keelywolfe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
keelywolfe) wrote2012-03-29 08:31 pm
keelywolfe) wrote2012-03-29 08:31 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: Unforgiven 1/1 (Sherlock BBC)
Title: Unforgiven
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:2000
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: Post-Reichenbach, Angst, First Time
Warning(s): Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall
Summary: John didn't take a cab back to his new flat after he dropped Mrs Hudson back at Baker Street.
~~*~~
John didn't take a cab back to his new flat after he dropped Mrs Hudson back at Baker Street. She invited him in for tea, her eyes damp and sad, as though she knew he would refuse. Instead, he gave her a tight hug, let her press kisses to his temples when he promised to stop by, later. When walking into Baker Street wasn't like opening a wound and standing on the front step wasn't an invitation to claustrophobia. When he could breathe again.
John didn't know when that would be and didn't make promises. He only let her clasp his hands, nodded at her as she wiped away tears with a crumpled hanky and watched her disappear behind the heavy, familiar door.
He paid the cabbie, who glanced at him with disinterested eyes, not knowing or caring why they were here, why the old woman would be crying. It struck John as familiar, a doctor's detachment. Distantly, he was envious; he'd never been quite as good at that as he should.
There was a tube station not far from his new flat and another just a few blocks from Baker Street and John walked to it, hands tucked into his pockets against a non-existent chill. John felt it nonetheless, a fair regular at psychosomatics. He dug out his Oyster card from where it was hidden in his wallet, barely used for the past year since Sherlock preferred cabs. It still had funds on it, enough for him to pass through the gate, and John settled on the train to ride in silence.
His new flat seemed darker, dingier somehow even from the outside and the lock was tricky, needing a jiggle and a prayer to coax it open. John managed it, flicking on the light as he hung up his coat before he said, "You just couldn't resist going to the cemetery to make sure I didn't bollocks it up, could you."
Sherlock looked up at him from his sprawl on the sofa, apparently unconcerned about sitting in the dark. "I know for a fact you're a terrible actor. I had to see if you could fake grief convincingly."
There was a pot of tea on the small table, steam wafting up from an already poured cup and John picked it up, drank it too fast and winced as it burned going down. Sherlock must have seen him from the street and that meant he'd been looking out the window as well. Not that anyone would recognize him dressed in one of John's t-shirts and a loose pair of jogging bottoms. The clothes nearly swallowed his slim frame, buried him in fabric. "You didn't even wear a hat," John pointed out, irritably, "If I could see you, someone else could, you idiot! What's the point of all this if you're going to get caught two weeks in?"
"Relax, no one saw me. Not even Mycroft caught me out on his little cameras."
"I still think it's a bit cruel, not telling him," John settled into his chair with a sigh. There was a headache forming at the backs of his eyes, stress from the day settling in with a dull throb. "There's punishment for your sins and then there's just pouring salt into the wound."
"He'll live," Sherlock said shortly. "I wasn't quite as certain about you."
"I'd take offense to that but it's been a bloody long day." He scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. "So then, since you're the expert thespian here, how did I do? Convincing enough?"
Sherlock was silent long enough that John tipped his head in his direction, squinting at him. "Sherlock?"
"I was convinced," he said, quietly.
"Yes, well," John cleared his throat a bit, rifling through the stack of papers by his chair, each of them disassembled thoroughly by Sherlock, until he dug out the latest rugby scores. "I wasn't acting as much as you might have thought. At the hospital...you..." John let it trail away, buried his face into the paper. "I just wasn't acting, much."
The paper was tugged away in a long tear, protesting dying in John's throat as Sherlock leaned over him, his hands on both armrests, caging John in. "I know," he said, simply. "I'm sorry I couldn't have warned you beforehand."
John laughed, pretended he didn't hear the way it choked tight in his chest, came out in a pained burst, "You made up for it by coming back from the dead so you don't have to keep apologizing for it."
"Yes, I do," Sherlock said, with odd seriousness. "I have to keep doing it until you forgive me for it because you haven't yet. No, it's all right, John," he added, when John would have protested. "It's all right. I'll know when you do."
