Just Breathe (unsolicited reply to "Coffee Break" .net/s/7342181/1/bCoffee_b_bBreak_b)

by T.D. McKinney & Terry Wylis

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written strictly because "Coffee Break" prompted wonderful images in our heads to follow. ImpishTubist, the author of "Coffee Break," was not involved in any way nor did they have prior knowledge of the creation of this story. They didn't know about it, they didn't request it, they simply inspired it with their excellent imagery.

John climbed the stairs at Baker Street with a sigh on his lips. This would probably not be a pleasant conversation. Not at first. If Sherlock were even speaking to him. Not about walking in on a bit of a snog in the precinct lounge—the man had surely seen worse in his adventures. But John had something to say, and he wasn't sure Sherlock would understand or much care. That thought set a very hard knot in John's gut.

What he didn't expect was his flatmate sprawled across the couch, long limbs flung at diverse and almost impossible angles. The deep beige discs of Nic patches climbed both arms. Christ, how many was the idiot wearing? John could see at least six. An ice pack rested on Sherlock's ebony curls. John couldn't decide if Sherlock looked like a man in the throes of a hangover or one trying to achieve one.

"Enjoy yourself?"

The flat tone of that deep voice could mean anything.

"Um...yeah. Yep." John decided maybe the direct route wasn't such a good idea after all, He headed for the fridge and a cold beer, letting the tang of the ale settle over his tongue as he gazed out the kitchen window. Damn it all, it was going to be worse than he'd thought.

The silence stretched for about two seconds though it seemed much longer—at least two years. Yeah, much worse.

A tiny pained sound escaped Sherlock. Or maybe it was the nicotine kicking in. Either way, it sent shivers through John.

"You certainly looked and sounded like you were enjoying yourself." Sherlock's baritone deepened the shiver.

A very soft expletive found its way off John's lips as he took another swig of ale. This was not the way he'd wanted to have this conversation. Considering how many times he'd corrected people's assumptions about the two of them... Just not the way to have it out, not at all.

Then John's eyes refused to even pretend they found anything interesting in the grey wash outside their little apartment. Thinking of Greg, of Sherlock, caused them to unfocus. "Oh, God." Resolute, he turned from the fog to the play of long limbs and pale skin, a reckless heat burning through him, the same one he'd felt in the Scotland Yard break room. "Want me to do the same to you?"

At least this way he'd get an unvarnished reaction. A punch to the jaw would be worth it, if it came to that. Right now, John wasn't sure.

Sherlock came straight off the couch. "What!" Sometimes John forgot how fast the consulting detective could move. The icepack landed half-way to the kitchen. "What do you mean?"

John really didn't feel like playing normal games. Not when Sherlock knew every word that might come out of John's mouth before John even thought of them. "Do. You. Want. Me. To. Do. The. Same. To. You?" He couldn't resist a little shrug. "It's okay. Greg doesn't mind sharing."

A slim finger leveled directly at his nose, too much like a damned laser point John still had nightmares about. "Don't. Just..." Sherlock sucked in a breath and turned half-away. "Don't."

"What?" John moved a little closer; the detective didn't actually look all that steady on his feet. "I was teasing about the sharing. The rest is a simple enough question. So don't...what?"

"I...I...I..." The normally eloquent detective simply stared.

"You didn't call out when you saw me there. Didn't gasp. Didn't haul Lestrade bodily away." John dared a hand to his friend's arm. "Why? If you're in such shock now."

Sherlock's bright gazed shuttered for a good thirty seconds. "I'm not in shock. I'm never in shock." He drew himself very straight. "I...needed data." His arm trembled a bit beneath John's hand. "I never pulled you away from Sarah, either, and Lestrade's far preferable to her."

Now that surprised. So Sherlock could tolerate seeing John wrapped in the detective inspector's arm's. So why the nicotine patches? Why the ice pack?

"What's going on inside that head of yours, Sherlock, now that you've got your data? What are you seeing? You didn't like it when I snogged Sarah. Not at all. But you can tolerate Greg. So what's this all about? Talk to me, Sherlock." John crossed his arms and waited.

A quick shake of dark hair and a new breath. Broad hands rested on the edge of the kitchen sink, slim fingers going white as they clenched the stainless steel. "No. No, it's fine. It's your business, after all. I just...no, it's fine."

Oh, delicate territory. But the potential reward was worth the risk. "Doesn't sound like it's fine. Is there something you want to say to me? About any of it?"

