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There is a keycard to that fancy hotel by the river that you keep raving on about each time we go past it under the skull. I know I'm getting married tomorrow, but I need this and God knows that you do too. It is your choice if you want to come or not. –JW
Are you drunk? You'll regret this tomorrow. You know you will. –SH
Not drunk. And I honestly don't care. -JW
I will, because you'll probably blame me. But I'm on my way. -SH
Thank you. -JW
Sherlock grabbed the keycard, both filled with anticipation and burdened with a heavy heart that he'd carried around since John had told him he was engaged, now saddened more than ever as the day drew closer that his John would finally be taken from him for good. He caught a cab to the hotel, staring out the window as he thought over again and again all the memories he had with John. He got out of the cab and threw his money at the driver, hurrying into the lavish building and straight to the elevator, taking the trip up to John's floor. It felt both too quick and like an eternity.
"You need it," John said to himself for what felt like the hundredth time as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror of the hotel room. "You need it, and he needs it, and tomorrow you'll both be able to get on with your lives." He gave himself a nod and ran a hand through his hair before walking out into the main part of the room and propping himself up against the headboard of the bed.
Sherlock hurried down the hall with a long, quick stride, reaching John's room and sliding the keycard in with slightly shaky hands that he willed to stop, lest John see just how very not okay he was, despite his impressively nonchalant mask he'd had on for the past days, weeks, months. He entered the room and gave John a small smile as he entered, locking the door behind him and shucking his infamous coat. "Hello." He greeted softly, making his way to the large bed.
Swallowing thickly, John forced himself to smile at the detective. "Hello, Sherlock," he murmured, keeping his eyes fixed on the other man's face. "We have from now until eight tomorrow morning. I have to be up in the suite upstairs by then or Mary's going to think something is horribly wrong..." He shifted forward a little so he was just that tiny bit closer to the other man. "I... This is for you. This is because I'm leaving you and I need you to be okay with that."
Sherlock bit the inside of his lip hard at the statement, climbing onto the bed, unable to keep his true emotions flickering over his face for the briefest of seconds before his ever present mask was back again, crawling over to John and sitting himself down in his lap, taking his face in his hands and stealing a chaste kiss from him. It was all he could do not to scream to John that he wasn't okay, that he'd never be okay. But he'd take what he could get, now, whilst it was offered to him. "Thank you," He whispered against his lips, eyes closing.
Taking a deep breath, John started to move his lips against Sherlock's, savouring the slide and the softness and the warmth. He pulled the detective's bottom lip into his mouth, running his tongue along it only to taste a mixture of tea and toothpaste and something so distinctly Sherlock that it made his heart ache. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer so their bodies were flush together, wanting to be with the man for as long as he could before he had to go.
Sherlock parted his lips as John licked at his lip, eyes tightly shut as he let himself get lost in the kiss, thinking of nothing but John, John here right now, the John that belonged to him and the John that owned him in return, clutching at his shirt as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head slightly to slot together with John better. He wriggled as close as he could possibly get in his lap, grinding down against him slightly as he made a soft sound into his mouth.
John moaned softly as he started to relax, pulling Sherlock's shirt out from where it was tucked into his trousers before starting to undo it. Pulling away to catch his breath, John stooped down to kiss at Sherlock's chest as each piece of pale flesh was revealed after each button was undone. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he tilted his head up ravishing the underside of the detective's jaw with small little kisses that turned into a line of small little red marks.
Sherlock watched as John undid his buttons and untucked his shirt, the rush of familiarity and a distinct feeling of home wracked through him and threatened to bring tears to his eyes, to shake his chest with sobs. But he fought it, pushing it away with a slight shake of his head, and tilted his head to let access to his jaw and neck as he stared up at the ceiling, swallowing hard. He shrugged out of his shirt, and gently tugged at John's jumper to urge him out of it.
John bit his bottom lip as he lifted up his arms to let Sherlock pull his jumper over his head before lying back on the bed so his head was resting against the pillows, Sherlock still straddling his lap. "I'm sorry, darling," he murmured again, reaching out and running a hand down the centre of Sherlock's perfectly formed chest. "I'm so, so sorry."
Sherlock's jaw set hard and he swallowed around the lump in his throat, shaking his head slowly as John apologised and ran his hand down his chest. "Don't." He protested, voice cracking, before he cleared his throat. "Don't apologise, apologies do nothing." He said finally, voice firmer as he leaned down over him to pepper kisses over his neck, rocking down against him, in an efforts to make him stop doing that, apologising and making everything worse.
"I hate that I can't give you more, Sherlock," John whispered, tilting his head back and placing his hands on Sherlock's hips to guide his grinds. "I should have... I wish I could give you more than a few hours and just words." And he did. He wished he could just hand himself over to the other man and stay at Baker Street and grow old with the brilliant consulting detective that he loved so dearly. But there was Mary to think of and the fact that she would allow him to have the kids he wanted and... Sherlock just wouldn't do.
Sherlock raised a hand to his own hair, running it back through his curls as he let John guide his hips down against his own. He fisted his fingers harshly close to his scalp, tugging hard as he'd become so accustomed to doing so frequently as the turmoil and upset had grown within him over time. "There'll never be anyone else, you know that, right?" He murmured, his voice pained. "It was only ever you."
"Hey," John soothed, reaching up and running a hand over Sherlock's bicep. "I'm here now. You've got me. Whatever you want, Sherlock. I'm here now and you can do whatever you want." He offered the detective a smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. He was angry at himself for being so stupid, and angry at Mary for being so loving, and so bloody angry at Sherlock for being so perfect.
He closed his eyes and nodded, though he knew and John knew that it wasn't enough, it would never have been enough. He twisted his hand in his hair before dropping it almost tiredly, half opening his eyes to look down at John. He swung his leg back over off John, so he could work on removing John's trousers, deft fingers moving with a reverence he'd gained, only seconds before, committing every single detail of this to memory like it were the last thing he'd ever do. Which, he thought darkly, it just might be. The only thing that would ever matter.
When the time was right, John lifted his hips and let Sherlock pull his trousers down, kicking them off his legs and onto the floor himself. He kept his eyes focused on Sherlock the whole time, watching for a silent prompt or want or need that he should see. "Tell me how you're feeling, love," he murmured after a moment, forcing himself to smile again. Perhaps Sherlock would talk about it. Perhaps that would help.
Sherlock watched John kick his trousers off and rolled onto his back for a moment to get his own off, kicking them off the bed harshly so they sort of sailed through the air before dropping in a heap. His heart gave a painful pang at the endearment he hadn't heard in so long, and looked up at him almost mournfully. "I can't do that. You don't want to hear." He whispered, crawling back to straddle him, only separated by their pants now.
Frowning, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, pulling him down so he could kiss him again. The kiss was more desperate and hungry and needy than the last. John didn't care that his teeth were clashing against the other man's and that he was sure everything was far too wet, but he didn't care. It was what he needed, and it was what Sherlock needed, and if it would make both of them happy- even if it was just for a moment- then he was willing to do all that he could.
Sherlock moaned softly into John's mouth, their saliva mingling and teeth clashing and tongues tangling desperately, his hips undulating down against John's. He pulled back after a minute or two, needing air, pushing himself up with his hands planted on John's chest. "I want to ride you, let me, please. I need it." He muttered to him, looking down at him through the curls fallen into his eyes. A nasty, selfish part of him wanted to prove to John that he was so much better at this than Mary, that he could make John feel better than she could.
