However Improbable - Part the Fourth

It was February the 14th. And John Watson was confused. Deeply confused.

He had never cared about Valentine's Day. Disliked it, in fact. He had always resented going out and buying a card, picking flowers, feeling the familiar twinge of obligation. What was the point of a gift it was already expected? If it was required? Whenever he had a past girlfriend, he had always felt it was very silly. And now, looking at the date on his phone, he now felt a creeping familiar sense of obligation, even though he was positive that Sherlock Holmes was the last person in the world to give a rat's ass about the holiday.

He wanted to do something special.

He wasn't sure why, but he felt guilty. Valentine's Day was supposed to make him feel annoyed - not guilty. Never truly guilty. But he did feel guilty. He felt that he hadn't tried as hard with Sherlock, to make this a normal, serious relationship: to demonstrate what this meant to him. He was left feeling uncertain about whether or not this was even a relationship at all, or still just two people who now got off together with some regularity.

It had been just over a month, and frankly, the sex was always great. But there was a nagging feeling of wishing they had not rushed into it quite so quickly. Of wanting to rewind. To slow down. To... date.

John felt completely at a loss as to how to express this sentiment to Sherlock. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much, but at least some of it certainly had to do with the fact that he had never been in a romantic relationship with a man before, and he was worried that somehow he was treating it with less ceremony than it deserved, perhaps because it was with a man. And somehow that made it different. But he didn't want it to.

Most of all, he did not want Sherlock to think that he didn't matter to him. Or that he was ashamed of him. And he was worried that if he did not somehow prove this to Sherlock, show him the value of the relationship in some kind of tangible, traditional sense, that it would vanish into thin air. Sherlock would get bored with it, and that would be that. It would be like it never happened.

It would be just a random hookup.

That was the last thing John wanted it to be.

And so, on February the 14th, John found himself nervously trying to secure reservations at an upscale restaurant downtown, and then found himself in the odd position of tempting Sherlock into joining him.

John arrived at 221B to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa naked, blowing bubbles from a bubble pipe.

"Put on a suit," he said, having learned that directness was usually the best course of action when dealing with Mr. Holmes.

"Why?"

"I'm taking you out to dinner."

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

"I can't, John," said Sherlock seriously. "I'm busy."

"You're blowing bubbles, naked."

"Exactly."

"Sherlock, please."

"Actually, I'm measuring the-"

John tossed his best suit at him. He had ironed it himself that morning.

"Just put it on," said John. "We are going on a date. A proper date."

"What if I don't want to go on a proper date?"

"It will be good for you. You can relax. Get your head off of these cases for once. Get some fresh air."

"John, I doubt 'fresh air' is going to help me track an Albanian jewel thief."

"It's for your health. I'm your doctor, remember? Doctor's orders. We're leaving in ten minutes. I've got reservations."

Sherlock squinted at him for a moment. "Am I meant to be impressed?"

"Yes. Now hurry up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he put the suit on.

As they sat across from one another in the crowded, posh restaurant, John's meal arrived. Sherlock had insisted on ordering only a starter salad and sat staring at his phone blandly. John glared at him, willing him to start some kind of conversation.

"Sherlock, we did this completely backwards."

"What? Why?" Sherlock stared for a moment. "John, I don't see how sitting on the other side of the table could noticeably increase or decrease your enjoyment of this interaction unless, of course, given the angle of the window and the trajectory of the..." then parted his lips momentarily in realization. "Oh. You didn't mean that.."

"We... we... rushed into things," John said quietly. "Physically. Normally there's a period of..."

"Courtship," Sherlock offered.

"Yes."

"Petty, meaningless charades designed to subtly and appropriately demonstrate the desire of one person for another through any number of pre-arranged and approved-of social interactions in-line with traditional Western ideals of chivalry and social obligation left over from a bygone era of nostalgic Victorian heteronormative ideology."

John blinked.

"Yeah. That."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, adjusting his tie.

"Well, I don't need you to start buying me flowers, John."

"No, I know, Sherlock."

Sherlock squinted. "Good."

John licked his lips, barely. He could feel himself begin to flush uncomfortably. Sherlock met his earnest gaze.

"I just want to do this right," John confessed. "I've been a nervous wreck all day. I can't shake it. I just worried there won't be anywhere left to go, you know. We'll get bored of this. That we'll hit a dead end."

Sherlock flexed his fists in silence. Sometimes John wanted to know so badly what he was thinking. What he was feeling. He wished he could read Sherlock like Sherlock read him. It wasn't fair, sometimes.

"We've been sleeping together for only four weeks, two days, and eleven hours and you're bored?" Sherlock asked evenly.

"No, I'm not. I'm just-I mean, you're not?" John half-smiled incredulously.

"No. I'm not. At least I wasn't until you insisted I accompany you to this... place."

"But, Sherlock... I mean you do get bored. We both know that." John exhaled nervously. "I'm probably over-thinking this."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said with a condescending frown. John's face sank. Sherlock sighed softly, apparently unaware at this moment of what an ass he was being. "John, we were already doing all of the things people do when they're... dating each other. We just didn't call it dating. It doesn't matter what you label it. We've known each other for months now. And I don't have a problem with doing exactly what we've been doing. It was working for us before. Was it not?"

"You really have no idea when you're being an ass, do you?"

"Excuse me?"

"I can't do this, Sherlock. I can't keep up. You'll get bored of it. Of me. You will. You know you will. And I'll be..." He swallowed, hard. I'll be what? I'll be alone. I'll be heartbroken. I'll be nothing but an empty shell again, just like I was before I met you. He stared at Sherlock wordlessly.

"Can I get the bill please?" John asked the passing waitress.

"Of course," she said, surprised.

"John-" Sherlock began, brow creasing deeply. John looked away. He was leaving. It was fine. If Sherlock didn't want a proper date, then why should he sit here and put him through it? He'd rather be on a case, anyway. There was no denying that. This was all a mistake.

"No, it's fine. You obviously don't want to be here. I'm just wasting both our time," said John.

"I'll pay," said Sherlock.

"No, I'm paying."

"Fine..." Sherlock stared at him suspiciously, a tentative frown of concern crossing his face. His eyes held a distant expression, as though he was mentally scanning for the reason for John's sudden change of heart, and coming up with absolutely nothing.

"Will you take that to go?" the waitress asked John.

"Yes. Thanks." He took the bill as she put the food into a takeaway box.

"Debit or...?" she asked, holding the debit machine over him.

"Debit, please," said John tersely, and took out his card. He added the tip, checked the total, and put in his pin number. The machine paused and then beeped.

"It's saying card declined," John said.

"Here, try again," said the waitress, taking the machine and restarting it. John gritted his teeth and punched in the numbers one more time, waiting awkwardly for the 'processing' screen to disappear.

"Oh for God's sake," he said. "It's said it again. Declined. There's nothing wrong with my card. I just used it for the groceries." The waitress took out his card from the machine and put it back once more, looking apologetic. John took in a hiss of air and actively avoided meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"It might be our machines, sir. Sometimes they're a bit finicky..." she explained.

"Once more then," said John tightly. He punched in the numbers again and waited.

And waited.

Beep. Declined.

"Oh for fuck's sake!"

"Here, how much was it?" Sherlock asked, taking the machine from John's hand swiftly. "I'll pay."

"No, I've got it, Sherlock," John assured him, angrily.

"John, I have the cash."

"I have cash, somewhere, if you'd let me-" Sherlock was already taking the bills from his wallet.

"Here... forty pounds should do it-" Sherlock said, handing it to the waitress.

"Sherlock!" John protested.

"Merry Christmas," said Sherlock, smiling insincerely to the waitress.

"It's February..." she said, blinking.

John slammed his fist down onto the table. The waitress jumped. Sherlock didn't.

"Thank you for dinner," he said, and grabbed his coat, storming out of the restaurant into the street, without his takeaway box. He could feel the eyes of the other diners following him out the door.

The night air was absolutely freezing. He should have worn a heavier coat, he realized. Great. Terrible date, and now a freezing walk to the taxi. Just great.

"John!" It was Sherlock's voice, calling after him.

"Nope."

"John, wait."

John shook his head, walking briskly in the direction of the intersection to hail a cab.

He shoved his cold hands deep into his pockets and walked onward. Sherlock jogged up to his side, takeout box in hand, and stepped in front of him, blocking his way. John nearly pushed right through him. Sherlock steadied him by the shoulders.

