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John usually tried not to worry too much about the situation with Sherlock, because he knew it couldn't be helped. At first he'd thought he could will himself to live with the eyeballs in the microwave and the body parts in the fridge and the thing living in the cupboards that Sherlock insisted he left a pork cutlet for every other Friday (John never asked why or what or how, all he knew was that the cutlet always disappeared without a trace). But the truth was, it was starting to grate. He still couldn't get used to it, and it still shocked and annoyed him thoroughly when, for example, he would find pink-ish unknown matter clogging the bathtub when he got home from work and craved for a hot relaxing shower.
To be fair, Sherlock made up for his eccentricity with... more eccentricity, granted, except it was a less harmful kind, a more admirable type of strangeness, so John tried to bear with all the "collateral damage" as best as he could, but from time to time, he really wished 221B Baker Street were a more peaceful place where he wouldn't have to worry about exploding to smithereens or being eaten in his bed by an unidentified species seeking bloody revenge.
As it happened, the solution to his many problems appeared to him one day, in the most trivial way: he was checking his mailbox on Yahoo! when an article caught his eye, in the news section, right between the results of a Swedish study announcing that fellatio gave cancer and the news in brief whose headline read "Cyclist Killed by Frozen Sausage". Its title was: "Basic Cat Training - How Your Cat or Kitten Learns".
And just like that, it dawned on him. Not like a crashing wave, not a blinding light; just a tiny lightbulb that went on in his head, a very simple, very mad spark of an idea, which made everything fall into place. John wondered if this was how Sherlock felt when a mystery unraveled in that genius brain of his; had to be, because the sensation was bloody brilliant, and he could see how one could get hooked on that kind of rush.
Here was the premise:
Sherlock was a cat.
Nothing to do with some kind of syllogism based upon the fact that Sherlock was mortal (John wasn't sure he was, anyway). No, no: Sherlock really was. A cat. In human form.
All evidence pointed to that conclusion. Improbable, yes. But not impossible.
First the eyes. Sherlock's eyes were definitely catlike: almond-shaped, gemstone-coloured and with that eerie inquisitive quality to them, like Sherlock could embrace your soul in one glance, like there was some veil to reality that could be pierced and torn apart through the sole strength of his stare. When Sherlock looked at you with those eyes, there was nothing you could do but remain rooted to where you stood and gaze back into those mesmerizing blue-grey spells that could only be broken should their owner choose to cast them upon someone else.
Then Sherlock's natural feline grace. The man moved like he was made of pure instinct and contained strength. Nobody moved like Sherlock, nobody human at least. His fluid muscle coordination could make the most graceful people John knew look like puppets with their strings cut.
Then, the attitude. Sometimes haughty and distant, sometimes playful with that not-so-rare glint of humour in his otherworldly eyes, exigent, bratty, and always, always acting like the emperor of fucking everything. Then there were moments, even when he was bored and sulking actively, where there seemed to be nothing Sherlock liked more than lying down on the sofa in that lazy yet regal fashion of his, digging his agile toes intermittently into the armrest, not unlike a cat kneading.
And, last but not least, every single fucking thing about him. The dead things he brought home. The destruction of furniture. Heck, even the fact that he loved milk but wouldn't buy it himself!
By the time John reached the end of his reasoning, he was convinced enough to start reading the online guide, and that provided him with an even madder idea: he could try to put all that in application. What was there to lose, anyway? Plus it wasn't like Sherlock didn't pull worse tricks on him, experimenting on him in awful ways and generally treating him like a dog (John's mind wandered away as quickly as possible from that particular line of thought. Sherlock being a cat was one thing, but he didn't want to linger on the possibility that he, John, resembled a dog in more ways than one).
Before he could persuade himself to drop the idea, John was at the supermarket looking for a spray bottle in the gardening section. There was still a nagging voice at the back of his head telling him that it was ridiculous and would never work, but John was in a trance, and at this point he was far too gone to care about ridiculous.
He chose a small spray bottle, made of green and white plastic, light and easy to handle. He purchased the object, and then headed home. Once there, though, he felt a lot less confident about his initial plan. What was he doing? Was he finally being gained by Sherlock's insanity? He was supposed to be the mature and reliable one, here.
