Johnlock Headcanons

From arwelwjones Instagram. Captioned: Youngsters #Sherlock pilot

“I can’t do that, John. I wish I could… but I can’t.”

There is the rumble of traffic in the background, but it doesn’t drown out the fatigue underpinning Sherlock’s tone.

“For gods sake, please tell me. Let me help you. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. Greg—Mycroft—they’ll help too.”

“John…”

“Please.”

“I shouldn’t have called. I just wanted to hear a familiar voice. Your voice.”

“Come back,” John bites his lower lip, emotion cracking his words. “Sherlock. Come home.”

“John…”

“Fuck, Sherlock, don’t do this.” Tears sting John’s eyes. “I miss you.”

“I wish…” Sherlock trails off. “I want to come home. But I can’t. Not yet.”

“Why? Why?”

“I have to go.”

“Please, just… I’m begging you, ok? Come back.”

A long silence fills the line, static popping and hissing.John panics. “Are you still there? Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s voice returns, distant and echoing, the connection failing.

John isn’t a man who can easily put his emotions into words, but he has them, swift and strong, often angry and biting. Unfortunately, it’s the bitter words that find their way out of his mouth, not the tender ones that rush from his heart but are blocked by his own doubts and fears.

He’s trying, though, he wants to be brave and speak the words that he needs to tell Sherlock, but they come out fractured, incomplete. “Sherlock… I —”

It’s difficult. He fails. Sherlock scrutinizes his face, searching for his meaning, but eventually turns away, the connection incomplete.

It twists in John’s gut, the acid weight of the unspoken, until one night, standing near Sherlock in the kitchen, something happens. Sherlock is at the table bent over the microscope, his fingers delicately adjusting the focus, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned.

John stands nearby, a cup of warm tea in his hands, watching Sherlock work, his neck curved, exposing the pale skin. John’s gaze is drawn to a single lock of hair that curls on his nape, a perfect coil that begs to be touched.

Without thinking, John reaches out, his fingers brushing the back of Sherlock’s neck, a gentle caress that seems as natural as breathing, the curl silky.

Sherlock freezes and John’s heart stops, realizing what he has done. Time stills, dread seeping into his bones. Paralyzed, John can’t move his hand, his fingertips lingering terribly over Sherlock’s skin.

Miraculously, Sherlock doesn’t pull away. His shoulders seem to soften and he lifts his head slightly, maintaining contact with John’s touch.

They can’t bear to make eye contact, but Sherlock breaks the impasse first, his voice deep, whispery, uncertain. “Your hand… is warm.”

John swallows, then dares to open his hand further, slowly cupping the curve of neck and bones that he wants to cover with his lips and taste.

Lovelies,

I’m reactivating the Monday stories, because I think I’ve been missing them. It seems some of you were missing them, too :) 

So. If you want to be tagged - ask, message or comment or reblog here. This is completely opt-in kind of thing. For this story, and for this story only, I’m adding tags of people who were tagged last year. If you are in that set and you want to be added also this time, let me know, as above.

To remind: Monday Fix-its are stories that take a specific point in the series (or in some moment before) and correct it in order for Johnlock to happen. It won’t always be in the text directly, but every time Happily Ever After for our boys is my aim.

Well then. May your Monday be a little better :)

####

Now or never.

He was standing behind the tree, shaking.

He had never expected that seeing his own grave would have affected him greatly, and, in fact, it didn’t.

“No sneaking out of bed, Sherlock.” John tries to sound as scolding as he can, with his sleep mottled voice. “We agreed, at least four hours, for you.”

The detective huffs unhappily, but shuffles about until he’s settled underneath the duvet and John again. “I will reiterate that I’m not tired.” Sherlock grumbles. 

“Four hours.”

“Two.”

“Keep trying, and I’ll make it the full eight.” John warns, nuzzling his face against Sherlock’s back.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Then, sleep.” John smirks, lips curving against Sherlock’s skin. “And, you won’t have to find out.”

It’s what he tells himself anyway.

Silence falls over his room at Baker Street, shadows playing across his ceiling as midnight falls upon London and he simply can’t help himself any longer, the ache of holding off burning him from the inside out. His eyes flutter closed as he slips his pants off and tugs his shirt over his head, images of things he’s held private for so long dancing across his vision like movie clips, things he’s never dared to long for, never allowed his waking self to imagine because up until recently it hasn’t been an option.

Now it is.

Or it will be soon.

It’s started out slowly, exactly how John knows it should. A shoulder squeeze in the morning, a gentle back-rub in the afternoon, only recently daring to graze soft kisses over sharp cheekbones and only once or twice have lips actually met.

Slow.