"Will I?" John said, still nearly laughing, ignoring the almost-sob that caught in his throat. No. No, it was all right. Sherlock was all right.
Lips brushed his forehead, a simple, gentle touch, and John pulled back in surprise, looking up into calm eyes, deeper blue in the yellowed lamp light.
"You'll know," Sherlock said, low, like a promise.
Sherlock was still leaning over him, still close, and with his head tipped up John could feel his breath, warm and damp on his cheeks, against the bridge of his nose. It was the breathing he thought of, he just wanted to feel Sherlock breathing, just a little, and he didn't think about the way he was doing it until he felt Sherlock's startled exhale into his own mouth.
He was kissing Sherlock before he'd even considered it, the crane in his neck awkward as he leaned up into it. Sherlock was obviously startled, their teeth scraping briefly, noses bumping against each other. It was usually so difficult to truly surprise Sherlock that normally John would be crowing his glee at catching him out but normally, he wouldn't be parting Sherlock's lips with his tongue, flicking it over the line of his teeth until there was a responding touch. Hesitant, yes, but Sherlock's tongue found the rhythm easily, matched it.
John ran his hands down Sherlock's back, the soft cotton of his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms only just concealing the wiry strength of the muscles beneath them. He felt Sherlock gasp as John's hands ran over his arse, didn't stop there, slid them lower to the backs of his knees and pressed hard, until Sherlock folded in an ungainly sprawl into his lap. John grunted into his mouth as one of Sherlock's flailing elbows caught him in the stomach and didn't let him go, kept their mouths together as he was pulling and tugging at handfuls of clothing and limbs until Sherlock was straddling him, all that lithe weight tight against him. Warm, warm body, warm breath and John slid his mouth up to kiss his nose, his cheek, his eye, and tried hard not to remember how it had looked streaming with blood. Drew his hands up Sherlock's back, tucked them into his hair and it was soft and dry in his fists, not sodden, dripping with Sherlock's life.
"Is this, is this okay?" John pulled on the hair gripped tight in his hands, drew Sherlock back the bare inch he needed to speak. It shouldn't have surprised him that Sherlock ignored the pull, strained against it even though it surely hurt, trying to push their mouths together again.
"Yes," Sherlock whispered it back into his mouth. He reached up and grabbed John's wrists, forcibly removed them from his hair and John allowed it, let Sherlock pin his hands beside his head as they kissed, the sleek, wet sounds loud in the stillness of the flat.
If there was anything he should be saying, John couldn't think of it, fumbled out little more than moans, whimpers, and he felt Sherlock smile in a way that made John want to catch his lower lip with his teeth, worry at that plush softness until Sherlock was wincing with it. He put thoughts into actions, tasting Sherlock's surprise, his own deep moan little more than vibration that trembled through them both and John nipped at his lips again, felt the tender give beneath his teeth.
"John," Sherlock groaned it, god, in that deep, thick voice, gathered two handfuls of John's shirt and yanked it loose of his trousers. He heard the snapping threads, the quiet ping of a button hitting the floor, and only just realized that his hands were free. He filled them with thick fistfuls of Sherlock's t-shirt and pulled, dragging and tugging until Sherlock relented, let him pull it over his head.
Narrow, bare chest beneath his hands, the lightest scattering of hair curling over his fingers and John had to touch, spread his hands wide and ran them down silky, pale skin. He'd barely gotten a chance to touch, certainly not enough to get his fill, when Sherlock covered his hands with his own, stilled them.
"You're trembling," Sherlock whispered, and it was true, John was shaking, no intermittent tremor, this, it was a full-out shaking. Long fingers petted the backs of his hands, sliding between his knuckles, tracing his fingernails. "Trembling," Sherlock breathed and in his voice it sounded like awe.
"Sher--," John tried, his voice cracked as Sherlock shifted forward, pressed their groins together and he dropped his head back, didn't even wince as he cracked it against the back of the chair. A hand cupped the back of his head, long fingers rubbing the little bump but John's focus was narrowed on his hips, on Sherlock half-naked in his lap and rubbing against him with determination.