He considered the small object in his hands and shrugged, resigning himself to give it to Mrs. Hudson; she could always use it for her houseplants. He reflected he would have to be pretty desperate to ever resort to it, and no matter how mad and annoying Sherlock was, John thought it really didn't need to come to that.
It turned out he got the chance to use it within the hour. John's first mistake had been to think that the eggs were safe. Scratch that, his first mistake had been underestimating Sherlock's uncanny ability to transform innocent, everyday stuff into very unpleasant surprises that somehow involved gore in one way or another. So when John broke one egg above the frying pan to make himself an omelet, instead of the usual yolk and albumin, he got thick blood that splattered onto one of his favourite jumpers and that ended up frying inside the pan, instantly spreading a nasty smell.
Right on cue, the plague of John's life entered the kitchen, tapping on a graphic calculator with one hand and writing a text with the other.
Sherlock briefly lifted his head and did a double-take, taking in John's frozen pose with the egg shells in his hands and the blood on the jumper.
Then he went back to tapping on both devices and flippantly dropped, "Why you would choose the eggs I especially took so much trouble to empty and refill with pig's blood for your cooking is beyond even me. Pity. Do try to pay attention to the ingredients you're using next time."
That did it. John saw red. He dropped the egg shells into the sink, went to fetch the spray bottle, came back to the kitchen where Sherlock still stood in the middle of the room, completely engrossed in whatever he was doing; John filled the container with water from the tap, screwed the top on, then turned to his flatmate, brandishing the object in his steady hand and taking aim at Sherlock's head.
He cleared his throat to get Sherlock's attention. He got it, undivided, a few seconds later.
"What are you doing with that, John?" Sherlock asked in a prudent tone. He had stopped texting and calculating altogether and was standing very still.
It was an exhilarating high to be able to surprise the great Sherlock Holmes from time to time.
"Eggs," John began in a dark tone, "are not supposed to be filled with blood. And if they are, for some reason I can't even imagine, they shouldn't be put in the fridge with the other edible eggs. I want to be able to enjoy a simple omelet without ending up drenched in pig's blood, goddammit!" He paused, gathering his composure again, "I," John sighed, shaking his head, "am not happy with you, Sherlock."
"Are you seriously trying to educate me with a spray bottle, John?" Sherlock asked, still not moving from his spot but already subtly adopting a defensive stance. "What in the world got into you?"
For all his bravado, Sherlock was starting to sound worried. This was not John's usual, logical behaviour. It did not compute. Sherlock was supposed to be the nutter here. Not John.
John felt a wicked grin tug at his lips, and without further warning, he squeezed the trigger and sprayed Sherlock's face with water.
Sherlock jumped and recoiled, eyes wide with stupor.
"What," Sherlock said in a shaken tone. "Are you out of your mind?"
"This is your punishment," John said, marching on his flatmate, spray bottle in hand, causing Sherlock to take a few steps back by reflex. The detective's hands were occupied with fragile electronic devices that weren't exactly waterproof and that constituted a serious disadvantage. He either had to drop them, which he wouldn't because he obviously wasn't done with them yet, or find a way to protect them, leaving him no choice but to back away.
So Sherlock tried his last offensive cards in a desperate attempt not to lose the upper hand: the look of disdain and the spiteful sniff.
"Do you really think a little water in the face is going to scare me? I'm sure even you are not that stupid. What are you even trying to achieve through that idiotic method? Do you realise that there is no existing realm where that could work on me?"
"Oh. So you're not afraid then?"
John raised the spray bottle aggressively and Sherlock cringed, looking more and more furious and distressed.
"Stop it." He was obviously struggling to keep an authoritative tone of voice but it had rose in panic nevertheless. "I demand that you stop that immediately."
Should Sherlock have phrased his request differently, perhaps John might have complied and even felt slightly guilty afterwards. Instead, without a word, he sprayed another shot. Sherlock let out an indignant cry and scurried away from the kitchen. Soon after, John heard Sherlock's bedroom door slam and shrieking sounds from the violin resounded plaintively around the apartment.
John stared at the spray bottle in his hand with awe and respect, like it was some sort of ultimate weapon. This could actually work. He chuckled when the violin reached a series of high notes. Was it a coincidence that even Sherlock's elected instrument was reminding him of a cat meowing in anger? He liked to think it wasn't.