It’s how he wants to do it, and it’s how he knows Sherlock Holmes needs to do it because Sherlock has never had any type of relationship like this before and John wants this to be utterly perfect for him and so slow is best. Slow is necessary. Ever since that night a few months ago, the night John had woken to Sherlock perched on the edge of his bed, hands fidgeting in his lap, beautiful green eyes wide and round and frightened, that night that John had narrowly missed being swiped open with a switchblade and Sherlock had barely contained his utter panic and somehow everything was different. That night that Sherlock hadn’t said a single word and John had understood. That night that they’d become them. They’d become this.

Slow.

And slow is fine. Slow is good.

But slow doesn’t douse the fire in John’s belly when he bloody looks at Sherlock Holmes and slow doesn’t make Sherlock Holmes any less beautiful and slow doesn’t stop the fantasies from filling John Watson’s sex-starved brain for the man living one floor below him.

They still sleep apart. It hasn’t been verbally requested, only assumed, and John’s okay with it, though he somehow misses Sherlock every night without even knowing what it would be like to sleep near each other, but for some reason it still feels important. This thing between them is fragile. Sherlock is fragile. And John doesn’t want to go mucking it up just yet. They’ll get there at their own pace. Of that, John is certain.

Though now, as he lays in the darkness alone, slow is not doing it for John’s aching lower half. Not at all. Not when visions are playing around his mind and a naked Sherlock is currently spinning around his head and the idea of his beautiful flatmate on his back beneath John is all it takes for him to mutter a curse of resignation before he’s up on his knees with a hand snaking down his body and a bitten off moan slips past his lips, the fantasy taking full form as John plants a hand against his headboard, leaning forward and rocking his hips into his fist.

Stroking from base to tip, eyes fluttering closed, losing himself in the image in his head in the privacy of his own mind, John Watson gives in, deciding the quiet in the flat is the best he’ll ever get to have a private wank to the thought of his beautiful flatmate currently dissecting something in the kitchen but oh god it doesn’t matter, who the fuck cares what Sherlock is doing right now, all that matters is what he’s not doing, which is that he’s not currently writhing under John Watson, but oh god those curls and those ethereal eyes and those tight shirts and that slender, fit body and Christ Christ Christ.

What would Sherlock Holmes look like in the throws of an orgasm? What would his body do? What would his eyes do? Would he toss that ridiculous head of curls back and moan out loud? Would he bite his lip harshly and swallow any cries? Would he beg for John to give it to him harder, deeper, faster?

John bucks his hips at the idea, his Mind Sherlock currently arching his back as John drives his cock deeper into him, pressing him back into the mattress with a growl. He pictures Sherlock whimpering as John’s cock nudges against his prostate, pictures that beautiful man sliding a hand into John’s hair and holding on for dear life, pictures Sherlock’s eyes rolling back in his head as John delivers him thrust after thrust of pleasure.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John grounds out from between clenched teeth, grip tightening on his cock as he thrusts forward, body moving as though he’s currently shagging Sherlock into the sheets, practically feeling those long legs wrapped around his waist, almost seeing soft pink skin laid out beneath him. “Sherlock, oh Christ…”

“Oh, John.”

It takes a full six seconds for that voice to resonate around his head before John realizes it’s not coming from his thoughts at all but from behind him, a real voice coming from a real body that isn’t only in his imagination but currently in his room. And before John can stop himself, can drag his pants back up his hips and cover himself and apologize profusely, long, pale arms are wrapping around his torso as a strong, slender form presses up against his back, knees finding their way between John’s, the figure folding itself over John effortlessly. “Oh god, John.” Soft, damp lips press warm kisses along the length of his neck and John can’t help moaning, his hand still flying over himself, unable to stop, unable to think because oh god Sherlock is here, Sherlock is really here and it’s so much better than his imagination. It’s so much better than he could have ever anticipated.

“Sherlock,” is all John can manage to garble, the feeling of his gorgeous partner wrapping around him after so many months of wanting this desperately is almost too much, and he should be ashamed, he should be deeply deeply horrified and apologetic.

But he can’t be.

Not when Sherlock’s hand starts to travel down his stomach, not when Sherlock shushes him softly when John whimpers, not when Sherlock sneaks his hand beneath John’s and whispers, “That’s it, John,” in a growling, fierce voice.

“Oh- Oh Sherlock, I… fuck, ohhh fuck.” John tries to explain, tries to apologize, tries to say something but long fingers are wrapping around his flushed cock and he’s panting, head dropping back against Sherlock’s shoulder, giving over to it, unable to stop it, unable to care that this has all gone horribly wrong but somehow feels unbelievably right. “Oh god, oh my god,” he mutters shakily, hips pumping into that unfamiliar yet so familiar fist, the warmth almost unbearably pleasurable.

“Why are you hiding away up here like this, John?” Sherlock murmurs into his ear, pulling long, deliberate strokes over his cock, fingers gliding to the base and tickling through soft pubic hair before making their way back up to the very sensitive tip, brushing a thumb over the head and causing John to practically sob out a moan.

