#renx01

Several days pass before it’s actually Valentine’s day. It’s early on Saturday morning when Jonathan wakes up at his place. He reaches over to the other side of the bed when he realises that you’re back at your own apartment, as he’d had a late shift the previous night. His hand that he'd reached out with closes around the duvet, his knuckles turning white for a moment. He misses you, your presence, your warmth – though it’s unlikely he’d ever admit that to you (at least not any time soon). Rolling back onto his back, he stares at the ceiling for a moment before reaching over to the nightstand, putting on his glasses, grabbing his phone, and checking for possible messages. Last night, after he’d gotten home, he texted you a simple ‘Home' and you replied with a simple 'Goodnight <3’ which for some reason made his chest tighten. He stares at the message for a moment before sending you a 'Morning'. He then proceeds to stare for another minute before texting again. 'Have work this afternoon. I’ll pick you up at 7 tonight.' 

He knows you're probably still asleep, so he decides to just get out of bed and get dressed. He heads to the bathroom and washes his face before returning to his bedroom where he puts on a white dress shirt, gray pantaloons, gray jumper, red tie, black socks, and black shoes. Rather than putting his suit jacket on immediately, Jonathan drapes it over one of the chairs in his kitchen before he starts making his breakfast. Just some oatmeal. It’s simple, filling, and efficient.

He reads some files while eating his breakfast and drinking his black coffee, as he usually does in the mornings. There will be a few new patients arriving at Arkham today and so, he has to read up on them. As he’s finishing up, he receives a text from you. 'Okay, good luck at work. See you tonight!’ Your text has the corners of his lips lift slightly as he reads it. He’s already trying to think of an answer, but he resists the urge to text a put on something nice, because in his opinion, you always look nice. Besides, getting all dressed up would be quite useless. Jonathan did not want to go out tonight to be surrounded by sappy couples that are displaying–in his opinion–too much PDA. He’d rather just be alone with you, holding you close, in private. He’d seen how you’d looked at those flowers earlier in the week and he does feel slightly guilty that he’d been a bit stand-offish, but he does very much dislike Valentine’s day. Still, he’ll do just about anything to make you happy.

And so, despite his dislike for the holiday, he finds himself in the supermarket after his shift at Arkham, shopping for your favourite treats as well as dinner. The psychiatrist squints at the two types of ice cream in his hands, deliberating on which one you would prefer before eventually putting both into the cart. After exiting the supermarket, he drives home. There, he puts some things into the fridge and freezer while also placing all of your favourite snacks in the fruit basket (he’s not buying a separate basket for this occasion, that would be overkill) with it almost overflowing. When he’s done, he checks his watch and it’s nearly six-thirty. Realising he ought to leave soon to pick you up, so he puts his suit jacket back on as well as his coat. He grabs his car keys and heads back downstairs.

While walking to his car, he passes the flower shop you’d stopped at earlier that week and he walks in before he can think about it. When he comes back out, he has a bouquet of two dozen red roses in his hand, knuckles white with how tightly he’s holding them. He ignores the feeling in his chest as he gets into the car and starts it, driving over to your apartment.

The knock at your front door comes at exactly seven p.m., just as he’d told you over text. Once you open the door, he’s standing there slightly awkwardly, holding one hand behind his back. ‘Evening.’ He greets you slightly awkwardly. ‘Hey.’ You smile, which becomes more of a grin when he reveals the bouquet of roses. ‘I thought you thought Valentine’s Day was a capitalistic sham?’ You remark, accepting them before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. ‘I do.’ He replies. ‘But I’ll make an exception for you.’ He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your lips. ‘Come, I’ve parked illegally and I don’t want a ticket.’

The night is calm, relaxed, and very much enjoyable. Jonathan had cooked your favourite food for you before putting on a movie and settling down on the couch with you. You’re leaning against his chest, legs pulled up onto the couch. His arm is around you while his cheek leans against the top of your head. Unlike you, he’d long lost his focus on the film. Instead, his focus had shifted to you. He’s utterly enamoured and he’s still uncertain why. He knows that he does have obsessive tendencies from time to time, but never like this. He wants you to never leave his side, for him to always be near, taking care of you. He’d put on a film that a colleague had recommended to him, though he’s not sure what it’s about anymore. He’s just focused on listening to your breaths and feeling your warmth. He tilts his head ever so slightly and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

'You’re quiet today.’ You say, sitting up slightly and turning to him. ‘Just enjoying your presence.’ He replies smoothly, his eyes locking onto yours. Oh how he could get lost in them in mere seconds. ‘Sure you are.’ The corners of your lips twitch up. 'You look beautiful today.’ His voice is quiet, almost reverent. ‘You always do… but today you-’ He stops himself, and when you’re about to tease him, he leans down and shuts you up with a kiss. A kiss, which turns heated quite quickly. His hand tangles into your hair as he shifts and leans over you, his other hand grabbing hold of your hip. You kiss him back feverishly, arms draped around his neck.

His mind is screaming at him to pull you closer, to claim you, own you. He can feel Scarecrow starting to rise to the surface and he cannot stop it. He tries keeping you away from that side of him, yet he cannot seem to care at this very moment. It’s too much. 'Need you.’ He murmurs, his lips leaving yours and trailing down from your jaw down your neck. ‘Now.’ His hands move beneath your ass and he lifts you up and places you back down onto the couch so that you’re sprawled out below him. He quickly pulls off his jumper, having ditched his suit jacket ages ago, before leaning back down to capture your lips once more. ‘Jon-’ He cuts you off, tongue pushing its way into your mouth. You grip his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath your fingers. He pulls back slightly to tug off your shirt, the blue of his eyes is barely visible anymore. You let him, and once he’s done so, he takes off his glasses, throwing them onto the coffee table, and tugs at his tie, gazing down at you. His mouth is slightly open. Leaning down, he kisses your stomach before tugging open the button of your trousers. 

‘Jonathan, I-’ ‘Yes?’ He stops, straightening his back slightly, his gaze meeting yours. ‘I, ehm…' ‘Do you want me to stop?’ He asks and you shake your head. Your face is flushed, eyes wide. ‘Use your words, my love.’ His hand cups your face. ‘Maybe we should go to the bedroom…' You murmur. He has you in his bedroom what feels like mere seconds after. On the way, he’s taken off his shirt; and after he’s basically thrown you onto the bed, he makes quick work of your trousers. ‘Fuck-’ He takes care of his own trousers as well before joining you on the bed, his hips slotting between your thighs. ‘You’re so perfect.’ He murmurs into your neck, his right hand trailing inward and playing with the edge of your panties. His mouth slowly trails down, nipping at your collarbone for a while before continuing on its path. Eventually, when he reaches the edge of your panties, he slowly takes them off.

