Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Things started to go to hell for Sherlock when John got injured on one particular case with one particular homicidal grandmother (“Of course it was the grandmother!” Sherlock had yelled. “Did no one else notice her face powder?!”).

Good old Nan had been blackmailing an ex-flame who had made quite a name for himself after they’d broken up with pictures and videos they had made of their various, eccentric sexual encounters. The man didn’t want them to reach his current wife and she wanted money. When he, Mr. Turner was his name, had blatantly refused to give her anymore cash, she’d kidnapped his son.

Sherlock had taken 20 minutes to pinpoint the kidnapper’s exact location and called the Yard. An ambush was set up and everyone was good to go. John and Sherlock, never ones to miss an interesting arrest, were present to provide both aid and helpful observations (although the second one was mostly Sherlock). He pointed out the cameras around the hiding place, the booby traps leading to the entrance and the sniper in the top window. But he failed to spot the small but effective bomb set to deter them from entering stealthily and catching her off-guard. And poor, poor John who was leading the team of officers into the warehouse got a substantial shard of debris imbedded in his thigh.

 

“Ah, bollocks,” he’d hissed as the pain exploded across his leg.

 

“John! Are you alright?” Sherlock who had managed to get to John from his spot in the back of the group in record time was asking him

 

Gritting his teeth, he nodded, “I’ve had worse. Just go catch that crazy old lady before she harms anyone else.”

 

With a swift nod, Sherlock took his place as the lead and barked out an order to the team of officers who followed his orders to the letter.

 

*

 

However, it wasn’t until two days later that the whole situation actually caught fire. Since it was John’s upper thigh that had been injured, he was forced to walk(also see: limp) around the flat in cotton shorts that left way too much skin on show for Sherlock’s taste. The shorts were loose but at the same time, form-fitting enough to cup John’s firm arse. Sherlock tried not to look at his flatmate’s arse, he really did, and he was quite successful at avoiding any awkward situations until John needed help changing his bandage.

-

 

“OI, SHERLOCK!”

 

At the sound of John’s yell, Sherlock jerked awake. Grumbling, he made his way out of bed and followed the sound.

Only to discover John in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet lid in blood-soaked shorts.

 

“You seem to have made quite a mess. I assume you slept on the couch last night after your Doctor Who marathon even though I specifically told you the couch’s angle would most certainly cause you to shift during the night and open the wound,” remarked Sherlock drily.

 

John rolled his eyes.

 

“Yeah, yeah. You were right, I was wrong. It’s nothing new. Now will you please help me out of these soiled shorts? I think they’re stuck to the bandage.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. Stripping John? That was both his ultimate fantasy and his nastiest nightmare.

 

“I-uhh-I could call Mrs. Hudson? I-yeah, I’ll, um, do that,” stuttered Sherlock, eyes desperately refusing to settle on John’s face.

 

John huffed, “That poor lady has been changing my bandages for two days straight. It’s 6 am and I will not wait for you to go call her. Just help me out of the bloody (no pun intended) thing!”

Sucking in a breath, Sherlock knelt at John’s feet and his fumbling fingers found the waistband of the shorts. Carefully, he inched them down, over the wound and clean off John’s legs.

His eyes didn’t register what he was seeing until they involuntarily flickered to John’s crotch. And when it registered, he full-on stared.

 

“John.”

 

“Yes, Sherlock?”

 

“Your pants are the exact same colour as that shirt of mine that you like so much.”

 

“What? When did I ever tell you I liked it?”

 

“You always stare when I wear it, your pupils dilate and your breath hitches. Also the fact that you immediately knew which shirt I was talking about proves it. It also proves that you know that you own a pair of boxer briefs, may even have purposely purchased them because of the fact that my shirt is the exact same colour.”

 

John balked. “I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that you noticed.”

 

“It’s kind of hard to miss, I mean you’re right there,” said Sherlock, his gaze still unwavering.

 

“No, I meant you noticed that I liked that plum shirt, not the colour of my pants.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes, oh. It’s a very nice colour, Sherlock.”

 

“Yes, deep violets, plums, purples- those have always been your favourite colours on women. I remember.”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat before he dug himself into this hole any further and resumed helping John take off said pants. He fixed his eyes resolutely on a spot behind John so he would not look at John’s penis. Quickly and efficiently, he changed the bandage with the First Aid kit and hastily helped John to his bedroom before bolting back to the bathroom to wash his shorts and pants from the blood.

John’s shorts were returned the next day. His pants were not.

