Chapter Text
It’s nearly an hour before they find themselves sitting side by side in their rented Jeep, facing the cliffside cottage. It’s been silent, utterly silent, since Sherlock had bared his heart and trusted John with three words that had cost him everything.
It’s all out there now.
They’d held each other for an age, there in the sand, and by the time they’d carefully untangled themselves—groggy and wrung out but feeling somehow lighter for it—Sherlock wasn’t sure which tears were John’s and which were his own. There had been hastily wiped cheeks, creaking knees as they pulled each other up, and the soft swish of sand being brushed from clothing as they made their way back up the winding path to the car park.
Now they sit, shoulder to shoulder but staring straight ahead. Sherlock kills the engine, plunging them back into familiar silence.
John gets out first, opening the car door slowly and sparing Sherlock a single, weighty glance before he hops out of the car, slams it shut and heads for the cottage.
Several moments later, Sherlock follows.
John is crouched in front of the fireplace, stacking logs in the grate and fumbling with a basket of kindling that sits beside the built-in structure. Sherlock leans against the wall, palms flat against the cold, worn stone as he watches him work. He sees the muscles in his back shift beneath a thin white t-shirt, observes the way he holds his shoulder just-so, his posture betraying the pain that he’s clearly trying to ignore. Perhaps being cradled and clung to within an inch of his life for the last hour has left its mark. Sherlock feels a pang of guilt, a slight jolt of concern.
He takes a step forward, then another.
John turns where he kneels on the floor, watching him approach. He holds out a hand, palm up, eyebrows raised in a wordless request. Sherlock grins, nearly laughs, as he unpockets the neon green lighter and sets it firmly in John’s open hand. John smiles, returns to his task and pokes at the logs for a moment as a fire crackles to life, bathing the cottage in a cosy, warm glow. He slowly stands, looking entirely unsure of what comes next. He sets the lighter on the mantle. This time it’s Sherlock who reaches out a hand.
“It’s bothering you,” He says, palm landing gently on John’s war-wounded shoulder. John doesn’t flinch, looks up calmly into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock curls his long fingers, pressing carefully into the tense muscle beneath their grasp. “Let me,” He says.
John allows himself to be menouvred toward the bed, lets Sherlock push him down to sit on the edge and says nothing at all when he crawls across the duvet to sit cross-legged behind him. John’s slightly tan and firmly muscled arms break out in gooseflesh the moment Sherlock’s hands dig tenderly into the space between his shoulder blades.
Sherlock breathes. He closes his eyes, feels his way over the expanse of John’s broad back, working his fingers into heated skin through the fabric of his t-shirt and for once relying entirely on instinct and sense, trusting his transport. John is warm and real in front of him, solid beneath his roaming hands. His chest rises and falls as he gradually slumps forward, quiet but for his increasingly ragged breaths.
It occurs to Sherlock, as he pushes the pads of his fingers into an old wound, as he loosens and unspools each tightly wound knot buried deep within the body of his best friend, that this—all of it, all of this —is long overdue.
He’s never touched John, not really. Why? He isn’t sure, now that it’s finally happening. It feels obvious, and right, and like his hands alone are shattering years and years worth of pent up tension, of long-held pain. He wishes it had happened years ago. Wishes they’d allowed themselves to have this. They could have. He’s certain of that now.
They’ve both wanted it, perhaps desperately, for all this time.
Sherlock opens his eyes, runs both palms down the firm planes of John’s chest, then back to grasp at his trembling biceps as he sways, a long-ignored, sealed-off and clamped-down part of him roaring to life, heat flooding rapidly from gut to groin. Oh.
It is staggering. He wants John. He wants him. Sherlock reels for a moment, breath like gravel in his chest as he rests his forehead against the back of John’s neck. He has known this, on some level, always. Known how he feels and what he wants in some abstract version of their life together.
But to feel it within his grasp, to have John here with him— with him—like this—
His mind is a cloud, but his body is more alive than he’s ever known it to be. His legs unfold of their own accord, stretching out on either side of John’s thighs as Sherlock eases him back against his chest. It’s almost easy, now, to wind his arms around John’s belly, to slip one hand beneath his thin t-shirt to glide over a soft, trembling abdomen. John shakes, chest heaving, and when Sherlock hooks his chin over his shoulder, he can see that his eyes are clamped tightly shut. Sherlock lets his lips dance dangerously close to a stubbled cheek. Glances down and finds that John is achingly hard, cock straining against the fabric of his jeans.
Saliva pools on Sherlock’s tongue.