His mouth latches onto your core, first licking a stripe along the strip before sucking on your clit. When you try to buck your hips upwards, his hand shoots up and pushes down your pelvis. To try and ground yourself, your hands tangle into his hair. ‘Jon- oh fuck-’ You moan as he starts licking once more. He moves down further, licking deeply into your core and you can feel yourself clenching around nothing. Throwing your head back, you're seeing stars, and it’s only becoming more so when his finger starts pushing in. It doesn’t take long, but you can feel yourself nearing the edge as he adds another finger. ‘Come on.’ He murmurs. ‘Cum for me.’ His hand speeds up and so does his tongue. 

The orgasm crashes over you like a wave, pulling you below the surface. You don’t even remember what sound you made when it happened, but with how Jonathan’s lips crash onto yours mere moments after–his lips still tasting like your cum–indicates that he definitely didn’t mind. 'I could stay between your legs forever.’ He whispers in your ear. He swiftly takes off his own underwear before slotting back between your legs. He takes your right leg and places it over his shoulder before the tip of his cock brushes between your folds. ‘Do you want me to fuck you?’ He asks after another deep kiss. ‘Please.’ You murmur against his mouth.

Slowly, he starts pushing in, pressing forward until his pelvis meets yours and he bottoms out. Jonathan lets out a quiet curse, remaining there momentarily before drawing back and pushing forward again. It starts off slow but starts building up speed, and as it picks up, your hands try to find purchase on his back. He groans as your nails scratch down it, however, he keeps on going. He lets your leg slip off his shoulder and suddenly, his hand is on your throat. You can feel his fingers push inwards slightly, but not too much. Your body responds by clenching around him more tightly. ‘You like that?’ He pants and you nod, not trusting yourself to speak. ‘You’re mine.' He takes a deep breath and he continues after a particularly harsh thrust. 'Mine. You hear that?' 

You let out a yelp and you can feel yourself nearing the edge once more. ‘Say it.’ His grip tightens. ‘Say you’re mine.’ 

'Yours.’ You gasp. ‘God- Jonathan, fuck-’ ‘That’s right, mine.’ His grip loosens slightly and eventually his hand moves into your hair as he buries his face into your neck. He’s biting and sucking at it as he keeps on rutting into you. His other hand moves down, playing with your clit until you eventually start falling. Between each nip and kiss, you can hear him whisper mine almost obsessively.

Your training sessions had remained twice a day, even when you went back to work after your break. You’d go for a run in the morning, shower, head to work, and go to the kickboxing gym after. Of course, you know to eat well when training like this, so no more takeouts and a strict schedule when it comes to food. Structure and control. Something you feel is severely lacking in your life right now; so you’re trying your hardest to have some of it in at least one aspect of your life. 

Mycroft’s return obviously jolted this system of working out and meal prepping. He’d called and told you that he wanted to go out for dinner at six the next day. You flat out told him you have a training session until six thirty, so eight would be the earliest you could do. Before, you would’ve agreed; now, you needed this structure throughout the day to even consider coping with seeing him in person again.

But you know better than to put it off, so when he agrees, you’re already thinking of what to wear; how to be even more of a perfect fit in his life. Anything to get closer, even if Jim doesn’t like how you’re achieving the goal, it’s for the greater good of his empire.

As you’re getting ready after arriving home, you’re acutely aware of how all of this could just blow up in your face. How it could all end, and end badly, if Mycroft were to know your true intentions. And yet, even with how Jim had spoken to you—how he’d kissed you—there’s still this aching feeling in your chest every time you think about the else’s Holmes brother.

Luckily for you, there was a text before you could even think about spiralling any further.

Almost there, love. It’s a tight schedule, so it’d be better if you wait at the door or outside. -MH

Alright, see you in a bit. - CM

After sending your response, you grab your coat, keys, and wallet before walking out of 221C and locking the door behind you. You walk to the front door and open it before glancing outside. He’s not there yet, so you decide to wait in the entryway until he arrives.

As you’re waiting, Sherlock comes storming down the stairs, seemingly enthralled by a case and utterly absorbed. Still, he stops in his tracks when he spots you. ‘Oh, good evening.’ He greets you. ‘Evening, Sherlock.’ ‘You’re waiting for someone.’ He observes. ‘Yes… I’m going out for dinner with my partner.’ You reply. 

Sherlock eyes you carefully. ‘Your…partner…’ You nod. ‘Yes. You know, the one I went to Christmas dinner with.’ He’s about to open his mouth when his phone moans. ‘Is that still your ringtone?’ You deadpan. ‘Only for the woman, as she calls herself.’ After about a minute of chatting, Mycroft’s car pulls up. ‘See you around, Sherlock.’ You say, before walking up to the car and sliding in. You glance back and see Sherlock standing there with his eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar, before closing the car door behind you. There, Mycroft sits, wearing a beautiful suit and having his hair done. After a moment, you realise that he’s wearing the tie bar and cufflinks you’d given him for Christmas. You feel a slight tug in your chest when you do. ‘Good evening, handsome.’ You murmur before greeting him with a peck to his lips. ‘Evening, my love.’ He replies, placing his hand on top of yours. His thumb momentarily traces the bracelet he’d given you. ‘You look nice.’ The words leave your lips before you can really think about it.

‘I missed you.’ He says as he intertwines  his fingers with yours. ‘Missed you too…’ you murmur, leaning your head against his shoulder momentarily and closing your eyes. You know you have to remain in control whilst not acting too distant. And while you regained some control over your emotions over the past few weeks, as you sit here next to him, you can already feel that control starting to slip. This feeling only worsens when he presses a kiss into your hair.

‘You’ve been keeping busy.’ He mutters, his hand squeezing yours momentarily. ‘I’ve been training more.’ You reply, thumb running over the back of your hand. ‘I noticed.’

You wake before he does the following morning. Dinner the previous night had been good, romantic even. Mycroft had arranged a table at some new up and coming restaurant which—according to him—was likely to get a Michelin star at some point in the near future. In short, he’d wined and dined you before taking you to his home where you ended up spending the night. It had been fast and without much thought, going on autopilot as you explored each other before inevitably falling asleep—his arm slung around your waist as you stared up at the ceiling, reconsidering all the decisions that led you into this mess.

Your gaze shifts to him, turning your head slightly so you can observe him properly. He looks peaceful as he sleeps, mouth ajar ever so slightly and his brow not furrowed for once. Moments pass and he doesn’t seem to wake, so you check the time. 5:30 AM. Usually, you’d be getting ready in about half an hour to go for a run. Yet, you don’t have any of your gear here, nor do you have nearly enough time to head back to Baker Street, get ready, go for a run, and still be at work on time. Not that you would dare leave now, the risk of waking Mycroft’s too big, as he’s a light sleeper.

