlock didn't visibly relax, nothing about his posture or expression changed and yet, John still felt it as though it were a physical force. "Then why?"
"I—just forget it," John said, frustrated. How was he supposed to explain his interest without making it sound unsavoury or lurid? It wasn't like that and he didn't have the words to express it. Sherlock might be interested in all sorts of mysteries, cracking the strangest cases, solving the impenetrable crimes. And John loved it, followed along after him but the case he was trying to solve, the mystery that really interested him, was sitting at the table right now staring at him like he was a bug twisting on a pin.
He took up his typing again, pecking out word after word about their last case that had absolutely nothing to do with his flatmate's sexuality, thank you, when Sherlock finally broke the silence with a single sharp word.
"Yes."
John startled, adding a series of y's and d's to his paragraph as his fingers clattered against the keyboard. He looked up, blinking, but Sherlock had already returned his attention to his own computer. His hands were folded under his chin, his eyes steady and John wasn't entirely sure he'd actually heard him correctly.
"Yes?" John repeated, softly, questioningly.
"Yes. I am," Sherlock said and his hands unfolded as though from prayer, dropping down to his keyboard as he started typing with a fury that John could only match if he didn't mind endless pages of gibberish added to his blog.
"Yes," John echoed, under his breath. "Right. Well. That's all right, then."
"So glad to have your approval," Sherlock replied but it was absent, without any trace of rancour and so John ignored it, smiling a little to himself as he informed his readers about the details of their latest case.
~~*~~
The second time the subject came up was just after they were both sitting on the same hospital bed splattered with three different kinds of blood, two of which belonged to them. The third donor was currently in another room, handcuffed to his bed.
Lestrade was actually shouting at them from the look of him, or so John supposed. He was still half-deaf from the explosion and what little hearing he did have seem to consist of a constant ringing sound. From his arm flapping and the spit flying from his lips, though, he'd say Lestrade was having a right proper row with them right now and John was sorry to be missing it. Donovan seemed to be enjoying it from her position in the corner, arms folded over her chest as she watched like this was a particularly good round of footy with the local boys.
He did manage to pick up a few words, important seeming ones, like civilians and explosions and what he'd do to their arses if they pulled a stunt like this again. It was only when Lestrade rounded on him personally that John pulled his expression into something he hoped was close to remorseful.
"And you! Him, I expect it from but you-- I thought you had more sense than this, John!" Lestrade snarled and he looked nothing more than like John's da, lecturing him after a scuffle at school. It was so familiar, right down to the aching nose, the blood drying on his face and the, 'oh, so disappointed in you' look on Lestrade's.
He might have been able to pass the first sound off as a snorty sort of inhale; his nose had been bleeding quite freely when they'd first arrived and his breathing did sound rather snotty and painful. The second, though, was never going to fly as anything less than a giggle and in less time than it had taken him and Sherlock to nearly get themselves killed, John was howling, sprawling into Sherlock as huffs and bursts of laugher choked free of him. And of course Sherlock was no help at all, he barely had a modicum of self-control on days they hadn't just nearly died and John laughing set him off like a chain reaction, the two of them giggling together on a hospital gurney with the blood on them still wet.
A glance at Lestrade showed that the Inspector was goggling at them, mouth agape, and that set him off again, John laughing until he couldn't breathe, again, second time this night he couldn't breathe only this time was much more enjoyable, what with no wall falling on him and Sherlock to nearly flatten them.
"You—" Lestrade bit off whatever he was going to say and John was genuinely sorry for it. Whatever it had been would surely have been a simply brilliant display of temper and swearing, considering the shade of red that was currently rising up from under Lestrade's collar.
He spun on his heel away from them, gesturing curtly at Donavan before he stormed out the door, her right behind. Tomorrow, John knew, there would be statements to be made and paperwork that Sherlock would ignore until John filled it out, but today, he was laughing through the aching pain in his ribs and head, his entire body was like a gigantic bruise scattered with abrasions. He was giggling madly even though it hurt and Sherlock was next to him, alive and breathing and laughing right along because they were all mad here, weren't they? Christ, yes, they were.