"John, regarding my previous remark about you, um, over-thinking our relationship... I should remind you that often the inevitability of my thoughts' conclusions tumble forward so rapidly that it is impossible to backtrack before some remark better left censored for some secondary, perhaps emotional, reason has emerged of its own, albeit logical, volition and I'm left standing in the pool of its consequences, already far and away from that first thought and from any notion of the possibly negative emotional effects of said remark while you're left... there."

"Was that an apology?" John asked.

"I..." Sherlock breathed a cloud of breath into the air.

John narrowed his eyes.

"Yes."

"Yeah, well. It's a little late." He brushed past Sherlock roughly and walked down the sidewalk determinedly. God, he hated Valentine's Day.

Sherlock's voice was raised, slightly, behind him.

"I am sorry, truly. I didn't realize..." There was a pause. "You make me better, John. Better than I am."

John stopped walking and turned, just staring down the road at Sherlock for a moment. The man's angular silhouette was back-lit against a streetlamp's yellow pool of light. He exhaled a cloud of steamy breath into the cold, dry air, his expression candidly soft: honest. Brow furrowed with concern. Genuine concern. John knew. John could tell the difference.

He felt the cold knot of his heart melting.

John tilted his head and sighed, walking back toward Sherlock, who watched him as he came closer. John stood very slightly on tiptoe and leaned upwards.

"You stupid man," he said, putting his mittened hands on either side of Sherlock's arms. He leaned up and into a firm, tender kiss. The heat of Sherlock's mouth against his was amplified by the cold around them. John kissed him harder, firmer, pulling him close with sudden fierce desire.

"Mm."

"John I..."

"I know."

"Just don't leave me," said Sherlock simply, quietly.

"I'm not going anywhere." John pulled away and looked up into Sherlock's face. "Besides, I can't go anywhere when you give me that damned look."

"You're cold, John."

"No. I'm bloody freezing."

"Come into my coat."

"What?"

"My coat. Here. You can fit."

"I can... no. I'll be fine. Don't."

"John, get in the coat."

"Fine."

Sherlock closed the warm darkness of his long, unbuttoned coat around John. It was embarrassingly comforting, standing there pressed into Sherlock's chest, enveloped in the coat and Sherlock's firm, warm arms as they hugged him closer, one hand rubbing his back. John let himself sigh, feeling the tension drain out of him. The anger. It all melted into a puddle of warmth.

He let out a small, soft sound of satisfaction. Sherlock's chest rumbled in response.

"Better?" he said, his voice deep and decidedly seductive.

"So much better." A few passersby may have stared, but John didn't care.

"Mmjohn?"

"Mmsherlock?"

"I have an erection."

"I know." John smiled. "Do you think you can manage to keep it til we get home?"

"Yes." Sherlock glanced down at him. "Why?"

"Because when we get home I can think of a few fun things we could do with it."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"You're flirting with me by being sexually suggestive without explicitly declaring your desire for sex. Interesting."

"Yes. Good deduction." John smiled.

"They don't call me Sherlock Holmes for nothing."

"Well it is your name," said John, emerging from the warmth of the taller man's coat.

"Quite right."

They crossed the sidewalk to the large, busy intersection passing several couples holding red heart-shaped balloons. There was a vendor at the end of the road selling them.

"Why is everyone walking around with those?" Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose. John sighed.

"Because it's Valentine's Day, Sherlock."

"It's what? It's Valent-oh." Sherlock stopped walking and gave him a somewhat sheepish look. "Is that why we-?"

"Yes."

"And you wanted to-?"

"Yup."

"And I didn't-"

"Nope."

There was a long pause.

"I see. Well. I didn't know you actually cared about Valentine's Day, John."

"I don't. It's just... commercial and stupid and I was just... trying to be a good boyfriend, and buy you dinner. Which, as you can see, worked out really, really well. Thanks for buying, by the way."

"Any time." They walked on in silence for a few moments.

"I love you," said Sherlock, quickly.

"What?" John stared at him. They stopped walking yet again. At this rate it was going to be a long walk to the cab.

"I love you, John," he said with frightening earnestness. "I've always loved you. Since you... I knew. I just knew."

"Sherlock..."

"It's the truth, John." He smiled lopsidedly.

"However improbable?" John asked, with a grin.

"Yes. However improbable."