Thankfully, he wakes about half an hour later, muttering something before burying his face in your neck and pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around you possessively. His hands are flat against your back, yet he doesn’t say anything. A few moments later, he pulls back, his face incredibly close to yours. ‘Morning, my dear.’ He says quietly before pulling you into a slow, soft kiss. 

‘Morning, Mycroft.’ You mutter when he pulls away. ‘You’ve been awake for some time.’ ‘I have.’ ‘And yet you didn’t wake me?’ His hand brushes a strand of hair out of your face.’You looked… peaceful.’ You sit up slightly, leaning on your elbows. His gaze is… soft? Tender, perhaps. It’s a look he rarely shows, and you doubt anyone else has ever seen it—except for maybe Sherlock. Not that his brother would notice, as the younger Holmes tends to be in his own head or be focused on everything except the humanity in people. 

‘Peaceful?’ You nod in reply before pulling him into another kiss.

When you part once more there’s this moment of stillness, as if nothing can come between the two of you. Eventually, he speaks, though it’s relatively quiet.

‘I love you.’

The world around you stops and all you can do is stare at him for a moment. You can feel the panic starting to set in. You have to respond, but how? You cannot tell him you love him too, right? That’d be a lie—well not exactly, but you’re not admitting that to yourself right now—going beyond what you expected for your mission to entail. 

And yet, your mouth moves before you can stop yourself.

‘I love you too.’

And after those words have left your mouth, all you can think about is how furious Jim will be when he finds out. Not because you said it. Because you meant it.

A/N: Sorry for not updating in so long (and this being so short).... I've been working on my thesis and trying not to die in the process.

He, unlike the other two, does not have some sort of tumultuous love life; rather, it is non-existent. Despite this fact, he does show interest in yours–well, in the mystery man they still haven’t met. He asks about dates when he knows you’ve been on one, though he does maintain a certain professional distance.

Then there’s the situation at Baker Street. John, who had previously admitted to you that he might have feelings for his “roommate”, the beloved *cough cough* consulting detective, started dating another woman for a bit before giving up and remaining single without going on any dates the past several weeks. He’d told Sherlock that he wanted to focus on the cases, and the case surrounding the woman was perfectly sound reasoning to remain focused on their work.

Mycroft, for his part in this case, was going semi-crazy knowing that Sherlock could be faster; the emphasis being on could. Despite his cold exterior, the eldest Holmes does very much appreciate his younger brother, as well as his talents. It does, however, frustrate him to no end when the younger man stalls. At the same time, he is somewhat thankful that the youngest Holmes has yet to acknowledge the eldest his relationship with you.

Of course, you’d caught bits and pieces of it all from your upstairs neighbours, as Mycroft has trying desperately to keep you separate from his work. Not that it really works, as Sherlock truly does not know how to shut up. That and the fact that you are still very much employed by Moriarty without the ice man’s knowing.

The meetings have become few and far between as time has gone on. Too much risk attached, according to the consulting criminal. Still, you cannot help but think about the last time you saw him from time to time. At times, you find yourself in bed with Mycroft, staring at the ceiling whilst thinking of what could have been with Jim, had he not sent you to infiltrate in this way. Yet, every time it comes up, you push it back down.

Naturally, this nearly peace-like state of your life wasn’t meant to last. And of course, you knew. You knew better than to enjoy the feeling of being peaceful for once. You knew better than to give into your feelings for Mycroft because it just meant that you would be getting hurt. And yet, you let yourself in those moments: when his gaze meets yours and your heart stops momentarily; or when the tips of his fingers would brush past your knuckles; or when he’d murmur sweet nothings into your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it as he says them. It brings what feels like a brief respite of a life which you can barely understand you lived before now.

What you hadn’t expected, however, was for this respite to be interrupted as abruptly as it did; or for the you getting hurt being literal rather than a figure of speech. Of course, you’d gotten hurt on previous assignments; left with stab wounds, bullet sounds, bruises, and broken bones. But things had been so… normal. At least, as normal as it gets when working for Jim. There hadn’t been any major threats in a while, and for the briefest moment, the violence you’re so used to sank to the back of your mind. 

You’d been on your way to work at Scotland Yard—not even thirty feet away from the entrance—when it happened, for once having taken the underground because Mycroft was away because of a political crisis. And whilst you would like to believe it was because of your relationship with Mycroft, you aren’t entirely certain that is the case. Not when there had been someone that shot you in the stomach as they’d passed by you. Clearly, it wasn’t meant to kill you, they would’ve done so by shooting you between the eyes if they wanted to. 

No, this was a warning.

The problem is that you’re not certain who it’s for.

Rather than dropping to the floor immediately, you’d managed to stumble your way through the sliding doors, hands pressurising the wound. The bullet hadn’t gone through, so you were aware that you’d be limited for time due to bleeding internally as well as from the wound itself.

‘Charlie, goodmor-’ Greg looks up from the coffee machine before realising that there’s blood staining your hands and quickly spreading through the fabric of your shirt. ‘Ambulance.’ You murmur, feeling the adrenaline starting to wane as you continue to lose blood. He’s already calling when Donovan enters for the day, ‘Why is there blood all over the carpe-’, her eyes go wide when your gaze meets yours. ‘Morning…’ Your voice is weaker now, your vision starting to blur and waver. The sergeant moves quickly, her bag discarded as she sprints to where the first aid kit is. The DI, meanwhile, is basically shouting at the ambulance to “hurry the fuck up”. 

‘Sally…’ You pull at her sleeve as she’s pressurising the wound with her hands. She looks over, panic in her eyes and all over her face. ‘Who did this? What happened to you?’ ‘Ca—call Mycroft… Mycroft H-Holmes.’

You’d passed out just as the medics got there and woken several hours after your arrival at the hospital. When you did, Greg was there with you, going over some info with one of the nurses. Sherlock is there too, because for some godforsaken reason, Donavan hears the name Holmes and thinks there’s only one man relevant enough to call.

‘Hi…’ Your voice is hoarse when you speak. The DI turns instantly and he walks up, followed by the nurse. ‘You were very lucky, but it’s out. Lost a lot of blood though.’ He says, sitting down next to your bed in one of the chairs. You nod, eyes feeling heavy but you keep them open. ‘We tried finding the contact information of your partner, but…’ ‘Yeah, he isn’t in the system. I am aware. Sherlock’s contacted him?’ There’s a nod from the consulting detective confirming the fact. 

‘Wait, Sherlock knows your partner?’ Greg looks between the two of you. ‘My brother.’ Sherlock states simply before returning to whatever he was talking about.

Your gaze shifts to the nurse. ‘How long was I out for?’ ‘About three hours. You had moments of being awake, but were never quite conscious before now.’ 

Just then, Mycroft comes storming into the room, followed by a nurse frantically trying to stop him. ‘I do not care that there might be an investigation going on, I am seeing if my partner is okay.’ ‘Sir, please, the police are still here, I don’t think-’ You hold up your hand. ‘It’s alright ma’m.’ Your voice is quiet but firm. 