Their laughter had trickled back down into the occasional chuckling breath mingled with shared smirking by the time the nurse returned. They were given release forms to sign and John had a large plastic bag filled with the pieces of his clothing that he wasn't currently wearing. The scrubs John had been given were a kind alternative to the mud-soaked and blood-spattered jumper and trousers he'd been wearing.
Wheelchairs should have been the standard to transport them to the front door and that they weren't offered gave John a bit of a pause. Someone would be in a good spot of trouble over that. Not that he protested, already on his feet to chase Sherlock out the door. His coat swirled at the calves as he turned a corner and Sherlock seemed unconcerned that the length of it was besmirched with mingled speckles from earth and person.
"Dinner?" Sherlock asked, blithely, and if he was walking a bit gingerly only John would notice. A normal person would think he was only shortening his strides so a good friend could keep up. John wasn't normal, no shade of it, and so he knew better, and he wasn't at all disturbed to see Sherlock knew his way through the winding corridors. Probably had every Emergency Department in London charted out somewhere in his head, along with all the streets and traffic lights.
"Not sure," John rubbed his sore ribs tenderly. "What sort of takeaway goes with a near-death experience?"
Sherlock gave him a pitying glance, "I thought we'd established early on that Chinese was the appropriate venue."
That set him off again and John had to lean against the wall as he laughed, snickering painfully. It set of warning flares off pain in his ribs that shot straight through the layers of medication. He could have sooner performed surgery with the scalpel between his teeth than not laugh though, and Sherlock was right there with him, leaning against him as the two of them cackled like loons in the middle of the hospital corridor.
John looked up at him, his split lip smarting from his grin, and said, "You do know you are—"
He trailed off, whatever he'd been about to say forgotten because he hadn't realized just how close Sherlock was to him until he'd looked up at the same moment Sherlock turned his head to look down at him. Their mouths were close enough that John could feel Sherlock's breath, taste the taint of pain killers on it, the apple juice Sherlock had chase the pills down with. He was breathing against John's face and they were both alive, not dead at all, and adrenaline was thrumming as warmly through his veins as his own blood. Dimly, John realized he could hear the beat of his own heart, drumming in his ears alongside the high whine of explosive-induced tinnitus.
Sherlock was looking at him, the grey of his eyes obscured by the wideness of his pupils. Pharmacological reaction, John knew; they were both high on a cocktail of legal drugs and exhilaration, and Sherlock's mouth was right there, teeth still faintly stained with his own blood.
His mouth tasted like coppery apples, his breath pushing softly between John's lips as he exhaled and John only realized they were kissing when Sherlock's hands touched his face, long fingers trembling. Not pushing him away, not holding on, and his mouth was still beneath John's, lips together and unmoving.
Soft, John registered hazily, soft and lovely, and he didn't pull away, just wanted to feel Sherlock breathing into him. Alive, they were both alive, and long moments passed of the two of them simply breathing, their mouths touching in an absurdly chaste kiss that somehow made perfect sense.
It was only when John started to pull away, regretfully, aware that insanity aside, they were still in a hospital corridor, that Sherlock came to life beneath his hands. Lips parting, his tongue sliding curiously against John's mouth and when he let his own lips open, it slid inside, testing his own with odd little flicks and glides. Of course, of course kissing Sherlock would be more like some sort of strange experiment and suddenly this was a great deal less about proving to himself that Sherlock was breathing and a considerable amount more about Sherlock suddenly wrapped around him, arms tight against John's bruised ribs and his mouth a little slobbery and gloriously eager.
Hospital. Right.
"Sher—Sherlock," John managed to pull away long enough to gasp and was more than a little surprised to find that Sherlock took that as an invitation to explore the line of his jaw with his teeth. Good god, was he licking the scratches on John's face? He couldn't even be ashamed at the bright surge that sent through him. "Not here," John mumbled, although he was resisting a great deal less than he should.
Instantly, Sherlock's head shot up and the little cuts on John's left cheek throbbed sadly at losing their chance.
"No, no, of course not, not here," Sherlock muttered, and John was forced to stumble into motion when Sherlock snatched up his hand, dragging him along through the corridor. Left, another left, and then Sherlock was pulling him through a door. He caught a glance at the sign that indicated this was a solo, gender-neutral bathroom and then the door was closing behind him.
