Archive of Our Own

The Toy Soldier

John sighs. Sherlock is still lying on the sofa with his back to him. He’s sulking, John knows – sulking because he wasn’t able to solve their last case before Lestrade and his team did, and now he feels like a failure and nothing John can say seems to be able to change it. Sherlock stopped responding about two hours ago and the silence in the sitting room is driving John mad.

He hates it when Sherlock gets like this, all non-communicative. Especially now that they’re… whatever they are. It’s not just flatmates any more, decidedly not, but John isn’t sure what Sherlock would call it. It’s not romance, exactly, but it’s definitely physical. He sits in his chair pretending to read, but really remembering in vivid detail.

It all started one day when he came home from work early. It was mid-March and very grey outside, a dull drizzle soaking London with a sense of vague irritability. His last four patients had all cancelled, so the receptionist had suggested that John go home. He went readily. Everyone there knew about the divorce, knew that Mary wasn’t in the picture any more and that he lived with his best friend again. They didn’t know that he was pretty content with this, nor that the break-up had almost been more of a relief than anything else, at least after his initial anger. Three fights and a paternity test had put the finishing touches on what was already a mere shell of a relationship, and by the third week of January he was back at Baker Street. God only knew where Mary was now. Maybe she’d shacked up with some bloke whose name John hadn’t even recognised on the paternity test. There’d been more than one and he hadn’t taken notes. He didn’t care. It was over and he was back with Sherlock. In a sense, all was right with the universe again.

He’d taken the bus back to Baker Street in the rain and gone up into the flat. It was quiet and empty. Perhaps Sherlock was out somewhere, he thought, pulling off his coat and heading upstairs to his room. The door was mostly closed, which was odd because he normally left it open to keep the air from getting musty. Nevertheless, John had walked up the last stair and pushed the door open without giving it much thought first.

The sight that assailed his eyes made him stop in his tracks, his jaw dropping. Sherlock was lying on his bed, holding a photo, his trousers open as his fist flew furiously along his cock. John had only a split second to stand there gaping at the sight before Sherlock realised he was there. He reacted at once, shouting out and scrambling off the bed to the far side, his face beet red, shoving himself back into his pants and yanking at his trousers to cover himself.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, breathless and angry, accusatory but unable to meet John’s eye.

John was nearly speechless, completely shocked. “I’m – I got off early,” he said stupidly, wincing after the fact at his choice of words. He took a step backward, toward the stairs. “I’m sorry, I can – I’ll just – ” He was embarrassed himself, his face flushed, thumb pointing behind him. It didn’t even occur to him to point out that it was his room that Sherlock had been jerking off in, his bed – nothing like that.

Sherlock was still holding the photo. For a moment there was complete silence, broken only by the sound of Sherlock’s still-rapid breathing. Then he flung the photo down and strode out of the room, pushing past John and rushing down the stairs. John listened and heard the furious retreat of footsteps down the lower corridor, followed by the hasty slamming of Sherlock’s bedroom door.

He felt absolutely flabbergasted. He honestly hadn’t known that masturbation was something that Sherlock even engaged in, never mind in his room, of all places. He walked slowly to the far side of the bed and stooped to see what the photo was, driven by a sense of curiosity that he couldn’t suppress. A second shock reverberated through him as he recognised it instantly: it was him. An old photo from his second tour of duty, wearing camo fatigues and a sweaty, once-white vest. The shirt he’d been wearing over the vest was open, rolled up to the elbows. No hat, but there was a helmet tucked under one arm and he was wearing combat boots. He looked good back then – his stomach flat and hard, his pecs a little firmer than they’d become since, the planes of his biceps glinting in the desert sun. You couldn’t see the grey in his hair yet; it just looked blond. But this was all secondary to the shock of discovering that not only had Sherlock been having a wank – and an in-depth one at that – but that it was to an old photo of him! John was beyond shocked. He stood there, stunned, holding the photo and thinking of Sherlock’s hand working himself desperately, his cock full and hard, sticking up out of his trousers, and without thinking he reached down to adjust himself.

He’d known for a long time that he fancied Sherlock (at the very least, if he’s being completely honest about it); he’d just thought that this sort of thing wasn’t Sherlock’s thing at all. He never would have pushed it. They loved each other in their own way, he’d told himself philosophically. He didn’t know if he’d ever date anyone seriously again now that the marriage was over, but he knew that he had no desire to leave Sherlock and Baker Street again. As for sex, well… perhaps he’d get it here and there on the side. It wasn’t worth leaving Sherlock for. But this new knowledge put a whole new spin on things.

It must be confessed that he had himself a bit of a wank right then, lying exactly where Sherlock had been, because embarrassing as it was for both of them to have caught Sherlock red-handed, as it were, John had been enormously turned on by the knowledge of it. He stroked himself off rapidly, wondering if Sherlock was finishing himself off in the bedroom below. He groaned out loud at the thought, his hand moving faster, and when he came, the Sherlock of his imagination did, too.

He’d lain there, panting at the ceiling and trying to get a grip on his thoughts. He knew he had to say something to Sherlock, something to reassure him about all that, let him know that it was perfectly fine. He had to be incredibly embarrassed, John thought. Having been caught not only having a wank, but having it John’s room, in his bed, to a photo of him – yes, he’s got to be beyond embarrassed, John had thought. What to say, though? In the end he’d decided to stay upstairs for a bit, give Sherlock some space to live it all down.

Later when he’d finally gone down to make supper, Sherlock was still in his room. John made enough for the both of them, then went to knock on Sherlock’s door. Perhaps he would just avoid the subject entirely, he thought. “Sherlock?” There was no response. John pressed his ear to the door. “Sherlock?” he said again. Still nothing. “Er, I’ve made supper,” he said. “That chicken thing that you like, with the gravy and the peas. No rush, though. Come out when you like.”

He went back to the kitchen and waited, but Sherlock never emerged. (Had he been sleeping? John felt uneasy, but fed himself and then, an hour later, put it all away. He stayed in the sitting room for the rest of the evening, puttering about and checking his blog but secretly waiting to see if Sherlock would come out of his room.

He didn’t. At midnight, John switched off all the lights and went upstairs, feeling a bit down. Perhaps tomorrow, then. A good night’s sleep should help put some distance between the whole embarrassing incident and the two of them. He’d felt a bit dubious about that, but – well, Sherlock couldn’t stay in his bedroom forever, could he? John trudged up the stairs and took himself to bed.

In the morning there was still no sign of him. It was a Saturday and John didn’t have to work. He’d slept in a little, waking just before ten. He showered and listened through the frosted glass door for any sound on the other side, but he didn’t hear anything. Sherlock never snored. John tried knocking on that door. “Sherlock?” he asked, keeping his voice light just in case Sherlock was still sleeping. “You up?” There was no response. “I’m going to put some coffee on, maybe make brunch,” John tried. “I can wait if you’re not ready to get up, though. It’s no problem. Sleep as long as you like.”

Again, there was no response. John waited a little, then sighed to himself and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. After he got dressed, he came back down in hopes of seeing Sherlock in his sheet, dishevelled and sitting at the kitchen table, but his hopes were disappointed by the empty room. He started getting out eggs and bread, Sherlock’s favourite honey, and some sausages to fry up. Nothing fancy, just a hot cooked breakfast. He checked the time. It was almost eleven. He cooked for the two of them, then went back to knock on Sherlock’s door again. “Sherlock?” he tried. “Breakfast is ready, if you want to come out…” He waited, but there was nothing, again. “Are you… sleeping?” No answer. “I’ll keep yours warm, then. Put it on the back element.” John lingered a moment longer, but it seemed certain that Sherlock was absolutely not going to respond to him, so he finally gave up and went back to the kitchen. He felt a bit depressed. He understood that Sherlock must have been terribly embarrassed, but was he just going to avoid John for the rest of their lives? John ate alone, unhappy and not sure what to do about all this.

He tried again close to four, knocking firmly at Sherlock’s door. “Sherlock,” he said, trying for an authoritative tone. “You have to be awake in there. Please talk to me.”

“No.”

His voice was muffled and flat, but John took heart at the fact that he’d responded at all. He paused, considering his options carefully. “Can I ask why not?” he asked, almost holding his breath.

“You know why.”

John paused again. “We don’t have to talk about – that,” he said, wincing inwardly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, his voice dull. “We can’t just pretend it never happened.”

John wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I just want you not to starve yourself in there.” Silence. Okay, then: apparently they did have to talk about it. “It’s not the end of the world,” he said. “I mean – I get that you’re probably embarrassed. I would be, too.” He waited for a response, but Sherlock didn’t give one. “If it helps… er, I’m not bothered by it in any way.”

“Go away, John.” Sherlock’s voice was low. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Will you come out and eat something, at least?” John tried. “Or – you don’t even have to come out. If I bring you something, will you eat it?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Sherlock’s tone was closed-off and very final, so John gave up and trudged back to the sitting room. He made himself dinner at seven and ate it alone, saving a portion for Sherlock that he stowed in the fridge. He did the washing up and watched the news. He heard the sound of the toilet flushing once, but Sherlock never left the sanctuary of his room.

The next day it was the same. John received a flat refusal to his offer of breakfast, but was glad to note that Sherlock’s dinner had been eaten at some point in the night. At least he wasn’t starving in there. He waited until the late afternoon before trying again, going back to Sherlock’s door. “You’re not actually going to stay in there forever, are you?” he asked, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” John said, almost snapping. “You’re going to have to come out some time!” Oops. Not quite the persuasive route he’d meant to take. He shifted his weight, his arms crossed. “I mean, what do you want me to say? You don’t want to talk about it, but you insist that we can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t care.”