‘Mycroft–’ You attempt to sit up, but regret it and Mycroft carefully urges you to lay back down. ‘My love, you shouldn’t strain yourself.’ The voice which is usually so full of authority is now soft and filled with worry. He presses a kiss on your forehead before sitting down and grabbing hold of your hand. His hair is slightly messy and his tie is askew. ‘I came as soon as I could, I was in a meeting with the American president and that man would not shut up… and I knew Sherlock was here so you’d be all right…’ He murmurs and his hand squeezes yours. You smile ever so slightly, though it’s a bit weak, the edges trembling.

‘Right, if the love-birds can stop being sentimental now, George–’ ‘Greg.’ ‘Greg and I were discussing and we suspect this was some sort of warning.’ Sherlock states. The urge to respond with no shit Sherlock is big, but not that big. ‘Right.’ You respond instead. ‘That seems like a viable motive.’ 

‘Indeed, it is. My dear brother Mycroft here is the British government–’ ‘A high ranking official, Sherlock.’ ‘Right. My dear brother Mycroft here is a high ranking official in the British government, so it would make sense to threaten him through his partner.’ Sherlock does air quotes with his fingers when he says the words “high ranking official”. He turns to fully face his brother. ‘Any recent government business that would prompt this?’

‘Besides the usual? No.’ Mycroft responds calmly, though you can feel he’s slightly annoyed. ‘What bullet type was it?’ You enquire. ‘Nothing extraordinary, typical for a pistol that can use a muffler.’ Greg interjects before Sherlock can.

Eventually, they all have to leave, the nurse telling them you need rest; which frankly isn’t untrue. Before they leave, Mycroft presses a kiss to your temple, telling you he’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning. This is followed by a disgruntled sound from Sherlock, who looks perpetually more and more horrified by his brother showing emotion, let alone affection.

Shortly thereafter, you fall asleep, your body shutting down to try and preserve energy to heal. When you do wake, it is because of a hand carefully shaking your shoulder around two in the morning.

‘Hey…’ It’s Sebastian’s voice that eventually wakes you. Your eyes flutter open and it takes some time for them to adjust to the darkness. At first, you only recognise his silhouette, then, slowly but surely, you can start making out his face. 

‘Seb…’ you pause, ‘what are you doing here? Are the scrubs a cover?’ You whisper to him so nobody in the hallway can hear through the open door. ‘Checking in on you and yes, I’m supposed to be checking your vitals again.’ He starts moving and looking at the monitors. ‘Which look good. Great, you’re not actually dying just yet, Spike.’ He hums before smiling down at you, a rare sight. 

‘You’re smiling.’ You state. ‘I am.’ He replies. ‘Who died?’ ‘Nobody… However, Jim is taking this very personally, which is entertaining to watch.’

‘I’ve been shot before.’ You scoff. ‘There’s no reason for him to be worried.’ ‘Oh, but there is. It’s different this time around. It’s not the “mommy someone broke my toy” response we usually get. He seems genuinely worried.’ You blink at him, momentarily remaining silent before speaking. ‘You’re joking.’ ‘I’m not.’ ‘But you are.’ He shakes his head.

‘Oh God you’re serious.’ You murmur, sitting up but he pushes you back down. ‘Calm down, lay down. He’ll get over it, he’s just being dramatic.’ He pauses. ‘He’s been dramatic for months, by the way. Pretty sure he has been since you last saw him, maybe even a little before then. Entertaining but also quite unnerving.’ He sits down in the chair next to your bed. ‘I should probably talk to him… you know, before he throws a hissy fit and blows up a building or something.’ ‘You would love for him to throw a hissy fit and blow up a building.’ ‘Maybe, but I would want to be involved, not be a bystander.’ 

Sebastian hums. ‘That’s fair. I would want to be there too.’ He smiles. ‘I thought a fruit basket would be a bit basic, so…’ he places a bag on the side of your bed, next to your hand, ‘I got you these.’ You grab it and hold it up and feel the excitement rising inside of you. ‘You got me Hi-Chew? Like, actual Hi-Chew?’ You actually sit up now, much to Seb’s dismay. ‘Oh Seb, I could kiss you.’ ‘Please don’t. I don’t know where your mouth has been.’ ‘Love you too, man.’ 

He ends up remaining in your room for about half an hour before he leaves so it looks like he only checked you over and maybe chatted a bit. You hide the Hi-Chew in one of the drawers of your bedside cart after popping a single one into your mouth. You love how sweet it is with the slight flavour of apple. You sleep pretty well after finishing it and drinking some water.

The very next morning you’re woken by a nurse checking your vitals again. ‘Good morning, just here to check your vitals.’ ‘...Morning…’ You mutter as she sits you up. ‘I’m just going to check your vitals now, I’ll change your bandages after.’ Your lips twitch up slightly to give her a smile, she smiles back before she gets to work. The vitals are fine, however, getting bandages changed hurts a lot. The stitches pull slightly when you sit up. She’s nice enough, but disinfecting the wound remains painful. Her being done and wrapping you back up feels like a relief. 

The days that follow are long and boring, filled with check-ups, vitals, and getting bandages changed. Mycroft comes by every day before work, sometimes after; depending on what time he’s done at. It’s nice having someone care so much. Sometimes, he’d tell you about his work—sans all the details—or he reads to you from The Master and Margarita, a book you’d started reading while staying at his place a few days before you’d gotten shot. His voice is soft and focused when he reads, something he would never admit to anyone at work or to his brother. Sometimes, you just sit together in silence, his hand caressing your knuckles. Three days in, you’ve convinced Greg to give you a work laptop so you have something to do. Much to the dismay of the doctors and nurses, as well as Mycroft, all of whom insist that you need to rest. A week and a half after you were shot, you’re discharged but told not to do any strenuous activity and stay on bedrest.

‘I hate this.’ You tell Mycroft as he helps you sit up before giving you tea. You’re at his place, upon his insistence that it’s more comfortable and that he can more easily help you when needed. ‘I’m well aware, dear, but you have to be careful. We cannot risk you tearing the stitches.’ ‘I’m bored.’ He huffs. ‘You’re worse than Sherlock when he’s bored.’ His remark is more of a deadpan. ‘We both know that’s not true. I’m not shooting at the wall, am I?’ Your retort earns you a chuckle. ‘You would be if you had a gun.’ ‘No I wouldn’t– I’m well aware how expensive these walls are, that’s not worth it. Besides, unlike your brother, I have self-restraint.’ Your offense earns you another chuckle and he hands you a cup of tea before setting the tray with your breakfast on the bed. ‘If it helps, I’ve made your favourite kind of overnight oats… according to the recipe you sent, they taste like cookie dough. I doubt the accuracy, but as long as you find them tasty….’ He shrugs.

‘You should try them.’ You hold up a spoonful to him. ‘I shouldn’t–’ ‘You should.’ ‘Fine.’ He gives in and leans in, closing his mouth around the spoon before pulling back. After chewing for a bit, he swallows. ‘...I’m pleasantly surprised… though I will maintain the opinion that the texture is too dissimilar to call it actual cookie dough.’ ‘I never said it was the same. It’s overnight oats that have the same flavour, not texture.’ ‘Well the recipe did. False advertisement. Perhaps I should sue.’ He hums before shooting you a small smile and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. You reach up and tilt his head towards you. ‘Let’s not overreact, my love.’ You murmur before pulling him down and pressing his lips to yours. He melts into it, his tongue quickly finding yours. As he melts in, his body leans forward and his forearms land on the mattress below you. Your hands move up into his hair and you lean back into the cushions below you. He is shifting onto the bed when you feel the bullet wound and you let out a quiet whine. ‘Oh shit, sorry darling.’ Mycroft stops and shifts back, pulling off of you. ‘No, I’m fine. I’m fine Myc, please just-’ ‘No, I’m not risking it. Darling. I love you too much to hurt you, even if you want me to continue.’

After your final check at the hospital and once the stitches have been taken out, Mycroft goes back to working in his office rather than working from home. Much to your own dismay, Greg insists you stay home for another week before returning to Scotland Yard. ‘Greg, please, I need to get out of the house.’ You tell him over the phone. ‘Charlie, I’m serious. You need rest. If you need to get out of the house, you should go for a walk or something.’ He says, voice stern. ‘Greg, I’m banned from going outside alone and I am very much alone right now.’ He sighs and when he does, you can practically see him pacing around his office while pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Just then, the doorbell rings. ‘Sorry, I’ll call you back, okay? There’s someone at the door.’

When you open the front door, you’re met by the sight of Sherlock and John. ‘Hello you two.’ Sherlock pushes past and steps inside while John apologises for Sherlock before greeting you. ‘Sorry about that. Good afternoon.’ You let him in. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Closing the door, you follow them to the kitchen. 

Sherlock takes one look at you. ‘You’re bored.’ 

‘I am.’

‘I have a case.’ 

‘Good for you.’ 

‘I want your help.’

That makes you pause. ‘Is the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes asking for the help of little old me? I should call the press.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Ever since you and my brother started dating you’ve become a lot more… forward.’ ‘Is that a bad thing?’ ‘No. I like this personality. Just don’t call the press. They’ve been everywhere lately.’ John makes a sound and your gaze shifts to him. ‘Right, so… the case.’ ‘I’ll make tea and then you two can catch me up.’

‘So… Irene Adler, or the Woman as you’ve dubbed, has been texting you? Does she like you?’ Your question seems to irk John and so he speaks up. ‘She’s been texting since before Christmans. Still is. Took me aside a few days ago.’ ‘Took you aside?’ ‘Yes. She’s convinced I’m gay… but she constantly flirts with Sherlo–’ The sound of a moan cuts him off. ‘Case and point.’ 

‘Anyhow, yesterday we found Mrs Hudson tied up in a chair back in 221B. She was being held hostage by some American guy.’ Sherlock cuts in. ‘Is she alright?’ You ask. ‘She is. The American isn’t.’ Sherlock states. ‘Good.’ ‘He fell out of the window. Several times.’ John adds with a chuckle. 

‘We’re going to the lab, see if we can find something to do with her phone. I need to guess her passcode.’ The consulting detective says. ‘And you haven’t guessed it yet? I’m almost disappointed.’ ‘Four letters, I only have a limited number of tries before the phone deletes all the files we need.’ ‘So she’s both pretty and smart? A woman to my heart.’ ‘And yet you’re dating my brother.’ He snorts.

You end up texting Mycroft before being whisked away to St. Bartholomew’s by the duo. To your surprise, it isn’t nearly as entertaining as you had hoped. Sherlock puts the phone through an x-ray, tries “221B” as a password, and then only a singular try is left.

A/N: Hello everyone. I am, in fact, not dead. 💃 I managed to graduate university and will be starting a Master's in International Relations (fun) as well as a part-time job (related to my field of study) next month, wow… The first grey hairs have also appeared, much to my chagrin. I'm blaming the stress from university and ignoring the fact that my father was grey early. But I suppose we shouldn't let that spoil all the fun.

Mycroft, bless his heart, seemed to not have noticed. You pack in a specific way that Jim had taught you years ago as to not arouse any suspicion, even if someone were to deduct you and your things. He stepped in whilst you were putting in the last of your clothes on top. ‘Done already?’ He asks, looking at your—mostly—neatly packed bag. ‘Yes.’ You move your gaze from the bag to him. ‘Am I missing something? I’ve got an extra pair of trousers, two turtle necks… some t-shirts, and a cardigan… underwear and socks, as well of course.’ ‘Hiking shoes, perhaps?’ You glance to the corner of your room where your sports clothes and such sit. ‘Would trail running shoes be good enough?’ You motion to your Salomon shoes that sit in the corner. It’s clear they are used quite often, but they’re well taken care of.

He had agreed and you had finished packing not too long after. Being the gentleman he is, he’d carried your bag to the car and put it in the boot for you. After, you’d both gotten in and he’d driven off. He didn’t feel it fit to have his driver drive the both of you up to the north of England for your getaway, so he drove you himself. The drive consisted of quiet chatter and moments of comfortable silence. Of course, there is music playing in the background. Specifically soft jazz from artists such as Miles Davies, Chet Baker, and Cannonball Adderley. Especially once you’ve left the city, it is quite the lovely combination to see fields of grass passing by while listening to jazz. Mycroft’s hand, once he’s on the motorway, mostly rests on your thigh or in your hand. Not doing anything. Just… resting while his gaze is focused on the road ahead.

Mycroft’s lodge—or outhouse as some might call it—is located in the Lake District. Whilst it’s not large by any means, it isn’t small either. He tells you that it used to be a farm years ago, but he had it renovated after he bought it, and now the interior is fully modern whilst the outside has mostly kept its original design. The kitchen is modern but has a rustic vibe, as does most of the interior. Still, it’s clearly intentional in how it looks. It’s rustic yet organised, traditional yet modern and intentional, like everything about Mycroft himself.