John nodded, looking over to his bag that was beside the bed and grabbing out a bottle of lube that he'd brought with him. The woman in the corner-shop by the flat had congratulated them on finally getting together. If only she knew. "Do you want me to prep you first? Or do you want to do that yourself?" he asked, smiling genuinely at his words. He honestly never thought he'd say them to Sherlock. His best friend in the entire world.
Sherlock considered telling John there was no need for prep, that he wanted to get right to it, feel every little ridge and vein; the pain that would be left for days after would be so worth it. He would feel John, feel him for days, and feel what he'd done to him. But he knew the doctor in John, and the part in him that cared about him still, wouldn't let him do that and he knew it. So he bucked up and moved around so he could get John's and his own pants off them, and looked back to him, heart hurting at the smile on his face. It was like he didn't even know how much he hurt. "I want you to do it." He said quietly.
John caught the look on Sherlock's face that said he didn't want any at all and rolled his eyes, getting up and pressing Sherlock down so he was lying on his back before kneeling between the man's legs. "I'd let you do it with no prep at all, but that would rip you apart, Sherlock, and I'm not having it look like I raped you," he said softly, rubbing the inside of the detective's thigh before pouring a decent amount of lube into the palm of his hand, warming it up slightly before slicking it over three of his fingers. "Just two, alright? Two and then you'll still feel it for days, but it won't wound you, alright, darling?"
He nodded, giving a long exhale through his nose. It hurt so much, just John being able to read the looks on his face like that and know what he was thinking, and negotiate something that would suit them both. Even if he was still getting the raw (or perhaps not raw enough, in this case) end of the deal. He spread his legs wider for John, tilting his hips up. "Fine. Can I convince you to only use one?" He asked hopefully, watching John slick his fingers.
Smirking, John shook his head, tracing Sherlock's entrance with a fingertip. "No, love. You'll get two. And then I'll lie back on the bed and let you do whatever you want," he growled, suddenly perking up a little. Perhaps his own arousal was getting to his head... but then again maybe it was just a coping mechanism. With that, he grinned and slowly pushed a finger into the detective.
Sherlock dropped his head back onto the pillows, giving a little keening noise as he pushed back onto John's finger, trying to get him to hurry up and finish stretching him. "Please, John. More." He begged wantonly, hips grinding back as he reached to grab at John's arms.
"Calm down, Sherlock," John murmured, reaching out and placing a hand on the detective's stomach to hold him down. He pulled his finger out and slowly pressed in two, closing his eyes and savouring the feeling of Sherlock around him for a moment before starting to scissor his fingers, opening the other man up.
Sherlock tilted his hips how he wanted, the knowledge flying back of so long ago of how to angle himself for John to hit his prostate. He pushed up defiantly against the hand on his stomach, more concaved than it had been for a while, since John had had more things on his mind than reminding Sherlock to eat like he used to. He wriggled on his fingers impatiently, gasping and arching when he got his prostate. "John, please, I'm ready.”
John chuckled, enjoying seeing Sherlock so out of control, letting his fingers brush past the sensitive bundle of nerves a few times before continuing to stretch the other man open. After another minute, he pulled his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets before nodding. "Where do you want me then, love?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Each time he uttered the endearment Sherlock's heart clenched painfully, but he pushed it away so as not to disturb John's arousal. He wriggled away, out from under John, up onto his knees and snatched the lube away. "Middle of the bed with a pillow or two under your head, I want you to watch everything." He murmured seductively, that pesky, possessive and jealous little part of his brain tempted to utter more; 'watch how much better I am than her.'
Biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself from snapping out some stupid retort about how he'd watch anyway or something, John did what he was told, grabbing two of the pillows and stacking them before lying back, propping himself up so he could see. He was already beginning to imagine how warm Sherlock would feel. How tight and slick and warm and... He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to catch his breath.
Sherlock smirked as he watched John imagining it, thinking of how good he'd feel on his cock, which was jutting up hard and leaking from his body. He poured some of the lube in his hand and shuffled over, wrapping his long fingered hand around his erection and giving it a few long, languid strokes, from root to tip and over the head, coating him in the lubricant. He swung his leg over John's hips and settled, before reaching behind himself and guiding it to his entrance, just rocking a little to tease him as the blunt head rubbed slickly over his ready hole.
"Oh, fuck, Sherlock," John moaned. He wasn't even inside of the man, and yet he felt so goddamn good. He wanted to grab him and kiss him and mark him as his... "I want you," he murmured. "I want you now, and I know that this is for you, but I... God, Sherlock, please." He felt useless and stupid and really stupid for begging but he didn't care. He reached out and ran a hand down Sherlock's chest again, his eyes completely filled with lust.
He nodded silently; if this night was for him, then he wanted nothing more than to please him as much as he could, to make him remember how good it was to be inside of him. To be with him in bed. He held him steady and shifted a little more, breathing out slowly and closing his eyes before sinking down on him with a breathy moan, not stopping until John was as deep as he could possibly be. And god, did it feel so impossibly right.
Arching his back at the feeling of being engulfed by Sherlock, John groaned loudly, placing his hands on the man's hips and trying to catch his breath. "God, you feel so good, and so tight, and so fucking hot, Sherlock," he choked out, opening his eyes and looking up at the detective's face. "You're so gorgeous, love. So fucking gorgeous."
Sherlock had the urge to scream something needy and pathetic at John at his comments, but kept his mouth firmly shut as he opened his eyes to look into John’s, waiting a moment before starting to rock gently in his lap, hands grabbing at the blond’s biceps as he swallowed hard, barely blinking as he kept his eyes on John's.
So this was it. This is what Sherlock... his Sherlock wanted. John stayed still, soft sounds escaping his lips periodically as Sherlock hit all the right places, but apart from that, he stayed where he was, allowing the other man to please him and move him and just be with him. "I'm sorry," he murmured after a while, tracing patterns onto Sherlock's hips. "I'm so sorry."
He shook his head sharply; sweat damp curls flying as he closed his eyes a moment. "Stop apologising, it only makes this worse." He whispered, raising himself up further and grinding back down, tightening around him as he tried to give him as much pleasure as he was possibly able to.
"Fuck, Sherlock," John moaned, hips bucking up into the other man as he arched his back and groaned again. "Fuck, you're so fantastic, and brilliant, and smart, and... Oh, God!"
Sherlock's jaw set and his eyes tightened as he fought his emotions at the compliments, but he wouldn't close his eyes again, couldn't, he needed to see every little expression flit over his face, it was the last time he'd get the chance. He continued his pace, tightening nearly painfully around him sporadically as he fucked himself on John's cock. He lifted a hand to cover John's on his hip, pressing it down. "Mark me, please, I need it."
John sat up and attached his lips to Sherlock's neck, clamping his hands down on the other man’s hips, intent on leaving fingertip shaped marks across his waist. He sucked and bit and pulled at the skin beneath his lips, intent on leaving the most obvious love bite in existence. When he was done, he pulled back, grinning before kissing the bruise better, looking up at the detective.