"Here, here," Sherlock mumbled into his throat, teeth just barely nicking. He fumbled a hand between them, tugging at John's belt with uncharacteristic clumsiness until John caught on and helped him, groping at buttons and zippers, tugging at the elastic of Sherlock's trousers until they were bare against each other, the hot dampness of Sherlock's erection sliding alongside his own.
"Fuck!" John hissed and it might have been an exclamation or a plea. Certainly he didn't know, couldn't begin to even think. Sherlock was breathing against him, quick, harsh pants of air, and they had three hands between them trying to wrap around both their cocks, Sherlock's other hand braced against the back of the chair.
It was ridiculous and gorgeous and perfect, thrusting up into Sherlock's fist, his own fumbling down, cupping around the heavy weight of their balls, holding them together. It drew the loveliest, hoarse cry from deep within Sherlock's throat, his knees tightening against John's hips as he tried to push in even closer. There was nowhere closer to go, Sherlock was tight against him, his chin digging into the top of John's head as they moved together, the frantic, choppy rhythm carrying on until Sherlock finally buried his face into John's hair and groaned, his mouth moving silently as he shuddered hard, and John's hands went slick.
Oh, oh, Christ, that was gorgeous, that was perfect, and John pushed up into their clasped hands once, twice more, arching back hard enough to lift Sherlock along with him as he came, quivering through the rough backlash of pleasure until he could collapse back down with a hoarse cry, breathing like he was…like he was going to die.
Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was alive and breathing in sobbing gasps of air, mostly naked against him, damp with sweat and come and no blood at all, he was alive. He was.
Long moments ticked past and when Sherlock shifted in his lap, John reluctantly let him go, didn't bother to hide his pleased sigh when Sherlock only curled up against him more comfortably, pressing soft kisses against John's scalp, inhaling deep, huffing breathes of his hair, like Sherlock was scenting him. Perhaps he was.
"Do I forgive you yet?" John asked, a little sleepily. It had been, as he'd said, a long bloody day.
Well. Not quite so bloody as it could have been.
"No," Sherlock said, softly, his hand resting lightly in the middle of John's chest, one finger circling the hole of the missing button. "But you're getting closer."
--finis-
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:2000
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: Post-Reichenbach, Angst, First Time
Warning(s): Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall
Summary: John didn't take a cab back to his new flat after he dropped Mrs Hudson back at Baker Street.
~~*~~
John didn't take a cab back to his new flat after he dropped Mrs Hudson back at Baker Street. She invited him in for tea, her eyes damp and sad, as though she knew he would refuse. Instead, he gave her a tight hug, let her press kisses to his temples when he promised to stop by, later. When walking into Baker Street wasn't like opening a wound and standing on the front step wasn't an invitation to claustrophobia. When he could breathe again.
John didn't know when that would be and didn't make promises. He only let her clasp his hands, nodded at her as she wiped away tears with a crumpled hanky and watched her disappear behind the heavy, familiar door.
He paid the cabbie, who glanced at him with disinterested eyes, not knowing or caring why they were here, why the old woman would be crying. It struck John as familiar, a doctor's detachment. Distantly, he was envious; he'd never been quite as good at that as he should.
There was a tube station not far from his new flat and another just a few blocks from Baker Street and John walked to it, hands tucked into his pockets against a non-existent chill. John felt it nonetheless, a fair regular at psychosomatics. He dug out his Oyster card from where it was hidden in his wallet, barely used for the past year since Sherlock preferred cabs. It still had funds on it, enough for him to pass through the gate, and John settled on the train to ride in silence.
His new flat seemed darker, dingier somehow even from the outside and the lock was tricky, needing a jiggle and a prayer to coax it open. John managed it, flicking on the light as he hung up his coat before he said, "You just couldn't resist going to the cemetery to make sure I didn't bollocks it up, could you."
Sherlock looked up at him from his sprawl on the sofa, apparently unconcerned about sitting in the dark. "I know for a fact you're a terrible actor. I had to see if you could fake grief convincingly."