"I-I love..." John's voice cracked of its own doing. He tried to steady it and failed. He cleared his throat. "I love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock tipped John's chin up to meet his mouth, and they kissed, softly. Snow began to drift down from the sky. John pulled away and looked up into the cold, pink face of Sherlock Holmes.

"Now can we please just go home so I can make the absolute sweetest love to you imaginable?"

"Certainly," said Sherlock. "That would be acceptable."

In 221B at last, John all but threw Sherlock onto the couch and pressed his weight down into Sherlock's lap as they kissed. Sherlock kissed back, matching his passion, and with his always sudden and surprising displays of strength, lifted John's weight and carried him a few feet to the wall, where he pinned him firmly. John growled into the kiss, aroused and, miraculously, taller.

"Mmbedroom..." John muttered, and Sherlock carried him there. They fell onto the bed in a pile of swift undressing and, completely naked, they lay alongside one another tenderly. John had never enjoyed just the simple act of kissing someone so much. Sherlock's lips were uncommonly gentle tonight, his kisses slow and thoughtful. It set the mood for a much slower, deeper romance than they were usually in the mood for. John curled up against Sherlock's back and stroked his head gently, kissing his long neck and nuzzling into him affectionately.

"John." That voice. And the ideas it gave him. My God.

John levered his hard, lubed cock up and into Sherlock, gently, and spooned him, inside, perfectly still. Sherlock let out the softest of moans. His voice was breathy. "Can you just... just... like that. Yes. Mm. John."

John curled against the man's back, and gave himself over to the slow, deep, penetrating strokes he had wanted so badly to feel, inside Sherlock.

"Yes, John. Slowly. Mm."

He closed his eyes and held Sherlock's shoulder in his teeth. Slowly. Yes. Slow. Firm. Deep. He would allow himself a few deep, sensual thrusts and then stop, hanging onto the growing closeness between them for long seconds, minutes, before thrusting again. The tension built at a slow, slow burn.

They stayed like that for nearly an hour, hardly moving. Just breathing. Just holding one another. Every time John did let himself thrust, the sensations grew more and more arousing. The longer they stayed like that, the more intense the feeling of each infrequent stroke became. It was the most exquisitely intimate sensation.

The tension was almost unbearable, but the deep, prolonged pleasure so sweet.

Sherlock was trembling in ecstasy, his voice raised in soft plaintive cries.

"Please," Sherlock begged.

"Mm," said John.

"Oh."

"Mmmm."

"Oh. John."

"Sh-"

"Oh."

"Yeah..."

"Oh."

"Mm." Sliding deeper. "Mmm."

"Please, John. I-"

"Mm." Thrust.

"I can't-"

"Mm." Thrust.

"-hold on."

"Try harder," John whispered.

"It's too much," Sherlock said, tensing.

"You can take it."

"I can't think." He sounded panicked.

"Don't think."

"I can't."

"Mmm." John held him still.

"John."

"I've got you." Slow thrusts.

"John-"

"I'm here." Pauses in between.

"Oh fuck. Oh please. Oh John."

"Mm."

"J-Nn-ughh-hn... Oh God..." John felt himself and Sherlock approaching climax head-on. He backed off.

"Sh, sh. Sh..." He stroked Sherlock's cheek gently, softly. One hand was buried in his hair, gripping close to the roots.

He stopped moving and held Sherlock there, on the edge of oblivion, for at least five minutes, until he felt the man's shoulder blades tremble against his chest.

He was, very softly, crying. John was overcome with tenderness.

"Shh, shh. I'm here. Sherlock. It's alright."

"John."

"Just let it out. Just let go," John whispered. Sherlock had worked himself into a knot of muscles, taut and held tight in long anticipation of release. "Relax," John ordered. "Let me take you there. Just wait. Sh. Sh. It's okay," he whispered softly, running his hand over Sherlock. He adjusted his grip on Sherlock's hair and rolled them over so that Sherlock was face down on the bed and John was on him, feeling the nearly unbearable pleasure of sinking even deeper inside.

He had never seen Sherlock made so vulnerable, so profoundly out of his own control before. The depth of his reaction was slightly overwhelming. He kissed the back of Sherlock's neck softly, sucking gently, and, feeling Sherlock's body slacken finally, weakening at his gentle touches, thrust again, soft and deep, only to feel Sherlock's whole body harden up again under him and moan out a sound not entirely human. John held him by the hair firmly and let himself rock deeply and slowly once more. The sensation was amazing: spreading like a bruise. John moaned, struggling to hold onto the moment, to keep control, to keep them teetering in this state of profound, excruciating ecstasy as long as he could. Sherlock's muscles were squeezing in around him impossibly tight, his entrance so slick and hot that John could hardly keep himself from giving in.