“I… I… I can’t, I can’t,” John shudders, the very real threat of orgasm hovering just on the fringes of his hazed reality. “I wasn’t… we’re… we are… taking…I… slow.”

“Why?” Sherlock practically growls, his free hand roaming over John’s chest to pinch one of his peaked nipples. “Why are you torturing us with slow, John? Don’t you know? Don’t you have any idea how badly I want you?”

“Sherlock,” John cries out sharply, the touch to his pectorals sending zings of pleasure rippling down his spine and straight to his cock, his own hands finding their way up and over his head and around to find inky curls ready and waiting for him to wrap his fingers in, and he does, taking immense pleasure in the sound of Sherlock groaning in his ear.

“Pull my hair,” Sherlock breathes, moving to tweak John’s other nipple and stroking him faster, and John complies, tugging gently and Sherlock gives a filthy flick of his wrist, moaning John’s name into his neck. John arches harshly into Sherlock’s fist, entire body practically curving into a C-shape as he holds onto the dark curls and fucks the fist in front of him.

“I… I didn’t… know…” John is struggling with his words but maybe words can wait, maybe words can just be put on the back burner for now because the pleasure sweeping his body currently is severe and thick and all-consuming and John doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out until he’ll be happily drowning in it.

“If you’ve been going slow for my benefit, then I am terribly sorry but you’ve been misinformed,” Sherlock continues to murmur in his ear like he isn’t currently rocking every single fiber of John’s being. “I don’t want slow, John Watson. What I want is you. All of you. Every square inch of you.”

“Sherlock.” It’s the only word he seems to be able to articulate right now, the only word that seems to matter at all as he can practically see the tidal wave about to crash over him and swallow him whole into the depths of bone-deep bliss.

“I want to touch you every day, John,” Sherlock whispers, nose grazing John’s ear, the soft touch only heightening the vibrating need in his body. “I want your hands on me all the time. I want to kiss you. I want to feel your tongue touch mine. I want to hold you. I want to press myself against you and feel you. I want to touch your cock. I want to stroke you until you come.”

He punctuates his point with a pinch of a nipple and squeeze to John’s length and John sobs to the ceiling, eyes slammed closed.

“I want to taste you,” Sherlock continues like he isn’t currently playing John’s body the same as he plays that bloody violin of his. “I want to lick your cock and swallow your come. I want to know what you look like with your dick in my mouth.”

John is nodding. Or he thinks he’s nodding. He might just be shaking. Who the fuck cares really because Sherlock’s deep voice is resonating in his ear, explaining in great detail everything he wants and everything John has wanted and he’s about to slip right over when-

“But most of all, John, more than anything else,” Sherlock growls, speeding up his hand and somehow pressing unbearably closer to John, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me on my back, on my hands and knees, on my side. I want you to fuck me on the sofa and in my chair and on the kitchen table. I want you to bend me over the desk and ravage me. I want you to take me to bed and let me ride your cock. I. Want. You. To. Fuck. Me.”

And, obviously, that’s what does it.

A devastating shiver races down John’s spine and spreads out to every one of his limbs as he falls apart in Sherlock’s arms, fingers tightening in curls, hips throwing themselves into a fist as Sherlock practically destroys him, his entire body shuddering helplessly, wrecked from head to toe as Sherlock works him through it, never ceasing his movements, never not speaking, filling every single nerve of John’s body with pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Gasping harshly, chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath, John falls back against Sherlock, letting his entire weight rest against him, not having the strength nor the desire to hold himself up, his knees starting to ache with the pressure on them but right now it simply doesn’t matter because Sherlock is stroking his chest and his belly and rocking him gently, soothing him back to calm as his body shivers with the aftershocks.

He allows himself to be soothed, eyes fluttering closed, brain attempting to right itself from where Sherlock has practically shattered it to bits, trying its best to analyze the situation and clear the fog and bloody understand what the hell just happened.

But Sherlock is still here. Sherlock chose to come up here. Sherlock put himself willingly in this situation without John asking anything of him.

Sherlock doesn’t want slow.

Sherlock wants John.

Happy warmth fills his insides, replacing the shaking with calm waves of tenderness and John turns in Sherlock’s arms, just slightly, just enough to see Sherlock’s face and smile lazily up at him and whisper, “You mean to tell me we could have been doing this the whole time?”

Looking startled for half a second, Sherlock’s mouth turns from a surprised ‘o’ to a sneaky, pleased grin, eyes crinkling at the corners, cheeks tinged pink. “Yes, John,” he whispers, leaning down to brush a kiss over his lips. “You could have had this a long time ago.”

“Well,” John whispers back, his strength slowly returning to him as he prepares to pounce. “Let’s not waste another minute then, yeah?”

The people I blame for this: