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At Baker Street, nothing has changed and everything has changed. Sherlock winds himself around John while they sleep, and their kisses are gentle but urgent, their hands on each other in the dark. There’s never any milk in the house.
The winter ends.
There are weeks of cases that are quiet, cases that take time but not legwork. Then Lestrade calls them in to look at a homicide, and it turns out the murderer is still on the premises. Sherlock takes off after him like a racehorse out of the starting gate; John has a job catching up, and when he does, the man is making a very creditable attempt to break Sherlock’s nose. John stops, pauses to get his bearings, then steps in and immobilizes Sherlock’s assailant right before the blow falls.
He doesn’t see the second man with the knife until he’s on them. He stops thinking and just fights, bracing himself into the ground and losing himself in the immediacy of the bodies before him and the sting of contact, Sherlock is beside him, making pleased sounds whenever a blow lands.
Then John takes a fist to the solar plexus that leaves him gasping. Sherlock has both men on him and his hair is being pulled rather severely by the knife-wielder, a thin red line at his throat.
Time slows; John’s focus narrows and he’s hyperaware of his pulse rushing through him. He spots an undefended angle, sees Sherlock nod, and leaps. There’s a crash of metal and the thud of flesh on pavement. Sherlock is free again and the original assailant is flat on the ground, the knife a safe distance away. The second man looks behind them and then starts to run.
Sherlock follows. John looks, surprised, and sees that Lestrade has caught them up, so he takes off after Sherlock again. They’re through an alley into a park, now, and from his position John can see that the suspect has outstripped them. Sure enough, Sherlock stops a minute later and turns around.
“Oh, well,” he says, coming to a halt in front of John, “he just wanted to protect his brother. Hardly an arrestable offence.”
“This coming from you?” John pants, “I can’t believe it.” Then he drops his head, puts his hands on his thighs, and waits for it to hit him. It does, pulsing through him, each heartbeat filling his cock, and he shifts uncomfortably in his trousers. He’s used to this, this stab of hopeless lust after a fight, but he’s not had to deal with it since he and Sherlock are…whatever they are, and he doesn’t really know what to do. He looks up.
Sherlock’s lip twitches up; his curls are mussed and his cheeks are pink. It doesn’t help.
John sits down on the grass because he’s not sure what else to do. Sherlock sits beside him. John breathes in. Distract. Distract. Breathe.
“You know what I want now?” The fresh grass is soft under his hands and he sucks in huge lungfuls of balmy, dark air, “An ice-cream.”
“Decent gelato around the corner.” The predatory gleam in Sherlock’s eyes doesn’t quite match his abstracted tone of voice. John adjusts himself in his trousers as surreptitiously as he can; the adrenaline is ebbing only slightly, and he’s still so very hard. He clears his throat.
“No. What I want is a Mini-Milk. Cheap, but it’s what we always had at home. Gran would buy a box on the first day of spring, and we’d have to sit outside to eat them, me and Harry, rain or shine.”
Sherlock’s eyes are still on him and John chokes on the last word.
“You don’t actually want an ice-cream, John.” That voice seems to vibrate in the pit of John’s stomach, and the lust is tearing at him now.
“No.”
Sherlock leans closer and his lips are on John’s earlobe. They could be all alone here, in the middle of this park.
“I have wanted to help you with that for a very long time.” His hand is already at John’s zip, and John’s hurried denial of anything like a habit of post-case erections dissolves when Sherlock’s fingers burrow through his clothes and find bare flesh.
Sherlock brushes the tip of John’s cock with the broad pad of his thumb and John arches up into his hand. After a moment, when Sherlock takes John’s whole length out and wraps his hand around it fully, it’s almost blindingly good; Sherlock’s touch is still new and uncertain, and his eyes are fixed on John’s face with a soft intensity that John can’t not watch. His world is reduced to Sherlock’s eyes and hands and the hot coiling pleasure that intensifies with every stroke.
Then, Sherlock takes his hand away and pushes himself to his knees. John gasps his disappointment before he can stop himself.
“Hold on,” Sherlock says, pushing himself up and moving to his knees between John’s legs. His hair is a luminous halo in the dying light of day. John lowers himself to the grass, feeling the thud of his own heart. He waits for Sherlock to bend over him, to fit their bodies together and give him the pressure he needs. Thinking about the slide of his cock against the fine fabric of Sherlock’s trousers, Sherlock’s erection hard underneath brings another wave of arousal, and he pushes up again, meeting only air.
Sherlock’s still watching him, face solemn, and John wonders, hazily, if he’s waiting for him to beg. He would, now, but as he tries to form words, Sherlock bends down and takes John’s cock into his mouth. John loses sight of him, but he doesn’t miss the hot slide of Sherlock’s lips along his overheated flesh. Sherlock’s mouth is slick and warm, and John thrusts up before he can stop himself. Sherlock coughs and pulls back a bit.
“Christ, Sherlock, I’m sorry.” John raises himself on his elbows, suddenly guilt-stricken. Sherlock looks back, his eyes dark. There’s blood on his collar from the cut on his neck, and thank God, John thinks, that Sherlock mumbles “S’okay,” because John is suddenly desperate again.
“I’m all right.” Sherlock says, running a finger along the cut. It’s not even bleeding anymore,“now, that is.” The blood is stark against the white of his skin and shirt, and images from the fight flood back, mingling with the sensation of Sherlock’s body next to his and the tease of air on his cock.
“Please,” is all John can say then and Sherlock does, bending to take John in his mouth again. His grip is less tentative now, and his mouth is insistent, taking John in in smooth wet strokes. John reaches down to stroke Sherlock’s neck and ears, but his fingers end up tangled in those curls, not tugging, just feeling the movement of his head and hands. John rocks his hips, meeting Sherlock halfway, increasing the pressure, and he’s there, on the edge. He can’t even wish for it to last longer; the pleasure is so bright and sharp that it’s a terrible relief when it breaks over him. Sherlock tries to hold on until it’s finished, but suddenly he flings himself upward, pressing John into the grass with his mouth and body. Sherlock is making insistent noises as he pushes his clothed erection against John’s naked one, and as John’s hips slow in the last flashes of orgasm, Sherlock convulses and cries out. John puts his hands at the small of Sherlock’s back, pulling him closer as he too comes to the end of his pleasure.
John kisses Sherlock again, a soft messy kiss with a bitter edge of semen, until their breathing slows. Sherlock pulls back, then, curls ruffled by the spring breeze, and looks at John’s face with pride.
“Better than ice cream?”
John can only laugh and kiss him again.