JohnLock

He kneels onto the floor beside him, taking both of his hands and folding them together. John looks broken. He sounds it too and Sherlock knows in this instance, there's not much he can do.
Because the kind of person John is, how loyal and trustworthy he his, and then to have someone break it in that way...
John deserves so much better than to be hurt.
"He won't be coming back anytime soon. I'll have put a bullet through him by the time he tries."

(Sorry for the shortness)
 
((That's perfectly all right, dear! My last one was pretty short too. XD))

He flinches reflexively at the thought of Seb getting shot, and then gets crushed anew as he realizes that he shouldn't care about whether or not Sebastian gets hurt now. Especially not when Seb is actively trying to hurt them.

It's too much, and before he knows it, he's thrown his arms around Sherlock and buried his face in the crook of his neck. He needs something solid, something stable he can hold on to, something real. He needs the one truth he can trust in when everything else is in doubt, and that's Sherlock. That's always been Sherlock. Sherlock is always constant, always utterly the same, an enigma but a consistent one.

And if there's anything John can believe in, even when everything else is crumbling, it's that Sherlock loves him. He's known it long before they actually said it, really. It's in the tea that Sherlock only ever makes for him, in the concerned glances when he gets hurt on a case, in the way Sherlock makes concessions for him he makes for no one else. The way he only ever smiles his real smile when John's around. So if there's anything he can trust to keep him sane, it's that. He needs that right now. He needs Sherlock.

John clings to him as if letting go would allow the tide to drag him out to sea. Like Sherlock's his last hope.
 
He slips his arms back around John, pulling him even closer. It's evident John needs this, whatever anchor Sherlock can provide. So he sits there holding him, clutching him, pressing his lips to his forehead. Maybe what he needs is a distraction. Anything to pull him into the here and now.
There are so many times when John has been there for him. Even the very first night, when the man barely knew him, he had saved his life. He made him more human, and brought him happiness where there had only been holes and drugs previously. He owed him everything and he was so thankful. Maybe, in time, he could let John know that.
In time.
"Sebastia's not part of you anymore, you know that right," the jumper scrunched under Sherlock's hands, "So even if whatever happened before isn't exactly...stable-"
Sherlock leans his head against John's, sliding to elimate space, his grip death tight.
"You always still have me. No matter what happens, you're allowed to count on me."
 
He shudders and clutches Sherlock tighter as a ripple of relief runs through him, undoing some of the tension in his limbs. He doesn't even question how Sherlock knew exactly what he needed to hear, and it only serves to reinforce Sherlock's point: they understand each other in ways nobody else could, and they will always be together. And John couldn't be more grateful for it.

He lets Sherlock's embrace comfort him and breathes in that scent that has come to mean home to him - Sherlock's scent. "Distract me?" he murmurs against Sherlock's throat, a soft question. "Just- just for a few minutes, and then we can go see Lestrade, but I just- I need to be close to you, right now, I need-" he falls silent, struggling to articulate what he wants to say. What he needs is to feel cared for, to feel wanted, to have things make sense, to be wrapped up in Sherlock until he forgets he ever cared about Sebastian Moran, to get back that happy feeling he had before Sebastian showed up at their door, and so much else besides, but he doesn't know how to put that into words and so he just ends up saying, "I need you."

He moves one hand to Sherlock's heart and looks up at him, as if this will help the detective understand him better. It probably will.
 
He kisses the edge of his mouth, "Is the okay?" He already knows the answer to his question, but he wants to give John the idea of control. He does have it, but so does Sherlock. Right now, he he will take it, to protect John anyway he can.
Now he's pressing his lips to his fully, slowly, their noses brushing and the fabric of John's jumper cinching as he shifts his hands to hold him in an embrace.
"I love you, okay? Always have, always will. Just focus on this now." He murmurs against him. Sherlock's never had much experince in comforting. But with John, there's that need, the need to be there on the rare occassions when he does need him. So Sherlock will be that distraction. Lestrade can always wait, there will always be another crime, another face off against Moriarty. But John is what he has to save.
 
