Title: Kissing John Watson
Author:
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warning/Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 1900
Rating: PG
Summary: Some days, Sherlock just wants to kiss John.
Notes: Written for this prompt from : John introduces Sherlock to the joys of kissing someone he actually likes, who likes him back, and who is good at it.
Give me the day that Sherlock just wanted to kiss him. In the morning, at breakfast, making John late for work because he’s dragged him onto the sofa for a snog, arriving in his office unannounced for kisses (refused because HELLO PROFESSIONALISM oh go on just a peck, then), not being able to wait until they get in the door, distracting him from dinner because if his mouth’s busy he’ll just have to kiss his neck and face, pulling him on to John’s bed and them spending hours tumbling over each other and necking like teenagers…
Add porn if you want, but mostly I just want Sherlock discovering that kissing is fun and John having really sore lips after it all. (Although if Sherlock gets like this after discovering how much fun it is to make John come as well, then John may just be the luckiest/tiredest man in the whole world for a little while).
Sherlock never had much use for sex, and even less for kissing. The slobber, the bacteria, the sheer pointlessness of mashing your mouth to someone else’s — no, he had neither the desire nor the patience for it. When he was intimate with someone, which was rare, he preferred it to be efficient, quick, and impersonal.
This was before John, of course.
John changed everything, including Sherlock’s opinions on certain matters, kissing among them. Their first kiss was slow and endless, hands in each other’s hair, Sherlock’s back pressed against the door frame and John’s warm, solid body leaning into his. They kept stopping as if to speak but only smiled at each other instead, and moved slowly through the flat from the doorway to the sofa, which seemed like a good place to just kiss for a while.
John’s tongue was circling and tasting his mouth. Every touch of John’s fingers felt electric as he touched Sherlock’s chest and hair and chin. Sherlock couldn’t even think clearly, he was so excited, so lost in the sensations that traveled from his lips over every inch of his skin.
They drifted up the stairs and ended up in John’s bed, still dressed, still kissing, and Sherlock thought it would end in a cold, fast fuck like all the others he’d had before. It didn’t. “It’s all right if you want to wait,” John murmured sleepily as he nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock said, “I think I do,” and held John, breathing in the scent of him, as he slept.
In the morning, Sherlock expected John to tell him it had been a terrible mistake, could he please go now, but the moment John blinked awake he smiled and murmured, “Good morning,” as he leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock didn’t know what to do at first — a good morning kiss? Really? — but then put his hands on John’s shoulders and kissed him back, and it was just so warm and good and sweet that he hoped it would never end.
All too soon John whispered, “I have to get ready for work,” and kissed Sherlock quickly one more time before slipping out of bed. Sherlock stayed there, waiting for him to come back, and when John returned fresh from the shower he quietly laughed. “Aren’t you getting up today?”
“No,” said Sherlock. “Come back to bed.”
“I have to work,” said John and got clothes from the bureau. “And you’re the laziest man in Britain.”
“The logistics of staying in bed all day aren’t that difficult,” said Sherlock, stretching.
John laughed and came to him, folded trousers in his hand, and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “Maybe on the weekend. Meantime, I have a living to earn.”
Sherlock grumped but got out of bed as John dressed, and when John came downstairs, dressed for the day, he was greeted with tea and toast and an apple. He smiled in a surprised sort of way, and said, “Thank you,” and kissed Sherlock again, and while he ate Sherlock drank tea and watched his mouth.
“Ten minutes on the couch,” said Sherlock as John put on his coat.
“Sherlock, I can’t.”
“Five, and no groping.”
“I’ll miss my bus if I don’t leave now and taxis are too expensive for every day.”
“Two minutes.”
“Sherlock.” John looked exasperated but amused. “I’m not snogging you before I leave for work.” He took hold of Sherlock’s neck and kissed him quickly. “See you later. Try not to get bored.”
Sherlock held John’s face and kissed him back, not quickly at all, and John made a helpless sound and kissed him back.
“I have to go,” he protested weakly. “I have — mm, Sherlock –”
“Stay home,” Sherlock whispered and unzipped John’s coat. “If you catch the 7:43 you’ll still get there by eight-thirty. That gives us six minutes.”
“Later!” John said, laughing and pulled himself out of Sherlock’s arms. “Later.”
Sherlock followed him down the stairs to the front door and said, “John!” and when John turned Sherlock kissed him one more time, holding him by his lapel. “Hurry home,” Sherlock whispered and John smiled, looking dazed, and trotted down the street to his stop.
The morning passed. Sherlock showered and changed clothes, rejected jobs that didn’t interest him and texted John twice, first to say, “I can’t stop thinking about you,” and the second to say, “I want to be kissing you now.”
John responded, “Neither can I,” and “So do I,” and Sherlock decided that was all the invitation he needed. He caught a taxi and directed it to take him to John’s surgery, and told the woman at reception, “I’m here to see Dr. Watson. I don’t have an appointment.”