Sherlock smiled a little down at John, the lovebite on his neck throbbing pleasantly a little, and nodded, swaying forward to kiss him sweetly before beginning to fuck himself harder down onto John, grunting and moaning desperately like a man starved. He tightened his grip on John's upper arms before easing up, not wanting to leave marks on his skin for her to see, though he really wanted to.
Feeling a warmth start to spread through his abdomen, John tilting his head back, unable to force himself to keep looking at Sherlock anymore. His mouth gaped open as his breathing got more ragged and his moans got louder. "Fuck, Sherlock. I'm so close. I'm so fucking close. Oh, God..."
Sherlock nodded to himself and ground down against him hard, breathing out a soft moan, listening and watching John as if it were the only thing he ever wanted to see, capturing it in his mind. "Do it, John. Come inside me, please." He begged breathily, watching him with pupil blown eyes as he wrapped a hand around himself.
"Only when you're ready, darling," John breathed, taking Sherlock's hand away and replacing it with one of his own. He stroked the other man's cock to the same rhythm that he was fucking himself. "Come on, love. Tell me when. Tell me when you're ready."
Sherlock nodded, eyes fluttering, wanting to close as John stroked him steadily. He fucked himself down onto John and up into his hand for some time, before he began to feel heat pooling low in his belly. "Now," he gasped as his body began to tense, though he staved it off as long as he could, wanting and needing John to fill him with his come first. "Please John, now, can't wait any longer.." He whined, muscles clamping down on John.
With a shout, John let himself fall over the edge, coming in hot spurts inside the other man, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck as he continued to stroke him despite the fact that all he saw were stars and all he felt was tingling and pleasure. "Come for me, Sherlock. Please. Come for me."
Sherlock panted, and with a startled and choked cry, came between their bodies, his come splashing onto John's stomach. He curled into him as he shuddered through his orgasm, forehead pressed to John's good shoulder as he fought to catch his breath.
They lay that for quite a while, John humming softly, rubbing circles over Sherlock's back, turning his head to softly kiss his neck. "You're beautiful and gorgeous," he murmured, holding Sherlock in his arms. "Anyone would be lucky to have you, love. Anyone at all."
Sherlock eagerly and desperately pressed into John's embrace, needing it more than he'd ever needed anything before. He shut his eyes tightly even as his resolved failed, hot tears welling up behind his lids as he shuddered, shaking his head. "And yet no one ever will."
John sighed softly, pressing multiple kissed to Sherlock's cheek, feeling the come start to dry on his chest. "Shall we go and take a bath or a shower, darling? We can talk then, and I can hold you, or you can hold me."
He nodded, feeling a little childlike at the way he wanted and needed coddling. He raised a hand to his face and scrubbed at his eyes, lifting off of John and getting up off the bed on shaky legs, he moved to the bathroom, leaving John there on the bed, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes before sighing and kneeling by the truly massive bath, turning the taps on and putting the plug in.
Following after Sherlock once he heard the taps going, John smiled softly at the other man, knowing the emotional trauma and pain he must be going through. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said for the billionth time as he found a bottle of bubble bath and tipped the whole thing into the water.
He didn't do anything to acknowledge the apology, except glance at the bottle as it was tipped into the rising water. He sighed softly and waited for it to fill the tub, then clambered into it, swirling the bubbles around to make more, his face the picture of moroseness. He looked up at John, separating his legs to allow for him to sit between them.
John smiled at Sherlock's gesture as he quickly left the room to get the two dressing gowns and two towels before coming back. "Do you want me to face you? Or do you want my back to your chest?" he asked softly, tilting his head to the side.
"Back to my chest. Like we used to." He murmured softly, leaning against the wall that backed the side of the tub, his head hitting the wall with a dull thud as he waited for John to join him. He wished he could just enjoy his time now, be happy with what he had, but all he could think about what how the seconds ticked away to the hour he would leave him forever.
Biting his lip and nodding, John got into the bath and lowered himself into the water in front of Sherlock, leaning back to rest his head on the man's shoulder. He searched the water as his sides for Sherlock's hands and, once he found them, brought them around to wrap around himself.
Sherlock followed his prompting eagerly, wrapping them around him tightly, pulling him back against him, the side of his face against John's neck as he closed his eyes, fingers trailing over John's skin warmly. "I'll always love you." He whispered hesitantly, hoping John wouldn't pull away from him.
John couldn't bring himself to reply. He could never bring himself to reply. The words always made his stomach churn and his chest ache because they were never meant for anyone else but him. Sherlock would never say the words again to anyone but John. He hummed in acknowledgement, turning his head to brush his lips against Sherlock's temple.
He nuzzled at John's throat, pressing his lips there softly for a few long seconds. "I wish I'd been good enough for you." He whispered even quieter, barely meant for his ears, more to himself and John's skin. He didn't know what Mary had that he didn't besides the ability to carry children, and he couldn't ever let himself think about that because it's what hurt the most.
Those eight words were what set brave John Watson off. A sob wracked through his chest and he immediately hid his face in his hands as if it would make it all go away. He wanted to be alone and Mary-less and Sherlock-less. He wanted to be back at war and terrified out of his wits every single second of the day so he didn't have to think.
Sherlock's face scrunched up as a sob shook John in his arms, and he tightened them around him in apology, tears welling up in his eyes as he rested his face in the crook of his neck. He did that, he made John upset. He didn't know why, either, and it made it all the more worse. Surely John knew why he wasn't good enough, surely he knew the reasons that he wasn't as good as Mary was, because Sherlock sure as hell didn't know, and he probably never would.
"It's just so much easier," John choked out between sobs and shakes. "I don't have to think with her. With you it's always moving, and it's so fast, and you're so different around me, yet she's always the same. And I can't help but love you, but I adore her too, Sherlock. And if I choose you I lose her for good. But if I choose her, then I know you'll stay because you can't leave. You can't fucking go and I take advantage over that all the time and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, but it's..." He couldn't speak anymore. Instead he just curled up into a ball and let Sherlock hold him.
Sherlock's breathing got harsher as he listened to John, silent tears dripping onto John's shoulder as he rested his cheek on his shoulder, closing his eyes. "You're wrong. Well, you're right, obviously, I can't leave, I could never live any life without you. Which is the point I'm trying to make. I don't want to live without you, and I don't think I ever could. You are and were and always will be the best thing that ever happened to me. I can't. I can't do this." He whispered, voice breaking in several places, but he couldn't be arsed to care at this point.
It looked like the beginning of a bad joke. Two grown men sitting in a bathtub, sobbing their eyes out. "You can, Sherlock, and you will. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me and we'll still go on cases and we'll still get takeout and watch horrible films... I'll just have to go home to Mary and the ba--" He paused. He'd said too much. He'd gone too far.
Sherlock shook his head, drawing in a ragged breath and opening his eyes again, staring at the wall opposite them, jaw set hard as he swallowed the lump in his throat. "Mary and the baby." He finished, his voice still quiet but harder. "I wanted, all of this with you, do you know that? Do you realise? I wanted to settle down with you. Or, settle the ways only we could. Get married. Or a civil union or whatever it bloody well is. Have a family, one way or another, I even had ideas of how we could have. Retire with you out in the country, farm bees. You could’ve started a private practice." His voice was a little bitter now. "I’d never been able to say it. Afraid you’d say no I suppose I was always destined to be alone."