There was a long silence from the other side of the door. Then Sherlock said, his voice slow and heavy, “That’s almost worse.”

(Worse?) John stood there, wondering what he could mean by that, then had an idea. “Look – I’ll be back in a few minutes, all right? Don’t go anywhere.”

Sherlock said nothing to this (perhaps he thought it in poor taste for a joke?) and John ran up the stairs to his room. Sherlock had found the photo in a box on his dresser that he rarely looked at, himself, but would he have found the box at the back of the closet? Maybe, maybe not, John thought, dragging it out. He opened it and looked at the clothes inside for a long minute, the very scent of the fabric bringing back years of memories. He pulled the fatigues on, hoping they would still fit. They were rather snug in the waist and riding his arse more tightly than they used to, but from a strictly visual standpoint, it was actually even better. He found a tight white vest of newer days and pulled on his battered, sand-encrusted combat boots. Last of all he found one of the shirts and put it on the same way as in the photo, leaving it open and rolling up the sleeves. He picked up the photo itself from his dresser and went back downstairs to Sherlock’s door.

“Hey,” he said, his mouth close to the door. “I meant what I said: it didn’t bother me at all. In fact, if you like that photo, you can have it.” He stooped and pushed it under Sherlock’s door.

A long silence followed. Then Sherlock spoke. “Why are you doing this?” When John didn’t answer, confused and not sure what to say, he pressed on. “Is this… pity?”

John raked all ten fingers through his hair. “No,” he said emphatically. “I’m – I don’t know exactly how to spell it out more clearly. I didn’t mean that I don’t care; I mean that I don’t mind. At all. As in… I’m, er… intrigued.”

Another long pause followed, the wheels in Sherlock’s great big brain whirring and clicking almost audibly. Then the bed creaked as he got off it, footsteps coming near the door, a shift of fabric as he bent to pick up the photograph. “What do you mean, ‘intrigued’?”

John grimaced inwardly. He hadn’t exactly wanted to have to spell it out literally, but trust Sherlock to need that. He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m interested, all right?” he said, trying not to sound defensive. “It’s, er, flattering – really flattering that you, er, seem to fancy that photo.” The silence that followed was flat and he knew he hadn’t said enough. Another throat clearing, and he made himself say it. “As it happens, I’m… interested in you. In that way.”

Sherlock was still standing quite close to the door separating them. John could almost hear him breathing. “Are you?” he asked, not quite accusingly. “You’ve kept that to yourself, then.”

“I thought you weren’t interested,” John said, truthfully. He waited, his pulse jack hammering in his throat.

A careful pause. “And if I am?” Sherlock asked cautiously. “What then?”

The big moment. John swallowed, then said, “Then maybe you’d be interested in the live version of that photo?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, too quickly, betraying his interest.

“Open the damned door and find out,” John said in exasperation and Sherlock opened it at once.

He stood there, blinking, his eyes travelling over John’s form, his lips parting, apparently unable to speak. He took in everything from the rolled up cuffs of the shirt to the dust of John’s boots, probably deducing enormous amounts of microscopic information. Finally he touched his tongue to his lower lip in a gesture that John couldn’t decide was nervous or aroused (or both), and stepped back. “Are you going to come in?” he asked, not quite meeting John’s eyes.

John looked at him, his curls dishevelled and wild, pyjama pants riding low on his hips, his oldest of t-shirts stretching thinly over his pecs, and nodded. “If that was an invitation, then yes.” He got himself into the bedroom without waiting for a verbal confirmation and shut the door firmly behind him, turning to face Sherlock.

Sherlock was still holding the photograph with both long-fingered hands, turning it around in circles, his eyes still on John. Slowly, his eyes travelled down John’s front, stopping at his crotch and lingering there before moving lower. He walked around John, his gaze so intense that John could practically feel it prickling on his skin.

Sherlock was silent and John felt a bit self-conscious. “Is it… okay?” he asked, striving to sound casual. “I know I was a bit trimmer back then…”

“No, it’s… good,” Sherlock said, coming back around to face him, his eyes meeting John’s and rapidly skittering away again. He cleared his throat. “It’s – very good.” He put the photo down on the dresser. “What happens now?” he asked, the question betraying even more insecurity.

His pupils were pooling darkly in his eyes, though, his breath hitching in his chest, and John felt pleased. Sherlock really did want him. “I thought, just if you want to, maybe you’d like to… take me out of this stuff?” he said, keeping the suggestion light. “Unless it’s just the clothing you like. In that case, do whatever you like. You could just look at me. You could… look at me and touch yourself. You could touch me, with or without the clothes. Or it could… go further. It’s entirely up to you.”

Sherlock was definitely breathing more heavily, his pulse visibly elevated, but his eyes snapped up to John’s. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded. “You don’t – ”

“I told you, I’m interested,” John cut him off, stating it as plainly as possible. It’s easier to say now that he’s come out and admitted it once. “I’d have said something earlier if I’d known you even did this sort of thing.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock said, his eyes drifting south over John’s chest again. He licked his lips.

“Then today is the day that changes, if you’re up for it,” John told him. He moved closer to Sherlock, walking slowly right into his personal space, and Sherlock didn’t back away. John put his hands on those bony hips and told him, his voice low and even, “I don’t mind if you’re nervous, or if you haven’t… I don’t mind doing anything you like. I’m here if you want it. Whatever it is. If the uniform helps it along a little, then good. I like that you like me in it.”

“John…” Sherlock got the word out with difficulty, breathing through his mouth. His hands came out to grip John’s shoulders as though he had no control over the gesture.

“That’s it,” John said, keeping his voice steady. “Touch me. I want you to.”

Sherlock touched his lower lip with his tongue again, and slowly moved his hands down John’s upper arms, tightly enough to feel the curve of John’s biceps through the well-worn uniform shirt, his thumbs pressing in as though testing. John was partly flexing but tried not to change anything that he was doing, just letting Sherlock feel. Sherlock unrolled one sleeve, then the other, his hands pushing the two sides of the shirt off John’s shoulders. John helped him, shifting out of it, and Sherlock stepped back to survey him again.

John watched him, the pulse fluttering in his long neck. “What are you thinking right now?” he asked, not wanting to break the careful thing that was building between them, but needing a clue.

Sherlock swallowed. “I was thinking that this seems like… a fantasy come to life,” he says. “It feels – unreal. Unbelievable.”

John smiled at that. “Well, believe it,” he said. “I’m here. In your bedroom. And you’re undressing me.” He closed the small space between them, took Sherlock’s unresisting hands and put them on his chest, over the white vest. “Touch me,” he said again, and Sherlock inhaled deeply and didn’t pull his hands away. Instead, he stroked John’s chest through the thin cotton, then stepped closer and put his arms around John to trace down his back. John put his hands back on Sherlock’s waist. “Can I… ?” he asked, the long unasked question actually leaving his mouth.

Sherlock nodded, and they stood there in relative silence, in each other’s arms, hands exploring and probing, and then Sherlock pulled the vest off over John’s head. He nodded to John’s questioning sound, allowing his own t-shirt to be tugged off, and this time the embrace was closer, Sherlock’s arms tighter around him. “John – ” he said again, breaking off.

John turned his face up. “Hmm?” he said in response, and Sherlock lowered his face – slowly, as though fearing that John would back away – and when he didn’t, Sherlock kissed him. (Oh. Surprising. But good. Really good!) John made an appreciative sound into the kiss, then reinitiated it, his lips strong on Sherlock’s, then opening, demonstrating, and Sherlock followed his lead with marked enthusiasm. After a few minutes of this, John touched his tongue to Sherlock’s and felt the jolt of shock that went through Sherlock’s body at this. The thought that Sherlock had never kissed anyone that way before, had never felt a tongue on his, struck John as terribly sad, and the feelings he’d always harboured in secret swelled fiercely within him. It wasn’t the only thing swelling; his cock was good and stiff by then, too, and judging by how quickly Sherlock was breathing, his hands gripping John’s back, he would have been very surprised if Sherlock weren’t in the same state.

Sherlock pressed closer to him then and it became immediately clear that he was, his erection obvious in his thin pyjama pants. He chose that moment to transfer his hands to John’s arse and gasped. “Oh – John – ”

“Yes,” John said against his mouth. “Anything!”

Sherlock stumbled backward, still holding John to him, and when the backs of his legs hit the bed, they tumbled onto it, Sherlock’s hands hauling John onto him and digging into his arse so hard it would have hurt if John hadn’t been so turned on by it. The kiss broke off, Sherlock panting too hard to continue, and that was fine because John wanted all of his attention for what they were doing – grinding together, his fatigues and Sherlock’s pyjamas still between them. It felt better than it should have for so little direct contact. It was somewhat adolescent, John thought, just humping Sherlock through his trousers like this, but the friction was just enough. He rubbed himself against Sherlock’s hard cock, and when he looked down between them, he could see it poking up from the waistband of his pyjamas, the head exposed, flushed dark and wet with his arousal and John’s pulse spiked. He started going harder and a moment or two later Sherlock bucked up beneath him and came, his entire body going stiff for it. His cock erupted with a long shot of come, his breath stuck in his throat, and then he shot off again and the breath released, choking out of him, his cock still spurting out a bit more, and John was so turned on that he could hardly breathe. He didn’t want to keep frotting against Sherlock if he’d already come, though, so he shifted to the side and got his zip down with his left hand alone.