*****
The spray bottle incident earned John days of particularly aggressive sulking, but at least there hadn't been any direct retaliation. And it seemed that since then, the fridge remained satisfyingly devoid of bad surprises. John continued to develop his theory by noting every aspect in which Sherlock resembled a cat, realising he had mainly been focusing on the negative ones up until then, when there was actually more evidence to be gathered. There was even one spectacular time that might be made into an entire chapter should John ever choose to write a book about the feline behaviour of his flatmate, where Sherlock brought a medium-sized cardboard box in their kitchen and took a gigantic crab out of it.
John burned his tongue with his coffee when he saw the size of the monster coming out of the box. "What the effing crap is that?"
Since the crab's tongs weren't restrained, Sherlock held it with his fingers hooked under each side of the animal, in the space right above its legs, with his thumbs pressed on the centre of the shell, so that he wouldn't get pinched.
The detective tossed his friend a defiant look, as if daring him to take the animal away from him. Sherlock hadn't forgiven anything, nevertheless, he still had the good grace to reply, "It's a rare species of crab, I had it flown from Brittany. And before you ask any inane question about the way to cook it," he added when he saw John was opening his mouth to say something, "just know that I need it for a case I'm working on. You can't have it."
John had to admit he was rather amused by the incongruous presence of that unexpected visitor in their kitchen. He took a more careful sip of coffee and pondered.
"So it's French, then," he remarked. "How are we going to name it?"
Sherlock didn't even try to conceal his eye roll, accompanied with a long-suffering sigh.
"Please don't. It doesn't need a name whatsoever. What are you, five?"
"We could name it Madame Bovary," John continued pensively, barely registering Sherlock's unpleasant remark. "It's the only French book I've ever read. A translated version, of course, I don't actually speak French. It was the only book I was allowed to read when we were invited to stay at my great-aunt Martha's in Northampton, the rest of her library was mainly Barbara Cartland, and she used to say that stuff wasn't suitable for --"
"Quit your babbling at once!" Sherlock interrupted angrily. "We are not naming it anything. Its sole purpose in life from now on will be to feed on bits of necrosed human flesh so I can see how--"
John never got the chance to know what the crab was for, exactly. In his exasperation, Sherlock had started waving the animal about, so that when it approached the vicinity of John's nose, John had had the reflex to protect it from the crab's tongs by abruptly raising his forearms, except he had forgotten about the mug of hot coffee in his hand; some of it spilled and landed on the top of Sherlock's hand, who yelped in pain and dropped Madame Bovary on the floor.
The doughty crab wasted no time and took a run for its life.
Sherlock leaped right after it and succeeded in cornering it, although in the mean time, the animal had somehow managed to occupy a perfect strategic position; half under a cupboard in a way that it couldn't be grabbed safely, half out so it could still strike at its attacker. It definitely had the field advantage on that scary, crazed beanpole who wanted to do unholy things to it, no doubt.
Sherlock tried to reach for it from the top. The crab snapped its tongs menacingly at the long fingers coming towards it. Sherlock's hand retreated. The detective cocked his head to the side, then he tried an approach from a different angle, but Madame Bovary saw right through his plans and snapped again, even quicker this time, causing the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, to jump a little. Then Sherlock cocked his head to the other side, pondering yet another strategy. He tried to scare the crab out of its stronghold, but it wouldn't budge an inch: unlike most people, Madame Bovary wasn't impressed by Sherlock in the least. The crab and the detective continued their little vaudeville, Sherlock tentatively advancing his hands from different angles and retreating as soon as the crab snapped its tongs, oblivious to John who was biting the inside of his cheek, trying very hard not to laugh, but then he decided it was too much already and he gave in to a loud fit of the giggles. Startled, Sherlock turned to his flatmate and enquired about the cause of such hilarity with a disapproving frown on his face.
John shook his head in disbelief.
"I have the most serious urge to film this and put it on Youtube," he explained, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. "I swear that obese Japanese cat with his boxes can't hold a candle to you. You're killing me, seriously."
Sherlock's retort, "Reallly, John, it saddens me that the extent of your cultural references seems to be confined to online cat videos" was rendered somewhat less scathing when Sherlock went back to terrorizing that poor crab and found out that the animal had wisely chosen to vanish into thin air. The look of puzzlement on Sherlock's face made John double over, roaring with laughter.
