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hands on my heart [sherlock; sherlock holmes/john watson] 
title - hands on my heart
fandom - sherlock (bbc) (AU)
characters/pairings - sherlock holmes/john watson, mycroft holmes
rating - nc-17
warnings - slash/BL
word count - ~6000
summary - au; john is hired as sherlock’s chauffeur
notes - kinkmeme fill here. not brit-picked or beta’d; i’d really really appreciate one. oh god the plot holes in this, i swear. full prompt:
All I want is for John to become Sherlock’s chauffeur and for them to get to know one another by having discussions and arguments through that window thingy and for them to eventually have some smoking hot sex in the car.

Can either be them at the ages they are now and Mycroft hires John to drive Sherlock around for some complex government case which Sherlock gets into the habit of talking to John about (and maybe John goes all BAMF and saves Sherlock from some bad guys at some point), or they can both be de-aged and John is hired by Mummy to drive Sherlock back and forth to university or some such.

@DW - @AO3

Sherlock only had to take one look at John Watson before he opened his mouth with an, “Oh, dull.”

Mycroft remained impassive. If John Watson was offended by this he didn’t say anything. He only held out his hand to give Sherlock a firm handshake, which Sherlock returned. There was a brace on Sherlock’s third finger. Sherlock quickly withdrew his hand and returned it to his pocket.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

They were silent, John a bit startled. Mycroft was annoyed, but he didn’t outwardly show it.

“Um, Afghanistan.” Dutifully short response, even if it was a bit uncertain.

“This is Dr. John Watson.” Sherlock withheld his further comments and deductions if only because Mycroft was the worst audience present. “I trust you will give him no trouble? This whole business will surely keep you from... exceeding your limits.”

Sherlock grimaced. If he could avoid saying anything to his brother he would, but as the seconds ticked by and Mycroft refused to turn his back and leave, Sherlock inhaled and stood a bit straighter if that was possible. “Not at all. Good afternoon, Mycroft.” Always best to be vague, if only just to irritate his sibling.

The three stood on the curb of Baker Street with two black cars. Mycroft walked around to the farthest car and got in. Sherlock didn’t move until it drove off.

John Watson stood, leaning on the cane on his right side and looking very out of sorts, probably from being dressed in a suit. Suits like this were new to this man. Ah, there it was. The final piece clicked into place.

“So, Mr. Holmes-”

“Sherlock, please.” The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yes, okay. Sherlock, then.” John paused, adjusted his stance. “So I assume you need to go somewhere then, that is why your brother hired me.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Sherlock got in the car, waited for John to follow. When John was in the driver’s seat and the window between them pulled back to allow conversation, he asked, “How about Thai?”

John turned his head, “...Sorry?”

“Thai food. I know a place, not far. The owner is a nice man who owes me a favour, and probably a discount.”

John took off the black cap they’d given him, tossed it into the passenger’s seat, ran his hands through his wheat-coloured hair (not greying, yet) in a gesture of exasperation. “Does this have anything to do with Mycroft’s... assignment?”

Assignment was a word he felt too professional, even for Mycroft. “The case.” Sherlock corrected, “No, not directly. Mind giving me a lift, anyway?” John replaced his cap and sat straight, started the car, but didn’t move. Yet. Sherlock only smiled. “If you’re worried about your leg, you shouldn’t.”

“I was under the impression showing up at your flat was a surprise.”

“It was. But I can’t argue with Mycroft on some things, especially if he’s right.” Not said without more than a little of the obvious disdain one has for a sibling. For Sherlock it was actually really amusing. Of course John would assume Sherlock was given a file of some sort ahead of time, probably thought Mycroft had gotten his information directly and solely from files, as well. The car began to move. “So, Mycroft hires an army doctor to be my chauffeur.

“He can’t trust just any driver to take me places because of the trouble I’m getting into with his case; the trouble I’ve already gotten into. So, he wants me in the relative safety of a government car instead of navigating by streets or taxi drivers. But a regular driver wont do; he needs someone accustomed to violence or anything sudden and frightening, and if things get bad again, someone who will know how to patch me up. Army doctor, home from Afghanistan. Mycroft probably did read a file and saw ‘psychosomatic limp’ but he knows as well I do not to worry about it. You do have a limp when you walk but when you stand your leg doesn’t seem to bother you, or now while we’re driving in this car, either.”