"I love you too," he whispers, and he's never meant anything more in his life. He can tell his gratitude comes through in his voice. Good, he thinks, as he presses his lips to Sherlock's once more. I want him to hear how much I appreciate him. It's important to him, so important, to thank him properly, but the words go missing as his soft kisses get deeper, more demanding, and Sherlock rises to the occasion as he always does and supplies.

John moves his hands up to twine one in Sherlock's curls and place the other on his neck, pulling him forward so their lips collide more firmly. He can feel Sherlock being gentle with him, trying to be comforting, but he doesn't want gentle. He wants to lose himself in Sherlock. He wants more, and closer, and now, and he decides a little incoherently that nothing else matters but this, nothing, because being with Sherlock like this is the best feeling in the world.
 
His pulse is working ten times faster than his brain right now. The way John is tugging on his hair, smashing their lips together in such haste, throwing himself into it, well, it's not as if he really has any complaints right now. He'd be lucky if he could get out a small deduction at this rate. But there is something important he's supposed to say.
Sherlock tries to lean back and pull away, so he can get his thoughts together, if only for a moment. In John's eagerness however, it just causes the army doctor to press forward with as much force as he can muster, making Sherlock have to put his hands down against the floor to steady himself.
What was this? John certainly hadn't kissed him like this yet and they had done quite a lot of kissing in these past few hours.
That something important, the reason for the kiss, wasn't it?
As soon as he stabilizes himself, he grips his shoulders in a weak attempt to halt the action.
"John, John, John..." Sherlock's voice was hoarse, he leaned his forehead against John's, looking directly into those warm, inviting eyes. They are open books for one another and Sherlock doesn't even have to speak to get the words out.


 
He feels a spike of rejection for a moment as Sherlock tries to pull away, but the very idea is immediately discarded before it can even fully form by Sherlock's forehead against his, the rough note in his voice (the one that sends a shiver down his spine but it's probably a bad idea to dwell on how unfairly attractive that is), the way his hands remain on John's shoulders even after he pulls back. No, the trouble isn't that Sherlock doesn't want him, John notes. Sherlock is just trying to say something.

He opens his eyes to find Sherlock's ethereal ones looking back at him, and he relaxes further. He can see the words Sherlock can't vocalize in his gaze, all the ways Sherlock is trying to comfort him, to let him know he's there, some grand speech that would, if he could bring it to life, probably be very effective. But John doesn't need the words to know what Sherlock wants to say. And he doesn't need the words to feel their effect. "I know," he says softly, smiling at Sherlock. "I know."

And very, very slowly, he tilts his face at just the right angle so their lips are just millimeters apart - not quite touching, but so close that sparks are practically jumping between them and John can feel Sherlock's breathing speed up, ghosting over his lips. The moment just before the kiss, that delicious hesitation, stretches on in an invitation, a temptation, a tease. John can almost hear Sherlock's thought processes grounding to a halt, and he loves it, loves knowing he can override Sherlock's head that way. And he wants Sherlock to be the one to close those last few millimeters. To claim John's lips again because he just can't hold back.

One final blow at his willpower, then, he decides. So he flicks his eyes up to Sherlock's, knowing Sherlock's gaze will follow, and in a low voice, a voice that's almost begging and designed to drive Sherlock's brain completely offline, he says, "I've wanted this for so long, Sherlock. Please."
 
Sherlock's lips quirk up as John mutters at the recognitions. It just goes to show that John is the only one who can get him. That fact fills him with ascended of elation he knows he's probably not hiding. He doesn't need to hide anything with the army doctor. With his John.
But then John moves his head, his eyes filled with want and ungodly sort of attraction creeps over him as John /begs/...
He swears in his head, because, fuck, /fuck/. Only John could do this to him, to make him shake and shudder with strength of his own want.
And that voice...
It is devastatingly undoing him in every, his breath like some drug to him , and then the begging...
All of it shatters any of Sherlock's resistance.
He slams his lips against his, smashing, claiming, and /oh god/, how were they not doing this a day ago? Sherlock's arm snake back around John, pressing him closer, using his other hand to slide slowly under his shirt. He can feel the army doctor smile against his lips, this was /exactly/ what he wanted. To make Sherlock lose any semblance of self-control.
And it was definitely working.
 