"Lestrade." It came out quiet, almost sighed, before Sherlock blinked. "Why Lestrade? Well, why not Lestrade? But why Lestrade?"

John felt a shrug lift his shoulders. Not the question he'd expected. Not the anything he'd expected. But a fair enough question. "I don't know." Damn, now that he had to explain it... "It— He...I don't know. And I didn't actually start it, but..."

"Ah. Well, Lestrade does have occasional glimmers of intelligence. In this case, absolute brilliance. I must compliment him on it. Perhaps he'll pursue such for cases, rather than..." Silver flashed beneath black lashes. "Yes, Lestrade definitely has his moments of near genius."

Was it possible? Could that actually be a touch of more than petulance in the pout of Sherlock's lips? John kept the curve of a smile off his lips. "He does. But I ended up telling him no."

He recognized the tilt of Sherlock's head, the one that said "consideration" and "confusion." "Why? You seemed to be...enjoying his attention a good deal."

"I did." Okay, just say it. "Until I felt your gaze on me."

The tilt stayed tilted. "That...lessened your enjoyment?"

"It made me realize it really wasn't Lestrade I wanted in my arms." Might as well go for broke. "And it wasn't fair to let him think it."

The tilt righted. "Oh. And what you wanted...was me?" For once truly a question. Not one of Sherlock's statements of...oh damn. John had waited too long. Already a smooth grin, full of ego and assurance, was spreading his flatmate's lush mouth. "Yes. Of course." Long arms grasped John's waist. "Lestrade has his charms, but they don't equal mine."

"You're an idiot. You know that?" Oh, that blank expression was too priceless. "You haven't got an ounce of real charm in you. And you know that, too."

"And yet, here you are when you could be with Greg Lestrade." Damn that grin. And double damn the easy way Sherlock just stepped closer, long body brushing John's. "Here with charmless me."

"Exactly." John couldn't hold the glare any longer. "I don't care about charm. I care about you. When I got home from the war, I couldn't breathe. Felt like every moment suffocated me. And then you plowed into my life. And I can breathe again." The tumbled admission should have made him blush and half-cringe. Instead he met soft grey eyes and reached up to trace the edge of Sherlock's hair. "I can breathe."

"Can you?" Sherlock lowered his head. "Can you really?" Full lips settled over John's, gentle and soft. Not at all what he'd imagined. "Then breathe for me, John."

Oh, God. Yes, Greg had been wonderful, warm and eager, but nothing in comparison to this. John had expected a cool, almost analytical kiss, the same approach Sherlock took to pretty much everything in his life. Not this...tender, searching caress. He moaned at the back of his throat and let his fingers settle against silky hair.

Sherlock jerked away, not very far, just a couple of inches. Just enough he could stare. "You didn't make that sound for Lestrade. It's different. Deeper. Created further down your throat." Silver eyes narrowed. "Do it again." Sherlock's lush mouth settled over John's, just as gentle as before, maybe even more so, but now thin fingers explored. Butterfly delicate, they danced over John's temples, traced the shape of his ears, the line of his jaw, the path of his carotid artery. All with the most impossible, barely-there touch.

Not that he had a clue how he'd made whatever sound Sherlock found so enthralling. John tried his damnedest, though, only it ended with a rather embarrassing squeak. He slid his hands down to wrap about Sherlock's waist and waited for the puff of a chuckle over his lips, followed no doubt by some half-scathing quip.

Instead, he got something that sounded remarkably like a sob. The gentle touch trembled as Sherlock's lean form drew closer. Long minutes of the softest sort of bliss lulled John into a sort of drugged Nirvana. Sherlock, tight against him, mouth honeyed and giving as their tongues waltzed and hands caressed in the sweetest ways. When they finally pulled apart just to breathe a bit, John nearly laughed at the shock on Sherlock's face. Lord, he looked twelve. And...hurt. Wait a sec. Why'd he look so damned hurt?

"I can't do this. I thought I could. I'm sorry, John. I can't."

"What?" John felt a new knot form in his stomach as Sherlock stepped back, gaze averted, then turned on his heel and strode back into the living room. John followed, catching the younger man's arm. "What? What did I do? What's wrong? Please, tell me what's wrong."

An alabaster hand fluttered. "This." Sherlock paced to the window and back, all long legs and anxiety. "Sally Donovan made me tea. How am I supposed to do this when Sally Donovan made me tea and told me she was sorry?"

John tried to make sense of that and came up blank. "I don't understand. What was she sorry about and what...why...what did I do?"