"No," John stated, spinning around so he was facing the other man. He draped his legs over Sherlock's thighs, pulling the detective close so he could curl them around his back. "Fucking stop it, Sherlock. You're not going to be alone. You have me. And you have Greg, and Molly, and Mycroft, and Mrs H. You have so many people, Sherlock. So. Many. People. You just have to open up for them and let them in. You have me, darling. You always have me. Forever and ever, remember?"
"No, you stop it, John." He was nearly yelling, nearly glaring at John as he rested his forehead against the blond's, tears trailing down his cheeks silently. "I can't do that; you know I can't do that. And I don't have you, do I? Where will you be at Christmas? Sitting at your home with your wife and your adorable little children. Molly will be with her family, or at home, Greg with his, Mycroft with Mummy, probably, Mrs Hudson with her sister, and I will be alone in our flat. Sorry, my flat," he spat the word like a bad taste. "Reminded of all the love I have for you that I can never have back, wasted on you, you who was the only person I ever loved, who picked someone else because she could give you a 'proper' family. Your forever and ever is promised to someone else, John. You can't say that to me."
"Fuck you," John spat, leaning forward and pressing a bruising kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Fuck you and your stupid love for me. You could have had anyone else, Sherlock. Absolutely fucking anyone. Why the fuck would you choose me?" He kissed him again. "You can't expect me to give up Mary and a son for you, Sherlock. I love you, but I love them too. I have to. If I ever get the chance I will come back to you, but right now..." Another kiss. "This is what I have to do."
"I don't expect you to give them up for me, of course I don't. I may be selfish and vindictive and heartbroken, but I would never ask that of you. I couldn't have had anyone, you know why, John? Because no one else ever managed to get past the anger and the mask and the loneliness and the wall I set up to keep people from hurting me, but you. You. Got. Through. You were the only person I ever let in and opened up to. And you look where that got me." He muttered, taking the kisses and giving back everything he got, sure they would both have sore mouths after.
"I wish I could have you both," John said softly, nuzzling his nose against Sherlock's, placing his hands on the man's shoulders. "I don't know how I'm going to deal without you. It'll be... I..." He frowned, leaning in to kiss Sherlock much more tendering this time, moving his lips slowly.
Sherlock kissed back softly for a moment, and then pulled away, pressing his face against his neck. "I'm leaving. After the wedding." He said quietly, pulling John closer to him. "I'm not sure where yet, but as soon as it's finished and I've wished you well, I'm going to the airport."
"No, you're not," John stated sternly, not wanting Sherlock to go anywhere. "You're staying here with me. You're not fucking leaving, Sherlock. Please. I can't..." He shook his head, holding the detective as tightly as he could.
"I have to, John. I'm not here with you. You'll be caught up with new marriage and honeymoons and babies, you won't even notice I'm gone." He whispered, splaying his hands against his back. "I'll be back, I won't leave forever." Maybe, he thought solemnly.
"Please, Sherlock. What if she leaves me? What if she dies? What if the goddamn kid dies, for Christ's sake?" John whined, pulling back from Sherlock and looking him in the eyes. "Where do I go when she kicks me out? Where do I go when she's angry and won't touch me or listen to me? If you leave, I'm losing my best friend, Sherlock."
"I lost mine already." He murmured, looking away from John for a moment, before looking back at him. "Then you've got 221B. You've got Greg. I'll have my phone, you can call me and text me if something's wrong, and I'll be back before you know it. But I can't stay, not now. Not when you'll be glowing with happiness someone else gave you." He whispered rubbing his eyes again as the tears welled up once more. "I don't think you understand how much it kills me."
John nodded, giving up on trying to convince the detective to stay. "Will you dance with me at the reception? Just one song. You can choose," he murmured, leaning forward and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips.
He swallowed and nodded, turning slightly to catch him in a proper kiss. "Of course, John. Of course I'll dance with you. But everyone's going to know in a heartbeat that I'm still hopelessly in love with you. Especially when I start crying all over you." He gave a weak smile, cradling the back of John's head, smearing bubbles on his hair.
"I think they all know that already, darling," John mumbled, pecking Sherlock on the lips once more. "We can blame it on the alcohol. And then afterwards we'll slip out and dance just outside the tent and I will kiss you properly because that's just what we do, and then you can go."
"What if Mary sees you?" He asked quietly, though he desperately needed it from him, and he would always, always take what he could get from John. "Won't she be upset? She already dislikes me."
"She'll be too busy basking the glory that is being a new bride," John stated, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "She won't care. She'll be too busy boasting and talking about the baby, and being genuinely happy to care what I'm doing."
"You'll be happy too, you know. Glowing and smiling and giggling." He continued to stroke his fingers through John's hair gently, sniffing. "What are you going to name it?" He asked after a long stretch of silence. He couldn't bring himself to imagine the child, not when he'd spent so long imagining their genetically impossible child, so long ago.
"What do you reckon I should name it?" John asked, turning his head to kiss Sherlock's neck. "It's a boy, by the way. I was going to tell you eventually but... I couldn't bring myself to."
"I don't want to help name it. Mary will want to name it. But.. Please don't give it your middle name. That's what I.. I.." He didn't finish his sentence, trailing off into quiet as he rubbed a few strands of soft blond hair between his fingers.
"Hamish Watson," John whispered, liking the sound of it. Of course he liked the sound of it. Hamish Watson-Morstan. No. That sounded disgusting and unwanted. He couldn't help the "Hamish Watson-Holmes." that escaped his lips seconds afterwards.
"Don't." He whispered harshly, not a second after John had spoken it. "Don't do that to me, you can't say that to me, John." He pressed his face hard to his neck, inhaling deeply. "You've no idea how much I wanted that."
"You should have told me sooner," John said just as harshly. "If you'd told me you wanted to be a family and have children rather than just be my fuck-buddy when things got bad, you needed to tell me. You needed to man the fuck up and tell me how you felt instead of letting me go off and get married." He moved his head so he could catch Sherlock's lips again, wanting to apologise for what he'd just said.
Sherlock said nothing to that; just kissed back softly before leaning back against the bath, letting his arms flop down into the water from around John limply. "I know. I thought you knew. I thought you knew I loved you. I thought you knew it meant more to me than that." He murmured, cheek pressed to the cold wall, eyes fixed on some distant point. "I didn't know you would find someone else and choose them. I thought that you thought we were right."
"I think half of it was to try and get you to ask me out on a proper date. To take me to some fancy restaurant and then come home and kiss me tenderly and then hold my hand and... It was like that with Mary. It was more sentimental and traditional. With you it was so fast paced and angry. I was your emotional outlet and you were mine. This is what's happening now, Sherlock. I called you here because I'm nervous, and terrified, and confused because I love two people at the same time. You're here because you're nervous, and terrified, and confused about the person you love going off and getting married tomorrow," John said, reaching out and tracing patterns onto Sherlock's chest with a single finger.
"No, I'm here to say goodbye." He said simply, not glancing at John. It was true, even if he himself didn't know what the meant. He didn't know whether he meant for leaving London, for seeing him off from his life properly, in every sense of the word, or simply because he would marry Mary for an eternity, John wasn't one to take these things lightly. He knew John would never be able to come back to him. "And those things you said, I suppose."