He feels like crowing in triumph as Sherlock jams their lips together, and it's safe to say that all thoughts of Sebastian Moran have been driven firmly out of his head by the insistent pressure of Sherlock's mouth. He lets a little hum of pleasure loose as Sherlock's hand caresses his skin, smiling into his kisses at the knowledge that he did this to Sherlock - that he was the one making Sherlock lose control like that, that he was the one Sherlock wanted like that. The thought only serves to encourage him, and before he can even think about it he's climbed into Sherlock's lap, just to be closer, and he pushes his fingers into Sherlock's curls, and he never even knew how much he needed this until now but it is absolutely everything he's ever wanted.

So he kisses Sherlock, and Sherlock kisses back, and just as John is starting to think they surely must have run through every combination of ways their lips and teeth and tongues can interact, Sherlock starts combining the old patterns together in new ways, and it comes together like his violin compositions, improvised and passionate and beautiful, and it's music but with the body, not with the notes. It's rough and desperate and needy and absolutely glorious, and John can't help the low, hoarse noise he makes deep in his throat, or the way his hands are slowly working their way down into the collar of Sherlock's shirt. Now he's the one losing control, and the funny thing is, he doesn't mind in the slightest.

((Sorry that took me so long, dear - stupid homework is being ornery and too plentiful. XP))
 
Cases are stupid.
That's the only conclusion he can come to in this state, because cases involve talking and walking and thinking, and that's really a waste of time when he could be doing this.

And John is hanging on to him for a taste of lips, as if he needs Sherlock like breathing, like he's addicted to him-Oh. Oh, he /is/, isn't he? Sherlock's a drug and he has a pull over John like no one else. That pleases him, none of Johns previous relationships elicited this kind of response.
This sort of /need/. His skin tingles as John is pulling at his collar, especially at the places where the fingers fumble and brush against his chest. If he had his way, he'd have ripped off John's jumper by now, but he's willing to have some restraint. Providing that of course, John continues taking lead. Sherlock's enjoying this far too much, the way he'd just jumped him right now, his legs straddling around Sherlock's thin frame. /Did I really just make that noise?/

He moves his attention from his lips to his neck, in attempt to spike some response.
/I wonder what'll happen if.../
Sherlock nips at the spot where the neck meets shoulder blade, gently but teasing. He can taste the soap John had used that morning, the bit of aftershave that in his rush to get dressed (he slept late today) probably fell onto the plane of flesh. It inflicts a drunken stupor and his thoughts are reduced to one syllable demands.
 
"Mmm..." He closes his eyes with a satisfied hum as Sherlock moves his lips to his neck, tilting his chin up to allow Sherlock better access and twisting one hand into his gorgeous curls to keep him there. The other he leaves partway into the top of Sherlock's shirt, trailing his fingertips along the back of his neck and enjoying the shivers this produces in the other man.

But then suddenly Sherlock nips at his neck, and all of John's breath leaves him in a wild gasp. A strangled noise of pleasure rips from his throat and he pushes Sherlock back from his neck, but only to attack the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers. He only gets two buttons down before he has to stop to yank Sherlock's lips back to his, craving more of that glorious feeling.

And he's quickly learning not to make assumptions about this sort of thing, because if he thought their kisses were fierce before, it's nothing compared to how they are now. It's like he's on fire, burning from the inside out with need. Sherlock Holmes is turning his world upside down, and you can bet the man bloody well knows it. His fumbling hands go for the buttons again, more or less unsuccessfully as he can't really see what he's doing while snogging Sherlock senseless, but he tries nonetheless. "You," he gasps, trying to string the fragmented bits of words together to form an at least semi-coherent sentence, "are- ohhhhh- very good at this..."