“Is it all right if I just – ?” he asked, getting a fist around himself and starting to jerk roughly. It wasn’t going to take all that long, anyway.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes practically glazed over in the aftershocks of his orgasm, but then he surprised John by pushing his hand away and wrapping his long fingers around his cock. “Let me,” he said, breathing heavily, and John gave in easily, not arguing.

Sherlock’s hand felt incredible on him. Somewhat it wasn’t surprising at all to find out that Sherlock was good at this, too. Of course he was. Sherlock was good at just about everything. Still, though! John groaned out loud as Sherlock’s fist worked him over, his hips twitching, needing to thrust. He groaned again and suddenly grabbed Sherlock’s fist and held it still, thrusting into it ten or eleven times and then filling it with a rush of come. Sherlock made a surprised sound, but it was an interested one and he didn’t take his fist away as John came again, swearing under his breath and thrusting a few more times until the grip of the climax passed, leaving him weak. He flopped back into the crook of Sherlock’s other arm, panting. “Shit,” he said weakly. “That was fantastic!”

Sherlock was quiet beside him for several minutes. Then he said, at last, “Was it?”

John let out a laugh in the direction of the ceiling. “Well, it was for me, at least,” he said. “What about you? Was it – ?”

Sherlock nodded, his lips pressing together a little. Sounding a bit awkward, he said, “Thank you for – doing that. Dressing up.”

“Not a problem,” John said, and looked down along himself to his combat boots. “My boots are dirty, though.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed a little at this, but said only, “I don’t care.”

“All right, then,” John said, and they lapsed into silence. After a few minutes, John leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, almost platonically. “I’m going to see about starting supper,” he said. “You’ll come out and eat with me?”

Sherlock nodded, but he didn’t say anything until John reached the door. “John – ”

John turned back. “Yeah?”

Sherlock was sitting up, his curls more rumpled than ever. The sight was rather endearing, John thought, with considerable affection. “Did you only do that to get me out of my room?”

John was surprised. He hadn’t thought Sherlock would think he would do something like that to him – manipulate him into having sex just to make Sherlock behave like a normal human being. “No,” he said, some of the surprise bleeding into his tone. “Not at all. Nothing like that. I meant it when I said I was interested.”

Perhaps it was too much, because Sherlock looked embarrassed about having asked. “All right,” he said quietly.

John hesitated, then said, “But that would be a considerable bonus. I’m sick of eating all alone when you’re right here.”

Sherlock’s eyes stayed thoughtfully on his for a long moment. Then he nodded, his body relaxing. “Okay,” he said. “Should I come and help you?”

John smiled then. “No, I’ve got it,” he said. “But come and keep me company. Once you’re up.”

“I will,” Sherlock told him, and when he padded barefoot into the kitchen ten minutes later, he was wearing clean pyjama pants and a different t-shirt under his old blue dressing gown. Without John asking, he went to the cabinets and got out two plates and began to set the table. There was an odd, though not uncompanionable silence between them. Sherlock came over to the silverware drawer, next to where John was standing, chopping garlic.

“Sorry, am I in your way?” John asked, feeling ridiculous about being this careful, this polite. Surely some of the boundaries should be relaxed more than this now. But Sherlock’s shoulders were tense.

“No,” he said abruptly. “You… could have been cruel about all of that. Catching me that way. Another person might have taken advantage of that. Humiliated me about it even further, not that – the point is: you didn’t. I – appreciate that.”

“Of course,” John said mildly, feeling surprised. “I told you: I was already interested before that. But I wouldn’t have been a jerk about it, either way. You’re my best friend.”

Sherlock digested this for a few moments, chewing the inside of his lower lip. After a bit, his shoulders released partway. “Fine,” he said. “Good. Thank you. Do you want me to wash those potatoes?”

“Sure,” John said, and somehow everything went back to normal. Normal-ish, at least.

***

Three days went by and nothing was noticeably different between them, except for very small things – so small that John almost thought he could have been imagining them. He thought that Sherlock was putting himself a little closer than he used to, but he never had been one to respect people’s personal space, particularly not John’s. To be fair, he didn’t expect John to respect his, either. John had reached into any and every one of Sherlock’s pockets at some point by then, or been called over to give a medical opinion on a mark on his skin, things along those lines. It felt different from that sort of thing, though, but John decided not to comment on it. He had no idea whether Sherlock wanted a repeat of the incident the other day, which John thought had gone quite well. He’d certainly been into it, and Sherlock had, too. Things felt companionable after, and Sherlock stopped hiding in sheer mortification in his room. John was uncertain, though. Was that just meant to be a one-time thing? An occasional thing? If so, how frequently? He was fairly sure that not much had changed between them emotionally speaking, but he was also becoming painfully aware of how much space there could actually be on the spectrum between friends and lovers. They had sex, if that qualified, and John rather thought it did. Once. Did one time make people lovers? He didn’t quite think so. It didn’t in his books, at least.

The fourth day after the event, however, they were sitting on the sofa a few feet apart, watching a movie. Sherlock got up and padded barefoot into the kitchen to get them each another beer. When he came back, he sat down much closer to John, right beside him, and handed him a bottle that he’d already opened. John thanked him in a cursory sort of fashion, his focus more on the screen than on Sherlock, though he was very much aware of Sherlock’s sudden proximity.

Sherlock fidgeted a little, drank half his beer, then put the bottle on the coffee table and shifted again, stretching out his long legs and putting his feet on the table not far from the bottle. His arms were relaxed, his right elbow loosely poking into John’s side. “John,” he said after a bit, and trailed off.

John’s eyes were still on the action. “Hmm?” he asked, only turning his head a moment later.

Sherlock was slouched far enough down that his head was lower than John’s. His curls had somehow become a mess and he’d obviously lost interest in the film. His eyes were on John’s, filled with some sort of look that John couldn’t quite identify but was making things in the pit of his belly stir. His tongue came out to touch his lower lip, seemingly not sure what to say, and suddenly John thought he knew what was going on.

“Oh,” he said. “Are you…” It was his turn not to be able to put the rest of his sentence into words, but evidently he’d said the right thing: Sherlock was scrambling up into a sitting position again, his eyes gleaming.

“Only if you want to,” he said, but there was a suppressed energy behind the not-entirely-convincing casual tone.

“Oh, I want to,” John assured him, and leaned over and put his mouth on Sherlock’s. He’d had vague thoughts of getting started on the sofa and moving things into the bedroom, but in the end they never left the sofa. What began as a snog turned almost instantly very heated, and this time they actually got one another’s trousers undone and their respective hands where they needed to go, Sherlock panting against his temple as John’s fist stroked over him, his own giant hand squeezing and rubbing inside John’s underwear. John surprised both himself and Sherlock by coming first this time, groaning as his body jerked and expelled his release in a few heavy shots over Sherlock’s curled fingers. He gave himself a moment to let the stars clear from his vision, then turned his attention to Sherlock, bending to suck at his left earlobe as he wanked Sherlock hard, feeling his thighs tremble around his fist. And then his abs were clenching and releasing and tensing again, his breath catching and then gusting hotly past John’s ear as he came hard, his entire body spasming, lifting off the sofa cushions, holding John’s fist in place as he came all over his knuckles.

After, they sprawled back on the sofa cushions, the film playing on without either of them having a clue what was happening in it. Sherlock told him to go back to where they’d lost the story and they watched it again and Sherlock put his arm casually behind John on the sofa and after a bit, started kneading at the back of John’s neck in a light massage. By the time the movie had finished, John was aroused all over again, and when he followed Sherlock down the corridor to his bedroom, Sherlock didn’t say anything. In the doorway, he stopped, realising perhaps that John hadn’t just been on his way to the loo. “Coming in?” he’d asked, only a bit awkwardly.

“Thought I might,” John said, trying for nonchalance. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Mind,” Sherlock repeated, as though he didn’t know what the word meant. “Come in. And close the door.”

John did, and after he got Sherlock undressed, he leaned him up against a wall and knelt on the floor between his legs to give him the first blow job John had ever tried or that Sherlock had ever received, and the experiment was a success, to put it mildly. Sherlock made so much sound that John was almost alarmed that Mrs Hudson would wake up and come up to see if Sherlock had hurt himself. Despite that (or possibly even because of it), it was extremely arousing to do this for Sherlock, feel him react to every single thing his lips and tongue were doing, those long fingers scrabbling helplessly at the wallpaper, his sounds getting more and more desperate as John’s mouth worked over him. He sucked and sucked, his tongue firm as it cupped the underside of Sherlock’s cock and then Sherlock’s voice rose, his thighs going rigid and John didn’t quite manage the timing and ended up choking a little when Sherlock came. He mostly got the next shot, though some of it landed on his neck and chin.

Sherlock groaned and panted out an apology, his cock still leaking, and John shook his head and put his mouth back to suck out the last of it, rubbing his tongue against Sherlock’s leaking slit and Sherlock moaned again, putting fingers into John’s hair at last and rubbing at his scalp as his cock finally stopped pumping out dribs and drabs of come into John’s mouth. “Now you,” he said, and John agreed readily, rock hard by then, his underwear damp where he’d leaked. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, Sherlock’s hands both helping and getting in the way, then Sherlock was holding him at shoulder’s length and looking down the length of his body, eyes focusing in on his cock.

John was harder than anything and already breathing quickly, his pulse racing. “What?” he asked.

Sherlock blinked. “I just wanted to… look for a moment,” he said, in that completely unfiltered, direct way he’d always had.