"If I can ever come back to you, I will," John stated, nodding slightly. "You're my rock, Sherlock. You're my goddamn rock. You stay whenever something goes to shit and I appreciate that. Well, you didn't stay before when I was about to be killed, but let's just ignore those three years please."
Sherlock winced visibly; he hated that he'd done that, it was the worst thing he'd ever done besides tell John he loved him and he wanted a life within him. He’d done it to save John, but it didn’t mean he liked that he’d left him. "You couldn't, John. I know you. You won't come back." He murmured, closing his eyes tiredly, emotionally drained.
"Yeah. Course I wouldn't," John muttered before standing up and stepping out of the bath. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist before leaving the bathroom and moving back to the bed.
He watched John get up and go to the bed, sighing softly before sliding down in the bath, letting his entire body be engulfed by the water until his lungs burned and he had to come back up for air, only to repeat the process, pushing his curls out of his face as he contemplated for the thousandth time to shave it all off.
John checked his phone for any messages. There was a singular one from Mycroft telling him to be careful, but he deleted it quickly before pulling on his pants and pulling back the covers, grabbing a pillow and curling up under the blankets.
Sherlock got tired eventually of repeating the action, the water long cold and the bubbles all over the place, his head swimming a little. He climbed shakily out of the tub and, plan set in motion, moved around in a slight daze, checking the cupboards until he found the hotel electric razor. He frowned at it, and went to find scissors first, and pulled a chair into the bathroom. He sat in front of the mirror and frowned at himself, eyes bloodshot from both crying and having soap in his eyes for so long, and pulled a bunch of curls out straight and cut, with a satisfying sound of hair slicing. He dumped them in the sink stupidly, and periodically did the rest to his hair, before going at his head with the razor, humming to himself almost manically.
"What the fuck are you doing, Sherlock?!" John called from the bed after a while, turning around in the covers and staring at where the detective should have been through the walls. "Seriously. What the fuck have I done this time?" With that, he pushed himself out of bed and padded into the bathroom, only to almost faint at the sight in front of him.
Sherlock paused, turning to meet John's gaze, tongue caught between his lips as he blinked up at him. He slowly turned back to the mirror, though he watched John in the reflective glass as he continued to get the last section of his head done down to a clean buzz the whole way over his head, switching the thing off and setting it down triumphantly as he looked down at the sink full of his dark curls.
John was having a hard time breathing as he gripped the doorframe to stop himself from falling over. "Sh-Sherlock..." he managed, shaking his head. He looked at the man in the mirror, to the back of his head one more time before dashing out of the bathroom to get the rest of his clothes.
Sherlock stood, brushing any little stray hairs from his head and got a towel to dust the rest from his back, completely naked as he watched John, confused. "W-wait, where are you going? Don't leave." He murmured, reaching out to try and tug the clothes from his grasp.
"What the fuck are you doing to yourself?! You self-destructive bastard!" John screamed, throwing his jumper at the other man. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? What the fuck is that?!"
He frowned down at the jumper, placing it on the edge of the bed, not deterred from his screaming. "I just- I'd meant to do it for a while now. It's only hair." He whispered, reaching up to smooth his palm over the prickly hairs on his head. "I don't look that bad." He mumbled, staring at his feet. He knew now that it had been an exceptionally bad thing to do, but he'd been a little light-headed, and John had gotten out of the bath without him and- He didn't know what to do now. "I'm sorry. I.. Please don't leave."
"Your brother is going to murder me. He's going to kill me for letting you do that, for fucking with your head, for fucking you, for giving you that god-awful love bite, for giving you the bruises round your hips..." He swallowed before bending over and grabbing Sherlock's pants from the floor. "I don't want to see your cock. Put them on."
He nodded, eyebrows drawing together as he pulled them on, moving to the bed to curl up under the covers. "I don't care about Mycroft; I won't let him do anything to you." He said quietly, peering out at John, wishing he would just get in the bed and enjoy the time they had left together, even if he'd gone and done something stupid enough to change John's mind about all of this. Well, at least he'd made leaving easier for the blond, he supposed.
John took a deep breath before walking over to the bed and sliding in next to Sherlock, putting his head on the other man's chest, careful not to touch his head. There was no way in earth he was letting the detective lie on him. "Fuck you," he whispered, draping an arm over Sherlock's torso.
Sherlock stared down at John forlornly, regretting his actions more and more as the seconds tick by. "I'm sorry." He whispered again, wrapping both of his arms around John, holding him close. "I didn't.. I wasn't.. I'm just sorry."
"'s okay," John murmured, turning his head to press a kiss to the base of Sherlock's throat. "You go off to France or something and grow it back." He grinned at the thought. "That's an idea, actually. Go and have a holiday in France. Go and find some gorgeous French boy to fuck for a few months while smoking and speaking to him in your little posh accent, and then break his heart when you leave."
"Ew." He whispered childishly, cradling John's head to his chest. "I don't want to go to France, or have sex with a French boy. I only ever... Nevermind." He whispered quickly, not getting back into that. "I've always wanted to learn German. Maybe I'll go there. Or somewhere nice and hot." He tilted his head, thinking about all the possibilities. He could bring back things for John, and things for John's son.
"German boys are fit as well," John chimed, not caring that he sounded like a teenage girl. "I'm sure they'd fuck you as well. When you come back, though, you're not allowed to speak the language to me. It's too harsh sounding. Not at all sexy." He chuckled a little, placing a hand on Sherlock's stomach and rubbing small circles into the soft flesh.
"I'm not going somewhere to experience the local boys' cocks, John. I'll go for culture, a chance to learn some new things away from London. I don't want to have sex." He whispered, as if it were obvious. "Why would you care if it the language wasn't sexy? I can't very well talk dirty to you in English anymore." He sighed softly as John rubbed soothing little circles into his flesh. "Or perhaps Australia, or the States. Would you hate me if I came back with the accent?" He teased, smiling.
"I'd fucking murder you," John admitted, with a laugh, propping himself up on an elbow to look at Sherlock. He reached up and touched the short stubble that was now his hair and sighed. "What am I going to hold onto while you suck me off now?" he asked, pouting a little.
"When am I going to be able to suck you off, though, really." He murmured sadly, nuzzling into his hand, letting him feel the little hairs run over his palm. He liked the sensation, it felt strange, to touch where it was now short and prickly when it was once soft and thick. "I'll come back blond or ginger, watch me."
"If you come back blonde we'll look awful together," John admitted, leaning down and pressing his lips to the detective's. "I'd like ginger, though. Anything as long as it's long and curly again."
"Maybe I'll grow it longer, come back with a ponytail." He smiled, kissing John back gently as he pulled him over to lie on top of him. "Perhaps I'll come back in a dress."
"If you come back in a goddamn dress, Sherlock Holmes," John said with a laugh, placing his hands, one on top of the other, in the middle of Sherlock's chest before resting his chin on them. "I will kill you."
Sherlock smiled, running his hand down John's back and up again, repeating the motion, it soothing himself more than anything. "Why?" He pouted. "Perhaps I’ll switch things up, decide I'd rather identify as a woman, ask you to call me Shirley." He grinned. "Please don't ever call me that. But I might change the manner in which I dress. The suits are getting a little predictable, no?"
"I think you look sexy in a suit though, darling," John stated, pouting a little. "I reckon a nice pair of jeans that accent your arse, a couple of v-necks and some plaid would be fantastic though. Perhaps you could get a motorbike. Oh, I'd fling myself at you if you got a motorbike."
Sherlock chuckled, leaning up to kiss his forehead. "I have a motorbike license, you know. I'm sure Mary and the baby would just love it if you flung yourself at me." He murmured sarcastically, scratching lightly at his back.
"I'm beginning to like the haircut," John said, rubbing his hand over the detective's head again. He could feel himself starting to get hard again, so he shifted slightly, hoping Sherlock wouldn't catch on. "Mary and the baby wouldn't have to know."
Sherlock felt John subtly shift to make his erection obvious, and smiled warmer, leaning into the hand on his head. "Good, because you'll have to look at it every time I appear in the corner of your eye tomorrow, distracting you from your conversations."
"You're sitting next to me at the goddamn reception," John groaned, giggling a little. "You'll probably be a prat and put your hand on my thigh and make me all hot and bothered."
"Thank you for the idea." He murmured suggestively, letting his hand slide down over the swell of his arse. "I would absolutely do that. I'll find some breadsticks to fellate, too."
John grinned at that, shaking his head in amusement. "Fuck, you're just too much sometimes, Sherlock. Really, though. I love you, but seriously."
He smiled proudly, giving his backside an affectionate squeeze. "I thought you were going to have a heart attack when you saw my hair." He admitted ruefully, still unsure what he felt about it all.
"I was. I thought maybe I'd faint, and then I decided that would be a stupid idea, so I didn't..." John said, pecking Sherlock on the lips. "I'm warming up to it."
"I think Molly might cry." He commented, amused, returning the sweet kiss. "Touch it, doesn't it feel interesting? I like feeling your hand on my head."
Placing his hand on Sherlock's head again, John smiled, eyes focused on the short strands of hair. "I used to have a cut like this when I played rugby. It was horrid. All the girls liked it though."
"Will all the girls like me now, John?" He asked, batting his eyelashes as his voice rose, more boyish. "I never thought I'd have shorter hair than you, though."
"All the girls already like you, darling," John said with a laugh, moving up Sherlock's body to press a kiss to his hairline. "I always get jealous when we go out and they all stare at your arse. I have to stop myself from blurting out that I've been inside of it."
Sherlock burst out laughing at that, lowering his chin to his chest to let John kiss his hairline. "You're the only one who ever had it and who ever will, John. Your jealously is and was completely ungrounded."
"Because you're my Sherlock and I'm your John," he said with a grin, pressing kisses down Sherlock's forehead, between his eyebrows, down his nose, and stopping just above his lips. "Right?"
He made an impatient noise as John stopped before his lips. "Of course, John. Always. I'm sorry about what I said before, I was distraught. I know you'll always be with me, even if you can't literally be with me lots."
"Do go and fuck a shitload of European boys for me, though," John said, dropping his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I have to stay at home with a wife and a kid, and I reckon they all have secret tips and tricks and moves. Learn them and come back and see how they fare with the English, yes?"
Sherlock scrunched his face up in disgust, whining. "If I must. But I don't want to, John. I'll do it to learn and then I'll come home and fuck you six ways from Sunday until you're never satisfied with heterosexual sex ever again." He murmured firmly, picking the tip of John's nose with a playful smile.
"It's much the same," John said with a shrug. "You've had sex with women before, love. You know what it's like. Although I do have to admit that you're a better shag than Mary is."
"It wasn't nearly as good as sex with you. Maybe I did it wrong." He murmured, then smiled brilliantly at the admission. "I bloody better be. I put a lot of effort into trying to make you feel good."
"She just wants to get off," John admitted. "I'll be lying in bed and then she'll be like 'John, I need you to touch me.' So, I'll touch her. Then it'll be 'John, get inside of me.' Then, as soon as she gets off, I'm left there with a hard-on as she just drops off to sleep and I have to get out of bed and go and finish in the bathroom."
Sherlock frowned at John, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. "She doesn't love you as much as I do. I would happily never get off again as long as I got you off. It feels better to know I did that than it feels to orgasm. Maybe there's something wrong with me. Or her. Or both. Maybe you have a problem with choosing people to love."
"You give better blowjobs as well. But she gives better handjobs. You're better on top as well," John said, nodding to himself as he listed off everything. "What other sorts of things are there? I want to compare you both."
"Comparing is not good, you're objectifying us both. And I resent that, it's because my fingers are bonier." He muttered petulantly, poking John in the side. "I bet I'm better at rimming you, I'm not sure if she's done that, though. Kissing? Snogging? Who's better?"
"’Course you're better at rimming me, you stupid arse. She doesn't know about us. She doesn't even think I've had it up the arse," he muttered, rolling his hips against the detective's to get him to shut up. "You turn me on faster, but her goodnight kisses and whatever are nicer because her lips are always soft and smooth."
"I'll wear lip balm of something, then." He grumbled, wrapping his arms around him and lifting his hips into John's. "I don't like her. She'll never let me see your son. Whom I've thought of a name for, by the by."
"What's that then?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. "What are you going to call him? And of course she'll let you see him. He's my son as well, you twat."
"But she hates me. And I think you should obviously call him Sherlock the second. And feel free to give him the middle name Holmes." He grinned impishly, kissing his forehead. "I was a rather adorable child, if you need proof, I can show you pictures. I couldn't say my whole name; I ended up being 'Lock for five years."
"I can imagine a little you walking around the house burbling 'Lock, Lock, Lock, Lock,'" John said with a laugh before glancing over at the clock. "Sherlock."
"What?" He asked, smile dying a little as he followed John's gaze. It was really rather late.
"'s four in the morning," John mumbled, pouting at the clock. "I have to leave in four hours. I don't want to leave in four hours."
"I really don't want you to leave in four hours." He murmured sadly in reply, hugging John close to him. "Spoon with me, John. I want a proper cuddle. And we both need sleep, because we look like we've been shooting up with the level to which our eyes are bloodshot."
"Set an alarm on your phone, love," John said, rolling off Sherlock and moving so he was lying on his side with his back to the other man. "And you're at the back because I don't want to look at your lack of hair."
Sherlock chuckled softly, touching his head as he reached for his phone in his trouser pocket over the side of the bed. He set an alarm for half past seven and set it on the bedside table, then cuddled up behind John, wrapping an arm over his waist and bringing his knees up behind him. "How come you didn't want to look at my cock earlier?"
"I was furious and you've still got dark curls down there, darling," John said with a loud laugh, covering his face with his hands at how ridiculous he sounded.
Sherlock laughed quietly and nuzzled at the back of John's head, splaying his fingers over his stomach. "I can shave there too, if you'd like. Then tackle the eyebrows. And then, to top it all off, I'll grow a magnificent beard."
"I like your little treasure trail," John murmured, reaching behind him and running his fingers through the short wisps of hair below the detective's bellybutton. "And if you grow a goddamn beard, I'm never kissing you again."
A little giggle of a laugh escaped him as John's fingers ran ticklishly through the trail of hair leading down to his pants. "Fine, fine, no beard. I'll keep the rest of my hair. And send weekly updates of my hair as it grows. I'll have you know, that I look fantastic with little curly bits. You'll miss the opportunity to touch them."
"Fuck you," John hissed, thrashing a little in Sherlock's arms to show his frustration. "You're coming back when it's at my length and it's just starting to curl, alright?"
"John, that will take about a month, maybe two. Stop thrashing like a toddler." He chastised, holding him closer. "I'll come back for the milestones. When it's starting to curl, when it's turning into ringlets and I look like some sort of cherub cupid baby, and then I'll come back for good when it's back to my normal length. Fair?"
"Oh, ringlets," John moaned, shuddering at the thought. "God, I don't want you to go, Sherlock. I want you to stay with me. How long will each of those be? Because you have to come back when the baby's born, yes?"
"Less than two for the first, one or two for the second, maybe three or four for the last. Of course I'll come for the baby's birth, John. When's Sherlock junior born?" He asked, grinning, pressing a kiss to John's neck.
"It's Hamish. I want it to be Hamish. I couldn't think of it being anything else. I'm sorry, but that's happening. And Mary's two months pregnant now so..." John said, placing a hand on top of Sherlock's.
"John, please." He whispered, pained. "I wish I'd never said anything, because it will haunt me every time you say the kid's name. And Morstan sounds horrible attached to it, and don't even try to deny it." He whispered, a little meaner than he'd meant it.
"Fuck putting her last name at the end. That child will be Hamish Watson," John stated with a nod of the head. "Nothing less, nothing more."
Hamish Sherlock Watson.." He muttered petulantly, nosing at the back of John's neck with a little sighing sound.
"You're not getting to be his middle name, you arse. It'd be, ‘John, why did you give your son the middle name of that detective’ ‘Oh, because I fuck him on a daily basis and he owns my heart..’"
Sherlock smiled a little at that, pressing a lingering kiss into his hair. "Fine. Godparent? Considering you stole my baby name?" He asked hopefully.
"Considering I stole the baby name that I first suggested when you were courting Ms’ Adler?" John mimicked, smiling a little. "And yes."
"Hush, and I was not courting her." He huffed, pressing his face against him and inhaling his scent. "And she could've had Hamish, and we could have raised him up brilliant and brave and sweet."
"I do not want a son that is half of that bitch," John hissed, shaking his head. "And you would have had to knock her up. He'd have your brain then. That would've been nice."
"Harry could've had Hamish then. He'd be half Holmes and half Watson." He murmured dreamily, rubbing circles into John's skin as he cuddled closer.
"You were not going to inseminate my sister, you prick," John mumbled, the insult only half as forceful as he'd wanted it to be.
"Honestly, John. I'll never have my penis inside that of another female ever again. Especially not your lesbian sister. I'd have used a turkey baster, or done it through a sperm bank and a doctor." He said firmly, though his voice slurred a little with sleepiness.
John fell asleep somewhere around 'turkey baster', his breath coming out evenly and his smaller body tucked in under Sherlock's.
Sherlock smiled as he listened to John's breathing even out, his body steadily growing a little warmer and more relaxed with sleep. He closed his eyes and soon fell asleep behind him, face tucked into the back of his neck.
"Fucking shit fuck!" John screeched as Sherlock's phone went off at seven thirty, just three and a half hours later. He hadn't moved and he felt like a steamroller had made its way over his face. "Turn it the fuck off, Sherlock," he groaned, shifting out of the man's arms and sighing.
Sherlock woke groggily, eyes closed as he grumbled and reached for the phone, fumbling to switch it off and settling back with a sigh, still part asleep as he flopped onto his back, instinctively reaching up to brush his hair from his face. When his palm landed on his prickly head he screamed himself awake, eyes flying open, taking a moment to remember what had happened and calm down, turning to John, wide eyed. "I can't believe I chopped my hair off."
"Fucking stupid twat," John said with a laugh as he rolled over and placed a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips, stretching out on his back and placing his hands behind his head. "We have half an hour."
Sherlock sighed heavily; sitting up, blanket sliding down his body, pulling the waistband of his pants out to check that he hadn't shaved his entire body bare. "What would you like to do? I could give you the most spectacular blow job you've ever had. I can try. I'm still sleepy. Or we can have really quick sleepy sex, or cuddle and cry over the fact that we're never going to have a spare moment to ourselves again."
John narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips and thinking for a moment. "You're going to prep me here and then we're going to go and have shower sex," he said with a nod. "And then we're going to wash each other off, and I'm not going to touch your goddamn lack of hair, and then I'm going to give you a massive love bite just below your collar so you have to be extra careful to make sure it's hidden. And then I'll be off. And I'll see you properly at the reception."
Sherlock sighed and nodded, groping around the bottom of the bed for the bottle of lube. "Spread 'em," he murmured, pushing away the blankets and tugging John's pants off his legs. "I feel like utter crap, you know. I've not cried that much in my life." He grumbled, shifting between John's legs as he uncapped the bottle, still trying to blink sleep from his eyes. "And who says I'll hide your bloody ridiculous lovebites?"
John lazily spread his legs, smiling softly up at the ceiling. "I say you'll hide my bloody ridiculous love bites because everyone will know they're from me except Mary," he said, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Your wife to be is obscenely dim-witted." He rolled his eyes, pushing John's knees toward his body as he slicked his fingers, tracing his fingertip down over his perineum to his entrance.
Humming in pleasure, John nodded a little. "I kid you not, Sherlock. Greg knows because Mycroft knows, and Molly can tell, and Harry's all over it..." He sighed a little, spreading his legs wider.
Sherlock gently pushed his fingers into John's relaxed body, smiling a little. "Perhaps you ought not to be so very obvious about staking your claim when you're keeping it a secret then, sweetheart. All I do is follow you with saddest expression plastered over my face, as if everyone didn't know I was head over heels already."
"You should brighten up a little then, darling," John murmured, eyelids fluttering shut at the feeling of Sherlock's fingers inside of him. "Perhaps you should mark me yourself and then Mary will flip her shit when she sees it..."
"And kick you out the door of your own wedding." He chuckled, moving his finger within John slowly. He sighed, "then we could've run around Europe together."
"And had threesomes with really attractive European boys," John teased, rolling his hips a little.
"I'm a horrible sharer, John. I would have hissed and glared at anyone who tried to touch you." He smiled apologetically, removing his finger to push two in, scissoring his fingers and stretching him gently.
John moaned softly at that, arching his back slightly and biting his bottom lip. "I love you, darling. So very much."
Sherlock's smile turned a little sad, the words bringing new pain as he thought about today's events. "I love you too, John. More than you'll ever know."
"Three now, Sherlock, and then the shower," John prompted, his hips bucking up slightly. "I'll dance with you, yes? And then we'll slip out for a bit. You can leave early."
"Thank you." He breathed, pressing three fingers into John and being as gentle but as quick as he could in opening him up. "I'll text you lovesick little messages every step of the way."
"And you'll break my heart again and again and again," John whispered, finally getting bored of being prepped. "Out. Up. Shower."
Sherlock nodded, clambering out of bed and shucking his pants, biting his lip for a moment before bending down and scooping John up into his arms, carrying him to the bathroom. "Promise I'll only send pictures where I'm smiling."
John hummed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and giggling a little. "I'd like that, darling. And then I'll print them out and put them in picture frames and make Mary oh so very jealous."
"I'd love that, John." He murmured, nuzzling at his cheek before setting him down on the tiled floor of the bathroom, chuckled at the sink filled with his hair, and turned the taps on before going back to fetch lube, slicking up his prick and returning to the bathroom. "I'll try to have fun, just for you."