((Btw, are we cockblocking our boys again or having mercy on them? If we want to do the latter we could always pull the "Bedroom's that way" *cut to afterwards* move to get out of writing the actual sex. XD Also, SPRING BREAK WOOOO! I'll probably be able to write more often now!))
 
His grin turns devious at John's mad rush to unclothe him. He keeps his hands at his side, surveying with pleasure at the sight of the army doctor's loss of control.
And within a flash, he's thrust back into kisses, sloppy, but oh so good. Within a second, he knows he has completely underestimated everything.
His want, John's want, no, all of its turned to absolute need and Sherlock is /very/ happy to oblige. He can still feel his hands reaching for the buttons and he very nearly rips it off himself.
Instead, he continues to kiss fiercely, making his claim. Sherlock Holmes isn't what most people called sensual. That, it seemed, was a very stupid lie when it came to John Watson. Every touch, every second he could feel the weight of him pressing down stimulates all of his nerve endings, better than nicotine, crack, or three suicide-murders.
So Sherlock wants more. He wants to be as close as possible.
"John," his name comes out as more of a moan before Sherlock proceeds to tug on the army doctor's bottom lip with his teeth. There really shouldn't be a problem asking. If the other party feels even just half the desire, and judging by the noises coming from John, there's a bit more than that.
He pulls apart momentarily so he can stare directly into those bright eyes, a request like this should be asked face-to-face.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow and forms a smug grin on his face.
"The bedroom /is/ that way."

(Sherlock has spoken :D. Completely picturing that GIF when i wrote that line. Yeah, I don't think I could even write a sex scene, I'm blushing and giggling enough that it took nearly an hour and a half to write it, and they're just kissing. And then we can have fluffy times because when they wake up, they'll be all cuddly!)
 
((Oh, god, tell me about it. I'm going to go ahead and fast forward to the fluff nao. Besides, anything after Sherlock Holmes utters the words "bedroom is that way" are utterly superfluous, I think. XD))

So they don't actually end up helping Lestrade that night. In fact, any and all calls from said Detective Inspector are completely ignored by the both of them, John not even thinking could be important, could be about Moriarty, could be an emergency because the world has narrowed down to Sherlock and their (their, he notes with glee, not Sherlock's) bedroom and nothing else matters.

He wakes the next morning with his head pillowed on Sherlock's shoulder and his hand resting over his heart, Sherlock's arm around him, the two of them fitted together like puzzle pieces. He stays still for just a moment, eyes closed, enjoying the soft rise and fall of Sherlock's chest and the pleasant thrumming of his heartbeat. He feels so content that it's hard to believe the events of yesterday actually happened, and he takes a minute just to adjust to this new reality. When he's adequately prepared, he lets his eyes slowly flutter open and moves his head slightly to look up at Sherlock, and his breath catches in his throat.

Sherlock is asleep. Actually asleep. John is used to seeing Sherlock in constant action, a whirlwind of movement and words, never pausing, never resting. Most of the time he's still up long after John's gone to bed, and awake far before John comes down in the morning. And judging by the violin that sometimes wakes him in the middle of the night when he's having his worst nightmares, there's no telling if there's any sleeping done in between. Even when he finally crashes after a long, sleepless case, body too fatigued to continue, it's as often on the couch as in his own bed, and it's always accompanied by that slight frown, as if even in sleep he's annoyed at his body's failure to just keep going.

Not so now. His expression is utterly peaceful and relaxed, his lips even slightly quirked up as if he fell asleep mid-smile. His breathing is slow and deep, his face turned towards John, and all of the manic energy has drained out of him, replaced by a quiet relaxation. He's utterly, completely breathtaking, and John is struck once again by how very lucky he is to witness this. To be the cause of it. To have Sherlock. So he leans up very slowly, trying to disturb Sherlock as little as possible, and kisses him very gently awake. "Morning, love," he breathes, a blissful smile on his face. He could do this every morning of his life and never get tired of it.
 