“Okay,” John said, trying to control his breathing. He didn’t want to rush Sherlock into anything, after all.

But Sherlock finished his inspection, not saying anything, keeping whatever he’d observed to himself for once. “Come on,” he said vaguely, and tugged John toward the bed. John allowed himself to be arranged onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows as Sherlock spread himself out between his thighs and then taking John’s cock in hand. “I’ve never…” he started, though John didn’t need to be told that.

“Just – try to avoid teeth,” he said, trying for a smile.

Sherlock absorbed this and, without warning, took hold of John’s cock and slid his lips over the head of it. He made a noise of hummed reaction which vibrated down the length of John’s cock and John groaned. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to his and he made a questioning sound, not taking his mouth from John’s flesh.

John shook his head quickly, exhaling hard at the second vibration. “No – it’s good,” he said hastily, lest Sherlock change his mind. “It – that feels amazing. Please don’t stop.”

Sherlock sucked a little more, then lifted off and said, “I wasn’t going to.” His mouth enveloped John again before John could respond, and it was almost too much stimulus to even watch, though he tried, his head falling back, eyes fluttering shut between looks, moaning uncontrollably. Sherlock’s thumbs stroked over the line of his hip bones as his head bobbed, his mouth pumping down over and over again on John’s steadily leaking cock, and just this small extra gesture felt good, too. When John’s gut clenched, he gasped out a warning and Sherlock pulled his mouth back so that only the head was in his mouth, obviously prepared to catch and swallow John’s release as he kept his fist moving over him. This knowledge only fuelled the strength of John’s orgasm and he sucked in a lungful of air and felt it punch out of his throat in gusts as he came, black spots speckling his vision.

When it was over, Sherlock pulled himself up and flopped down beside him, the tension drained from that long back for once, head turned sideways on his forearms. “Shit,” John said weakly, to the ceiling. “That was fucking brilliant. How are you so good at that?”

Sherlock smirked. “I could ask the same thing,” he said. “But I won’t. Instinct, I presume. That would be the correct response in my case, at any rate.”

John didn’t know what to say to this, so he didn’t say anything, just lay there, still breathing hard.

Sherlock shifted. “Are you staying?” he asked obliquely, yet direct to the point.

John turned his face toward him. “Can I?”

“Please.” Sherlock tugged until the blankets were above them instead of below, and reached over to switch off the lamp.

They lay there in the darkness without moving for a few minutes, then John decided to be the first to make a move. He turned to Sherlock, who was still lying on his back. “How do you usually sleep?” he asked. “On your back?”

“Side, usually,” Sherlock said, his voice neutral. (Uncertain, then, John thought.)

“Which side?”

“Either.”

John put a hand on his bare chest. “Go on, then. Turn over.”

Sherlock complied, turning toward the window, his back to John. “What are we – ”

John slid over and fit himself into the spaces behind Sherlock’s knees and up against that long line of pale back and put an arm around his middle. “This okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, almost automatically, but it took nearly ten minutes for him to relax again. When he finally did, his body sagged comfortably back into John’s, his right arm settling against his side, folding John’s arm into him, and John made a sound of approval.

“That’s it,” he said. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Sherlock’s voice said, a little muffled, and John smiled into the back of his neck.

***

It was a slow-ish start, but they woke up together and John was the first to make a move then, too, reaching for Sherlock and Sherlock made sleepy noises of agreement that quickly turned much more awake and they lay there tugging at each other’s morning erections until the pace turned from lazy to needy, and after that point they spent almost every night together, usually in Sherlock’s bed. And they had sex. They had a lot of sex, and it was spectacular. They quickly explored most known sexual acts, discovering favourite activities and positions. Sherlock was surprisingly into it, although John had to remind himself to stop being surprised.

As for their status, he still wasn’t entirely clear on how things stood, precisely. Obviously they slept together. They were sexual partners, certainly. And they kissed, though almost always only in the context of being about to have sex, or very occasionally just after. But they didn’t hold hands. They didn’t really cuddle. They didn’t play footsie or coo at each other across the kitchen table. They didn’t talk about their feelings, or whether either of them even had any. They lived together, and they had sex. They took cases and worked and John still sniped about messes in the kitchen and Sherlock still had his moods and occasionally took off without him somewhere or got too focused and busy for sex – though not usually for more than a couple of days at a time. Then the case would wrap up and he wanted it again. He once finished a case in the middle of the night, and since they hadn’t been doing anything lately anyway, John had gone up to sleep in his own bed. Sherlock came up and crawled in next to him somewhere not long before four, a long arm snaking around John’s waist, and in the morning there had been a particularly lovely blow job, long and sensuous and unhurried that John took as an apology for the four days of neglect. He’d returned the favour, hard feelings forgotten, and they never talked about it.

And Sherlock still sulks, as demonstrated by his current, petulant position on the sofa, his impossibly long back concave to the outside world, irritable and unapproachable. He’s been this way for hours and John is frankly sick of it. Sherlock has now been this way since yesterday, sleeping out here on the sofa (John had slept upstairs again and fumed to himself about Sherlock’s moods). He’s tried talking to him. Tried offering tea or food. Tried reasoning with him about the load of unsolved cases Scotland Yard has stacked up. Reminded him that everyone’s human. Sherlock has only grunted in response, or sniped at him, so John got annoyed and decided to leave him to stew in his mood until he’d got over it. That was yesterday, though. Today he’s had quite enough of it. The question is just how to snap Sherlock out of it.

Suddenly an idea occurs. Sherlock isn’t paying attention to him, anyway, so he doesn’t notice (or care, probably, John thinks petulantly) when John goes quietly upstairs. He rummages through the drawer where he last left his fatigues, then strips off his jeans and underwear and pulls on the fatigues. (What the – ?) John looks down at them, frowning and tugging them up. They’re tighter than they were six weeks ago when all this started, and he can’t have possibly gained weight in there – he’d have noticed, surely. Only – it’s not just that, John realises. The waistband is actually very slightly looser, and the only places where they’re tighter are his thighs and arse. Even the area around his crotch is tighter, and when John looks in the mirror above the dresser, he can see that they now cup his bits and pieces snugly, somehow making them look more prominent. He turns this way and that, noting the way they’re hugging the curves of his arse tightly enough to be indecent. Damn, he thinks. I look good in these! He shakes his head at his reflection. “That sly son of a bitch,” he says to it. “He had my fatigues tailored.” The very thought of this, of Sherlock having been able to give some tailor precisely detailed instructions without having John’s actual body present, is enormously flattering, that Sherlock knows every curve of his arse and legs and the rest of it that well, and for the first time in years, John’s longstanding jealousy of Irene Adler and how well Sherlock was able to divine her measurements is laid to rest.

He examines himself a little more in the mirror, then purses his lips, thinking. He pulls off his jumper and tosses it aside. The vest goes next, and then he digs out his combat boots, peels off his socks and puts the boots on, not tying the laces. He surveys himself one last time, feeling smugly confident in his own hotness for once, and goes back downstairs. Sherlock hasn’t moved, so John goes to his chair and sits down, putting one booted foot on his knee and picking up the book he was reading. It’s early May and it’s not particularly chilly out, but John doesn’t normally sit around without a shirt on, either. He contemplates building a fire, then decides that would be too obvious. Might as well go for the direct approach. He turns a page of his book and clears his throat after a few minutes have passed. “I must say, these are far more comfortable now. Just tight in different ways.”

For a moment Sherlock doesn’t react, though John can practically hear the question bouncing around inside his skull, the wheels all turning furiously. Then his head turns very slightly, only an inch or so, just cocking his ear. “What do you mean?”

Oh, he knows, John thinks. He keeps his eyes on his book and says very calmly, “You know exactly what I mean. And if you really want to know, you can turn around and look for yourself.”

That does it: Sherlock turns around and sits up and when his eyes fall on John, he actually swallows, visibly. For a few seconds he seems unable to actually manage speech. John peripherally sees his Adam’s apple bob in that disgracefully long neck of his. “You found them,” he says at last, sounding partly strangled.

John turns a page he hasn’t read. “They were right there in the drawer.”

“Can I… see?” Sherlock asks, his voice strained.

John tosses the book aside and stands up, hands on his hips, and walks into the middle of the sitting room. He’s about halfway hard already; the sensation of the fatigues cupping every part of him so intimately it’s practically obscene, and it’s already started taking effect on him. He turns a slow circle so that Sherlock can see his arse in them, then casually comes around. “Pleased with your handiwork?” he asks.

“It’s not mine,” Sherlock says, his voice unfocused, eyes riveted to John’s body, travelling from his chest to his crotch. “A tailor.”

“I know that,” John says. “Your measurements, though.”

Sherlock doesn’t deny this. “Come closer,” he requests, and John in turn doesn’t deny him, walking around the coffee table and putting himself in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock’s hands come out to touch his sides as though he can’t even prevent himself from doing it, and John smirks. “Oh, so now you’re finally interested in this again, are you?” he says, teasing. He puts his hands into Sherlock’s unkempt locks with both undeniable arousal as well as an affection that goes far deeper than he’d care to admit. He hates sounding needy, but he genuinely misses Sherlock when he retreats like this, misses touching him and being touched by him. If it means more to him than it does to Sherlock, he can go on keeping that to himself. It’s fine. But having Sherlock’s hands on him again feels too good to be able to keep from saying something about it.

Sherlock doesn’t try to sidestep the comment or make excuses. “You look – ” His hands are stroking up and down John’s sides. John thinks they might actually be trembling.

