Glass Houses

The moment they re-enter the flat, rumpled and ill-tempered from the train ride back from Dartmoor, Sherlock presses John up against the wall and kisses him.

“Mmm,” says John, the sound reverberating through the bones of Sherlock’s face. “Okay. Sherlock. Tea first.”

Sherlock steps back and rolls his eyes. Insisting on tea before getting to the sex is absolutely ludicrous, but it’s also incredibly, well, John. John always seems to want tea at the most inconvenient times. And he also wants to insist that Sherlock drink tea. Which is tolerable, if only just. He also insists on other things, like eating and sleeping. Food is tolerable if it means he can sit across the table from John and watch him as he eats, so Sherlock acquiesces. And the sleep… Sherlock has been sleeping more, since John moved in. Probably just the effect of living with someone who insists on all the lights in the flat staying off at night. Irritating. Sherlock has to admit, though, that he does sometimes feel lighter and more energized on those days when he wakes up after a full nights’ sleep he never intended to take.

“Come on, then.” John pulls Sherlock’s groin hard into his own in a promise of things to come before he pulls away and steps into the kitchen to put the kettle on. So Sherlock flops down dramatically on the couch, sitting up only to drink the mug of tea that John hands him a few moments later.

Once that irritating chore is done, John smiles in that innocuous, filthy way he has, and heads straight into Sherlock’s bedroom.

Sherlock pushes himself up off the couch and follows, trying to convince himself that the wave crashing over him is all arousal, and not in any way relief. John still wants him. Sherlock hadn’t broken things between them permanently, in their pursuit of H.O.U.N.D.

The moment Sherlock enters the bedroom, he’s trapped against the wall just as he had done to John earlier; John’s thigh between his knees, grinding hard against his growing erection, and his wrists held in a firm grip off to his sides. John is practically attacking his neck, sucking and biting painfully, and Sherlock sighs and allows himself to wallow in it for a moment. John is so good, so kind, and he’s doing exactly what Sherlock likes best: trapping him and hurting him and, if Sherlock allows this to continue, roughly fucking him. It’s tempting.

After a moment, though, Sherlock forces himself to dip his head down and press a tame kiss to John’s cheek. “Can we…” he murmurs. “Can we do it gently tonight?”

“Oh!” John pulls back, looking surprised but pleased. John likes taking Sherlock roughly– Sherlock knows he does. But Sherlock also knows that sometimes John craves the kind of intimacy that Sherlock doesn’t ask for quite as often. Gentle caresses and slow kisses and asking may I? before every new kind of touch are not exactly his forte. But then, Sherlock has not exactly been the world’s best boyfriend for the last few days, and he had decided, watching the countryside go by on the train back to London, that this is how he will start making it up to John.

“Of course,” John says, hands cupping Sherlock’s face. “I’m sorry, love, I should have asked.”

Now there’s a thought that needs to be nipped in the bud. “No, you never need to ask to do… that,” Sherlock reassures him. “Just tonight…”

“This,” breathes John, turning them around so that they can half-fall, half-climb onto the bed together.

Sherlock is actually glad for the slow pace; he is starting to feel tired, the case or the train ride catching up to him. That’s strange. He puts it out of his mind, allowing John to unbutton his shirt and pull of his trousers and pants for him. When all of their clothes are on the floor, John grabs a tube of lube and lies down alongside Sherlock to capture his mouth in a kiss. Meanwhile, his hand wanders down so that his is languidly stroking Sherlock’s erection when he says, “What would you like tonight, darling?”

Sherlock breathes out a long breath, his stomach tensing a little involuntarily at the delicious friction of John’s warm, thick fingers sliding up and down his prick. He wants… more of that, and not to have to move too much from this very comfortable position. In answer, he grasps around on the bedsheets until his locates the lube and slicks his own fingers, trailing them down past John’s cock and gently over his balls to rub gently over his hole. “Want you,” he mutters.

John’s hand slows down, partly to keep Sherlock hard and on the edge and partly out of sheer lack of coordination when Sherlock’s fingers stroke up and down his skin, pressing ever so slightly at his opening but never quite dipping in. “Yeah,” he gasps. “Oh, god, come on.”