The heavy sound of it shutting was loud as a gunshot, clapping straight through the ringing in John's ears. It slapped through his brain like waking up from a dream and John might have even tried to protest, as always the absurdly weak voice of reason from within their communicable insanity. Might have, only Sherlock had him slammed back against the door before he'd done more than drawn a breath, his newly inhaled air leaving him in a startled gust as Sherlock ducked his head and pressed their mouths together again.
He smelled like smoke, charcoal-filthy, mingled with the rusty iron tang of blood, the flavour of it carried into John through his own sharp huff through his nose, reinforced by Sherlock's tongue against his own. Smoke and blood, apples and narcotics, a wild blender-drink of fucking crazy, was kissing Sherlock, all messy saliva and wet lips.
Sherlock seemed like he didn't know how to make himself short enough to make kissing John easy, the tilt of his head awkward and wrong. Until John finally reached up and slid his hands into Sherlock's hair and tilted his head for him. Thick curls twined through his fingers, gritty and filthy with smoke, dirt, god knew what else, and their teeth clicked together once, painfully, and then…oh, god. Perfect, hot, eager mouth on his own, their tongues sliding over and under. Wet enough to be slick, hot enough to make John tip his head up in a silent plea for more.
Dimly, John realized he could hear a bit, soft, thick sounds penetrated the fog surrounding his hearing, and he was faintly embarrassed. Christ, it was just a kiss, a filthy, perfect kiss, but still…then it clicked in his head, a switch turning on and he was abruptly aware it was Sherlock making those sounds. Sherlock, whose hands were clenched tight in the loose fabric of John's borrowed scrubs, Sherlock who was kissing him hard enough that John banged his head back against the door and any stars he hadn't used already trying to get a concussion earlier danced in front of his eyes.
Sherlock who was shaking, sucking in sharp breaths of air, Sherlock who was scrunching down against him and Jesus, he was just awful at this, gangly-tall and John squirmed, helping Sherlock fit himself against the smaller line of John's body until he could feel the firm pressure against his belly, Sherlock's cock hard against him through his trousers.
It's all right, John couldn't say, there was no speaking here because Sherlock was barely allowing him to get enough air to breathe, much less produce words. His lips felt bruised, each kiss drawing a wince, and John pressed back into each and every one. Petted Sherlock's hair, tried to soothe him as he whimpered, the upturned collar of his coat rough against John's exposed wrists.
The sudden introduction of a knee between John's legs finally made him wrench his mouth free, gasping in a startled, garbled sound as Sherlock pressed his long thigh up against John's crotch. Oh, oh, fuck, John didn't, couldn't say, tipping his head up to stare at the too-bright fluorescent lights above them, riding the awkward, stumbling rhythm that Sherlock offered. The hard slide of leg against him, Sherlock's hips moving in stilted little thrusts, rubbing and pushing, and John was only wearing thin scrubs, no barrier at all to any of this.
He was trapped, surrounded by Sherlock and lingering smog of smoke, clogged memory of being buried alive, choking through the haze of brick dust and the thick taste of his own blood until they'd been pulled clear. Sherlock had been there then, too, on top of him from beneath a pile of rubble and he'd tucked John's head against his chest with a hand on the back of his neck. His hand was there now, sliding up and John followed its insistent tug blindly, lifted his head and found Sherlock's mouth with his own. Tasted his breath, tasted the sweetness of mingled apples and blood as he rocked against Sherlock's thigh and came.
"Oh…" he felt it against his mouth, teeth scraping together as Sherlock shuddered, teeth sinking briefly into John's sore lip sending a wash of fresh iron-flavoured heat into John's mouth. His own blood spilled half a dozen times over now and John only swallowed it away, let Sherlock settle into trembling against him.
Orgasm was nearly as good a painkiller as any opiates but the effects were much briefer. Every single injury John had sustained this evening, beginning with an explosion and ending in a public bathroom, were starting to come to life, throbbing earnestly. The door, which had seemed comfortable enough during the glow of mutual insanity, was now extremely hard and uncomfortable in the light of John's bruised ribs. Sherlock was still tight against him, pressing their foreheads together, his breathing slowly easing into something resembling normal.