“Yeah?” he prompts.

“There aren’t words,” Sherlock says, with something approaching actual reverence. His hands slide around to John’s arse, pulling him closer, and John steps onto the sofa, knees bent, and pulls Sherlock’s face to his crotch. Sherlock makes a low sound in his throat, mouthing at John’s hardness through the thin, well-worn material of the fatigues, fingers kneading his arse, and John is in heaven. He rubs himself against Sherlock’s mouth and moans a little. After a bit, Sherlock tips his head back to look up at him. He pats a thigh and says, his cheeks flushed, eyes dark with arousal, “John – come here. Just – sit on my lap for a minute. I want to feel your arse against me in those.”

John gets it and complies, turning around to plant his arse on Sherlock’s crotch. He doesn’t know how to give a lap dance and wouldn’t do one if he did, but he also used to think he’d never sit in another bloke’s lap. Or anyone’s lap. However, it’s rare that Sherlock makes a specific request of any type, so he does it without complaining. Sherlock’s thighs are shaking a little, his hands touching John everywhere as though compulsively, running up John’s chest to massage his peaked nipples, then travelling down to his legs and running up the inside of his thighs before rubbing at his erection, trapped inside the cloth. They’re both breathing quickly and John can feel how hard Sherlock is inside the suit trousers he never bothered taking off when they came home from the case. His erection is pressing into John’s arse and that feels good, too. Nine times out of ten, John tops when they have sex and in general, it’s been their default position. They both like it – but on very rare occasion, one or the other of them have requested to do it the other way, and they both like that, too. John likes having sex with Sherlock, full stop – the specifics don’t actually matter all that much. When Sherlock tops, he’s always very attentive and makes sure to make it worth John’s while. Their current position makes him wonder if today will be one of those particular exceptions.

He’s guessed right. “John…” Sherlock begins, both hands still cupping John’s cock in the fatigues. “I – could we…”

“You want to top?” John asks, beating around the bush. He looks back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You can top. I kind of thought you might want to.”

Sherlock’s chin ducks in a nod. “If you don’t… mind,” he says, his breath already coming faster, the idea obviously quite arousing to him.

“I don’t mind at all,” John assures him. He twists around to get an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and kisses him on the jaw. “Christ, Sherlock, it’s been four days. I’m up for anything, to be frank.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, which is astonishing. “I just – ”

“Never mind,” John interrupts. “Not now. I know. Just – let’s do this, yeah?”

To his surprise, Sherlock pulls his face back and kisses him on the mouth, a full, deeply sensuous kiss, his hands stroking John’s legs and back, then reaching for the button of his perfectly-tailored fatigues.

John makes a sound of agreement into his mouth and kicks off the boots, his fingers deftly slipping the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt open and stripping it off him. Between increasingly-frantic kisses he says, “I can’t believe you’ve been – wearing the same shirt – for four days now – mmm – ”

“Five,” Sherlock says against his lips. “I’m sorry, I – ”

“Shut up,” John interrupts. “Not now. Just get it all off, now!”

He doesn’t normally get this demanding, but he’s literally aching for it and apologies are about the least sexy thing in the world. Sherlock is acquiescing regardless, shifting John off his lap while he struggles out of the suit trousers and his underwear. John is standing in front of him, facing him, and Sherlock puts his hands on John’s hips and turns him the other way, which is odd – John was expecting him to take the fatigues off, but before he can open his mouth to ask, Sherlock says, “Kneel down and bend over the coffee table.”

John goes over does as Sherlock requested. “Are you sure you don’t want me to – ”

“All in good time,” Sherlock interrupts, following him and kneeling behind him. He does the same as before, breathing on John through the material of his trousers, only on the other side now, and John shivers as he realises what Sherlock has in mind. He isn’t wrong: Sherlock gets the material completely damp with his breath and mouth, then starts licking John through it without restraint.

John can’t help groaning; it feels good enough through the single, thin layer separating him from Sherlock’s admittedly talented tongue, but it’s not enough at the same time. He shifts so that he’s bent over the coffee table even further, his arse as high up as he can get it to make it easier for Sherlock. Sherlock’s face is buried in his arse, his big hands holding him by the hips. John holds out as long as he can, but – “God, please!” The words burst out of him before he can help it. “Get these fatigues off me!”

Sherlock licks again, then reaches around to cup John’s rock hard erection, and his voice hums in approval. “You do want this,” he says, sounding satisfied. His fingers go quickly to work and when he unzips John, he makes a surprised sound. “No pants,” he says, his voice trembling with suppressed desire. “You’re not wearing – ” He exhales hard, and John would smirk if he didn’t want it as badly as he does.

“No, I’m not,” he says, as curtly as possible given that his voice is shaking.

Sherlock yanks the fatigues down and wastes no time getting his mouth on John. The heat of his tongue slides directly into John without preamble, and as always happens when they do it this way, John remembers with a rush of heartfelt gratitude how much he likes it this way. In general Sherlock is slightly more at ease when John is calling the shots – not so much directing, but setting the pace, making sure Sherlock is comfortable before they do anything. This way is amazing, though, John thinks, groaning without restraint as Sherlock essentially fucks him with his tongue. He’s harder than ever and Sherlock is stroking him loosely with his right hand, the thumb of his left holding John open. John feels absolutely assailed with pleasure, and Sherlock hasn’t even come anywhere near his prostate yet.

“I can’t take it anymore!” he gasps, unable to hold it back. “God – please fuck me!”

Sherlock makes a ragged sound of devout agreement and wrestles the fatigues off John’s ankles, leaving him completely nude. “Next time – leave your boots on,” he says, breathless, his voice betraying how much lust is coursing through his veins at the moment. He’s already fitting the head of his cock into position, and John isn’t surprised (though nonetheless grateful) to discover that Sherlock managed to lube himself up while giving John the rim job of a lifetime. Apparently he couldn’t wait, either. He makes a questioning sound, rasping in his throat and John interrupts him in his haste to agree. Sherlock pushes into him in a long, singular thrust and they both moan.

John stretches both arms out over the coffee table to grip the far edge, not giving a damn about the newspapers, books, box of tissues, and coffee mug that get jostled in doing so. He moans with every stroke of Sherlock’s cock in him. Sherlock is trembling palpably, his thrusts coming hard and fast from the start, which is rare for him. His hands run up and down John’s sides a few times, then settle at his hips and grip hard, rutting into John with all of his concentration, which is considerable. He has a knack for finding John’s prostate within the first three strokes and almost never missing it once he’s found it, and today is no exception. John is practically drooling, drowning in his own pleasure. “I should – wear those – every – fucking – day,” he gets out as Sherlock pounds into him. The table is shaking, the coffee mug dancing toward the edge. “Harder – fuck – ”

Sherlock grunts and increases his pace. “I thought – this was – suff – sufficient – ly hard – already,” he pants, his voice breaking into a gut-deep groan. “I’ve – missed this – ”

“You didn’t – need to,” John manages, his eyes closing. The edge of the coffee table is digging into his belly and will leave lines, but he doesn’t care in the slightest. “It’s your fault – if you’ve – missed out.” A fresh wave of pleasure assails him and he wants to reach down and grab at himself, but then it would be over too quickly. Still, though. “Harder!”

Sherlock makes a sound that can only be called a growl and lets loose, fucking John so hard that it’s completely wild, almost animalistic. The mug clatters over the edge and falls to the carpet, but it was empty, anyway. The coffee table itself gives an alarming crack. “The table – ” he tries, but doesn’t alter his pace.

“I don’t give a shit!” John knows he sounds desperate and doesn’t care. “Keep going!”

“John – I’m going to – ” Sherlock is gasping, his voice higher now, which is always a sign that he’s close. He reaches for John’s cock at last, holding his fist in place and pushing John’s cock into it on every thrust.

The table cracks again. All of Sherlock’s weight is resting on John’s back as he bucks into him and John’s finger nails are white in their grip. The table abruptly splits beneath them, splintering, everything that was on it cascading to the floor, and they still don’t stop. Sherlock’s fist tightens and he curses once and then comes, but the feeling of it alone is enough to push John over the edge himself, on his hands and knees with shards of wood digging into his palms as the sheer intensity of the pleasure makes him clench his jaw so hard his teeth could shatter. He grabs Sherlock’s fist and holds it still, pumping his release into it as his orgasm thunders in his ears, dimly aware that Sherlock is still coming inside him, the heat of it flooding his body, the sweat between his back and Sherlock’s front wet as their bodies slide against each other’s.

John opens his eyes, panting. He looks down and sees that he’s come all over the wreckage of the coffee table and the carpet beneath it. He doesn’t care, gasping so hard that black spots are swimming in his vision. “We broke the table,” he gets out, but it’s really more of an observation than a complaint.

Sherlock’s chest and belly are heaving against his back. “So we did,” he says. His hips circle in a few last, lazy thrusts, but he’s spent. He plucks a tissue from the fallen box and cleans his hand with it, then pulls himself with obvious reluctance from John, swiping the tissue below decks and tossing it away.

John is about to say something and pick himself up, but Sherlock’s hands drag him up and back before he can, both of them tumbling backward onto the sofa, Sherlock’s legs sprawled wide as he pulls John against his chest. John makes a sound of contented agreement and pulls down the blanket from the back of the sofa to drape over his cock, now spent and drooping to the left against his thigh. He can feel Sherlock’s come leaking out of him and onto Sherlock’s warm skin, but apparently Sherlock isn’t bothered by this. They never use condoms; they had that conversation before the first time. They established that John was clean (which Sherlock already knew – naturally) and that Sherlock had never had sex with anyone else and had had himself tested since his last known drug use and had always been been clean, so they never bothered with protection.

