Chapter Text
It starts with a case, like so many things in their lives do. John is standing off to the side, arms folded, waiting patiently for Sherlock when Anderson comes storming by. His face is flushed, eyes practically sparking in anger, and really he looks like he's about two seconds from punching someone. John doesn't say anything, knows better than to get in the way of someone who has just been pissed off by Sherlock, but Anderson catches sight of him.
And it all goes to hell from there.
"I see you're waiting for him like a good little bitch," Anderson says coldly, stopping.
John looks at him. Raises an eyebrow.
"Don't you ever get tired of it? Being his pet? It's disgusting, you know, the way he orders you around, and you just put up with it."
"Fuck off, Anderson," John says tiredly, looking back to where Sherlock is. It's been a long three days and he can't remember the last time he slept or ate. All he wants is to go home and have a cup of tea and sleep.
"Makes me wonder if you like it," Anderson hisses, whirling on his heel and storming away.
John doesn't see him go. He keeps watching Sherlock, keeps his face in the exact same expression that it was in before. There's no visible indication that something in his stomach has tightened at the accusation.
Anderson isn't the first person to comment on how John always answers when Sherlock calls. If someone were to ask when he last denied Sherlock something, he wouldn't have an answer. The truth is, it just makes sense to give in. Sherlock is like a force, a hurricane that has pulled John in, and if you refuse the man something he becomes impossible to live with. He'll sulk and pout and sometimes ignore you until something more interesting comes along to distract him. It's easier to give in and make him happy. That's all it is, really.
"John!" Sherlock shouts.
John snaps to attention, realizing that he has drifted off into his own world. He crosses the yard and stands beside Lestrade as Sherlock launches into his deductions, sweeping around the bodies, twirling so that his coat flies out behind him. It's all so dramatic and so very Sherlock. He exchanges an amused smile with Lestrade and waits for Sherlock to finish.
"Come on," Sherlock says suddenly, nearly cutting himself off. "Lestrade, text me when you have a new, interesting case." He sails off, leaving John to shrug at Lestrade and jog to catch up with him. His leg flares briefly with pain, as it does when he is overtired, and he winces slightly.
"Stop it," says Sherlock, looking straight ahead.
"Stop what? I'm not a mind-reader, Sherlock; you'll have to give me more than that."
"Stop favouring your leg. There's nothing wrong with it."
John shoots him an annoyed look but straightens, trying to ignore the ache. Sherlock begins telling him more details about the case, things that he wouldn't share with the police, and the pain becomes a distant memory as John listens and absorbs, filled to the brim with fascination by that amazing mind.
They reach Baker Street and John is relieved to collapse on the couch. He thinks to himself that he never wants to move again. Sherlock undresses slowly, sliding his coat off, and pins him with a pale blue-gray stare.
"What did Anderson say to you?"
"What?" John mumbles. He is half asleep.
Sherlock repeats his question.
"Rubbish," John says through a yawn. "Utter rubbish. Isn't that all Anderson ever comes up with?"
"It upset you."
"No, it didn't." He's a little more awake now, but just barely. Why would it make him upset? It’s fact: he needs Sherlock to be happy. He likes making Sherlock happy. Making Sherlock happy makes John happy. He blinks heavily, thinking that there might be something wrong with that thought, but he is given no time to figure the answer out.
Sherlock looms over him, eyes taking in everything. After a moment, he reaches out and slides his hand into John's hair. "I know what he said."
"Then why did you ask?"
"To see if you would tell me."
"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood for your games tonight."
"Tell me what Anderson said, John." It's spoken in a considerably lower voice, and before John can stop himself, it spills out, word for word, what the other man said. Sherlock listens, never taking his eyes off of John's face.
"See?" John says when he's done. "Rubbish. He's trying to make it sound like it's something it's not." Because it's not. It's not.
"Go to bed, John."
John's legs are moving before he consciously registers the command. He wavers, looking hazily at Sherlock, thinking that there is something not quite right. "Sherlock..."
"Shh. Go into your room, get undressed, and go to bed, John. We'll talk in the morning."