“Sherlock,” said John, exasperated again, when the woman finally sent Sherlock back to the consulting room (since he refused to take a seat and wait his turn), “you can’t just show up at my job and expect me to run off with you after some murder.”
“I don’t have a case,” said Sherlock. “Kiss me.”
“I’m at work!”
“Kiss me, please?” said Sherlock and smiled hopefully.
“You’re ridiculous,” said John, but kissed him anyway. Sherlock tried to make it last longer but John pulled away before he could even get his hands in John’s hair. “That’ll just have to tide you over.”
“Doesn’t this door lock?” Sherlock tested it and John shook his head.
“I have patients I have to see. Go home, Sherlock. I’ll be home later.”
Sherlock tried not to sulk all the way back to Baker Street, but failed. He spent the afternoon watching bad telly with Mrs. Hudson, and when it got close to the time John usually returned from work, he walked down to the Chinese place on the corner and got supper. He was putting it out on the (relatively tidy) table when he heard John on the stair, and he felt something lift in his chest, something expand and glow.
He met John at the door and kissed him before John could even unzip his coat. John started to protest but let Sherlock push him against the door. He moaned quietly when Sherlock hitched John’s hips against his own, and trembled when Sherlock started to experiment, lips down his neck and breath ghosting over his ears.
They would have carried on snogging if John’s stomach hadn’t growled. John chuckled against Sherlock’s neck and moved out of his arms. “I smell food.”
“I got supper,” said Sherlock and John gave him an odd look.
“You did? You went to the shops?”
“I got takeout.”
“Still, miraculous,” John murmured and sat at the table. He smiled at Sherlock. “Joining me?”
Sherlock did. John served up them both and Sherlock supposed he ate a few bites, but he couldn’t remember chewing and swallowing or tasting, or even speaking, though he supposed there was speaking since he did remember laughing, and John laughing with him. All he wanted was John’s mouth again, John’s lips, John’s tongue. Watching him eat was almost as good — watching him attempt to use chopsticks and laugh at himself for how badly he handled them, watching him drink, watching the satisfied look come over his face as he tasted and swallowed.
He leaned over to kiss John’s neck and John touched his cheek. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” John said softly and turned in the chair so he could kiss Sherlock properly. Their legs rested against each other under the table, Sherlock’s hand found its way into John’s, and John tasted like beer and spices and he was delicious.
Sherlock wanted to leave their supper on the table but John insisted they clean up and put the leftovers away, kissing Sherlock many times as they did so. It made the chore go faster, Sherlock had to admit.
And then — then — the glorious moment where John looked excited and shy and held out his hand, and Sherlock smiled and took it.
John’s bed was even more comfortable with the duvet pulled back and most of their clothes tossed aside. John’s chest felt wonderful against his, as did his bare arms under Sherlock’s hands. And his mouth — oh, his mouth — his mouth was a wonder and a joy, lips soft, tongue teasing.
When he looked at it objectively — and there was a part of his brain that was always objective, that was measuring pressure and time and wondering if he was drooling — Sherlock knew that John wasn’t doing anything different from anyone Sherlock had kissed before. It was still simply a matter of mouths (and John’s hands moving slowly through Sherlock’s hair, John’s thigh resting between Sherlock’s like a suggestion rather than a demand), but he’d never longed for it like this.
John was better than the chase, better than the game, better than any puzzle, better than any drug. And so much better because he was just John, comfortable and honest and good.
“My lips feel numb,” John murmured when they finally parted for more than a breath, and he gave his mouth an experimental rub.
“They look well-used,” said Sherlock and ran his thumb over them lightly. “Should we stop?”
“I’m fine with a break.” John leaned on his elbow and slowly raked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It felt amazing, this being petted, and Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head toward John’s hand. “I can’t remember the last time I just snogged like this.”
“Neither can I.” He watched John through half-closed eyes. “I generally don’t, you know.”
“Don’t what? Don’t kiss?” He kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “I beg to differ. You’ve kissed me several times just today.”
“You know what I mean,” Sherlock said and kissed John’s fingers. He held John’s hand to his chest and played with his fingers. “It’s the first time it’s not been means to an end.” John smiled and leaned his head on his other hand, contented. Sherlock said softly, “What’s different about you, John?”
“I think it’s quite simple. You’ve never kissed anyone who likes you as much as I do.” Sherlock could see him trying to be matter-of-fact about it, but there was something in John’s eyes that said this was not an easy declaration for him to make.
Sherlock said, “That’s an astute observation,” and John smiled in return. He pulled up the duvet to cover both of them and curled against Sherlock’s side. “Kiss me good night,” Sherlock said as he traced John’s shoulder under the duvet.
John kissed the base of his throat. “I will, but not yet.”
End.