Sherlock surprises him by tipping John’s head back and craning around to kiss him again. Their post-sex kisses, when they happen at all, are usually light, brief things. A kiss on the cheek before one or the other of them rolls out of bed to do something else, or a short peck on the lips. This time was more intense than usual, though, so perhaps that’s why Sherlock is still willing to do this bit of it, John thinks. He doesn’t care why at the moment, revelling in the depth of it, in the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue curled around his and stroking, his arms cradled possessively around John’s chest, one hand resting on the softest bit of his belly. It feels far more intimate than they usually are, for people who aren’t quite lovers, at least. It’s friendship, but with sex. The two together do not add up to being lovers, John knows, but this particular time feels a little different. It’s the fatigues, he thinks. Sherlock’s military kink. It just made Sherlock want him more than usual this time.

After a bit, the kiss ebbs off and John settles himself comfortably back against Sherlock’s chest. They don’t cuddle, but apparently today is an exception. “So,” he says after a bit. “Bit of a military kink, then.” They’ve never actually discussed this. John hadn’t wanted to embarrass Sherlock over it, but today might be the right time, he thinks.

Sherlock is quiet for a long time – so long that John thinks he isn’t going to answer. Just when John begins to fish about for something else to say instead (though the silence hasn’t become uncomfortable), Sherlock does answer. “When I was a boy, I had a figurine of a soldier,” he says, his fingers pulling gently at the soft fuzz on John’s belly. “I don’t remember who gave it to me. I would have been seven or eight, I suppose. I didn’t really play with it, but it always stood on the night table beside my bed. I believed back then that it could ward off attackers. I was only a child.”

He goes silent, disappearing into his own musings, so John prompts him. “And?” He turns his head a little, not enough to see Sherlock’s face, just to show he’s listening. “Did something change your mind? Or… what happened to it?”

“Mycroft happened to it,” Sherlock says briefly. “He went away for school when he was eight, of course. As I did. He was home for the Easter break and was scoffing because I still had it. He said all the things one would expect – and you can’t even imagine how unendurably smug Mycroft was at fifteen. It was my last year at home before going off to school, myself, and Mycroft said that I couldn’t take the soldier with me or I’d be laughed at. He was wrong – lots of the others had some sort of toy, but I suppose he meant it for my own good, in his own, interfering way.”

John is almost holding his breath, still lying back in Sherlock’s loosely circling arms. “And?” he asks. “What happened?”

“He broke it,” Sherlock says briefly. There is no tension in his voice, but there is something nonetheless rather bleak about it. “I tried to glue it back together, but he was never the same.”

John notes that Sherlock said he, not it this time. He waits, wondering if Sherlock will continue, and after a moment, he does.

“Whatever ‘luck’ or imagined protection the soldier gave was gone. I was furious with Mycroft and told him that I would get a real soldier of my own one day, and he’s never let me forget that I said it, never let me live it down. I was only eight – I didn’t realise how it sounded at the time. Of course,” he adds, his tone turning dry, “he brought that back in force when I met you.”

Several things fall abruptly into place for John, but his attention is caught by something else. “What do you mean, the luck or protection was gone?” he asks. “How did you know?”

Now Sherlock does sound bitter. “Redbeard,” he says, his voice tight. He’s only ever talked about it once before, and then only very briefly. “He was put down one month later, and the following month I had to leave for school and never wanted to go. Mycroft was merciless, both about the soldier and Redbeard. It was my first lesson in learning the dangers of sentiment. It was when I learned to switch off.”

John understands at once. “So you went to school and became a different person, a bit,” he says. They’re dangerously close to the subject of feelings, and given that they’re lying naked together beside the wreckage of the coffee table they just destroyed, John thinks it might be too vulnerable a time to bring it up if Sherlock doesn’t do it first. He hesitates, wondering if he should say something to give Sherlock the opportunity, but Sherlock has only made a vaguely affirmative noise to what he just said, and somehow John thinks that it’s not the right time. Not yet, at least – though it feels closer to that than it ever has before. Better to wait, though. He shifts a little. “So the military thing – that all comes from the toy? Is it the thing about how soldiers protect and defend and all that? Is it the uniforms? I just ask because I know you don’t think much of the whole queen-and-country thing, and yet…”

“I know.” Sherlock sounds slightly apologetic. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s some combination of all of that. It’s not even a full-on ‘kink’, per se. Just…” He trails off for a moment, thinking, then says, “I like it when you wear the uniform. And act like a captain again. Not with me, exactly – I’m not particularly interested in being ordered about or in roleplay games or that sort of thing – ”

“Says the man with a closet full of costumes,” John puts in wryly.

“That’s different,” Sherlock says briefly, but doesn’t explain. “I mean that – I don’t want to play domination games or something like that. I just – I like it when that side of you comes out for some reason, during a case or something.” He stops, then adds quietly, “And I like the uniform on you. Especially the fatigues.”

John feels a swell of affection. Somehow he feels very sure that Sherlock hasn’t said everything, but it’s a lot more of his inner self than he ever usually reveals as it is, and he doesn’t want to push it. “I’ve noticed that last bit,” he says lightly, and twists his head back to kiss the underside of Sherlock’s chin.

Sherlock’s arms tighten and he angles his face to find John’s mouth with his own. Their mouths meet and part and meet again. “I’m… sorry,” Sherlock says. “About the four days thing. I won’t do that again. I’ve missed this.”

This statement leaps immediately to the top of the list of the most sentimental things Sherlock has ever said to him and John’s heart expands achingly in his chest. “So’ve I,” he murmurs, putting his hands over Sherlock’s. “Next time you feel like a sulk, maybe you should give this a try instead.”

He feels Sherlock nod. “I will. And if I forget, you can always… remind me. Especially with those fatigues.” He shifts his hands down to John’s cock and begins to caress it. He seems to love doing this, lying in this particular position on the sofa, and his arms are the perfect length for touching John like this when they’re lying together this way. John doesn’t think he could possibly have anything left after that truly mind-blowing orgasm he had only twenty minutes earlier, but Sherlock’s fingers know him, know his body, and are deft at persuading another rise out of him, not seeming to mind that John is still sticky from the first round. “I’ll buy a new coffee table,” Sherlock says in his ear, with something suspiciously like a nuzzle.

“We’ll buy a new coffee table,” John corrects him, his pulse already speeding up, thumping in his throat. “With the way you like to stand on the furniture, I’d best come along to make sure we get something sturdy enough.”

Sherlock’s mouth is on his ear, lipping at it, and John thinks that he’s never done that before. “As I recall, it was you standing on the furniture a little while ago…” John opens his mouth to say something to this, but Sherlock cuts him off before he can, his voice even lower and sultrier. “I liked it.”

Again, this is vastly more direct than Sherlock normally is, and John can’t help himself. He twists around so that he’s facing Sherlock, his growing erection rubbing up against Sherlock’s. He puts his mouth on Sherlock’s and kisses him deeply, hungrily, craving an even deeper connection. He isn’t imagining that Sherlock is kissing back just as hard, his hands on John’s arse as John writhes against him. Sherlock breaks off the kiss, breathless.

“Come here,” he says, tugging at John, and John gets it and shuffles upward, astride Sherlock’s chest.

“Sure?” he asks dubiously, giving voice to this thought now. “I’m still all sticky and whatnot.”

“I don’t care.” Sherlock takes one hard from his arse to guide John’s cock to his mouth and begins to suck, sitting up just enough to make the angle more comfortable, and John moans. His cock rapidly hardens the rest of the way in the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth and he has to fight to keep himself still, not wanting to choke Sherlock. He distracts himself a little by reaching back to take hold of Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock’s hummed moan reverberates through him. In the end, he can’t help thrusting lightly into the tight circle of Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock’s hips twitch and jerk up off the sofa to push into his fist and they come at almost the same second again, which doesn’t happen all that often. John spills himself into Sherlock’s mouth and a long groan of satisfaction even as Sherlock’s come sprays hotly against his lower back, and it’s good. It’s so good.

When the spots clear from his vision, John pulls himself out of Sherlock’s mouth and slides back down his body to kiss him again. He can’t say what he feels, but apparently this is allowed now, kissing Sherlock like this. Things have definitely shifted, he thinks, and while neither of them have said anything, Sherlock’s hands and lips are saying quite a bit all on their own.

***

John is correct: things did change that day. From that moment forth, it feels distinctly closer to being lovers than roommates who have sex. There’s a lot more kissing, for starters. And a lot more casual touching. There’s still something very careful behind it all. Something unconfirmed. They’ve never said that they’re exclusive, though John thinks it’s assumed on both sides and would be shocked and devastated to discover otherwise. There’s never been any revelation of feelings. No commitments made, no definitions decided upon. John feels as though he can’t cross this line, build a bridge across this gap. Maybe it will just happen sometime, he thinks. They’ll be lying in bed in each other’s arms after they’ve had sex, and Sherlock will just say, This is permanent, isn’t it? We’re not going to stop this any time soon, are we? And John could then say, No, of course not, you tit. I’m not going anywhere. And then they would kiss and it would all get very passionate and that. So far this hasn’t happened, however. And it does hold things back. It’s a small limitation, but John feels it constantly nonetheless. It stops him assuming anything of Sherlock. Stops him drawing out a kiss into the playful bits, lingering to nibble at Sherlock’s full lower lip, twine their fingers together when Sherlock takes him by the hand and tugs him toward his bedroom. Stops him calling it their bedroom, though it really is. Half of John’s clothes have migrated downstairs – but Sherlock hasn’t yet invited him to just bring the rest of them and be done with it, Here John, you take these drawers and I’ll keep these ones. Will that give you enough space? Not so far.

He does wonder what’s holding them back. Every now and again he catches glimpses of a restless look in Sherlock’s eyes, or he’ll take a breath and almost say something, or so John thinks, but when John looks up and meets his eyes, brows raised, or asks directly, Sherlock will change his mind and deny that he was going to say anything, or change the subject. He’s subtle about it, but John has been watching for this, waiting for a sign of some sort. He’s also asked himself if it could possibly be that Sherlock’s waiting for him to say something, but he really doesn’t think so. Their silences are comfortable, but John still senses a certain constraint that cannot be crossed or encroached upon, and he doesn’t know why it’s there or what it means.

But it’s distinctly better. Sherlock will come out of the shower and into the kitchen wearing nothing at all, maybe towelling off his curls, put an arm around John where he’s standing in front of the coffee maker and swoop in to kiss him – which has led to them having sex right there in the kitchen more than once. There was a narrow escape from Mrs Hudson’s tapping kitten heels on the stairs one of those times. She doesn’t know yet, or at least, they haven’t told her and she’s made no reference to it. What’s to tell, John wonders dismally. He imagines that awkward conversation: So, er, Mrs H, don’t know if you’ve cottoned on at all yet, but, er, Sherlock and I, we wanted you to know that we’re, er, sleeping together now. No, no – we’re not boyfriends or anything like that. Don’t get too excited. I’m just saying that we have sex and that. We kiss. Snog during the evening news. I stay in his room pretty much every night. Not sure what one calls that, but there it is: it’s happening. Thought you might like to know. Perhaps not.

He’s not unhappy about it, per se. They go shopping for a new coffee table and buy a rather nice one and when the sales clerk looks them over and then solicitously voices his hope that it will go well in their sitting room, Sherlock merely smiles a little and says nothing, and gives the clerk his credit card. Once the delivery details have been confirmed, it’s John who puts his hand on the small of Sherlock back and leads him out of the store, not caring who sees – or rather, hoping they all see it and know that Sherlock is his and his alone – and Sherlock says nothing about this, either.

They go home and order in Chinese and eat with their feet touching under the kitchen table and neither one of them remarking on the fact, and when John suggests they go to bed later on, Sherlock readily gets up from his chair, taking the hand John held out and not letting go as they make their way down the short corridor. John shaves off his five o’clock shadow and brushes his teeth while Sherlock brushes his before disappearing into the bedroom to get undressed. When he appears naked in the doorway, lounging against it ever so casually, John drops his toothbrush on the counter and turns around, eyes gleaming, and he can’t even say whether he reaches for Sherlock first or whether it’s Sherlock who reaches for him, but he thinks he’s not the only one privately sighing in relief as they kiss, Sherlock’s hands rapidly stripping the clothes from his body. They’re finally in each other’s arms again and it didn’t need explanation or requesting because they always have sex before they go to sleep, except twice during cases, when Sherlock wasn’t sleeping, anyway. And that other time on the sofa, but it’s been nearly a month since then and he’s kept his word and not gone into any sulks since that day.

They stumble into bed together, kissing and rolling over and over, their bodies melding together, and Sherlock nods and moans when John’s fingers probe, a questioning sound in his throat, and a bit later when he pushes into the heat of Sherlock’s body again, it’s with a sensation of being home, of being absolutely where he belongs, and he feels that relief on both sides again. So why, then, he wonders, his hips undulating in a steady rhythm into Sherlock’s body, why can’t they figure this out and talk? What is this constraint that means that he can’t tell Sherlock exactly how deeply he feels about him in the moment of his release, or after, when they’ve both come, Sherlock’s arms locked around his back, crying out hoarsely, John finally letting himself go, dissolving from the inside out within Sherlock. Why not then? He lies in the cradle of Sherlock’s arm, his own curled around Sherlock’s torso, one leg draped over Sherlock’s sprawled thighs, and wishes again that he could say it now, tell Sherlock that he loves him now and always has and always will.

And as he’s falling asleep, he thinks again of Sherlock’s toy soldier, the way he told Mycroft that he would find a real soldier of his own one day, and how very close he came to telling John that he had found that in him. He didn’t say it, though. Was John meant to infer that from the story? He cautiously thinks that maybe he was, that there are certain grounds for it, but it’s different than saying so outright and he suspects they’re both aware of this fact.

It’s difficult, this. It’s also brilliant – by far, hands down, the very best thing that’s ever happened in John’s life, and he’s firmly set on not doing anything to risk upsetting it. Of pushing Sherlock too far too soon. Of asking for too much. Of accidentally hurting him, possibly just as he’s beginning to finally unlearn Mycroft’s life lesson regarding sentiment, and cautiously extending his life-altering exception for John and John alone. No: he won’t do it. If Sherlock just needs time, then John can give him time.

***

A case comes up. Lestrade brings it to them because it’s Army and they don’t want the Yard investigating directly, or at least not overtly. It’s a question of smuggled goods and whomever contacted Lestrade wants it kept quiet, the investigation extremely discreet, so Lestrade’s sent them. They’re out in Greenwich at the Royal Artillery Barracks, seated in an office with windows that’s been given over to them for the duration of the investigation. Sherlock is seated in one of the chairs at the curving desk and John is sitting on the edge of the desk itself, his feet resting on the arms of another of the chairs.

Sherlock has an open file in front of him, but really he’s watching a training exercise outside in the yard. John glances at it, then at Sherlock’s face. It’s filled with concentration, but his eyes don’t look any different than usual – though that could also be the bright light coming in from the yard preventing his pupils from dilating.

“I still don’t really get it,” he admits, breaking the silence. “You seem fascinated by soldiers – yet you’re the last person on the planet who would ever become one.”

Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes from the line marching in precise formation across the dusty compound. “Precisely,” he says. “I’m the last person who would ever become a soldier. The discipline. The notion of sacrifice for the greater good. You know me. You know what I am. I would never have chosen that.”

John waits, watching him, wanting to ask but not sure what the question even is.

Sherlock turns his head up and sideways and meets his eyes. “But it doesn’t mean that I don’t admire those who have, even if I’m at a slight loss to understand it,” he says. “Like you. You chose that: chose to give up your personal life and go into an active war zone – and go back, twice. You cared that much that you would risk you life for it. Don’t you know what – appeal that has?”

John blinks at him. He’s never even considered this, that it was anything more than a sincere appreciation of the aesthetic of the uniform for Sherlock. “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he says slowly. “Though – I do remember that you called me a ‘war hero’ when we first met. I’ve never forgotten that.”

Sherlock doesn’t smile. His mouth is quite set, the corners tucked in, and suddenly he says, “John, can I ask about – something?”

“Of course,” John says, frowning a little. “Is… this what you’ve specifically not been asking me for the last little while?”

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t bother trying to deny it. “But – I need to know. You and Sholto. Please.”

John boggles inwardly for a moment. This is what Sherlock has been sitting on all this time? He feels genuinely disappointed. He’d hoped it was about them. “What do you want to know?” he asks, the disappointment trickling down into his gut like cold water.

“What happened between you?” Sherlock asks, the question direct and unfiltered. His eyes look very blue in the bright light coming in. The sky is overcast but the clouds are diffusing the sun oddly. “What was… the nature of your relationship, the history. All of that.”

John forces his throat to swallow and looks down at his hands. “There isn’t much to tell,” he starts, feeling oddly reluctant to talk about it, but not willing to refuse Sherlock, either.

“No.” Sherlock rejects this outright. “I saw you at the wedding. I saw the way you looked him.”

John looks up at this, into Sherlock’s eyes, and almost opens his mouth to say something unwise, such as Have you honestly never noticed the way I look at you, you twit? He catches and suppresses the foolish words in time, though. “Sherlock – ” He stops and takes a second to gather his thoughts. “First off, what you need to know is that any sort of… relationship along those lines, between a captain and his commanding officer, or her commanding officer, or the other way around – between a captain and a junior officer, say – that sort of thing is extremely frowned upon. To put it lightly. It could result in a charge of inappropriate sexual conduct, of harassment. It could result in a court martial or a demotion. Even dishonourable discharge. It’s not a risk most people would take in the first place.”

“No, but you did,” Sherlock insists. His jaw is set in that stubborn way it gets, and John sighs inwardly. He is going to have to tell Sherlock all of it after all. “You took the risk,” Sherlock reiterates. His long fingers are twisting at each other in his lap, and John has the wit to realise how agitated Sherlock is. How much he hasn’t been asking, or saying. How long he’s been holding this in.

Maybe he can ask now because they’re both fully-clothed and not touching. Or perhaps he just couldn’t hold it in any longer. John clears his throat and looks down and sideways at the desk and speaks quietly, the unpleasant memories dredging themselves up all over again. “It was one time,” he says, his voice low but even. “Our unit was hit. I lost two men. Good men. Instant deaths, at least. I didn’t even have the chance to try to save them. And that night, I…” His voice goes dry and disappears. He clears his throat again and forces the words out. “He was making an inspection that night. It was my third tour. I knew him as well as one ever knows a commanding officer. He saw that I was upset and ended up inviting me back to his private tent for a drink. I felt dazed. I don’t even remember agreeing to go.”

Sherlock’s eyes are riveted to his eyes. “But you went,” he said, already certain.

