Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/989923.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes, Mummy_(Sherlock)
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Mating_Cycles/In_Heat, Arranged
      Marriage, Alternate_Universe, Underage_Sex, Underage_Sherlock, Omega
      Sherlock, Alpha_John
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-03 Words: 4818
****** The Breath Between Us ******
by fayfayfay
Summary
     A simple romance that takes place in a traditionalist alpha/omega
     society.
     John is invalided home and finds himself an eligible bachelor;
     Sherlock is a stubborn omega who has refused all of his suitors. They
     take to one another.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
The glasses tink together in toasts and John smiles. He doesn’t want to smile
but feels obliged; this is one of the reasons people like him, he knows. He has
a nice bedside manner, a nice tableside manner. Before he was shot, he had a
nice manner in the sand, in the sun, in tents and shacks. Still, the smile
feels false, like he’s wearing someone else’s shoes.
“And where did you say you work now, Dr. Watson?”
It’s important to make friends, his therapist says. It will make him feel
better. He still shakes at night, when he should be dreaming. Several pairs of
eyes wheel around to stare at him.
“Saint Thomas’s,” John says politely, after a swallow. The man who asks is tall
and balding, and wears a violet buttonhole. John imagines his spouse pulling
the garden flower slowly through the man’s jacket, gently wrinkled fingers
patting it smooth, beckoning him out the door. John’s heart pulls in on itself
like a dog that’s been kicked. “A&E.”
The man frowns politely. “Seems… simplistic,” he says. “For a man of your
experience, I mean.”
“I’m not a complicated man,” John says. “I like to help people.”
It is a remarkably gentle statement to make in a room rich with alpha stink,
with several men seated in finery and confidence. John neglects to mention that
he is a supervisor. He neglects to mention the number of residents he oversees.
His humility is another one of those reasons that people like him.
The man is almost finished with his rack of lamb. John ordered a salad.
“Interesting,” the man says.
 
When he returns home, John’s refrigerator has no food in it. John has been
going to a lot of dinners lately.
Most alphas his age, his stature, they’re well married, have been since halfway
through college. They have children, full homes in gated communities. John
thinks he may be the only Alpha in his building. The single alphas his age,
they’re widowed, or sick, or worse.
John is healthy—well, just about, and he lives alone in a bedsit. His salary
piles up in a bank account, uncounted. He’s never been wed. His mother said his
choice to date betas in school was ridiculous, just like she said about his
choice to serve his residency overseas, his choice to join the Army, his choice
to fight in Afghanistan—his mother never approved of many of his choices,
actually. He’d never turned into the Alpha she was. Remembering his Omega
father, his eyes empty like a fishbowl two weeks after the carnival, his early
death from alcoholism, John is glad he never turned into the Alpha his mother
was. He’d never thought much of marriage, as a young man.
John leans his cane against his bedside table. Coming home from the war, he
never thought he’d be so in demand a prospect, but with a significant portion
of the young Alpha population overseas, he has been to more courting meals in
the past few weeks than he can count on his hands.
His cousin’s friend’s son.
The daughter of a woman he met on the tube.
His dentist’s nephew.
His boss’s daughter. That was awkward.
After every dinner, he extended his hand, as was custom. If the omega shook his
hand, John knew not to go calling after him or her. If the omega was
interested, he or she would neglect to touch him, and John would be free to
contact him or her for another date. Some omegas had confidently shaken his
hand, and some had bashfully averted their eyes, hoping he would call on them
again. John called on none of them.
Now, John’s instincts war in his head. He has never shared a bed with an omega.
He doesn’t deny his desires; he wants desperately to love and feel loved. His
loneliness weighs more than his boredom. The string of betas he’s dated has
ended in heartbreak and resentment. On the other hand, John sees no way that
dating a teenaged omega would end well. He can’t see that chaining a young,
naïve, promising man or woman to him will lead to happiness, love, or any of
what the films promise.
So John is perplexed. And of course, it would be unfathomably rude to refuse
the parents who flock to him, against everything his society has stood for for
centuries. If he were a young man, he would be expected to attend dozens of
courting dinners, throughout school, until his parents and an omega’s parents,
until he and the omega decided a match had been made. But John is well into his
thirties, and both of his parents are dead. He feels nothing at these dinners
but embarrassment.
One would think these parents would want better for their sons and daughters
than an old and broken man. John thinks.
John thought he had the night off from this silliness. His boss had taken him
to tell him war stories, his third least favorite subject. John was relieved to
have at least one night, one night not to think on marriage. The man with the
violet buttonhole, though, the one at the luncheon. He had a son. An omega son.
John writes on his calendar: Wednesday, 7:30 PM, Holmes.
 
Mike chuckles, again.
“Who is it this time?” he says, his charmingly red face swelling with laughter.
He hands John a black coffee.
“Some bloke with a son,” John admits. “A bit posh. Surprised he asked.”
“Yes, but maybe it’ll be the son, eh?”
Mike never failed to rouse John’s romantic side. He had been happily married
before their school days, and had multiple children that swelled his frame to
several times its youthful state. Omegas were supposed to be creatures of awe-
inspiring beauty, piquing the lust and fervor of every alpha that looked upon
them too intently. John found it hard to believe Mike was anything near that to
his alpha wife; his scent had long turned domestic with bondage. John knew,
however, that they were still in love and went at it ceaselessly; Mike’s
youngest was only two.
“I doubt it,” John says, “The man seemed too stiff to have children with any
creativity, or interests, or anything.”
“Maybe stiff is what the young lad needs!” Mike chortles, “I know I needed the
stiff one my Jennifer gave me last night.”
John rolls his eyes.
 
The manse is intimidating. To say impressive, or palatial would be true, as
well, but intimidating is accurate, fully.
John had refused the offer to be chauffeured from the front gate to the door,
and was regretting it a bit, now that his leg was making itself known,
throbbing from the hip to the ankle. When he had e-mailed Mr. Holmes to confirm
their dinner plans, as was custom, Holmes had gushed with gratitude at John’s
willingness to dine with the family. Since then, John had learned from
colleagues that the youngest Holmes was coming dangerously close to of-age,
that he had turned down several suitors, sometimes viciously, that the Holmes
family was coming close to losing hope. They were genuinely desperate, it
seemed, to find a suitable marriage for their son. Without a marriage, omegas
were often trapped in their family homes until menopause, when their hormones
faltered and rendered them safe from capture, rape, and other unfortunate ends.
Without a marriage and bond, omegas had little chance to return to school or to
have careers, though the development of the internet, telecommunication and
inhibitive drugs was slowly changing that.
John had been relieved. Perhaps the boy would be given a chance to come of age,
to experience the rest of his teenage years without the burden of a marriage
into a family of similar standing—though, chances are, the family had run out
of “suitable matches”, given that they were catering to him, a broken army
doctor. Perhaps the boy, defiant as he appeared, would cancel the dinner before
it even began, sparing them both the embarrassment.
Coming to the end of his kilometer walk, John rings the doorbell.
“Dr. Watson,” a woman, an older Omega woman, Mrs. Holmes, John thinks, answers
the door. This is unusual; surely the Holmeses have a waitstaff.
“Good evening,” he says, smiling, shaking the woman’s hand. Mr. Holmes is just
behind, his smile eager.
“Please,” he says, “Come in.”
 
The dining room table isn’t long, but the silence makes John feel as though
feet are separating him and the Holmeses instead of mere inches. Mycroft, their
oldest son, sits quietly. He takes after their alpha father, tall and balding.
Their youngest son has yet to make his appearance and the Holmeses are politely
pretending they aren’t waiting for him, but the strain shows plainly on their
faces. Their first course, a cream soup John is too embarrassed to ask about,
lies cooling and untouched at five place settings.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes tells me you hike,” Mrs. Holmes says, politely.
“Used to,” John smiles politely, tapping his cane against the carpet. Mr.
Holmes coughs and Mrs. Holmes appears chagrined.
“Of course,” she says.
“When did your leg injury happen, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft cuts in, quickly.
John breathes in.
“He doesn’t have a leg injury,” a voice comes from behind him. A tall young man
stands in the broad doorway.
“Sherlock,” Mrs. Holmes says, “please, sit down.”
Before John has time to focus on the boy, Sherlock, before he has time to
discern the color of his eyes or trace the curls in his hair or the bend of his
knees under the hem of his short pants, Sherlock dashes around the table. He
sits down.
“He doesn’t have a leg injury,” Sherlock says, “He was shot in the shoulder.”
“I know that,” Mycroft says, tensely.
“Then why did you—” John attempts to cut in.
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Holmes chastises her son. “Please, Dr. Watson, excuse—”
“Doctor?” Sherlock asks, “Oh, I see, of course—”
“Mother told you he was a Doctor yesterday,” Mycroft says, rolling his eyes,
“Don’t make as if—”
Sherlock looks intently on him. His delicate hands fold under his pointed chin.
“Yes, you worked last night into this morning; you saw children; the hairs on
your sweater are too fine to be from animals but you’re a supervisor, yes,
doing a lot of paperwork, your name is John, not Jonathan—”
“How did you—” John asks. His fork is dropped.
“You are left handed; you sign your signature and don’t have a stamp so the pen
leaves marks on the side of your palm.”
John looks at his palm. The signature has been reduced to a smudge over the
course of the day. John looks up. Sherlock’s eyes are bright and pointed.
“And the night shift? Am I too old to pull all nighters without it showing?”
John smiles.
“Your papercuts,” Sherlock corrects. “They’ve healed almost completely. Though
the bloodshot eyes don’t help you.”
“Sherlock!” Mr. Holmes, this time.
“Fascinating,” John says. The table falls silent.
Sherlock looks up. His eyes are blue, John discovers.
“What?” Mycroft cuts in.
“Fascinating?” Sherlock asks. His eyes have become shining and inquisitive and
curious.
John nods. “Yes. Amazing.”
“Well,” Mrs. Holmes says. “Dr. Watson, salmon or trout?”
 
John eats salmon. Then he eats potatoes, and a fennel salad, and he tastes
them, but he doesn’t remember them. Sherlock pushes his food around blindly and
when he isn’t murmuring to himself he’s leaning across the table toward John
and John drinks in his enthusiasm when he talks about types of shoe soles, how
the density of hair changes with age, which insects are attracted most
immediately to which corpses.
“Fascinating,” John says, and “Extraordinary,” and “Amazing.”
Mr. and Mrs. Holmes haven’t said anything for at least twenty minutes when
Sherlock says,
“Would you like to see my bees?”
“Bees?” John asks.
“I keep bees, Dr. Watson.”
“It’s dark outside, Mr. Holmes.”
“You’ll like them,” Sherlock says. John thinks he might be dreaming. Real human
beings don’t live like this. Real young men don’t keep bees, or willingly
entertain doctors twice their age, or have cheekbones that ache for hands to
touch them.
Dream or not, John thinks, I’m buggered.
 
Sherlock is taller than John is, by inches at least. His lips twitch as he
leads John further away from the Holmes manse. His knees flex in the moonlight
and shake with the evening cold. His hair is short at the nape of his neck and
longer at his forehead where it curls beguilingly.
“Can you see the queen?” Sherlock says, and shows John where he’s charted their
paths.
John says, “Beautiful,” but he doesn’t mean the bees.
 
When the two of them are beckoned inside to close the evening, John can feel
his pulse in his hands and his face aches from smiling. He’s nervous and he’s
sure Sherlock can tell; already Sherlock can read him like a cartographer can
read the simplest Atlas and John hopes Sherlock won’t shake his hand. He hopes
he doesn’t see Sherlock’s hands for at least days from now.
“I hope to see you again, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Holmes’s polite words wash over
John’s ears like a warm bath, muddled but clear.
“You as well, Mrs. Holmes. Mr. Holmes,” he acknowledges the two of them, and
Mycroft, before turning to Sherlock, whose ears are pink from the cold outside.
For the first time, John hopes things go accordingly. He suddenly sees the
purpose of the mundane posturing and ritual that surrounds courtship. Such a
strong bull as this desire needs a firm yoke. If Sherlock intends to politely
dismiss him, he’ll shake John’s hand. If he doesn’t…
“Good evening, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock says. John extends his hand, but Sherlock
stands several feet from John, and doesn’t come closer. His hands are wrapped
firmly behind his back.
John nods, and closes the door behind him when he leaves.
He’s about twenty feet up the drive when Sherlock yells after him.
“Dr. Watson!”
John turns. “Yes?”
Sherlock swallows. “At the hospital, where you work, do you have access to the
mortuary?”
John shrugs, “A bit.”
Sherlock beams. “Excellent.”
 