It was only when Sherlock lifted his head that reality clicked back into place with an almost audible snap. He didn't step back, their faces close enough that John had to blink a bit against the threatening blur. A bright flush of red was still high on Sherlock's cheeks, his eyes were vastly wide, lips bitten and swollen. John had to swallow hard, forcing back the dozen or so urges that had just leapt up in the back of his mind because Sherlock looked so shocked, lines at the corners of his eyes smoothed away and the illusion of youth nearly made John cringe. Oh, Christ, just what had they done here?
"Sherlock," John said, distantly amazed at the calmness of his own voice. "We discussed before that you were a virgin."
"I haven't forgotten in the span of less than a week," Sherlock cleared his throat slightly and finally stepped back, hands wandering aimlessly through the air before he clasped them together; a familiar pose of thoughtfulness, his fingertips pressing against his lips, only John had never seen it before with those lips softened, kiss-bruised.
"Mmhmm. Right," John had to clear his own throat, mentally blaming it on smoke inhalation rather than…anything else. "So you haven't had sex."
"Hadn't," Sherlock corrected. The shockiness in his eyes was easing, the lines of his face smoothing back to normal. "That is the standard definition of virgin, I believe."
John took a deep breath, let it out slowly. That was an argument for another time. "Have you ever kissed anyone?"
Just the way Sherlock hesitated, the calculating light in his eyes, made John's stomach sink down to his heels, "Your mum doesn't count, Sherlock," he said, tightly. "Or any other friends or relatives giving you a Christmas peck. I mean a kiss, a real kiss, like we were just doing."
Beneath the fine layer of soot and bruises, Sherlock's face was impassive, "If you're finished qualifying the question, then no. No one else has ever kissed me like we were just doing."
That was just exactly the opposite of what John had been hoping to hear and he covered his face with his hands, groaning, "Oh, God."
"John—" The thin thread of exasperation he could hear was not helping a bit. They were standing together in a public bathroom at the hospital, both of them covered in three different blood types, soot, filth, and now, of all times, they'd decided to add a mutual exchange of semen to the mix. He was afraid to look down at his borrowed scrubs, already knew just what kind of wet splotches he'd see soaking through; medical school wasn't all that long ago.
He could feel the night starting to pile up on top of his nerves, dark spots starting to waver in front of his eyes and instantly, hands were firm on his upper arms. "Deep breaths," Sherlock commanded.
It was incredible, really, how sudden resentment could stifle an emotional breakdown. John wrenched away from him, ducking under his arm to lean against the only remaining wall that wasn't occupied by the toilet or sink. He glared back at Sherlock balefully, "I can resect someone's bowel after they've been gutted with explosives, I know how not to faint."
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, "You aren't much for pillow talk, though. Must we stay here all night or can you have your conniption later? I'd like to get changed and out for dinner before the late shifts start occupying the tables."
Really, it was like having two separate conversations. "You—" John sputtered, "Dinner? That's what you're thinking about right now, dinner."
"Yes, aren’t you hungry?" He sounded honestly perplexed and John had no doubt that he was. The case was finished, they'd lived to fight another day, and concluded with a quick rub off amongst the porcelain. In Sherlock's mind, it was time for Chinese food and conversation. Obviously. "Why are you so upset about this, Doctor? I'm sorry I don't have a bowel for you to resect but all things considered, I suspect I'll have a chance for you to try again sometime."
John's hair was entirely too short to pull out in frustration but Sherlock's was starting to look tempting. "Maybe, just maybe, I'm upset because it appears I just took your virginity in a dirty bathroom in public?"
"This bathroom is perfectly clean," Sherlock retorted, gesturing at the sparkling white fixtures, the tidily swept floor. "And while my virginity or lack thereof, is currently a subject for debate, it is, or was, in fact, mine, so I can't begin to fathom why you are so upset about it."