There was a pot of tea on the small table, steam wafting up from an already poured cup and John picked it up, drank it too fast and winced as it burned going down. Sherlock must have seen him from the street and that meant he'd been looking out the window as well. Not that anyone would recognize him dressed in one of John's t-shirts and a loose pair of jogging bottoms. The clothes nearly swallowed his slim frame, buried him in fabric. "You didn't even wear a hat," John pointed out, irritably, "If I could see you, someone else could, you idiot! What's the point of all this if you're going to get caught two weeks in?"
"Relax, no one saw me. Not even Mycroft caught me out on his little cameras."
"I still think it's a bit cruel, not telling him," John settled into his chair with a sigh. There was a headache forming at the backs of his eyes, stress from the day settling in with a dull throb. "There's punishment for your sins and then there's just pouring salt into the wound."
"He'll live," Sherlock said shortly. "I wasn't quite as certain about you."
"I'd take offense to that but it's been a bloody long day." He scrubbed a hand over his face, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. "So then, since you're the expert thespian here, how did I do? Convincing enough?"
Sherlock was silent long enough that John tipped his head in his direction, squinting at him. "Sherlock?"
"I was convinced," he said, quietly.
"Yes, well," John cleared his throat a bit, rifling through the stack of papers by his chair, each of them disassembled thoroughly by Sherlock, until he dug out the latest rugby scores. "I wasn't acting as much as you might have thought. At the hospital...you..." John let it trail away, buried his face into the paper. "I just wasn't acting, much."
The paper was tugged away in a long tear, protesting dying in John's throat as Sherlock leaned over him, his hands on both armrests, caging John in. "I know," he said, simply. "I'm sorry I couldn't have warned you beforehand."
John laughed, pretended he didn't hear the way it choked tight in his chest, came out in a pained burst, "You made up for it by coming back from the dead so you don't have to keep apologizing for it."
"Yes, I do," Sherlock said, with odd seriousness. "I have to keep doing it until you forgive me for it because you haven't yet. No, it's all right, John," he added, when John would have protested. "It's all right. I'll know when you do."
"Will I?" John said, still nearly laughing, ignoring the almost-sob that caught in his throat. No. No, it was all right. Sherlock was all right.
Lips brushed his forehead, a simple, gentle touch, and John pulled back in surprise, looking up into calm eyes, deeper blue in the yellowed lamp light.
"You'll know," Sherlock said, low, like a promise.
Sherlock was still leaning over him, still close, and with his head tipped up John could feel his breath, warm and damp on his cheeks, against the bridge of his nose. It was the breathing he thought of, he just wanted to feel Sherlock breathing, just a little, and he didn't think about the way he was doing it until he felt Sherlock's startled exhale into his own mouth.
He was kissing Sherlock before he'd even considered it, the crane in his neck awkward as he leaned up into it. Sherlock was obviously startled, their teeth scraping briefly, noses bumping against each other. It was usually so difficult to truly surprise Sherlock that normally John would be crowing his glee at catching him out but normally, he wouldn't be parting Sherlock's lips with his tongue, flicking it over the line of his teeth until there was a responding touch. Hesitant, yes, but Sherlock's tongue found the rhythm easily, matched it.
John ran his hands down Sherlock's back, the soft cotton of his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms only just concealing the wiry strength of the muscles beneath them. He felt Sherlock gasp as John's hands ran over his arse, didn't stop there, slid them lower to the backs of his knees and pressed hard, until Sherlock folded in an ungainly sprawl into his lap. John grunted into his mouth as one of Sherlock's flailing elbows caught him in the stomach and didn't let him go, kept their mouths together as he was pulling and tugging at handfuls of clothing and limbs until Sherlock was straddling him, all that lithe weight tight against him. Warm, warm body, warm breath and John slid his mouth up to kiss his nose, his cheek, his eye, and tried hard not to remember how it had looked streaming with blood. Drew his hands up Sherlock's back, tucked them into his hair and it was soft and dry in his fists, not sodden, dripping with Sherlock's life.
"Is this, is this okay?" John pulled on the hair gripped tight in his hands, drew Sherlock back the bare inch he needed to speak. It shouldn't have surprised him that Sherlock ignored the pull, strained against it even though it surely hurt, trying to push their mouths together again.