Yawning, he lets his eyes flutter open, unsure of what'll see. But the sight before him is more than pleasing.
"Oh, good. So that wasn't a dream then." he lets a grin over take his features, "Excellent."
He uses his arm (Around his waist already, isn't that just convenient? No wonder he'd gotten the best sleep of his lifetime, he'd never been more comfortable in his own bed.) to pull John closer, curling up against him. There wasn't any sign of alcohol on his breath or any other than substance that might've blurred his army doctor's senses the previous night. John really loved him like that, they had really waltzed around like that, they had really made love like that.
Sherlock tilts his head towards John to give him a short, gentle kiss back as he sighs, rather peaceful and content.
That was a strange feeling, to be peaceful. Well, he didn't really mind it as long as John factored in the equation. Hell, he made spending time with Anderson almost bearable. He chuckles into John's neck, ignoring another beep of a text alert.
Outside world? Much more boring then this.

(Fluffy fluff makes me smile. A lot. Oh, and I just remembered there's a countdown, but oh well! there's still probably ten hours. And I don't know, maybe moriarty messed it or something. All that's coursing through my head: PLOT IS IRRELEVANT, FLUFF, FLUFF, FLUFF. In a Dalek voice. Win.)
 
((I know, right? And yeah, I'll make John be all Adorably Responsible later. Right now, IT'S FLUFF TIME. WHEEEE~!))

The look of relief on Sherlock's face when he sees John is still there is a strange mix of endearing and heartbreaking. Did Sherlock really think that he would have only imagined that? That John wouldn't really be there when he woke up? Well, he allows, it does seem a bit surreal, even to him. But he trusts in it as in nothing else. It's what he's always done, to be honest, from the very first day: no matter what, he trusts Sherlock. If Sherlock says he loves John, then John will believe it, unconditionally. Now it's his turn to show Sherlock he can have that trust, too. He can have anything of John's, really, anything and everything. He'd give it all to Sherlock, gladly, even, as long as he keeps loving him.

He blatantly ignores the chime of the text. He wants just a little longer where it's just the two of them, where this peace is the only thing that exists, before the real world comes crashing in.

So he lays his head back down on Sherlock's shoulder, fitting right in to that spot under his chin as usual. (And the fact that he can even say as usual about that has him wanting to jump for joy.) "No, it definitely wasn't a dream," he murmurs with a smile. "If it is, I don't want to wake up." He sighs happily and closes his eyes. "But if it's not, I could wake up like this every morning for the rest of my life, and it would never get old." The thought thrills him. He could do that. He could easily spend the rest of his life with Sherlock, so easily. It's a simple thing, to give your life to someone who's already your whole world.
 
(That post was just...Fantastic. Really and that last line especially. All the awards, love.)

"Yes, it does make going to sleep much more pleasant idea." he remarks, as if he was recounting the differences between hydrochloric an sulfuric acid. But he hopes his expression conveys to John exactly how euphoric he feels. Well, if not, that can be easily changed. Sherlock closes his eyes and rests his hands in the small of his back. "And it definitely isn't a dream, so neither of us need worry." he makes a quiet, humming noise, "I don't believe I could imagine something so..."

Sherlock shifts so he can whisper the words into his ear, "Wonderful."

Honestly, in all of his fantasies that had ever occured, nothing could even stand with the reality of their new situation. To that feeling of electricity running through him when John and he kissed, the passionate fury that drove him at the very mention of the danger John put himself in, or the utter, unbelievable bliss just lying next to the man like this brought.
 
((Aww, thank you, dear! All the awards to you as well! "Wonderful", oh my god... I can't stop grinning. <3))

The way Sherlock says the word "wonderful", so reverently, almost in awe, as if he didn't believe that word could ever apply to his life, has John's throat closing up with emotion. It's a strange mix of "I can't believe how lucky I am to have you" and "god, love, you deserve every happiness in the world" and "I want to remember this always" that has him wanting to just wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck and stay there forever. "Me neither," he whispers into his shoulder, but it doesn't feel like enough, it doesn't feel like nearly enough to pay back what Sherlock has given him.