He watched Sherlock go, leaning against the white tiled wall. At his words, a smile curved the corners of his mouth. “Mm, good.” John hummed, pulling Sherlock down for another kiss before turning on the taps on in the shower.
Sherlock pulled John into the shower, his head feeling obscenely odd as the water touched it, and his curls didn’t hang in his face as they had before. He made sure to keep his lubed up cock out of the water, and kissed John’s neck.
John’s hands slid over Sherlock’s wet skin appreciatively, and pulled back enough to steal a kiss. “I’ll turn around, yeah? Don’t let me slip.” He warned, smiling, and did just that, with his legs apart and his hands on the tiled wall.
He rested his hands on John’s shoulders, letting them slide down his back and around to grab his hips, stepping close and rubbing himself against John’s backside. “Of course,” he murmured, and let go of a hip to line himself up with John’s entrance. “Ready?” He questioned, kissing the back of his neck.
John did little else but groan softly in response, pressing back a little onto Sherlock his fingers pressing to the cool, wet tiles. “God yes,” he grunted eventually, giving Sherlock a look over his shoulder that said there’d be consequences if he didn’t start.
With that, Sherlock held tightly to his hips and slid home with a low moan, his head dropping forward, chin to his chest and eyes falling closed. He knew they had to be rather quick, because they didn’t have much time at all, but he wanted John to be ready, so he stayed put for him to adjust.
John hadn’t been taken like this in months, so he took a few long moments to adjust to it. When he was ready, he took one of Sherlock’s hands off his hips and tugged it to the wall, resting his own over the top. “I’m ready, love.”
John’s movement effectively pulled Sherlock to press against his back, and he kissed all over the back of his neck, head, and across his shoulders, even pressing a single kiss to the scar on his shoulder. He began moving then, pulling back out almost all the way, and then pressing back in slowly with a groan.
The doctor’s eyes fell closed and he stayed still for Sherlock, not wanting to fall, as his legs became a little unsteady already. He licked his lips, breathing deeply as he angled himself to try and get his prostate.
Sherlock aided John as well as he could, rolling his hips and angling himself to brush his prostate, his breathing soon growing heavier. He hadn’t shagged John in ages, and it felt so good to be able to, even though it was the last time for a while, if ever. He tried not to think about it, though. “You feel amazing, John.” He murmured, kissing the back of his ear and picking up the pace.
John gave a long moan when his prostate was brushed, and pressed back had against Sherlock, his cock twitching where it angled up towards his stomach. His thighs quivered slightly with the strain of keeping himself up.
Sherlock felt John quivering a little, and wound his arm around his waist, pulling him closer and supporting more of his body weight, fucking into him in earnest now. Just like he wanted to feel John inside him for a while, he wanted John to feel where he’d been inside him as well, wanted him to feel this, this that Mary could never give him.
John was soon reduced to a panting mess against Sherlock and the wall, prostate being hit every few thrusts, meeting them whenever he could.
Sherlock nibbled on John’s ear and the side of his neck, grunting softly against his skin, drawing nearer to his orgasm. He wanted to make it last much, much longer, but they really didn’t have much time left, so he settled to just make it as best as he could.
And, in John’s opinion, Sherlock was doing a magnificent job of making it good, and his free hand soon slid down off the wall and wrapped around himself, fucking his fist without finesse as they both drew nearer and nearer.
Sherlock was thrusting hard into John now, making no effort not to be as loud as he liked, low voice bouncing off the bathroom walls, and bit down lightly on John’s neck. He wanted to mark him so badly, but he couldn’t. When he felt heat pooling in his belly, he slid his own hand around John’s where it wrapped around John’s cock, and squeezed. “Come for me, John,” he purred in his ear.
John was close enough that it only took that, Sherlock’s voice in his ear and his hand squeezing him roughly like that, it only took half a dozen more thrusts, before he was coming hard with Sherlock’s name on his tongue, his come splattering onto the tiles of the wall, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Sherlock pressed his forehead between John’s shoulder blades, brought over the edge as John’s muscles contracted around him. He thrust hard into John and held him tight as he came inside him with a long moan, doing his best to hold them both up as they panted.
John’s body shuddered periodically as he rode the aftershocks of his orgasm, sagging in Sherlock’s arms as he panted. God, he’d really miss that. Miss all of this.
Sherlock pulled out eventually, and leaned John against the wall, pressing against him to support their weight, and kissed John’s cheek. “I love you, John. So much.” He whispered, hoarse voice barely audible.
John lifted a shaking hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek, looking up at him with a sad smile. “I love you. And I’m sorry.” He said softly, running his fingers over Sherlock’s short, short hair then, still disbelieving that he had done that. He glanced out of the bathroom, and sighed softly. “I have to go, my darling.”
Sherlock took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. He nodded a fraction, and blinked a couple of times, not wanting to shed any more tears. He pulled John under the spray regardless, washing John free of sweat and come, then himself. “I don’t want you to go.” His voice broke.
“I know, love. I know.” He said quietly, feeling like his heart was breaking a little. “But I have to. Come on,” he reached past Sherlock and turned off the taps, stepping out of the shower and wrapping one of the plush robes around himself, holding one out for Sherlock.
Sherlock stood there even as the water stopped, watching John for a few seconds, before he climbed out as well, pulling the robe on and tying it around himself. They were both still a little weak on their feet, but Sherlock knew that there were other, more important things to think about. He walked with John back into the bedroom, and immediately pulled him into a very tight hug, hands gripping at the back of his robe.
John hugged back just as tightly, eye shut tight. He rubbed the other man’s back slowly, knowing he needed comforting, just as John needed to comfort him. “God, I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” He said firmly, his voice a little ragged, so close to crying.
Sherlock held to John for a long moment, then stepped back, looking at him with wet eyes. He collected John’s pants and jumper and jeans and socks and shoes, and lay them out on the bed, then walked back to John, carefully tugging the robe off of him.
John let Sherlock disrobe him, and let him dry and dress him, knowing that this was what he needed. He moved when he was prompted but stayed completely silent the entire time, until he was dressed neatly again, hair damp and feeling a bit empty, and a lot like he never wanted to leave Sherlock ever. He pulled Sherlock in close by the front of his own robe, and kissed him fiercely, needing it more than anything.
Sherlock kissed back hard, tears finally falling down his cheeks again as he was kissed. He rubbed John’s sides over the jumper, and pulled back after a few moments, looking at him like his whole world was being taken away. “I love you.” He reiterated in a whisper. Words he would never say to another human being.
John felt his heart clench painfully. “I love you too, Sherlock. More than anything. You know that, right?” He waited for Sherlock to nod, before giving a tiny, sad smile. “Good. I’ll see you later, love. Thank you for everything.” He stepped back away from him, arms sliding to his sides. He walked to the door, turning once more to look at him and smile softly, then disappeared.
Sherlock watched John go, and just hoped against hope, that this wouldn’t be the end. That one day John would be able to come back to him for good. For now, he would just have to live with what he had. “Forever and ever.” He murmured to himself, somewhat bitter and somewhat not, and began dressing himself, leaving the hotel room and then the hotel; back to his flat that was no longer he and John’s. It seemed empty, as it had for months, but it seemed like the flat was just waiting. Waiting for John to come home.