"After we saw you and Lestrade, Donovan offered me a cuppa." Sherlock sank down in his chair and looked at John like that should have meaning. "John. John!" Exasperation drove him back to his feet. "You're usually not this much of an idiot."

He began circling the flat in explanation mode. "Sally Donovan, who is herself fornicating with a married man, felt so sorry for me she made me a cup of tea!" Silver eyes pled for a glimmer of understanding. His shoulders slumped. "She apologized! Sally! She who never addresses me as anything but Freak, apologized for Fate delivering so cruel a blow today. She told me she was sorry I had to find out my boyfriend was cheating on me in such a way. She felt sorry for ME." His chest heaved a bit with the force of something. "How is it going to be when it's real, John? How will it be when I find you snogging or shagging some else? Will I need to make it a practice to go to Sally for a cuppa?" He shook his head in a hard, swift motion. "I can't do that."

"Whoa, whoa, just wait a second. Your boyfriend? We've not been a couple. You told me in the restaurant, the bloody first week I met you, that you were married to your work." The very thought Sherlock perceived him as so shallow, so willing to— "I didn't know you were actually interested. God, I just barely figured out myself I didn't want to be with anyone but you. I figured I'd get the same gentle reminder that you don't...see...anyone, but I had to try. I had to tell you, even if it blew up in my face." There didn't seem to be a comfortable spot in the whole flat, but John finally ended up leaning against his desk, trying to find something to do with his hands that wouldn't seem defensive or...whatever. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock ran his hand through his curls, setting them into even greater disorder. "Tell me what? That you want me more than Lestrade? What exactly did you want to say, John? Data. Precise data."

"That I wanted you. Not more than Greg, not more than Sarah. Instead. Not more." John shifted against the desk. Definitely not as planned. "I...I kept telling myself no, no, that's not what he wants, he told you right up front it wasn't in the mix. So I tried looking elsewhere. Sarah...that was over before it ever started. Two seconds from death on the first date will do that."

Sherlock's grin and that riot of curls didn't help John's heart rate at all. "I imagine not. Well, if it makes it any easier for you, I've been cheating on my wife for a very long time. Somewhere between when you told me my deductions were amazing and when you shot a very bad cabbie."

"Wife? What?" God, if this conversation got any more convoluted... "Greg... That was a bit of a shock, I'll admit. I mean, he's...well...and I'm..."

"You keep nattering on about how I'm married to my work. Well, I've been cheating on that particular spouse." Sherlock's grin gleamed and he rose. "With you. Everyone noticed immediately. Mrs. Hudson, all of Scotland Yard, Angelo. The complete morons out there can see that you are perfect for me." The consulting detective's towering form forced John to look up. "And a few of them can see you're just perfect overall. I really am going to be forced to commend Lestrade on his taste, if for no other reason than to enjoy his misery." Sherlock's eyes flashed. "I can do this if you will swear there will be no one else, John. I will be married to my work and to you. And you will not snog or shag anyone but me."

It took a couple of blinks before John's brain started working again. "I...what? You're...wait. You were fine kissing me, then you weren't, now you are again?" He sucked in a breath and shook his head. "That's...look, just tell me what you want. If you want me, say so. There won't be anyone else. I swear. I don't want anyone else. I can't breathe with anyone else, not properly. I..." He trailed off, not quite daring to look up into that gaze again.

"John, don't be dense." Spidery fingers closed over John's arm. "I want you, but I won't share you. Ever. If we do this, you will be mine. No one else's. Lestrade will not touch you again. There will be no more Sarahs." Sherlock's thin frame held deceptive strength, more than enough to pull John close. "In return, you will have me. All of me. You will share me with no one. I will still devote myself to my deductions. But I will also devote all that is left of me to you."

John struggled to keep a need for oxygen to a breath rather than a sob. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist again. "Okay. Yeah. Okay." He tried for more, but it just wouldn't process and he didn't feel like spouting utter gibberish.

"Good." Sherlock smiled down at him and John suddenly knew he'd end up with gibberish pouring out of his mouth before the evening was done anyway. "I believe it is traditional at this point for me to take you to bed and spend the rest of the night indulging in sex."

The rest of my life is going to be like this. John sighed and gave up trying to get any sort of handle back on the conversation. "How about you just kiss me again first and we'll get there."

"I believe that's what I just said, John. Do try and keep up." Full lips, every bit as luxurious as ripe peaches in the dead of winter, settled over John's. Yeah, it was a crazy life, but some things made up for it.

FIN