He wants to do something for Sherlock. Something to make him happy, something to make him as happy as he makes John. He wracks his brain for the right words. What does Sherlock like? What would Sherlock want? There only seems to be two things in this world that the consulting detective wants: cases and, to his immense happiness, John. He thinks again about the way he sounded when he woke up, surprised this wasn't a dream, surprised that John was still there, and he gets an idea.

He sits up slightly, propping his elbow up on Sherlock's pillow and leaning on his hand so that Sherlock can see his face - can see the truth to his words and the emotion behind them. "I meant what I said, you know," he begins, tentative in the delivery but sure in the sentiment. "I really could do this every morning... for the rest of my life." He lays his other hand over Sherlock's heart, like he's protecting it, like he's treasuring it. "I want to be with you always, Sherlock," he says. "Not just because you make life so much more interesting, and not just because you drive me up the wall in the best way," he chuckles a little at that, "but because you're brilliant and because you're an idiot and because you make me tea and because you used to play your violin in the middle of the night because you didn't care what time it was, but now you play it to soothe me to sleep after my nightmares, and because I just can't imagine my life without you anymore." He moves his hand to Sherlock's face, caressing those impossible cheekbones and looking into those wide eyes. "I love you, Sherlock," he says tenderly. "I don't ever want to be anywhere you're not. I'm not going anywhere. Not ever."

He hopes that's enough.
 
(^Perfect post is perfect. Sorry bout the wait, my laptop got confiscated. :()

That warmth of his affection grows within him and he lets it visibly spread to his expression.
"Come here, you." He pulls John up so he can kiss him without any other movement, just hold him closer because...
Because all those things, the list, the reasons, it's things that only John will ever love him for. That only John will understand. John is without a doubt, his other half. They drive each other up the wall, they care about one another relentlessly, and it makes Sherlock who he is.
He's said it before, Sherlock Holmes is nothing without John Watson. And there is no better proof than the thoughts running rampant through his head. He pulls his lips apart from his lover's for a moment.
"Thank you. God, thank you so much, love." This was a side of him no one else was allowed to see, only John, because it's only him who he could feel this grateful for, this much love, this much endearment.
John's forehead presses down against his, their noses brushing in an eskimo kiss. "My turn now," Sherlock gains a glint in his eye, a playful grin beginning to dance across his lips, "And if you were to go anywhere, I wouldn't hesitate to chase after you and drag you back to 221b. You know I can't live without you, and now I can't live without this either."
He cups that gorgeous jaw with gentle hands, "The first thing and the last thing I see is what I love. His warm smile with those wide eyes," he ran a thumb along his brow, "He put's up with absolutely everything I do, even if it's not at first, the way he laughs is a sound to absolutely die for. He's a damn good kisser and most important of all, I love him and he loves me. I love you and you love me. I'm never going to get over how utterly impossible it is, how luvky I am just to know you. And you are, you do the most wonderful things for me."
 
((Thank you! And it's perfectly all right, dear. At least you have it back now!))

He wants to laugh and he wants to cry and he wants to tell Sherlock how much he loves him again and again, especially so because Sherlock's one-upped him again, damnit! And he wants to surprise Sherlock, because he loves that he can do that, loves that he does the last thing Sherlock expects - telling him he's amazing instead of "piss off", staying around instead of running away, whatever it is, so long as it gives Sherlock that look like he's just discovered the world has a whole other dimension he never knew about. It's one of John's favorites.

So instead of letting the wide grin he can feel threatening break out, he forces his face into a frown - as much as he can, anyway, because he knows his eyes are still glinting with happiness and amusement - and says petulantly, "No." And as he sees Sherlock's eyes start to widen he continues slowly, "No, see, that's not fair, because I was trying to give you something for how happy you make me. You can't just turn it back and give me something again, especially not something that wonderful! How am I ever supposed to catch up?" He finally lets that grin break free. He wasn't doing such a good job of containing it anyhow.
 
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