"Oh, why do I try?" John groaned. He looked up at the fluorescent lights and said it directly to them in the hopes that perhaps if the other living person here couldn't understand him, perhaps the inanimate objects might step up. True to their nature, they had no reply and he was forced to ask his questions of Sherlock. Who, also unfortunately, remained true to his nature as well. "I am here, aren't I? You can see me, can't you, I'm not some figment wandering about in dirty scrubs."
It was rare that Sherlock ever stared at John as though he was the insane one and John treasured each occasion, marked it on a mental calendar. He added this one, right alongside his previous notation of First Incident of Minor Shagging; Hospital Bathroom.
Sherlock recovered from his lapse all too quickly, venturing with uncharacteristic concern, "You did tell the doctor that you didn't hit your head, is it troubling you now? Perhaps we should go back--"
"No, no," John spared a glance down at the crotch of his borrowed scrubs and didn't bother hiding his wince. Ah, well, wouldn't be the first time he'd ever scurried shamefully from a hospital. "Let's just go, dinner sounds wonderful. You're buying," he added, as he opened the door and peered out. No one around, perhaps God did smile down at him from time to time.
He kept that thought close to him as Sherlock followed him in blissful silence, taking the lead towards what John sincerely hoped was the doors to the outside. Freedom was within sight when someone shouted Sherlock's name and he stopped, no, no, turning towards the sound of it.
Lestrade. Of course it was. John withdrew any and all charitable thoughts he'd had about higher deities.
"Inspector," Sherlock nodded at him civilly and didn't even seem to notice John crowding in close to him, taking what advantage he could of having a tall friend with a good coat to hide behind.
Lestrade looked considerably calmer and John didn't need to be a detective to notice the sharp scent of cigarette smoke emanating from him. Honestly, Sherlock was a one-man force in keeping the tobacco companies in business, dragging in clientele from all angles.
"All right," Lestrade sighed out, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck with something resembling embarrassment. "Look, come down to the station tomorrow and we'll get the statements and paperwork sorted." He said it to the both of them but it was John he was looking at because that was a lesson they'd all learned a long time ago. It was the cases that Sherlock loved; getting through the tedium of paperwork was John's area and all of them knew it.
"Of course, Inspector, John and I will be by in the morning," Sherlock said smoothly, as though it wasn't a bald-faced lie and John wouldn't have to drag him down there, sulking and morose.
"Uh huh," Lestrade leaned a bit to look around Sherlock at John, who was standing firmly behind Sherlock where he was trying to beam a vibe of 'nothing to look at here, Detective, nothing at all' straight into Lestrade's head. A shame it appeared that his telepathic abilities weren't going to manifest for him just now, either. Today was simply full of oddities and disappointment, it would seem.
"We'll be there," John agreed, hastily, would have agreed to a full cavity search at this point to get his ruined clothes out of the sight of their main connection to Scotland Yard who was nowhere near as unobservant as Sherlock maintained he was.
"I don't know why you always wait for John to agree, he's the one who has trouble getting out of bed in the morning," Sherlock said blithely, "Never fear, Inspector, I'll have him up and dressed and in your office promptly at nine. Evening!" He was already striding away, calling the last over his shoulder. John darted hastily after him so he wouldn't have to look at the way Lestrade's mouth dropped open.
He took the fact that the Earth didn't open up and swallow him whole to spare him all this as further proof that there was no God.
Continued In Day Two
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Date: 2012-03-23 05:39 am (UTC)The giggling outbreak? Wonderfully them. Lestrade is spot on. Just. Yeah. Write faster, will you?
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Date: 2012-03-23 09:01 am (UTC)cool u write new once adorable fic)))
thanks)))
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Date: 2012-03-23 01:08 pm (UTC)*loves*
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Date: 2012-03-24 12:20 am (UTC)Everyone's voice is great. John's interior monologue is hilarious. I loved the part about addressing the light fixture and Sherlock's observation that the toilet was completely clean, what could the problem be, concussion perhaps? Just wonderful.
Thank you!!
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Date: 2012-03-24 05:24 am (UTC)I can't stop hearing Sherlock say this! (That voice + those words = so much lust, so much laughter.) Adored the chapter and can't wait for more!
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Date: 2013-09-22 10:05 pm (UTC)