John nods and scratches at the surface of the desk with a thumb nail. “I guess I drank a bit too much. The details are honestly pretty hazy, but the next thing I knew I was crying, like a total – and he was there. I just remember that suddenly his arms were around me and his mouth was on mine and I was surprised but in that particular moment, I just decided I didn’t even care. Being over there – Sherlock – it’s like… when you lose someone, especially one of your own men, someone whose life you were responsible for – I can’t even describe what it feels like. The guilt. The sense of loss, of waste. Of having failed someone, even though it had nothing to do with you. At the time it felt like I could have jumped at anything, anyone. You need the confirmation of life, as it were – that you’re still alive, at least, that your heart is still pumping blood through your veins, that you still have skin to be touched. So when he – I just went with it, I guess.”

Sherlock is very still, his eyes not moving, his lips set. “What happened?” he asks after a moment.

John swallows and looks away again. “He… we kissed a bit, and then he – touched me. Went down on me. I didn’t return the favour. Didn’t have to – he got himself off while he was – yeah. Anyway. It was just that one time.”

Sherlock digests this, blinking, his eyes still glued to John’s face. “But it meant something to you,” he says, positing the theory carefully. Less certainly than before. “It wasn’t just – nothing to you. I saw your face. At the wedding.”

John opens his mouth, trying to choose which words to use. It occurs to him that this is one of the most important conversations they’ve ever had to date. This matters terribly to Sherlock, and it matters to both of them that he tell the absolute truth. “It meant something because I respected him,” he says at last, the words sticking painfully in his throat. “He was my commanding officer. I never had feelings for him, or any particular attraction. I just – it was just something that happened.”

“But after?” Sherlock asks, keenly focused on him. “Did that change?”

John struggles for the honest answer again. “After, it was just – we never talked about it. You have to understand that he wasn’t always there. My unit was hardly the only one he commanded; he made the rounds. What I can tell you, though, is that when I was shot, there was nothing. He didn’t come. He absolutely would have known about it, as my CO, and he didn’t come. That matters far more, Sherlock. I was invalided home, and the next time I ever heard anything about him, it was the big scandal. His fall from grace. I tried to do the right thing and reached out to him, if only because everyone else had turned their backs on him. And you know, I could have used his support when I was first back in London, before I met you. I could have used someone checking in on me the way I tried to, with him, but he wouldn’t see me in any case. I kept up the sporadic attempts but the next time I ever saw him was at the wedding. That’s the truth, Sherlock. And seeing him – it was more surreal than anything else. I can’t deny that it happened, but I can tell you that in the grand scheme of things, it matters less to me than a lot of other things.”

He turns his head to look Sherlock in the eye. There’s more he wants to say, but he wants to know how this is playing with Sherlock first. Sherlock just sits there, not breaking their eye contact, hardly breathing. Then he swallows. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, his voice slightly unreadable. There’s something uncertain to it, though. Or so John thinks.

He leans forward a little. “Sherlock – is that honestly the only thing that’s been holding us back? You wanting to know my history with Sholto?”

Sherlock blinks once and a look of undeniable hurt crosses his features. “I didn’t understand,” he says, a slight edge to the words. “When I saw you with him, the fact that something had happened seemed transparent to me. And yet you had always denied being gay to absolutely everyone who would listen to you, made sure that no one mistook you and I for a couple, so I was at a loss to explain it. As the evening wore on, I was forced to accept the fact that you were occasionally attracted to men after all, but not to me, specifically. It was – easier to accept when I thought it was merely a question of orientation. When I realised that, I…” He stops and clears his throat, then goes on more quietly, looking away. “I couldn’t stay. I just – I had to be anywhere else but there. You had just married Mary and proven unequivocally that you were at least bisexual after all, and – it was too much of you not wanting me to handle.”

John stares at him, his throat tightening, astonished by this. “But – ” The words blurts itself out, and he decides to say the rest of the instinctive thought anyway. “I thought you were just doing your antisocial thing,” he says. The enormity of Sherlock’s pain on the night of the wedding seems to be clamouring against his ears, battering his mind with the consciousness of it. He feels terrible. “I had no idea,” he says, stunned. “I mean – I never knew you were interested in us having that sort of thing. I mean, even now, until very recently I thought it was just a bit of a kink. But you – ” He stops, looking into Sherlock’s incredibly blue, still-hurt eyes. The hurt makes him look younger than his years and John yearns to go to him, put his hand on Sherlock’s forehead and smooth away the pain in his face with his fingers, with promises murmured against that pale forehead, his lips on Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock’s jaw clenches a little as he swallows, lips tightening. “I’m in love with you,” he says, the words a little hoarse. “It’s the truth, John. But I couldn’t – ”

He stops and John thinks he understands. “You couldn’t say so because you didn’t know why I’d apparently rejected you but not Sholto.” There is warmth blooming in his belly at Sherlock’s words, but he’s got to clarify this misunderstanding. He shakes his head, crossing his arms. “Look: it was never a question of my having said yes to him and no to you. For starters, if I hadn’t walked in on you that day, I would never had known that you fancied me at all. Never mind that you felt that way. Secondly, that thing was Sholto was a special circumstance. It wasn’t even my idea. It was just a one-off. I don’t even know that I am attracted to men, per se. As a general thing, at least. I suppose everyone falls somewhere on a spectrum, and maybe I’m not completely straight, then, but you’ve seen the way I date: I’ve never sought out anything with a bloke, sexual or romantic. It’s just not how I used to see myself, before I met you. But this, you and me? What we have is in a category of its own, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything. It’s always been different, from the very beginning. You are the most important person in my life and you always will be. It’s not even possible to make a comparison between that and what amounts to a blow job given in comfort. You’re my partner. My lover. Don’t you get how important you are to me yet?”

He delivers this all very firmly and Sherlock’s pulse flutters rapidly in his throat. “John – ” His voice is tight.

John gets up and uncrosses his arms, looking down at Sherlock. “I never loved him, Sherlock. Not ever. And I do love you. I’ve honestly just been waiting for the time to feel right to say it, myself,” he tells Sherlock, his heart thumping in his chest. He stoops, taking Sherlock’s open, vulnerable, beautiful face in both hands and kisses him. Sherlock’s hands come up to seize him, pulling him down onto his lap and John straddles his legs and doesn’t stop kissing him. Sherlock’s arms close around his back in the tightest embrace they’ve ever shared and it’s the best thing in the world.

They kiss over and over again, John feeling dizzy and giddy and just so relieved that this is all out in the open now, that the constraint is gone. Sherlock’s tongue and lips strong and unhesitating, unapologetic on his, and the bridge has been crossed and burned behind them. When they break apart, breathing hard, Sherlock’s heart beating against his, John pushes the fingers of his right hand into Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock takes his wrist and presses his lips to the pulse point there. “I almost said this the other day,” he says. “After the time when we broke the coffee table.”

John kisses him on the forehead and cheeks and chin, the corner of his mouth and the strong line of his jaw, revelling in being allowed to do so at last: behave like a lover, rather than just a sexual partner. “Said what?”

Sherlock’s hands are stroking his back. “That you’re the soldier I told Mycroft I would find one day. To watch over me and keep me safe. It’s what you always do, John. I recognised it in you the day we met. You’re a war hero. My war hero. You even rather look like he did: my toy soldier come to life.”

John smiles at this, his heart welling over with affection and more. He cradles Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Yeah,” he says, feeling happier than possibly ever before. “That’s exactly what I am.”

“Mycroft – ” Sherlock starts, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in what might be worry, but John interrupts, smoothing out the wrinkles with his thumbs the way he wanted to before.

“Mycroft can go sod himself. He’s just jealous.” John kisses Sherlock’s mouth again and Sherlock doesn’t resist or try to finish whatever he was going to say. The kiss grows quickly, their mouths opening to each other again, and John feels as though he could crawl directly into Sherlock’s skin and just live there for the rest of his life.

Before he can dare suggest abandoning the case, however, Sherlock beats him to it. “John,” he says, exhaling hard, then interrupting himself to kiss John again, then again. “Let’s go home.”

John is surprised despite himself. He strokes Sherlock’s cheekbones with his thumbs. “But the case,” he says. He nods in the direction of the yard. “All these soldiers!”

“I have the only soldier I’ll ever need,” Sherlock says, his eyes so full of stark naked emotion that John shivers inwardly. He kisses John again, but then he adds, his eyes gleaming, “Let’s get out of here. When we get home… you can wear the fatigues again.”

John grins at him, feeling one hundred percent certain that life cannot possibly get better than this. This is happiness, dissolving his gut from within. He kisses Sherlock for a long minute, then murmurs against his lips, “This time I’ll leave the boots on.”

Sherlock makes a noise that can only be described as a moan and John laughs at him. Sherlock’s fingers are gripping his back harder than he’s ever done before while not specifically having sex. His eyes are closed, his pulse quick. “Anything,” he says, his voice low and almost reverent. “Let’s go home.”

John kisses him again, and it’s very, very sweet. He feels awash with the triumph of being allowed to finally claim this man, this brilliant, difficult, incredibly special man, as his own. “In that case, fall in, corporal,” he says, and is rewarded by a swath of colour washing over Sherlock’s cheekbones. And maybe we’ll think twice about not being into roleplay, he thinks smugly as they nearly trip over each other in their haste to get out of the office and abandon the case. It doesn’t even matter, though, another voice in his head says firmly. Whatever Sherlock wants, as long as it’s him, is going to be just fine.

*