 

*

 

2 weeks later, they were back to work. John’s leg was nicely healed leaving behind a small-ish pink scar that wouldn’t fade. John didn’t care. Scars were a part of him and this particular one marked the time he finally felt like he had a shot with Sherlock after seeing him get so affected with the whole your-pants-match-my-shirt situation. And then there was also that niggling fact that those same pants had gone missing after Sherlock had washed them.

 

“I don’t know where they went. I put them on the washing line. Maybe a bird took them?” he’d insisted.

 

Bird, my arse, sniggered John watching the consulting detective crouch infront of the body at the crime scene.

 

 

He had taken off the Belstaff since it was a sinfully hot day and the crime scene was a grimy alleyway anyway so John had a great view of Sherlock’s ass in those lovely tight dress pants he was wearing and that shirt he loved so much that was the colour of the juiciest plums, stretched across Sherlock’s broad shoulders. But most importantly, he could see the stretchy cotton fabric of Sherlock’s pants and they were a perfect match to the hue of his shirt.

 

Well, well, well, mused John.

 

He continued to admire Sherlock until DI Lestrade came to stand next to him.

 

“Whatchu staring at there, mate?” he asked curiously.

 

John grinned, “Sherlock’s arse.”

 

“While I admit that it is a fine sight, you never usually stare that much,” argued Lestrade.

 

“Yeah well, he doesn’t usually wear a pair of my pants,” stated John nonchalantly, gleeful when Lestrade reeled back as if he’d been hit.

 

“What?!” he hissed. “Did you finally shag him, then?”

 

“Not yet. But it’s definitely on the cards if he’s wearing my pants,” replied John, smirking.

 

Lestrade laughed.

“I think you’re gonna shag him as soon as you two are alone and since I’m such a good friend, I’m gonna send both of you nitwits back to Baker Street so you finslly can get your frisk on with the great Sherlock Holmes,” whispered Greg, winking at John before striding over to Sherlock, noting down all he said about the murder and physically manhandling him away from the crime scene and towards the cab John had hailed.

 

“Well, that was rude,” huffed Sherlock.

 

John chuckled. Look who's talking, he thought.

 

“You know what else is rude?” he asked cheekily.

 

Sherlock cast him an irritated glance. “What?”

 

John leaned in close to Sherlock, his lips brushing against Sherlock’s ear.

 

“Stealing your flatmate’s pants.”

 

Chapter Text

 

Sherlock stilled. His heart skipped so many beats, he wondered how he was still alive.

 

“Wh-what?” he choked out.

 

Unmoving, John let his lips tickle Sherlock’s ear again, his hand trailing to the edge of Sherlock’s trousers and fingering the material of Sherlock’s pants just under the waistband.

 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Sherlock. Don’t play coy with me,” he all but purred.

 

The green-silver eyes fluttered shut as John continued speaking to Sherlock in that sensual, velvety voice of his.

 

“I know you want me. I mean you’re wearing my pants, it couldn’t be much more obvious. Do you get off on the fact that my own cock sat in there before? Does that make you hot for me?”

 

Sherlock’s throat betrayed him by letting out a small whimper. John’s fingers grazed over the front of his trousers lightly.

 

“Answer me, Sherlock,” whispered John, his breath hot on Sherlock’s ear. “Does it make you hard?”

 

“Yes, John,” answered Sherlock, his voice husky with want, his eyes no longer green-silver but nearly black, the pupils overtaking the irises.

 

John sat back, a smug smile on his face. His hand, however, did not still its movements. He increased the pressure and tempo of his stroking, pausing only to whisper to Sherlock a simple sentence-

 

“I’m going to make you come in my pants.”

 

Sherlock moaned, helpless against his body’s demands to be vocal about how much he enjoyed John’s touch and voice. The cab driver glanced at him strangely before pressing his foot down on the gas when he finally noticed the sexual tension around the two men in his back seat.

In 3 minutes, they’d arrived at Baker Street. John tossed the cab fare at the driver and practically pushed Sherlock out of the cab, both of them scrambling to climb the stairs.

John found his hand glued to Sherlock’s arse as they climb the stairs, squeezing a little to urge him to hurry the fuck up.

As soon as they’d entered the flat, he had Sherlock against the door with his trousers around his ankles and his hand down Sherlock’s pants.

Sherlock gave up on holding in his moans because John’s spit-slickened hand felt marvelous against his cock and he was fucking John Watson’s hand and hot damn, if that wasn’t hot he didn’t know what was.