The only thing that stopped him was a deep need to take Sherlock further, to let him get to an ultimate release.

Sherlock was well beyond forming words, and simply cried out raggedly, loudly, as John rocked himself deeper, just a bit faster now, shaking the bed in a long-awaited continued rhythm. The crescendo rose so hard and fast that John found himself yanking Sherlock's head back by the hair. Sherlock's neck arched, his mouth open, raging helplessly beneath him.

John eased off again, somehow. Jesus, he was so close. It had never felt this good. Ever. It had never been this intense. Sherlock writhed, completely consumed, and grunted, the salt of sweat and tears streaming down his cheeks and neck. John kissed his neck fervently.

He could feel Sherlock's thighs shaking.

Sherlock had absolutely reached a point of no return, and John felt the man's buttocks tense and release, his legs now shaking violently. His deep voice rose into a strangled, hoarse cry.

John had never taken anyone so close to orgasm so many times over the course of an hour, without fulfilling the promise of release. He had honestly lost count. Lost track of the time, even. He wanted to know how far he could take it. How deep he could probe.

"FUCK JOHN. FUCK." Sherlock had never sounded quite so desperate.

"You want to come now?" John whispered darkly.

"Ghh-uh, uh-"

"Do you want me to make you come?" he said.

"Pleashejohnd..."

"What was that?" John asked, pulling Sherlock's hair a little tighter.

"Finish. Me." It was an order of the most desperate kind.

"Relax again. Relax for me." Sherlock's legs were still shaking. "Calm down. Sherlock." Sherlock struggled to gain some measure of control once more. His legs were spent, vibrating like a lost cause under him. He breathed deep, ragged breaths, the veins of his neck bulging.

"When I let you come," said John, very quietly, "you're going to come so hard."

"Ohhffff-" Sherlock's legs started up again, quaking even harder.

"Relax."

"Nnn. Nnn."

"That's it. Just relax." John knew he could hold out longer, coax an even stronger climax out of him. "Shh. Shhh." John let go of Sherlock's hair and just stroked his face and ran his hands through his thick locks over and over, whispering sweet nothings. He felt Sherlock fall back slowly, excruciatingly, into relaxation, fighting with himself. His eyes fluttering closed. He looked, finally, blissful.

"Oh John," he breathed helplessly, into the pillow.

John thrust his hips forward and in all of ten deep, long strokes, he had Sherlock right back where he wanted him, on the brink of sanity. Covering Sherlock's open mouth with one hand to stifle the indecent, staggering moans, he rubbed his cock firmly against the spot he knew would finish it. At the sudden, ripcord sensation of John's member milking his uncomfortably full prostate, Sherlock came right on cue. His whole body was thrown into spasms. His anus tightened quickly around John's erection as he ejaculated, hard, for a good ten or so seconds, and John held him tight, afraid he was about to lose consciousness.

John pulled out, planning to spill all over Sherlock's back, but Sherlock, blinking back tears, his entire body still shaking in aftershocks, swung himself around under John, and closed his mouth over John's head desperately. He sucked him off so fast and with such incredible gusto that John nearly collapsed into him. His semen spurted all over Sherlock's lips and tongue. Down his throat. A little splashing across his neck. Sherlock looked up and watched the moment of release in John's half-opened eyes, greedily lapping up the hot semen covering his lips and chin.

John cried out painfully as Sherlock continued to suck his impossibly sensitive head. He realized for the first time that his own right leg was uncontrollably shaking, though he had no idea how long it had been doing that. He fell into Sherlock's waiting arms and Sherlock held him close, against his chest.

There were no words for what they had just experienced. They lay looking at one another, blinking, panting, just looking wholly into the other's eyes. John kissed Sherlock's chest weakly. Sherlock stroked his hair, slowly, running his long fingers through it and finally whispered:

"John, you continually amaze me."

"I love you too. And, as a doctor, I'll have you know that was the most intense, explosive orgasm I have ever witnessed a human being experience."

"Well," said Sherlock, and sighed, and did not say anything more.