While you roam around for a bit, Mycroft gets the bags from the car and sets them in your room—your shared room—upstairs. There’s already food in the pantry as well as in the fridge, all fresh. You suppose he’d had someone bring it here before the two of you came, just so you wouldn’t have to worry about it. The living area is quite cosy, a small couch with some blankets, a fireplace, a coffee table, and plenty of books. When you look at the titles, they’re mostly part of the literary canon, so nothing out of the ordinary. Still, as you look around you notice the spaces that might be used for hiding things, weapons, maybe even some sort of emergency button. It wouldn’t be odd for him to have several installed in a place that he considers a second home. The safe is obvious to you, though most wouldn’t notice. It’s hidden behind a wall that has a small, old wood stove which hasn’t been used in years in front of it. A way of opening it remains unclear to you, however. He wouldn’t have something obvious like a hidden button somewhere, that’s too much of a risk. You’d also noticed the hidden compartment in the coffee table when you felt the bottom of the tabletop. While it seems to be a solid woodblock from the outside, when you feel it, there are some ridges that are not organic, unnatural. You decide not to investigate it further, instead heading back to the kitchen to make tea.

‘Dear, the tea is ready.’ You call out to him and you hear him come downstairs not too long after. ‘Hello you.’ He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you from behind, leaning his chin on your shoulder before pressing a kiss to your cheek. ‘Hello to you too.’ You turn your head slightly and capture his lips with yours. After a short but soft kiss, you pull away and turn in his arms. Silently, you brush your fingertips past his cheek. He leans into your touch ever so slightly, his gaze soft.

The days at the cottage with Mycroft are long but calm, spending your time in bed together, reading by the wood stove, or hiking through the countryside. It’s almost perfect. Almost. There continues to be this nagging feeling at the back of your mind, which seems to be especially prominent in the quiet moments, when you aren’t too busy being Charlie for him. When you aren’t focused on being the perfect partner for him you realise how blurred the lines have become, and it scares you. More than you’d like to admit to yourself. Not that you ever actually would, but it is at the point that it could become a serious issue. Especially as you become more embroiled in his and Sherlock’s world. Luckily for you, there was an emergency which required Mycroft’s presence in Washington after three days, meaning that you’d be able to spend a few days alone. Most of your time is spent going on runs or going to the kickboxing gym, which you’d become a frequent visitor of—much to Noah’s excitement and Jay’s displeasure. Still, the owner of the gym did worry when you came in for two training sessions a day three days in a row—especially taking into account that it’s the holiday season. He didn’t ask questions, though, respecting that you aren’t much of a talker, especially when it comes to your private life.

‘Hey, you’re back!’ He greets you happily that morning from behind the desk. ‘Yeah, gotta start the New Year’s resolutions early.’ You joke as you put your headphones into your coat pocket. ‘That’s the spirit.’ He grins. ‘Well, I think you’ll be the only one this morning, so we can just do a technique focused training before we do some cardio? I’ll join you, since I doubt you’ll need very many pointers.’ ‘So, just on the punching bag?’ Confirming it with a nod, he gets out from behind the small desk located at the front of the gym. ‘Go get changed, I’ll put on my handwraps and get ready.’

The changing rooms had become familiar terrain to you. They aren’t spacious by any means, but it’s enough for about four people to get changed in. There is a shower and a toilet in the back for those who need it, but today’s not that day. You swiftly take off your shoes, coat, joggers, and hoodie before putting on a pair of Muay Thai shorts and compression shirt. The clothes you’d taken off disappear into your bag and you sling it over your shoulder, heading back downstairs. While there are a few lockers upstairs, you prefer having your things in your line of sight whilst training—even if you didn’t expect anyone else to use the changing rooms during that time.

‘You ready?’ Noah asks after you’ve put on your own wraps and gloves, opting to train without shin protectors today. ‘Yeah… I think I should probably work on my roundhouse kick and scissor kick.’ He nods. ‘I’ll incorporate those into the combinations, then.’

And that he does. While you do start with the usual jab, cross combination, it’s quickly expanded upon with a left hook, right knee, and right mid kick. After several minutes, jab, right hook, and left roundhouse kick are added. The music is loud as you move, the speaker filling the room with techno-esque music that has an incredibly heavy bass, hiding the sound of your breaths despite them being heavy and slowly becoming more laboured. The next combination is a right low kick that’s followed by a right mid kick, right jab, left hook, right mid kick and a scissor kick that ends with you actually hitting the punching bag with your left shin rather than your right one (basically, you feign a right low kick and jump into a left mid kick). You do both combinations separately for several minutes with ten burpees in between the sets of thirty seconds before Noah starts shouting random punches, kicks and knees as well as either combination one or combination two. It’s exhausting, but a good way to train both your endurance and accuracy, as being able to focus despite being tired is key to doing well.

In total, an hour of this passes before you do your stretches and do some light cardio on a stationary bike to cool down. While you’re cooling down, you chatter idly to Noah, who seems happy to talk about just about anything. He tells you about the business, some of the other regulars, and his plan for New Year’s. ‘Yeah, me and some friends are going out tonight, just for some drinks and then a club, I think.’ He smiles. ‘So, do you have any plans?’ You shake your head. ‘No, I was supposed to be spending it with my partner, but he had an emergency at work. Pretty sure he’s out of the country.’ ‘Ah that must suck…’ he pauses, ‘you know… you could join me? Jay and some of the others will be there as well. Oh and you get to meet my Fiancée if you come.’ He smiles. ‘No pressure, of course.’ His invitation takes you aback slightly, but after a moment, you agree. ‘Sounds fun.’ ‘Cool! I’ll add you to the group chat.’ He takes out his phone and starts typing.

To say you got drunk that night would be an understatement. While you’d started off pretty tame, as you didn’t know many of the people, everything went off the rails once Jay had ordered two rounds of tequila shots. After that the alcoholic beverages just kept coming—beer, tequila, vodka, you name it—and the others had no intent of slowing down. Their goal was clear: have a good time and get blackout drunk. And that’s exactly what you did, letting go for the first time in what seemed like years. Both of your identities falling off your shoulders for a moment and you just… being you…

The next morning, you can still remember snippets despite your hangover. The loud music of the club, the strobe lights, the dancing, all of the shots… so many shots… you sit up, your head feeling like it’s about to explode. Even the sounds of cars passing by feels like it’s too much, and when you finally open your eyes, it feels like the light only worsens the headache. Still, you force yourself to get out of bed and drink a glass of water.  As you’re taking a sip, the sound of your phone ringing startles you. Groaning, you pick up without checking. ‘Hello?’ It’s more of a murmur than you actually answering the phone properly. ‘Charlie, are you okay?’ You don’t recognise the voice at first. ‘What…? Who’s this…?’ Rubbing your eyes, you slowly start to wake a bit more.

‘It's Jim. We need to talk.’

Hello! I'm alive lol. Having made it so that Spike/Charlie does kickboxing is fun in a way since I do do it as a sport, but it's also incredibly frustrating because I have no clue whether it's coming across well to those who have never done it before haha....

Also, I posted a bit of an intro about myself earlier today, so if you're interested, you can find it here!