Even though he had been thinking about a cup of tea, John goes. He gets undressed, stripping down to his pants, and disregards his pyjamas even though he never sleeps in just his pants. He crawls beneath the covers and puts his head on the pillow, feeling heavy, sated, and oddly content. Just before sleep washes over him completely, he hears a violin begin to play.
--
Several times during the night he wakes up, caught in the odd world between fully awake and deeply asleep. This happens sometimes when he's gone too long without a proper rest, like his body can't fully believe he finally has the time to sleep. Each time he wakes up he hears the sweet, sibilant sounds of a violin. The music caresses his skin and soothes him with a lover's touch, sending him back into sleep in seconds.
The last and final time he wakes up, he feels refreshed, if somewhat sluggish. He rubs his eyes and sits there for a moment thinking about last night. About what Anderson said and Sherlock's odd reaction, certainly not the reaction he would have expected from his equally odd flatmate. Clearly some wires have gotten crossed, and John thinks he better straighten this out before anyone else gets in on this. It's not a rumour he wants spread around.
He washes up and goes downstairs carefully, not sure what mood Sherlock will be in. He vaguely remembers hearing music last night, which means Sherlock didn't sleep, which means he may be in an even worse mood than before. Sherlock is stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, but he's not asleep. His fingers are steepled together in the traditional "I'm thinking, so piss off" pose he adopts so often. John exhales and starts to go into the kitchen, relieved that he'll be able to put off the awkward conversation for a bit longer.
"John."
The voice stops him in his tracks as surely as a command. "Yes, Sherlock?"
"You have questions. Ask them."
The tone, the words, are all so eerily reminiscent of that first night in the cab that John feels the shockwave all the way down to his core. The last time Sherlock said that to him, it changed his life in ways that he is only just beginning to realize he hasn't fully understood yet. Some small part of him tells him to run, to leg it and never look back.
"John, look at me."
Automatically, he turns. Sherlock is still lying on the couch but now his eyes are open and pinned on John. Silvery green this morning, without a hint of blue. John's mouth goes dry and every carefully planned word immediately flees his mind.
"I don't like taking orders," is what comes out.
Sherlock smiles. "No, of course not," he says, and John is just starting to relax when he adds, "You only like taking my orders."
"No, Sherlock, just - no. You're not understanding."
"I think it's you who doesn't understand, John." Sherlock scans him slowly. "Or rather, you do, you just refuse to admit it. Denial is boring. Do move past it."
"Sherlock!" John says. "What Anderson said doesn't mean anything. He's a tosser and he was just trying to wind me up."
"I agree about Anderson, but the fact remains that he was partially correct." Sherlock's mouth twists and for a moment, it looks like admitting that has caused him genuine pain. "You like taking my orders, John. It took me a while to figure that out but eventually I knew. At first I believed it was because of your military background. All soldiers are trained to take orders, even those who eventually rise in the ranks. But I quickly learned it was more than that."
"Stop. That's enough, Sherlock." When Sherlock starts deducting it's like he can see straight into your soul. That's more than John can take today, when he already feels laid bare. He turns and walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Unfortunately, it doesn't dissuade Sherlock, who gracefully hops up and follows.
"When you first met Mycroft, he told you to sit down and you grew angry," he says. "It only grew worse when you believed he was threatening me. I've watched you around my brother and Lestrade. Both men an army man like yourself might be inclined to listen to. But you never defer to either of them. It's only me."
"I don't defer to you!" John slams the kettle down and fills it with water. His hands are shaking but he doesn't think it's because of the tremor. "You're making it sound like I... like I..."
"The day after you met me, you came across London to send a text at my call," Sherlock replies. The words are spoken calmly, coolly, designed to penetrate and seed. "Then you shot a man to save my life."
"That was just... just..." His words taper off and he takes a deep breath, feeling rattled. Suddenly tea doesn’t sound so appetizing. He needs to get out of the flat, go for a walk, get away from Sherlock and his bloody deductions. He turns, intending to push past Sherlock, and jumps when he realizes Sherlock is standing less than a foot away. There's a dangerous smile on Sherlock's face that makes his heart skip a beat or two.
"Just what, John?" Sherlock prompts.
"Just... I..." It's hard to think when Sherlock is so close. He stares up into Sherlock's eyes and in spite of himself a small flicker of self doubt floods through him. Unwillingly, he remembers times when he listened to Sherlock, when he obeyed without thinking, sometimes even when he didn't want to. His own thoughts from last night, when he was half-asleep and probably more honest with himself than usual, come back to him. He needs Sherlock to be happy. He likes making Sherlock happy. Making Sherlock happy makes John happy. His stomach tightens and he feels like he might be sick.
Sherlock must see the panic in his eyes because he sighs and steps aside, a neat little movement like they're dancers. John practically trips in his haste to get by and doesn't even bother grabbing a coat. He flees the flat at a dead run.
--
John finds himself in the park where he and Sherlock met, though he has no memory of how he got there. He walks the familiar paths, shoulders hunched and staring at the ground, trying very hard not to think about anything at all. Especially that. Except it's not working. The more he tries not to think about it, the more his brain wants to think about it.
Sherlock is wrong. Obviously. John took orders in the army because he had to, not because he wanted to. He can vividly remember chafing against some of the orders he was given, hating them because he knew they were wrong, that they would lead to bad situations. He much preferred it when he was the one in charge. But that's how it was in the army. It was give and take, you order and you follow.
With Sherlock, there's not much of that. He doesn't take well to orders. John can nag at him to do things like eat or sleep and sometimes he’ll give in, but orders? Not so much. It's one of the reasons he and Mycroft don't get along well. Mycroft likes to be in control and Sherlock likes to thwart control. Living with Sherlock requires a certain willingness to be ordered about. But that doesn't mean John likes it. Just because he does what Sherlock wants, when Sherlock wants it, even if it's inconvenient to him, even if it means ruining yet another relationship with yet another girlfriend...
John stops. "Bloody buggering fuck," he mutters. But that doesn't mean he likes it, right? He puts up with it because he has to, not because he wants to. He craves being around Sherlock, needs the dose of adrenaline and danger the man poses.
His leg gives an idle throb and he sinks down onto a bench, resting his head in his hands. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. John never imagined that when he walked into the laboratory that day, the tall, skinny man with the wild curls would become so important to him. Sherlock is everything to him. John claims that he has no idea why people think he and Sherlock are a couple, but in reality he has a pretty good idea. People take one look at him and they see what he has never made an effort to hide: Sherlock is his world.
Sherlock is selfish, arrogant, spoiled, lazy, too smart for his own good, amazing, sexy, stunning, creative... the list goes on and on.
And yes, okay, John notices the "sexy" in that list. Come on, he is only human. The world's most asexual person would still find Sherlock ridiculously hot. A straight man like John had no chance. But that was as far as it was supposed to go. He can handle thinking Sherlock is hot. But this... this is getting dangerously close to territory he never allows himself to think about.
"I do not like taking orders from Sherlock," he mutters to himself, scrubbing his hands through his short blond hair.
Except... it's sort of nice being the only one who gets to touch Sherlock. His flatmate flinches away from everyone else, but willing lets John reach into his pockets or treat his injuries. And he knows it's a privilege to be the only person who gets to share Sherlock's world. And the little half-smile Sherlock often gives him when John does something Sherlock wanted him to do always makes him feel warm inside. It's become second nature to respond to Sherlock, really. Takes more conscious thought to ignore the man's demands than it does to listen.
His cell phone beeps.
John stiffens. Slowly, he takes it out and looks at it.
Come back. – SH
He closes his eyes briefly and slips the phone back into his pocket. He doesn't move for a few minutes. Just keeps staring off into space. The last thing he wants to do is listen to Sherlock, especially now. But it's a quiet buzzing in the back of his mind. What if Sherlock is in trouble? What if he's doing something dangerous? Anxiety begins to build and he drums his hands on his knees, tapping his foot on the ground.
"Fuck." He leaps to his feet and takes off at a quick stride, moving at an easy lope along the path. Once he's sure that Sherlock is fine, he's going to make things perfectly clear. He takes orders from Sherlock because he has to. He might not mind because he knows he needs Sherlock, but that's a far cry from enjoying it. And he might be in lust (not love) with Sherlock, but that means nothing.
He's panting by the time he runs up the stairs to the flat. The room is dark when he opens the door and he squints at the couch. Sherlock is still laying there, fingers still steepled, whole and healthy and unharmed. John grits his teeth and slams the door. He's ready to have a fight. He's not going to give into Sherlock's deductions. He's not -
John doesn't get the chance to finish that thought. Sherlock jolts up from the couch, leaps across the room, slams him back against the door, and kisses him.
His first instinct is to push Sherlock away. But somehow the order never reaches his hands. The kiss is everything he hasn't yet found in a woman: deep and passionate, yet at the same time, gentle and soft. Sherlock's tongue parts his lips easily and slides into John's mouth, seeking out every crevice, mapping it all for his personal record. John tries to kiss back but it's hard, like being lost inside a hurricane and trying to look in every direction and only getting more muddled because ohmygodhe'skissingSherlock Holmes...
Sherlock pulls back and rests his forehead against John's. His breathing is only slightly heavier compared to John's panting. "I knew you would come back," he says.
John closes his eyes, mortified, knowing that he played right into Sherlock's hands. "Why?" he asks, and his voice breaks ever so slightly. "I don't... why?"
A dangerous smile curves Sherlock's swollen lips. "Because you love it," he breathes, nipping at John's neck. John shudders. "You love the danger. You love not knowing how far I'm going to push you."
Something about the way he says that doesn't seem right. When it hits John, he goes stiff all over. "Have you been performing experiments on me?"
"Yes, of course," Sherlock says like it should be obvious. He pulls back just far enough that he can stare into John's eyes. This close, there's nowhere else for John to look, and Sherlock seems to like that. His fingers slide into the hair at the base of John's neck. "Tell me, John, is there anything you wouldn't do for me?"
Whatever John was going to say dies in the wake of that question. Because he knows the answer is no and Sherlock knows the answer is no. John Watson would do anything for Sherlock Holmes, that has been evident from the day that they met. But that's irrelevant. He can't believe Sherlock has been deliberately testing him, seeing how far he could push the commands before John would snap (well, yes he can believe it because that's a completely Sherlock thing to do, but still). He opens his mouth, feeling like he should say something - anything - to get this conversation back on course.
"Shh," Sherlock whispers. "Don't speak, John. Listen to me. I can tell you were upset by the way you ran out of here. I knew that you didn't know, but I wasn't expecting you to react so harshly." Something faintly troubles flashes across his face. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying orders, John. In fact, I think I could make it worth your while to listen to me. I've never steered you wrong, have I?"
John shoots him an incredulous look and is fully ready to list every instance where Sherlock has done just that. Sherlock must sense this because he lunges forward, attaching his lips to John's neck, and John moans, forgetting about everything except for the feel of that hot mouth stroking and biting his skin.
"Sh-Sherlock," he choked out, closing his eyes. He's only just noticed that his wrists have been caught in Sherlock's hands, preventing him from doing anything. "Sherlock... I don't..."
"Yes, you do. I know you do." Sherlock's voice is full of quiet confidence, but he doesn't look arrogant or smug, for once. He really looks like he wants John to just give in. "John, please. I've known about this for months and I haven't taken advantage of it. Not really. I knew you would do what I ordered you to..." He groans softly. "But, although I tested the boundaries, I did nothing to humiliate you or put you in danger. I kept it between the two of us. Anderson was a lucky guess, nothing more."
"You want me to give in," John says, his head spinning with lust. God but he wants Sherlock right now, wants him in any way that Sherlock will take him. He can't remember a time in his life when he was ever this turned on. But still, there is a small part of him that is shying away from this, that says his life will be irreversibly changed if he gives in, because he has given so much of himself to Sherlock already that if he gives in on this there will be nothing left.
"I want you to let go," Sherlock whispers, voice all dark, heady smoke. He kisses John again, making his hunger known in the way he presses his hips forward, muffling John's cry. "Let go, John. I've been here to catch you from the beginning."
His hands are shaking, but in a good way. John has never been this terrified in his life, but that doesn't stop him from saying yes.
Surprisingly, Sherlock steps back, releasing his wrists. "Go take a shower," he says. "I'll make tea."
"You're going to make tea? After that?" John is bewildered. He wants more. He doesn't want tea, damn it!
"Yes. I want us both to be calm for this." Sherlock's eyes are glittering with promise. "Because when I take you, John, when I make you come undone beneath me until you can't scream anything but my name, I want you to remember every moment of it, and I want you to know that you chose this. You chose me."
There is no way to breathe after that. John nods dumbly and stumbles off to the bathroom, which is free of any odd experiments. He locks the door and leans against it for several minutes, too shell-shocked to even thinking about taking a shower. What the hell was that?
Eventually, and it takes a while, he pries himself off of the door and gets into the shower. Not because Sherlock told him to, but because he really does feel like he needs one after... that. He ignores his erection and soaps himself up quickly, doing his best not to think about the look in Sherlock's eyes when he said that he wanted to make John come undone. It sends signals straight to his cock and does nothing in helping him to ignore it. Somehow, the thought of taking himself in hand is instantly dismissed.
He finishes the shower and climbs out, realizing instantly that there is a problem: he neglected to bring fresh clothing in with him. Of course, he could do what he always does, which is wrap a towel around his waist and go up to his room regardless. But with the way Sherlock was acting, he's not sure he wants to take that chance. Sherlock takes enough liberties without being presented with extra opportunity. Finally, he just puts on the clothes he was wearing before and takes a couple of deep breaths before he goes back out into the living room.
Surprisingly, there is a cup of tea waiting for him on the edge of his chair. Sherlock is leaning against the window and plucking at the strings of his violin. John glances at him warily before edging his way over to his seat and sitting down. The tea is made perfectly, exactly the way he likes it, and he can feel the tension easing out of his shoulders. He looks up at Sherlock, studying the man's back, and starts to think.
There have been lots of times when John has gone above and beyond for Sherlock. More than one girlfriend has left him after uttering the now infamous phrase that seems to haunt his every relationship: don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes. Because that's the problem, isn't it? John didn't date anyone during the year he thought Sherlock was dead. Losing Sherlock was like losing a part of himself. Before that, he'd always thought that someday he'd find someone who he cared about more than Sherlock, and that would be the person he'd marry. But after Sherlock "died", he realized that he wouldn't be able to handle loving anyone more than Sherlock. It would be too much, too impossible.
So what does that mean now? He finds Sherlock attractive. Obviously. And Sherlock seems to think John enjoys listening to Sherlock's orders. John shifts uncomfortably, still not liking the idea, and really not liking that Sherlock has been testing the boundaries without his knowledge. He casts his memory back, trying to recall if Sherlock has made any outlandish orders in the past few months, but he's drawing a blank. Is it possible that Sherlock was being honest and that he hasn't taken it too far? Or, more likely, John just wasn't paying close enough attention. He inwardly curses himself for not catching on to what Sherlock was doing sooner.
Hands sliding over his knees makes him come back to the flat with a start. He jumps and it's a good thing his cup is empty because otherwise he'd need another shower. Sherlock is kneeling in front of him, eyes assessing John steadily. He swallows hard and stares back, caught, knowing he should look away but unable to.
"John," Sherlock purrs.
"Yes, Sherlock?" he says, and is proud that he managed to speak without stuttering. His stomach curls as Sherlock's hands slide higher, up his thighs.
"You're thinking too much."
"That's rich, coming from you."
"I could smell the smoke burning." Sherlock smirks. "You're trying to tell if I told you the truth about whether or not I ever pushed too far when it came to ordering you around."
Not for the first time, John hates the fact that Sherlock can read every thought that passes through his mind. "No, I wasn't."
"Yes, you were. But you haven't and it upsets you, the thought that I was doing it and you didn't realize. It makes you wonder how long I would have kept it up before you caught on." Long, deft fingers slide between his thighs, pressing gently. John responds to the unspoken command, unconsciously allowing his thighs to part. He's too busy scowling at Sherlock.
"You might have spoken to me about it before," he says. "Before I had a bloody panic attack over it."
"You weren't ready," Sherlock says. "Even though I didn't think you would panic like that, I knew you would respond poorly to the situation. As far as I could tell, you hadn't even admitted to yourself that you were sexually attracted to me. I was trying to figure out how best to approach the situation."
There's something oddly... sweet about that.
"There's nothing wrong with you, John. I know you're confused but you don't have to be." Those fingers are tugging at his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping. John notices and his hand flies down, pinning Sherlock's hand in place. His blue eyes are huge. Sherlock sits back on his heels. "Shh, John. Relax. If you give yourself to me, I promise you that it will be everything you have ever dreamed about." The odd, half-cast smirk indicates that he has an excellent idea of the kind of dreams John has had.
John swallows. His heart is pounding. This is it. He can give in and let Sherlock do what he wants, possibly even accept that he may actually like it, or he can get up and walk away, possibly damaging their friendship (relationship?) beyond repair. He tries to imagine a future without Sherlock in it and can't. He meant it when he said that Sherlock was everything to him. Maybe there really isn't anything he wouldn't do for Sherlock. Slowly, he takes his hand away.
"Please," he says breathlessly, and there are so many things wound up in that single word that he doesn't think he could ever properly express them all.
Sherlock smiles and his fingers wander into John's pants, sliding around his half-erect cock. John gasps at the feeling and stares at Sherlock, stunned. Those fingers seem to know exactly where to touch and how to stroke, alternating between long and short, a pinch here and there, a twist at the very tip. A strangled sound emerges from John's throat and he hears himself panting.
"Relax," Sherlock orders, dropping his voice. It comes out as a rumble that goes straight to John's fully erect cock. "Put your hands at your sides and keep them there. And spread your legs more."
John does, fisting his hands into his shirt and spreading his legs as wide as he can, until the chair stops him. Sherlock shuffles closer until John is pinned to the chair and couldn't escape even if he wanted to. Sherlock's eyes remain on his face, capturing John's gaze, refusing to let him look away. He knows that every thought passing through his mind, every feeling, is being read by the detective. Sherlock is absorbing it all even while his hand continues to work John like he's a violin, playing him to Sherlock's tune of choice.
"Sherlock," he says, chest heaving. This scrutiny is unbearable. His blood feels like it's boiling and he squirms, head tipping back, but still keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock's. "Sherlock, oh god... Sherlock..."
"I know, John, I know," Sherlock murmurs. He puts his other hand on John's thigh and slides it up, stroking the skin. It's soothing, strangely so, and John lets out a hoarse whimper. His hips are moving, thrusting into Sherlock's talented hand.
He never knew it could be like this. Sex with women was always fun, but this... this is like a fire, consuming him steadily, burning him from the inside out. Sherlock's eyes bore into him until he can't take it and has to close his own.
"Look at me, John."
"S-Sher... fuck... Sherlock..." John forces his eyes open. He can feel himself growing close. The excitement from earlier has returned and is overwhelming him, mind going hazy with pleasure, thought banished. Sherlock leans forward, and his tall stature combined with John's slumped position puts them at just the right height. Their faces are level.
"Come for me, John," Sherlock orders, and then he leans forward and kisses John.
John cries out into Sherlock's mouth as he comes, his body jerking helplessly, back arching as he spills himself into Sherlock's hand. He collapses against the chair, doing his best to keep up with Sherlock's fervent kisses. He's trembling all over by the time Sherlock finally allows him to pull away. The detective eases his hand out of John's trousers and wipes it off before cupping John's cheek, bring their eyes together again.
"You did well," he says with a pleased smile. "So good, my John."
And at that moment, John realizes that he is completely, irreversibly, 100% fucking in love with Sherlock Bloody Holmes.