Sherlock smiles, settling back on the pillows with John clutching at him and writhing, not allowing himself to be rushed. Eventually, he works two fingers in, John lifting his hips to allow better access, and the feeling of John’s tight heat around his fingers is starting to be enough of a distraction that Sherlock is ready to feel it around his cock.

“That’s good,” John mouths, a slick drop arousal dripping from the tip of his erection onto Sherlock’s belly as he pushes himself up and overtop of Sherlock. “Can I put you in me now? I’m so ready for you.”

Sherlock marvels at how filthy invocations flow out of John’s mouth just as readily as banal greetings do in the morning, or calm diagnoses do at the clinic, or kind reassurances do when coaxing a story out of a client, or hard unyielding taunts do when cornering a criminal. John is perfect. John deserves everything, most especially a partner who doesn’t use him as an unwitting experimental subject. Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed, hoping John doesn’t notice the wave of guilt washing over him.

“Hey,” comes John’s voice. He’s kneeling over Sherlock’s hips, now, and he reaches up with one hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek and then ruffle through his hair. “You with me? You still want it this way?”

Sherlock nods eagerly; he does, in fact, want John on his cock rather desperately. He shoves the guilt aside, focusing on the feeling of being engulfed in heat and the look of concentration and then rapture on John’s face as he slides down, seating himself on Sherlock. Sherlock has to remember to breathe before he says, “Good?”

John nods, and Sherlock– with much more effort than the movement should really take– rolls them over, John’s knees in the air and back pressed into the mattress. From this angle, Sherlock can kiss him as he begins to thrust languidly, and John groans and tries to kiss back, uncoordinated from pleasure again, but Sherlock doesn’t mind.

He should bring John pleasure. That’s his entire purpose. To do anything else to him is a very grave mistake. Sherlock just needs to remember that while on a case.

John is helping him along, hands on Sherlock’s lower back, drawing him in an pushing him out. It’s good; John is setting the pace when Sherlock can’t, when he is too overwhelmed by inconvenient emotion and even more inconvenient drowsiness. “That’s it, love,” John is whispering in his ear, and Sherlock latches onto John’s litany like a lifeline. “You’re so lovely. You make me feel so good. God, Sherlock, I’m getting close, the feeling of you moving inside me is better than anything else in the world. Yes, yes…”

Sherlock feels his own completion building and allows it, not minding if he finishes before John or after– he can finish John with his mouth if the former, and John doesn’t mind being used after he’s come if the latter. When he feels John’s channel convulsing around him it seems to pull the orgasm out of him and he allows himself one sharper thrust, holding John’s body to his own as he spends.

The moment the orgasm is over, Sherlock is exhausted. He flops over onto his side, forgetting to be gentle and accidentally extracting a wince from John as Sherlock’s softening cock pulls out of him. He isn’t annoyed, though, Sherlock can tell: he lies down beside him again, stroking Sherlock’s hair. John is glowing in that contented post-coital way he has, and Sherlock is relieved to see it. I did that, he thinks.

Unbidden, the sound of John’s terrified voice, hiding from an imaginary monster in the darkness, comes back to him. He feels as though it’s halfway in a dream, but no, that memory is real.

“Why aren’t you more angry with me?” Sherlock’s eyelids feel very heavy, but it seems very important to know this. Drugging John without his knowledge is the kind of thing over which the irritatingly moral doctor would usually get very shirty indeed.

“Why would I be angry with you?” John is propped up on an elbow, the scar on his shoulder slightly lopsided from the angle of his arm. He’s smiling softly, like Sherlock is something miraculous, and Sherlock almost doesn’t want to remind him–

“Drugging you. Twice. Well, I would have done it twice, anyway.”

“Oh, that.” John’s eyes crinkle at the edges in a way that makes Sherlock want to kiss the creases, but he is very comfortable, and that sounds like far too much effort. “Well. I was angry for a moment. But. Men who live in glass houses, I suppose.”

Sherlock frowns, trying to parse what John has just said, but his mind is foggy and slow. Men who live in glass houses… shouldn’t throw stones. That’s the saying. Usually used to indicate…

John and his bloody tea. “What’doo giveme?” Sherlock slurs.

He hears a fond laugh, feels a soft kiss on his forehead. “Sleep well, Sherlock,” John whispers. “You always do.”