Getting dressed is a silent affair. Black long-sleeve, black fisherman's jumper over top; the one pair of light-washed jeans you own, straight leg; and a pair of black, low, doc martens. You push your bed up and reveal your weapons arsenal to yourself. Handgun goes in the back of your jeans, knife in your left sock. You look over your weapons again, then decide that it’s unlikely you’ll be needing much more, and put your bed back down. You stand back up and grab a black bomber jacket and a black scarf, putting them on before grabbing your keys, wallet, and phones and leaving. You put in your earbuds once outside and start walking to the tube at a brisk pace.

You meet Jim in the Waterstones at Piccadilly, hating absolutely every single minute you spend there. It’s crowded, loud, and for some reason there is a weird smell at the back of the second floor; near the philosophy section. The fifth floor is where you meet him, in the foreign language section. He’s there already, flipping through a French language copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. ‘Bit dramatic, that book.’ You murmur as you trail your hand over the spines of the books in front of you. ‘Hmmm, perhaps.’ He replies, his Irish accent immediately noticeable. ‘There’re no cameras in the back office. The code is 1 2 3 4.’ Jim murmurs before walking in the direction of the office. Of course, you cannot follow immediately, as that would be too obvious, so, you walk around for a bit; checking books, reading the backs, and flipping through; before eventually making a round and slipping into the back office.

Jim’s sitting in the office chair, typing on his phone. ‘Ah, you’re here.’ He sends out a text before getting up. ‘Right, Spikey.’ His eyes focus on you. ‘You called me while incredibly drunk at New Year’s.’ You can feel heat creeping up your neck and to your ears. Shame. Shame on you for getting drunk; for not being as sharp as usual; for not being his perfect weapon. ‘You don’t remember.’ He states as if it’s a well known fact. And he’s right. You don’t remember why you’d called him; what you’d said to him. ‘Correct.’ Your reply is curt, to the point. He sighs, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. ‘I’ll be honest, I’m disappointed. And I don’t like being disappointed.’ He sighs. ‘I’m used to you being better than this.’ He steps forward, and despite his not very tall stature, it does intimidate you. ‘Spike, I’ll be up front with you, because you’re one of my favourites.’ He pauses, his tone lowering when he continues. ‘I need you to be good and let go of this little crisis of conscience, got it?’ ‘Yes Jim.’ You reply shamefully, eyes turned downwards. ‘Hey, hey, look at me.’ He says, slapping your cheek lightly before grabbing your chin. You listen, your gaze meeting his almost immediately. 

‘I need you to remember who you are.’ He hisses. ‘You’re mine, Spike. Mine.’ There’s a pause before he continues. ‘You’d be nothing without me. I made you. So act like it, will you?’ You haven’t seen this side of him in a long time, especially not towards you. Yet, you understand this is likely what you needed. He’s doing this for your own good. And so, you comply; nodding slightly and murmuring an ‘I understand, Jim. I’ll be better.’. And he corrects you. ‘Better is not enough.’ ‘Sorry, I’ll be good, Jim.’

There’s a moment of tense silence before he murmurs a ‘good’. You expect him to immediately step back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you towards him and presses his lips to yours. Against your better judgement, you kiss him back and let him deepen it. His hand moves from your chin to the back of your neck before he turns you and pushes you against the desk. Not sure what to do with your hands, you grab hold of his waist. Fingers further pushing into the fabric of his coat when he pushes himself between your thighs. Tongues grazing past teeth before entangling with each other, hands grabbing at the clothes you’re both wearing. He pushes your bomber jacket off your shoulders before his hands find themselves beneath your jumper. They graze past the gun sticking out of the back of your jeans. ‘Naughty.’ He murmurs before kissing you again. With every movement, with every murmur, it’s as if he’s trying to claim—no, reclaim—you. 

The desk beneath you is uncomfortable, the edges starting to become harsh and painful against your bottom. You’re about to pull away and say something when you hear voices coming towards the office. ‘Shit.’ Jim murmurs and you swiftly put your jacket back on, make sure your clothes sit right again and walk to the door, listening to get a better idea of what is happening outside. Jim, meanwhile, is fixing how he looks, making sure it’s presentable enough. After a moment, you’re quite sure the people outside have left for a moment, saying something about having to check something downstairs for a bit. So, you signal to Jim that the coast is clear. He nods and approaches, but before he opens the door to leave, he gives you one last deep kiss; hand gripping your jacket. After letting go, he swiftly slips out the door, leaving you behind, stunned.

The walk back to the apartment is spent blasting music into your ears, trying to distract yourself from what had just happened. You cannot have this distract you; quite the opposite, you’ll have to use this to refocus. Recalibrate. And so, the thirty minutes that encapsulate your walk back home functions as a way for you to do so. There’s a drizzle pouring down as you’re walking, so by the time you arrive back, you’re soaked. Just as you’re about to open the door, it swings open and Sherlock rushes out, just about knocking you over. ‘Ah, Charlie, there you are.’ He says, setting you straight again. John arrives moments later. ‘Good afternoon.’ The doctor greets you with a small smile before he realises you’re drenched. ‘You ought to get inside quickly, you’ll catch a cold if you don’t.’ ‘I’m aware.’ You murmur before starting to move past them. Sherlock, however, momentarily stops you in your tracks. ‘You’re distraught.’ He observes and you ignore him, moving into the doorway. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ When you glance back as you’re walking back inside, you see how the consulting detective glances at the doctor and how the doctor silently tells him to stay quiet and not comment any further. So, he does, and the door shuts before he can say anything else.

John, being the sort of man he is, worries about the situation, and so, decides to go check on you that evening, after having finished up another case with Sherlock. The detective himself is currently occupied doing an experiment John would rather not be involved with. You’d just been making dinner when he knocked on your door, and you’d been quite surprised at his arrival, yet you let him in and hand him a cup of tea. 

You also offer him food, and he gladly accepts, muttering something about Sherlock’s experiment being quite smelly. So, you set the small kitchen table for two before finishing up the simple vegetarian stir fry you had been preparing when he knocked on your door. It’s pretty simple, just some soba noodles, firm tofu, bok choi, chinese cabbage, paprika, cucumber, ginger, garlic, soy sauce, sesame oil, and a homemade spice blend. The pan is set onto the table before you also grab two glasses of cold water and join John. ‘I hope you like stir fry.’ You put some onto John’s plate before your own. ‘I do.’ He replies and takes a bite. ‘Oh this is good.’ The doctor perks up, positively surprised by its flavour. ‘Thanks.’ You turn to your own plate, slowly eating. 

Honestly, you don’t quite have the energy for this, however, you do appreciate the gesture of him coming over. It does help that he starts off by going into the case he and Sherlock had worked on today in detail after only a single question regarding it. 

You nod and ask follow-up questions at the right moments, putting him at ease. Unfortunately for you, after about an hour and after having done the dishes, he still hadn’t forgotten the reason why he stopped by in the first place. ‘You seemed upset earlier today.’ John starts off, his eyes scanning your face for any signs that could help him understand. ‘It’s nothing.’ You reply, trying to do so casually. ‘I just… something came up.’ Your eyes dart away, breaking the eye contact he was trying to hold. ‘Look, I’m aware that we don’t know each other very well, but I’m here for you if you need anyone to talk to.’ His voice is sincere, honest, and kind. The exact opposite of what you are used to. People in the circles you usually traverse are the exact opposite. Any moment of weakness is used against you, with it not only being able to hurt you, but also proving fatal to some. The only person you would truly trust with your actual thoughts and feelings is Sebastian, yet with the relationship between you and Jim having changed and him not knowing about it, you feel that you cannot speak to him regarding this issue. So, perhaps, you could tell John to some extent. Perhaps he would understand. And so, against your better judgement, you do open up a little to him while still leaving out certain key details.

‘I’m in a bit of a conundrum, I must admit.’ You say quietly and his ears seem to perk up. He’s sitting across from you at the kitchen table, eyes soft, face empathetic. He’s silently inviting you to talk, to get it off your chest. ‘As you know, I’ve been seeing someone,’ your voice is quiet, soft, perhaps even vulnerable, ‘and while it has been… well it has been quite lovely, there are things that—well I just don’t really know what to do.’ Your gaze is focused on your hands, which lay folded on the table in front of you. It’s clear you’re not used to talking about your feelings to say the least. ‘Well… I mean if it’s an issue with the person, perhaps you should talk to them.’ John suggests kindly. ‘That’s the thing, it’s not the person’s fault. It’s just.. I’m the problem.’ ‘How are you the problem? I feel you’re a very kind person who tries to do their best.’ 

You let out a dry laugh at his comment. Kind. How wrong he really is. You lie, manipulate, and kill. ‘I—I just think that perhaps—’ you stop yourself momentarily, ‘there’s someone from my past… who I might have feelings for.’ Your admittance is reluctant and you don’t dare look at him. So, he reaches over the table and takes your hands in his. ‘Hey, look at me…’ His voice is soft, as if he understands. Your gaze meets his after a moment of silence. ‘It’s very human to doubt. To maybe even have feelings for someone else—at least to some extent. I mean, of all people, I’d know what that’s like.’ That catches your attention, despite the situation you’re in and how you’ve been feeling. 

Instantly, your brain switches on and you compartmentalise your own feelings so you can use this. ‘Do you want to talk about it…?’ You squeeze his hands for a moment. To your surprise, he agrees and starts talking. ‘As you know, I’ve had a few girlfriends over the past few months.’ ‘You mean Sarah and… what’s her name? Jeanette?’ He gives a nod, confirming the fact. ‘Yes, well… they both broke up with me for the same reason.’ He pauses. ‘And sometimes, I think they might be right—that they might be right about me having feelings for Sherlock.’

There’s a pregnant pause. One you barely dare to interrupt, and yet you do.

‘You know it’s alright to have feelings for him, right?’ You try to sound empathetic, kind, and inviting. ‘I know.’ He sounds defensive at first before another, quieter, ‘I know’ follows.

Hello! So... I meant to finish up a Mycroft one-shot first, but... this kinda just flowed out and I prefer posting once I'm done rather than keeping people waiting... Will be working on the one-shot again today, though, so hopefully there'll be one early next week!

Also! Johnlock maybe? Who knows... Spike and John trying to give each other advice is like the blind leading the blind lol

After graduation, you moved in together. With his job at Arkham and your own work, you aren’t able to spend as much time together, however, you both try to make the most of it. That’s how you’d ended up here, in bed, making out. He’s on top of you, tongue pushing past your lips. His hands wander downward, pulling at your shirt. You pull at his hair before deepening the kiss and then pulling away. ‘Love I-’ He goes silent when you pull off your shirt before tugging off his. You turn him so he’s below you and lean down, capturing his lips, your hand slipping back into his hair and tugging his head back slightly. 

‘Baby, what do you want?’ You murmur to him. He lets out quiet a whine. ‘Use your words Johnathan.’ ‘Please touch me…’ He says, voice soft. Your other hand caresses his jaw, your gaze steady as it focuses on his.

‘Touch you where, baby? Talk to me.’ He leans into your touch. ‘You know where…’ He’s blushing slightly, redness dusting the apples of his cheeks. Your hand moves out of his hair and to his shoulder, then towards his stomach. ‘Jonathan… use your words baby…’ You press a soft kiss to his lips before kissing his temple. Shifting slightly, you reach down and undo the button of his trousers. 'Where baby?’ You reach down and trace the outline of his cock. ‘Here?’ He lets out a moan. ‘Please, please-’

Leaning down, you capture his lips again, deepening it when you slip your hand inside of his boxers. He moans into the kiss and you smile. ‘Good boy…’ He bucks his hips when you say that and your hand starts moving up and down his length slowly; controlled. Over time, you slowly speed up your movements and he starts moaning more.

When his hips start bucking too quickly for your liking, you take your hand off of him. He wines. ‘Please, love, please.’

‘Take off your pants and boxers.’ You whisper in his ear before getting out of his lap to take off your own bottoms. He takes off his clothes quickly, discarding them next to the bed without looking, before returning to you. Both of you are naked now, him sitting on the bed and you standing next to it. He’s looking up at you, eyes focused behind his glasses. 

You lean down, capturing his lips once more. ‘You’re being so good for me, Jonathan…’ Your fingers tangle into his hair. ‘Please- touch me- I need to be inside you…’ He murmurs against your lips. 

You sit down next to him on the bed. ‘If you want to be inside, you’ll have to help me prepare.’ A pause before you start moving your lips down his neck. ‘Can you do that for me, Jon?’

‘Yes- yes, I can. Please. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’ Your lips stop moving at his collarbone and you pull away. ‘Get onto your knees.’ 

He nods, getting fully onto the bed. Meanwhile, you shift, turning and spreading your legs so he can sit between them. ‘Good boy. Now, why don’t you kiss me down there… hmm baby?’ 

‘Yes, of course.’ He quickly leans down, kissing the insides of your thighs before slowly making his way to your core, eventually kissing it. Your hands find his hair again. ‘Don’t hesitate baby, feel free to kiss and lick.’ You tell him, your voice gentle but authoritative. He does so, starting with kisses and kitten licks before pressing his tongue flat against your entrance, followed by pushing his tongue inside. ‘Well done.’ You hum, feeling the sensations coursing through your body, his tongue continuing its ministrations. ‘Now how about… you add a finger baby…?’ He listens and slowly pushes in his forefinger whilst his tongue continues to lick around and also push in. His finger pushes in and pulls out again slowly before repeating the movement several times. Slowly, he starts to add another. ‘Fuck- you’re doing so good Jon… such a good boy.’ He starts scissoring his fingers slowly, opening you up.