“John?” He breathes. A question. A request for permission. He lets the pads of his fingers drift down, dipping just beneath John’s waistline. He says nothing more, watches as John struggles to keep his breathing steady, his eyes remaining firmly closed, his lips parted and panting. He waits.
Blunt fingers clutch urgently at the back of the hand that rests on John’s belly, pushing until he can weave his fingers into the crevices between Sherlock’s own. He squeezes bruisingly and nods once, soft hair tickling Sherlock’s cheek as John melts entirely back into his chest. Surrendering, Sherlock thinks, to his own long-fought desires.
His gut is on fire. Seeing John like this is tearing him apart.
He doesn’t wait. Deftly unfastening John’s jeans, he slides his hand down over the cotton of his pants. John makes a pained sound, a choked whimper, as Sherlock palms him firmly, tracing the thick length of him, memorizing every tiny twitch, every eager reaction—every last touch that makes John fall to pieces beneath his hands.
He plays John’s body like his violin, slow and smooth, intuitive and tender.
He finds himself once again succumbing to instinct, feeling the growing heat of him as he palms the soft cotton, seeking out the perfect combination of friction and pressure that will eventually make him snap, unspool.
He pictures the two of them like this and groans into John’s temple as his own cock swells. John teeters on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed and feet firmly on the floor as he pushes his hips desperately into Sherlock’s hand, writhing against his chest and into the expanse between his two long legs. Sherlock’s arms hold John possessively, his fingers work him relentlessly. The sounds escaping him are like nothing Sherlock’s experienced before— a man unchained —and every one of them whips through him like a gathering storm.
John comes like a raging tempest, back arching, head thrown back in a startled shout over Sherlock’s shoulder, warm semen spreading under Sherlock’s steady palm. He shudders and shakes and grabs for Sherlock’s hands as he falls back into him and allows himself to be held.
Sherlock waits. Presses his mouth to John’s shoulder and waits, as he gradually sinks back down.
They’re quiet. John’s breathing slowly evens out, his fingers now trace abstract patterns over the backs of Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock wants to see him. He wants to peer into those bottomless blue eyes and see exactly how he feels about what just happened, to see where he stands.
“John—”
“You’re the love of my life,” John says quietly, voice ragged but firm, still staring out across the room. Sherlock finds that he can’t think of a single thing to say. He shifts behind John, turning one hand beneath his soft ministrations to capture his fingers, tugging gently. A request. Look at me.
He does.
“John.”
“I’m sorry,” He whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“No—”
“I’ve always known. I never said,” John continues, determined, turning in the circle of Sherlock’s arms and pushing lightly at his chest until he lies back on the bed. John follows, curling up beside him. “Sherlock—” His voice cracks on Sherlock’s name, his expression pained. “I’ve never been able to look at you without thinking yes, that’s him.”
Sherlock wants to kiss him. It occurs to him now that he never has. That they’ve done all this wildly out of order—but that’s them all over, isn’t it?
He leans in, presses his mouth to John’s, softly and swiftly.
“It’s the same for me, John,” He breathes across his lips before leaning back, running a palm over his forehead, brushing the silver fringe back and away from his face. “Stop brooding, it’s useless. Look at us.”
John grins.
◓
Sherlock wakes in the hour just after sunrise, glittering golden light flooding the cottage through the windows and the lingering, cosy scent of their long-dead fire wafting over from the grate.
John sleeps beside him, having rolled onto his back at some point in the night. Now he lies silhouetted by the blinding bright sunlight, more at peace than Sherlock’s ever seen him.
Sherlock sighs, allowing the flood of affection to wash through him. He won’t be waiting patiently for John to wake.
He sits up, legs crossed in front of him and hovers over John’s dormant form. He cradles his warm, sleepy head in his hands, and kisses every inch of his face until he surfaces with a slow, lazy smile.
“All right,” John mutters, cracking open one eye to peer blearily up at him. “I’m up,” He adds, smile widening. Satisfied, Sherlock falls back to lie beside him, dragging him over to spoon up against his chest.
They’d fallen asleep kissing, he’s fairly certain, which they’d done rather a lot of after John had slid down between his legs, hitched one lean thigh over his shoulder and blown him into a state of absolute bliss.
They’d spent a long time, then, telling each other—wordlessly—everything that had been left unsaid.
Sherlock shuffles as close as he can manage, tangling their legs and pushing his face into the dip of John’s neck. He sighs. He thinks this must be what it’s like to feel content.
“Breakfast?” He rumbles into John’s ear, feeling his compact body shake slightly as he laughs in response.
“Yeah, all right,” He says, eventually, pressing his lips softly to the palm of Sherlock’s wandering hand. “Starving.”