Soon enough, John decided his mouth wanted in on some of this action. Sinking to his knees, he released Sherlock’s erection from his hand. From his new position, he looked up at Sherlock. His ridiculous cheekbones were painted a delicious red, those eyes were drowning in lust, those perfect lips plump and red. He was bloody gorgeous and he was John’s for the taking.

John leaned forward licking a bold stripe along the length of Sherlock’s cock over the plum fabric eliciting a scrumptious hiss from the other man whose hand had found a new home in John’s hair.

John continued mouthing at the thick cock in front of him while Sherlock reveled at the warm, moist heat of John’s lovely mouth. It wasn’t long before John stood up again wanting to kiss Sherlock before he came and judging from his labored breathing, he wasn’t far from climaxing.

 

“Sherlock,” murmured John against the rosy lips, his hand fisting Sherlock’s cock again, his thumb dipping into the slit making Sherlock’s mind blank with pleasure. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

The inquisitive eyes opened and met the ocean blue eyes he’d grown to love.

 

“Come for me.”

 

That was the last thing he heard before he was spurting white, hot come all over John’s hand and into John’s plum pants that had started all of this.

Damn you, John Watson, he thought as he tried to reign his breathing back in control before John stole his breath again with a searing kiss of a man who’d been denied the sole object of his desire for many a lifetime.

 

“Sherlock, you’re bloody gorgeous and I bloody love you,” murmured John, his warm breath brushing over Sherlock’s bruised lips.

 

“I love you too, John Watson. But I’m certainly not sorry for stealing your pants,” answered Sherlock, smirk in place.

 

John laughed, the sound pleasing to Sherlock’s ears. Their eyes met and neither was stupid enough to disregard the desire burning in the other’s eyes.

Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes wide and pleading, his lips brushing against John’s.

 

“John,” fumbling words, befuddled mind, un-cooperating mouth. “John, may I fuck you? I want to fuck you so badly.”

 

John nodded, wanting Sherlock inside him more than he wanted to breathe.

 

Determined hands pulled at each other’s clothes, shedding shirts, trousers, pants.

Blessed nakedness and warm bodies silky with sweat, rocking against each other. They stumbled to Sherlock’s bedroom, lips still attached as they fell onto the bed.

 

Sherlock blindly reached for the lube he knew was in the second drawer of his bedside table slightly to the left, 7.5 cm away from the stack of papers in there. He found it and pulled back. He lifted John’s legs up over his shoulders as he popped the cap of the lube open.

 

Squirt some onto his finger.

 

One finger.

 

Ease the tip into John.

 

Slight groan of pain.

 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” muttered Sherlock feverishly working his finger into John. Trying to cause minimal pain, he allowed the latter time to adjust.

 

“MOVE,” shrieked John when Sherlock had had his index finger up John’s bum for more than five minutes.

 

“Sorry, sorry! I’m just reluctant to cause you any pain so I wanted to let you take your time!”

 

John huffed, “It’s alright, love. It won’t hurt that much. Would it be better if I told you when it was alright to move?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“Alright. Move, love. I’m fine.”

 

Obeying John, Sherlock pumped his digit into and out of John, pleased at the small gasps the man under him was making.

 

Pulling his finger out.

 

Squirting on more lube.

 

Two fingers.

 

On his second try, he grazed a bundle of nerves that made John scream.

 

“Do that again!” demanded John.

 

He repeated the action, curling his fingers against the same spot. John’s yell was music to his ears and he continues pumping his fingers trying to keep those lovely sounds spilling from John’s sexy mouth.

 

More lube.

 

Three fingers.

 

Repeat process. Except for John’s next demand.

 

“I’m ready. Sherlock, please. I’m need you, please!”

 

Sherlock did not hesitate this time. He slicked himself up and lined his cock at John’s entrance. Slowly he pushed in before he snapped his hips forward, sheathing himself completely in John.

John gasped, his eyes flying open.

 

“Are you okay?! John?!”

 

“I can feel you,” John marveled. “Oh my gosh. Move, Sherlock, for the love of tea, MOVE.”

 

Complying, Sherlock started thrusting his hips in and out of John, relishing in the gasps and moans John had neglected to contain, cherishing every scream of John’s especially the ones he made when Sherlock hit his prostate over and over.

 

His favourite scream though was the one that escaped John when he came, the sheer force of it making Sherlock’s hips still as his second orgasm tore through him.

 

It was his favourite scream because John had screamed “I LOVE YOU, SHERLOCK HOLMES.”