The first text message comes ten hours later, when John is readying himself for
work. He doesn’t see it until his lunch break, when he checks the time.
When are you going to contact my father about our next dinner?
SH
John is taken aback. Usually, after given leave by the omega, it is the alpha’s
responsibility to pursue further contact. The ball is in John’s court, so to
speak, to either continue to see the Omega or to cut off courtship.
What makes you think I want to have dinner
The text alert trills before John can slip his phone back into its pocket.
Because if you didn’t, I would have made a mistake.
SH
And? John is smiling as he chews. His mouth, his brain, his fingertips buzz
with excitement.
And I don’t do that.
SH
John opens his email account.
 
“You’re having tea at what?” Mike mumbles around his egg salad sandwich.
“At some club! I don’t know!”
“Do people belong to private clubs anymore? Like, real people? It’s not some
kind of kinky thing, is it? John, is it?”
“No, I doubt it, Mike.”
 
The tea was supposed to be important. Usually there was another family dinner
before the first tea. Usually the pair were of similar age. Usually the omega
wasn’t a genius. There were a lot of “usually”s that John has considered.
He’s waiting at an expensive looking table in an expensive looking room when
Sherlock waltzes in. John sees a man who has to be his minder standing against
the opposite wall when the door closes behind him.
The door closes, and John can feel the click of the lock vibrate through the
room. Sherlock’s looking at him, hasn’t stepped forward. His feet point
straight at John like he’s aiming. He’s not wearing a coat.
“Aren’t you cold?” John asks. There’s a full tea setting, with biscuits and
sandwiches. The pot steeps; John can feel the heat of it warming his hands.
“Not today,” Sherlock says with a smirk, and the implication smacks John like a
rolled up magazine.
“It’s not time for your—“
“No, I’m not stupid,” Sherlock says, and sits down. “Not yet.”
“Tea?” John surveys the tea setting with his hands.
“Yes, two sugars, please.” Sherlock slouches into his chair, his cold fingers
touching his cold lips.
Usually the omega pours the tea. Usually. John laughs.
 
The first time they touch is at the next tea. There are scones, and jams, and
lemon curd, and neither of them disturb a single element.
It’s when Sherlock attempts to jump from the window that John grabs around his
waist, tugging him bodily into the room. Sherlock had wanted to climb from the
fire escape to London below and bring John to an appointment of his. John
hadn’t known the fire escape was there.
There are three different levels of touch, for John: when his hands first make
contact with the cotton weave of Sherlock’s shirt, radiantly heated by his
skin; when Sherlock’s shirt presses against his skin and John’s hands feel the
warmth of that skin; then, when John’s hands initiate pressure against the
flesh and the various levels of the epidermis from the stratum corneum to the
stratum basale press against the dermis and John can feel all of it coming
together against Sherlock’s arteries, veins, muscle and bone—it all coalesces
into a perfect moment of memory. He steps backward as Sherlock stabilizes
himself. John decides at that moment that he’s buying Sherlock a coat.
 
John begins to visit the Holmes estate more regularly.
“You’ll have to make his dental appointments,” Mycroft says. “He won’t eat
without supervision. He has no concept of an earthly budget. If forced to make
a choice between paying the rent and ordering an electron microscope, he will
see no issue in eviction.”
Mycroft looks at him, over the rim of his teacup, head perched on tall neck
perched on starched collar and silk tie knotted in a double windsor.
“And if you leave him, he will die.”
 
Sherlock takes his hand when he arrives, each time, as if John is a child who
has no idea where he is going. He takes John to a different corner of the
estate each time—visiting the boathouse, and the orchard, and the bees—most
often, the bees.
Workdays are slow for John. They crawl by and when finished disappear in a
blink of synapses. His co-workers are starting to ask why he’s smiling all of
the time, and where did his cane go?
Sherlock kisses him, between steps of a mile-long explanation, underwater in
his short pants after collecting mold samples, perched on John’s lap, warm and
spindly and surrounded by the dank smell of rotting wood. John loves the taste
of Sherlock’s mouth, dark and quiet. He feels it in the flesh of his organs, in
his skin, between his teeth; the darkness washes his skin like ink until he
opens his eyes and Sherlock’s are bright like a star.
“Have you killed before?” Sherlock asks, running inquisitive hands over John’s
clothed shoulder.
“Yes,” John says.
“Would you kill for me?” Sherlock asks, pointedly, looking directly into John’s
face, decorated with lines and folds.
I would put a bullet in anyone who has ever touched you, John thinks, and he
nods. “I feel like I already have.”
 
The quickest decision John has ever made is the one to call Mr. Holmes to
conference. They hash out minor details over strong cups of Oolong tea in the
club John still doesn’t know the name of. There is an ancestral bonding
location for the Holmes family. There is a stone archway where the Watson
family crest can be suspended. Sherlock’s seventeenth birthday is in four
months and ten days.
 
That night, Sherlock crawls through his window.
John’s eyes shoot open and he sucks in a strong breath of cold night air.
Sherlock’s limbs wrap around him like a spider and his moist breath in John’s
ear feels like a kiss.
“I’m going to marry you,” Sherlock says. “I’m going to marry you, and you’re
going to fuck me every day of my heat for the next hundred years. I’m going to
live in your house. I’m never going to wear clothes. I’m going to sit on you
when you don’t pay attention to me and suck your cock when you’re sleeping.”
“Sherlock, please,” John says. His breath is speeding up and his cock fills so
fast that he can feel the blood dash from his fingertips and his feet.
“Say you’re going to fuck me,” Sherlock says, “Please. It’s the only thing I
can think about, every day. Please.”
“I’m going to fuck you,” John says.
You will be my last sight.
“I’m going to tear those clothes off of you,” John whispers so harsh and so
fast and Sherlock’s hips press against his.
I will die sleeping next to you.
“It’s going to be so good,” he promises.
I do.
 
The next four months are hell.
John spends half of his time with Sherlock terrified he will fuck him before
the bonding and half his time hoping he will. He can visualize the mistake so
perfectly: Sherlock spread out under him, wanton and breathless, wet with
pheromones and fluids.
Sherlock goes through heat and spends 56 hours texting John. Hundreds of texts
later, John can’t look at his phone without shaking. He takes the day off for a
conference he never attends and locks himself in his bedsit, telling himself he
won’t go, no matter how Sherlock begs him. 2 months, 17 days, he chants to
himself. Two days later, he signs a lease for 221B Baker Street.
He continues visiting his fiancé, four times a week, growing closer to him,
listening to him speak. There are times when he arrives to Sherlock sitting in
one position, his fingers steepled under his chin. There are times when he
leaves and Sherlock is in the same position and neither of them has spoken at
all.
There are times when he’s just walked in the door and Sherlock’s body is
pressed entirely against him. He fights Sherlock, reluctantly. Four months and
nine days into their engagement, John walks into Sherlock’s bedroom.
“Please, I need you,” his intended says, manic and aggressive.
“We can’t now,” John says, “You would be pregnant tomorrow.” Tomorrow.
“I’m going to be pregnant anyway,” Sherlock argues.
“If I even kiss you, I’m going to fuck you insane,” John gasps. “I’m going to
fuck you right here.”
John sits upon Sherlock’s massive bed and adjusts him to sit on John’s lap, the
backs of his thighs pressing on John’s genitals, sensitive and abused by his
omega lover.
John watches as the rich scent of his breath and body pump through Sherlock’s
respiratory system, filling him with endorphins, making his cheeks and knees
flush, and the tip of his nose, too.
John grasps the back of Sherlock’s head, his hair just threading through John’s
fingers, wrapping around his knuckles.
“You will wear your hair long, like this, always,” John says, and Sherlock
wilts into his grasp.
“Yes,” he gasps.
“Tomorrow.”
 
Mike Stamford is John’s best man. The rings are Kevlar, Sherlock’s demand. He
has no wedding party. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sit in the front row, stone faced,
hands clenched together. In the stone archway hangs suspended the banner John
begged Harry not to hang: three ravens on a white field. Sherlock twitches
fitfully. He will be in full heat by night’s end.
 
“When will they be gone?” Sherlock begs.
“Just a few more minutes, love,” John says.
“My things were gone this morning.”
“Mycroft had them moved.”
“I know,” Sherlock says. “You’re taking me to our new flat. I know.”
The last guests shake John’s hand; he tries to keep still, tries to keep from
shaking from the smell of his husband. He smiles.
 
Sherlock is keening in the back of a black cab. John is shushing him and trying
to keep him from peeling himself out of his formal clothing, which is damp to
the touch from sweat. Sherlock’s skin is firey hot, perspiring as his chest
heaves, growing full with air and falling. The sweet smell of his boiling
breath touches John’s nose, then his brain, then his blood.
“Please, John,” he says, and John feels as though he hasn’t stopped begging for
months now, wonders if the two of them will ever stop wanting each other so
badly. John marvels at the idea that he ever thought anyone else might be
enough, as if anyone else could ever fill this vast chasm of need that has
opened up in him, hot and bright like the sun.
“Shh, Sherlock,” he says, petting Sherlock’s hair, cradling his body. “I’m
going to make you so wet inside. I’m going to make you so full,” he promises,
“First with my cock, and then with my seed. I’m going to pump you full until
you’re dripping.”
Sherlock moans, long and loud like the beast inside of him can ever be undone.
The cab stops.
 
Sherlock’s legs are tight and his knees collapse like jelly when his feet hit
the pavement. John has to carry his husband up the stairs.
221B is filled with furniture and boxes, scribbled with notes in John’s
straight handwriting. The only unpacked room is the bedroom, which John kicks
his way into, and the room is like he left it, dimly lit, large bed standing
dressed in cool cotton sheets upon which Sherlock’s limp body falls like snow
onto the ground, melting perfectly. He rips his jacket and shirt open,
wriggling out of them while John takes off his shoes. His fingers dig under the
waistband of his trousers and he stops.
John is kneeling at the foot of the bed and he knows he should be able to think
but he can’t. Sherlock’s skin is sprawled in between them and he reaches out
just as Sherlock reaches down. Their fingertips touch and Sherlock’s chest
rises and falls, fast. His lips are wet like an ice cube left in the sun. John
crawls onto the bed and over his body, wrenching his clothes off. Sherlock
groans when their flesh presses together, the entirely new feeling ripping
through them both instantly. Their trousers come off in inches, their hands
pulling at each other between fits of moaning and stroking.
Sherlock is suddenly before him, cock hard against his flat belly.
John shakes. “Oh god. Oh God, Sherlock.”
The entire back of Sherlock’s thighs is shining with fluids, sticky with the
evidence of Sherlock’s want. His hole clenches and releases, and john’s cock
twitches violently, crying out to fill him.
John’s fingers stroke his thighs, then the flesh of his bottom before finally
dipping gently into Sherlock, who clings warm and velvety around him. Sherlock
is moaning desperately, his head thrown back and spasming against the pillows.
John’s fingers come out shaking and wet. Sherlock is vibrating with want, his
eyes clenched tight. John strokes his belly with the other hand, the soft skin
taught with nerves. Sherlock’s knees close around John’s elbow.
“Stay,” he says. “Come in, please, please, come in,” he whines.
“Yes,” John says, and his hands wrap beneath Sherlock’s ribs, turning him over
to lay face down. Sherlock’s breath hitches and whines and John parts his arse
and lays his cock against Sherlock’s wet and open hole.
Sherlock pushes back and John’s fat cockhead disappears into Sherlock’s body.
John’s sensory system burns to the ground. Sherlock collapses onto the
bedcovers and John’s arms dive around his waist and his body flattens against
his husband’s and Sherlock screams as John’s entire cock drives brutally into
him, warm and wet and frictionless.
When John’s nervous system comes alive he hurts with pleasure. He drives into
Sherlock once, and again, and Sherlock is sweating and shaking. “I’m going to
come,” he says suddenly and his orgasm pushes through his body all at once,
like a storm, his little half gasps falling from his body like books from a
shelf. John rocks into him to ease him through the storm and murmurs love into
his hairline, begging him for the pleasure of his body, thanking him
repeatedly.
“I love you,” he says, and speeds his thrusts, smacking into Sherlock’s pliant
backside and feeling his cock swell.
“Knot me,” Sherlock begs, limp and loose against the covers.
“I can’t, not now, not the first time—“ John says.
“Do it, please, John!”
And he does and his cock pushes through the muscular barrier of Sherlock’s body
and his vision whites out as pulse after pulse wracks their bodies, together.
And John thinks, happily, dreamily as his head swims with orgasm, that he hears
Sherlock say, “I love you too.”
End Notes
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