(In the end they never saw Madame Bovary again. John supposed it found a way to make a life for itself somewhere in their cupboards and get along with the thing. Sometimes in the early morning when John was making tea he could hear rattling and shuffling down there, but he did not want to look and tried not to think about it. He only hoped Madame Bovary liked pork cutlets too)
*****
Their domestic life had improved appreciably, but John realised it had been naive of him to think he wouldn't have to use the spray bottle again. Especially when he got home to discover their couch shredded to pieces.
"Sherlock. What happened to the couch?"
"I needed pieces of leather urgently. Don't fret. I like it like that. It has character now."
John pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, sighing.
"So you finally went and sharpened your claws on our furniture. Just when I thought you couldn't get any cattier. Okay. I need to fix that habit before it settles. Stay right where you are, just you wait."
"Don't," said Sherlock quickly. "Don't bother looking for your stupid spray bottle, I found it and threw it away. Stop thinking that I'm a cat, it's the most ludicrous idea you could ever come up with, and god knows you hold endless capacities in that department."
"Fine," said John. "You know what? I don't need a spray bottle to discipline you."
Sherlock was stubborn enough not to flinch when John moved closer to him to position himself right under the detective's nose.
"Do you intend to use force, John?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, staring John down. "Do you seriously think that you're a match for me?"
"What are you talking about?" John frowned. "I will never use force on you. You're my friend."
"Is that so? What's your plan, then?"
"This," replied John, and he blew a breath right up Sherlock's nose.
The tall man gasped and flailed and jumped. Hah. Certainly wasn't expecting that one. The way he looked at John with a scandalised and overly hurt expression, with his paw -- his hand, John had to remind himself, his hand -- cupped over his nose to protect it was too comical. John had to fight the giggles that were bubbling up in his throat, because it was important that he strictly followed the procedure for this to work.
When your cat is misbehaving, blow up its nose, then ignore it. Don't look at it and turn away. This way, you'll make clear that you're dominant one.
So John put his coat back on and turned to go outside. As he exited, he could still hear Sherlock ranting and raving behind him, "What... What's the meaning of this? John! Come back here! John! You can't treat me like that! John! JOHN!" but he remained deaf to his friend's protests and texted Lestrade to ask whether he was free to grab a couple of beers at the usual place.
When he returned to 221B later that night, John found out that the vandalised couch had been covered with a finely-threaded Indian blanket with motifs of a tiger hunt in ochre and orange. He had no idea where Sherlock had found it, but it produced a nice effect, actually, and was obviously preferable to the couch's previous appearance. Good enough, John decided, yawning, then he went to sleep, feeling content.
*****
It started out innocently. As a joke. John recognised he shouldn't have, but it was too tempting. And he had already overstepped the boundaries quite a few times since the beginning of this whole cat business, so he didn't figure out at the time how this would be any different. Except for the fact that, unlike the other times, Sherlock hadn't done anything to deserve it. Well, he did ask on and on for tea, despite John telling him to make it himself for once and to shut up for god's sake. And the annoying but also strangely cute way Sherlock complained, forcefully demanding what should have been a favour and not his due, gave John a very vivid mental picture of Sherlock on all fours on the kitchen floor, meowing for food and rubbing himself against John's jeans.
In hindsight, maybe this was where it had started to go wrong. Okay, if John was really honest with himself -- and he usually was -- the whole thing was very wrong from the very start. But. This image of Sherlock rubbing himself against his legs. His therapist would certainly have been interested.
However, John, who was perfectly unaware at that time of how the situation could spin out of control and who thought he just wanted to take the Mickey out of his flatmate, took out a bowl, filled it with milk, set it in front of Sherlock on the (for once miraculously clean) kitchen table and announced lightly, as he sat opposite of him:
"No tea for you. This is what you get. More adequate, isn't it?"
And John smirked at him, waiting for him to start hissing and cursing.
But you can't enter a madness competition with Sherlock Holmes as your rival. John should have learned that from the beginning, before putting his wild little plan in motion. He should have known he could never win.
Without a word, looking utterly calm and composed, Sherlock lowered his long white neck, hands placed on either side of the bowl on the kitchen table, and started lapping up the milk.
John's breath caught. He blinked. Twice.
Sherlock kept drinking, his tongue whipping out of his mouth and dipping into the milk exactly like a cat's, his eyes closed under the black shiny curls that had fallen over his brow. He was acting like it was all natural, like he was actually enjoying this. Like he was this close to actually starting to purr.
Much to his horror, John felt a growing hardness in his jeans, as a wave of heat crept up the base his neck until it reached the top of his ears, making him blush furiously.
Sherlock stopped licking the milk for a second and lifted his head. He opened his hypnotic eyes on John, then, slowly, deliberately, ran the curved tip of his tongue over his upper lip, chasing droplets that clung there, staring right into John's eyes the whole time.
John stood up abruptly. Then felt a little silly that he did, although he couldn't sit back down without feeling even sillier. He thought about asking Sherlock to stop, then remembered that he was the one who'd started it, all of it. What was the decent thing to do in an indecent situation -- that you had created yourself?
Sherlock was watching him in silence, attentive to his next move.
Not knowing what to do, John followed his first instinct, which was to flee the kitchen as fast as he could.
Locked inside his room, John barely had the time to go over what had just happened and start pacing and panicking like mad before he heard a small scratching sound at his door. At first he thought he was losing his mind and hearing things, but there was a second, very audible, insistent scratch. John found himself having difficulties to swallow, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. Sherlock was scratching at his door, begging to come in. Not knocking like a human being. Not calling John by his name. Just what the hell was going on here?
Maybe John could apologize and make everything return to the way it was. Before he had his stupid idea that he should have never, ever followed. Yes, he was going to do just that, apologize, right away, maybe even beg if it came to it, he thought, his head feeling a little too light as he opened the door with febrility. They'd talk, then laugh about it, well, Sherlock would laugh at John's expense and certainly insult his intelligence, but John was okay with that, it was a small price to pay for not having to live through this embarrassing, too-weird situation again.
As the door creaked halfway open and nothing actually happened for a few seconds, John took a couple of steps back, instantly filled with doubt. He prayed to God that the wild thought that had just entered his head wasn't about to come true. He didn't think he could stand the sight of Sherlock coming through the door crawling on his hands and knees. He was pretty sure that it would fry his brains out.
He almost exclaimed "thank god!" out of relief when his friend finally entered the room the normal, human way, on two legs, looking very relaxed, as if to spite John's dramatic state of tension. This was the real Sherlock. Against all odds, he hadn't transformed into a cat, John thought, a tad hysterical.
He started preparing his apologies in his head, but before he could get the chance to utter them, his train of thoughts came to a screeching halt then capsized altogether when Sherlock swiftly dropped on his knees in front of him and started rubbing his face against the fabric of his jeans, up and down John's thighs in slow, sensual motions, nuzzling his crotch, breathing deeply in and out through his elegant nose, until John was fully erect, with his cock straining uncomfortably against the barrier of clothing.
Out of the blue, quotes of the online article came back to John, who was starting to feel dizzy. Not enough blood to the brain, in all evidence, even though he could feel it pounding a furious beat at his ears.
When a cat rubs itself against you, it is rubbing off some of its scent to say "this is mine".
Sherlock nudged John's erection a few more times with the tip of his nose, then withdrew, looking up at him with an intense stare. Waiting for something. Wanting something from him. John realised that Sherlock wouldn't use his hands. Of course he wouldn't.
John stared back at Sherlock, and, out of its own volition, his hand moved to his crotch. Sherlock broke the eye contact and watched the movement with great interest. When John's fingers opened the button of his jeans, Sherlock's eyelids drooped in satisfaction, leaving his eyes barely open, and the slightest hint of smile on his lips, so faint it was almost not there, telling John that this was exactly what Sherlock wanted. When John's zipper went down, Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation. But still wouldn't move his hands from the floor. John's breathing became laboured as he drew out his stiff cock from his underwear and he gasped out loud when he felt Sherlock's tongue on it immediately, without a second of hesitation.
Sherlock didn't take him in his mouth, of course he didn't. He simply contented himself with licking John's cock, at first drawing slickness all over the shaft, languorously, taking his time, visibly enjoying himself.
Then he shifted to sit back on his ankles and he flickered his devilish tongue right under the glans, causing John to moan, then downright whimper when he felt the tip of it slowly insinuating itself along the slit, back and forth, gathering pre-come and smearing it around the head, then playfully pushing back the foreskin a little further with quick small jabs. John wished he could feel Sherlock's lips on him too, those impossibly sensual lips circled around him, heck, he wished he could grab the back of Sherlock's head and just push himself inside the moistness of that mouth. His hand was already buried in Sherlock's untamed curls, but he couldn't bring himself to such forceful behaviour, no matter how aroused he was, so he settled for lightly scratching his nails where Sherlock's nape joined his skull.
The sigh that Sherlock emitted when he felt the caress was loud, and very human.
As an experiment, John tried scratching behind one of Sherlock's ears. That got Sherlock very distracted, mouth parted and lips shiny with pre-come and saliva, his eyes reduced to very thin white crescents flashing intermittently under his fluttering lashes. He had stopped licking altogether and had leaned his head into John's hand to increase the contact. John obliged with good grace even though he was hard enough to start aching, but somehow he found the sight of Sherlock on his knees, abandoned in John's touch with an ecstatic expression on his face... too damn cute. And so fucking sexy. He didn't want to lose that visual just yet, despite his most urgent need, yet all of a sudden Sherlock started biting the inside of John's forearm, quick and violent, like John's caress was too much and he needed to let up his excitement a little. Then he stopped, as abruptly as he had started. Teeth still sunken in sensitive skin, he slowly looked at John sideways, eyes burning with a feverish glint.
His stupid little theory had been so wrong, John thought, his breath taken away. Cats definitely didn't have that kind of fuck-me look in their eyes.
As if he'd read John's mind, of which John was almost certain he should be capable by now, Sherlock decided to act human again. He got up on his two feet and walked up to John's bed. On his way, he got rid of the t-shirt and pyjama bottoms he'd been wearing all day and ended up sprawled on the mattress, on his back, offering the view of his magnificent body, pale, naked and hard, to John's eyes.
What did the article say again? Ah, yes.
The "belly-up" position is a very vulnerable position, it indicates total trust of the person involved. It is a lazy way for the cat to greet its owner.
And there was the cat again, looking expectantly at John like he wanted his belly scratched, now. John wanted to do so much more than that, though.
Their eyes locked as John took his time to come near the bed. They both knew, had always known it was bound to happen, from the start. The fact that it didn't on John's very first night at Baker Street was merely due to that crazy little game they implicitly shared, based on false miscomprehension, real interest, Sherlock's twisted nature and John's British politeness. It seemed, however, that the game was to end that night.
Placing a knee on the mattress, making it dip under his weight, John started by caressing Sherlock's chest all over, marvelling at the feel of his smooth skin and taut muscles under his fingers. His hands moved to Sherlock's flanks, never stopping their light, gentle movements; obviously Sherlock was sensitive there, judging by the goosebumps that appeared on his arms and over his ribs and how his nipples had become tiny hard peaks that John just couldn't resist kissing.
It was only when he felt Sherlock pulling at his jumper and fisting the fabric with insistence that John became aware of the fact that he was still wearing too many layers of clothing and that Sherlock wouldn't have any of that. John stopped his exploration to remove his clothes, kick off his shoes and tug away his socks. With those out of the way, he heaved a long satisfied sigh when he finally joined Sherlock on the mattress, barely covering his lover's immense body with his own, basking in the glorious feeling of skin to skin.
Sherlock's tongue was active again and had found the scar on John's shoulder, prodding the damaged skin with curiosity and a touch of greediness, making John hiss, although he was not certain if it was out of pain or pleasure. John's right hand sneaked its way in between their bodies and when he grabbed Sherlock's erect cock, the strangled, deep cry of pleasure that escaped Sherlock's mouth wasn't exactly human, in fact it sounded so animalistic and raw that John was confused again. However, he couldn't linger on the feeling since he was busy focusing on how good Sherlock felt in his hand, throbbing and thick and alive. He started by moving his hand gently, but the way Sherlock pushed into his touch convinced him to get a little rougher, making Sherlock pant and writhe underneath him, clenching his fists in the sheets, and he looked like the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.
Which was why John made the decision to ignore his own needs and make Sherlock come before him, make him lose control so John could see how much more gorgeous he could be. No such luck, though, because Sherlock quickly caught up with John's intentions as was his wont and he started bucking and struggling. Despite John's best attempts to keep him still, he found himself staring at the ceiling a few moments later, wrists pinned down both sides of his head, firmly caught in Sherlock's hold. Sherlock was smiling, not the mysterious, barely-there catlike smile; it was his dazzling, rare, victorious smile, like he had enjoyed nothing more than winning their brief little fight for dominance. John tried struggling too, for good measure, but it was no use, especially when Sherlock moved his knees on both sides of John's body and started moving with John's cock sliding between his arse cheeks, frotting it against his perineum: the spoilt brat made what he really wanted loud and clear without having to utter a single word. In fact, the only sounds he made were very low hums of pleasure, the closest sounds to purring that ever escaped a human throat. John got the message alright.
"Yes, yes, fine, okay," John said, surrendering. "You've got to let me go, though, if you really want it."
It was a nightmare (well, not really. John's nightmares were never so sensual and fun) trying to escape from the tangle of limbs Sherlock had gotten them into, because Sherlock wasn't making it easy for him either: each time John tried to disengage himself from Sherlock's embrace, the infuriating little (okay, not so little) monster found a way to roll him over and pin him down again, and each time the bright smile reappeared like a magic trick on his handsome face. John supposed it was Sherlock's version of playfulness.
In the end, maybe the sweat he broke from all that pushing and shoving had made him slippery, because he miraculously managed to get out of the bed at last to look for condoms. That part was simple enough, since John always carried some in his wallet, which he found in the back pocket of his trousers; what would be trickier for him, though, would be to locate the small bottle of water-based lubricant he had gotten as a special offer at the pharmacy where he bought his condoms. He knew he had stored it somewhere but couldn't remember where exactly, and if he didn't find it it would sure be a shame to call the whole thing off because of "technical difficulties".
After rummaging through his sock drawer and the first aid-kit he kept under his bed, and just as he started to think he was running out of options because really, his room was neither that big nor messy, John's back bumped into the second drawer of his night-stand, hanging halfway opened. He had completely forgotten about that one, since he generally only used the top one to keep his gun and sleeping pills. John could have sworn that drawer wasn't out just a second ago, though. Sherlock was lying on his stomach, face turned the other way on the pillows, as if he had had nothing to do with it. John shrugged and let out a small "a-ha!" of victory under his breath when he found the lubricant inside. That made Sherlock chuckle softly inside the pillows, then turn his head the other way to look at John, eyes shining like fucking Christmas lights. John was about to make a remark about how he was slipping more and more out of his cat persona, which might have provoked him into talking again, but Sherlock elected that precise moment to stretch on the bed, elongating his body to an impossible length, then proceeded to wriggling and rolling about in the sheets in an idle and lazy way that would make an actual feline undoubtedly admirative.
John couldn't help but smile fondly (and, he imagined, a little stupidly) at that sight, although there remained one problem that needed solving and that worried him a little.
"Sherlock," he called softly.
Sherlock stopped moving, ending up resting on his stomach again. John knew he had his attention.
"Are you... Will I be..." John started, then got exasperated at himself for not just fucking say it outright. "Sherlock," he began again, "is this your... you know, your first time?"
Sherlock threw him an amused one-eyed glance, his extended arm hiding half of his face.
What do you think? John read in the depth of that single pupil fixed on him.
John sighed, but there was nothing he could do to crack the man.
"Okay," he said, "be like that. Either way..."
He slipped his hands under either side of Sherlock's pelvis and hitched his hips up, so that Sherlock was up on his hands and knees.
"...this position should be easier for both of us," he finished.
From Sherlock's reaction, all anticipation and no sign of squeamishness or discomfort, John deduced that
a/ He had definitely done this before and
b/ He seemed to appreciate this particular position a great deal, from the way he responded to John's caresses on his spine, rounding his back into the touch and shivering in delight, his neck giving out like a weak stem, dropping his head forward when John ran his hand between his shoulder blades and up his nape to scratch there again.
Holding one wrapped condom between his teeth, John knelt behind Sherlock and squeezed a generous dollop of lubricant on one hand. He warmed it a little between his fingers before parting Sherlock's arse cheeks and gently rubbing at his hole. He eased it open with his middle finger, which was slick enough to penetrate all the way. John tossed the bottle of lubricant aside on the sheets, still at hand in case he needed more. He pushed and pulled the finger inside the unbearable heat of Sherlock's body, going slowly in and out in a twisting motion that made Sherlock's thighs and arms tremble, as if he was struggling to keep balance. Soon John got his index finger in too. He set about parting the two fingers as he screwed them in and out, at first very slightly, then scissoring wider and wider, encouraged by the heavenly cries it wrung out of Sherlock as he stretched the ring of muscle more and more. That sight, combined with that of Sherlock's cock dripping pre-come all over the sheets underneath made John's mouth water and his cock become hard and flushed again, without even having to touch himself. He pulled out and placed a soft kiss as a promise at the base of Sherlock's spine when Sherlock emitted a needy and frustrated whine at the emptiness John had temporarily left behind.
John's desperate state of arousal and the wetness of his fingers made it a little hard to rip apart the condom's wrapping; thank fuck, though, he succeeded after a bit of fumbling and rolled it down his length.
Penetrating Sherlock, burying himself deep inside of him, going to the hilt was like nothing else in the world. John found himself needing a little time before he did anything more, if only to learn how to breathe again, but Sherlock, ever the impatient bastard, bullied him into moving by rocking back and forth against him. And, as ever, with his usual indulgence, John gave in and obliged.
After a while, it turned out Sherlock found his voice again to finally speak like a human being, the cat persona nowhere to be found. Well if it could really be called speaking, anyway.
There was something utterly satisfying in hearing this most intelligent man, who possessed such extensive vocabulary, being reduced to filthy monosyllables as John pounded hard into him, "John, yes, oh god, fuck, John, yes, more, there, yes, oh, oh, fuck, please, god, John," until the words meshed and he couldn't form any coherent thought anymore. Literally fucking his big brains out, John thought smugly as sweat dropped from his brow and rolled down his temples. His breath was coming short as if he'd run a marathon; he could feel the muscles in his thighs starting to burn, too. It had been a long time since he'd had sex this rough, but it was all worth the -- extenuating -- effort.
He could feel he was close, too, so he took hold of Sherlock's cock and started jacking him off without further preamble. Sherlock groaned and straightened his back, shifting his weight on his knees, trying to turn to John in an impossible position, his upper body twisted so he could kiss John while he pushed in turn down on his cock and thrust up inside his hand. Sherlock's cry of ecstasy was swallowed by John's mouth as he came and spilled in his hand. John followed right after, his arms wound tight around Sherlock's chest despite how much it made his shoulder hurt, never letting him go.
*****
Propped up on an elbow, jaw in hand, John watched Sherlock pretend to be asleep. On a sudden impulse, he reached with his free hand to scratch behind Sherlock's ear, but Sherlock's deep voice resounded, "Stop that."
"I thought you liked it," John murmured.
Sherlock turned his head slightly to look at John above his shoulder and considered him for a few seconds.
"As much as this was enjoyable, I'm not a cat, John. I hope that you realise this was a one-time thing, never to be repeated."
John must have pulled a defeated expression at that, because Sherlock raised huffily on his forearms and exclaimed, "God you're slow, I meant the cat roleplaying. I'm not averse to the idea of sleeping with you again, quite the contrary. Simply put, if I accepted playing along with your little fantasy in the first place, it was in order to give you some sense of closure, so you would never conceive such a preposterous notion again. You can't train, educate or discipline me, and nothing will change in our routine, because it worked perfectly well for me until you started acting unreasonably. I'll still be doing my experiments anywhere and with anything I see fit, and you'll still have to do as I say because this is how it works."
"Unreasonable?" John snorted in disbelief, too scandalised to go over everything else Sherlock had said, all of which was even more wrong. "Me?"
"Yes, exactly. So drill this at once into that thick skull of yours: I. Am. Not. A cat. I will never change and you will never, ever get to boss me around. Are we clear on that?"
Actually, despite the obnoxious way Sherlock had made his demand, John was perfectly okay with not treating him like a cat anymore. It had been fun and all that, but Sherlock Holmes was a much more complex creature, and advice from an online guide about felines couldn't apply when dealing with that extraordinary man, who'd finally become his lover, and in no way his pet.
So instead of answering, John quickly ruffled Sherlock's hair just to bother the hell out of the insufferable brat -- it worked, if Sherlock's yelp of annoyance was any indication.
A new form of training would simply have to be invented, John mused as he turned to the side to go back to sleep, feeling Sherlock spoon him grumpily through his fuzzy half-conscience.
He was pretty sure he could manage to get the hang of it.
Eventually.