"Yes," Sherlock whispered it back into his mouth. He reached up and grabbed John's wrists, forcibly removed them from his hair and John allowed it, let Sherlock pin his hands beside his head as they kissed, the sleek, wet sounds loud in the stillness of the flat.
If there was anything he should be saying, John couldn't think of it, fumbled out little more than moans, whimpers, and he felt Sherlock smile in a way that made John want to catch his lower lip with his teeth, worry at that plush softness until Sherlock was wincing with it. He put thoughts into actions, tasting Sherlock's surprise, his own deep moan little more than vibration that trembled through them both and John nipped at his lips again, felt the tender give beneath his teeth.
"John," Sherlock groaned it, god, in that deep, thick voice, gathered two handfuls of John's shirt and yanked it loose of his trousers. He heard the snapping threads, the quiet ping of a button hitting the floor, and only just realized that his hands were free. He filled them with thick fistfuls of Sherlock's t-shirt and pulled, dragging and tugging until Sherlock relented, let him pull it over his head.
Narrow, bare chest beneath his hands, the lightest scattering of hair curling over his fingers and John had to touch, spread his hands wide and ran them down silky, pale skin. He'd barely gotten a chance to touch, certainly not enough to get his fill, when Sherlock covered his hands with his own, stilled them.
"You're trembling," Sherlock whispered, and it was true, John was shaking, no intermittent tremor, this, it was a full-out shaking. Long fingers petted the backs of his hands, sliding between his knuckles, tracing his fingernails. "Trembling," Sherlock breathed and in his voice it sounded like awe.
"Sher--," John tried, his voice cracked as Sherlock shifted forward, pressed their groins together and he dropped his head back, didn't even wince as he cracked it against the back of the chair. A hand cupped the back of his head, long fingers rubbing the little bump but John's focus was narrowed on his hips, on Sherlock half-naked in his lap and rubbing against him with determination.
"Here, here," Sherlock mumbled into his throat, teeth just barely nicking. He fumbled a hand between them, tugging at John's belt with uncharacteristic clumsiness until John caught on and helped him, groping at buttons and zippers, tugging at the elastic of Sherlock's trousers until they were bare against each other, the hot dampness of Sherlock's erection sliding alongside his own.
"Fuck!" John hissed and it might have been an exclamation or a plea. Certainly he didn't know, couldn't begin to even think. Sherlock was breathing against him, quick, harsh pants of air, and they had three hands between them trying to wrap around both their cocks, Sherlock's other hand braced against the back of the chair.
It was ridiculous and gorgeous and perfect, thrusting up into Sherlock's fist, his own fumbling down, cupping around the heavy weight of their balls, holding them together. It drew the loveliest, hoarse cry from deep within Sherlock's throat, his knees tightening against John's hips as he tried to push in even closer. There was nowhere closer to go, Sherlock was tight against him, his chin digging into the top of John's head as they moved together, the frantic, choppy rhythm carrying on until Sherlock finally buried his face into John's hair and groaned, his mouth moving silently as he shuddered hard, and John's hands went slick.
Oh, oh, Christ, that was gorgeous, that was perfect, and John pushed up into their clasped hands once, twice more, arching back hard enough to lift Sherlock along with him as he came, quivering through the rough backlash of pleasure until he could collapse back down with a hoarse cry, breathing like he was…like he was going to die.
Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was alive and breathing in sobbing gasps of air, mostly naked against him, damp with sweat and come and no blood at all, he was alive. He was.
Long moments ticked past and when Sherlock shifted in his lap, John reluctantly let him go, didn't bother to hide his pleased sigh when Sherlock only curled up against him more comfortably, pressing soft kisses against John's scalp, inhaling deep, huffing breathes of his hair, like Sherlock was scenting him. Perhaps he was.
"Do I forgive you yet?" John asked, a little sleepily. It had been, as he'd said, a long bloody day.
Well. Not quite so bloody as it could have been.
"No," Sherlock said, softly, his hand resting lightly in the middle of John's chest, one finger circling the hole of the missing button. "But you're getting closer."
--finis-