John glanced at him from the rear view in the silence that settled. “That’s... that’s brilliant.” Sherlock’s gaze out the window went to John’s forehead in the mirror. “And that all came from just when I got out of the car and shook your hand?”

Sherlock shook off the praise after a hesitation, not really used to it. “Yes. You’re uncomfortable in that suit; it’s tailored to fit you but probably the only uniform you’ve ever worn was from the army. Weddings. Family gatherings, maybe. Before the military, but probably nothing as fancy as what Mycroft’s whipped up for you.” He flexed his hand and his third finger won’t bend because of the brace. “You can take off the hat, I don’t care if you wear it one way or the other.”

The car halted at a stoplight, and John looked back in the mirror, removing the cap. Fit fine, but personally it was a bit too tight. Rather let his head breathe, no doubt. “So where is this Thai place, Mr. Holmes?”

“Please, John. Just Sherlock will do.”

The car resumed movement. “Right. Sherlock.”

Sherlock did have a problem with what he was going to have to end up doing for the entirety of the case: direct John around the city, probably street by street. John grew up in London, or so he could tell so far, but that didn’t mean his knowledge of the city was up to par after all the time spent abroad. But if John proved useful as to prevent another broken finger, he’d take it.

John learned quickly that driving Sherlock around required a lot of ‘hurry up and wait’.

At the Thai place, which seemed like one of those small places with exceptional food that never got any business (and it did look empty, if not closed), Sherlock spent an entire hour. John tried to occupy himself with the radio or exploring the car’s hidden functions. He almost went in after the man, but Sherlock emerged with a grin and a box. He got in the car and gave the box, of curry and noodles, to John.

“Do not eat while you drive, you’ll have plenty of time at our next stop.” To which he gave John direction and instruction about their next location.

When John pulled off the curb he said, “Took your time with your meal, then?”

“Don’t be absurd, John.” Sherlock snorted. “I never eat while I’m working., digestion slows me down.”

That left the question of what he was doing that entire hour, but neither of them continued the conversation.

At the next place, Sherlock took 45 minutes. At the place after that, he took an hour and a half. On top of that, Sherlock would demand the car be stopped and talk to complete strangers it seemed, at random. The seats of the car were comfy and leather, there was a heater and a cup holder and a radio, but even that got boring after so long a time.

Finally Sherlock looked out the window, wrinkled his nose as if the entire world offended him, and said “I need to return to my flat.”

At the flat, Sherlock mostly sat at his desk or kitchen table, or in front of a wall of paper, and worked on solving the case. Or at least that’s what John presumed he was doing. He didn’t know what all the lab equipment on his kitchen table was for, or if it was even for the case on hand at all. Sometimes Sherlock would be on the couch and John would wonder if he really had fallen asleep. John just sat awkwardly in the red chair with the union jack pillow, watching, and sometimes interjecting in Sherlock’s thoughts-aloud.

He didn’t really think Sherlock was talking to him. He was just the driver, after all. Sherlock mostly just talked aloud to himself, thoughts and words whipping out quickly, as if they were impossible to keep inside of his head. It was hard not to listen, so when Sherlock became momentarily stumped, not quick connecting two thoughts, John offered his opinion. Normally it was wrong but it always seemed to allow passage for Sherlock to get to the next thought successfully.

John counted it as a small triumph.

John was staying temporarily in the second bedroom of Sherlock’s flat.

Mycroft insisted John remained on call, and his bedsit was too far for comfort. Sherlock may need him immediately without time to wait, so it was important that he stay close. Sherlock’s flat had an upstairs bedroom that John was free to use. The mattress was plain but comfortable, and the walls were a mellow blue. Of course John didn’t see why he had to be on call, or why they (mostly Mycroft) were so worried.

Sherlock never seemed to be in any immediate danger, and he didn’t seem to like being in the car at all. He seemed like a man who enjoyed being out in London, and he supposedly knew all the streets. Sherlock was a genius. He liked being a genius, John found out, as he flaunted it in every way except flat out telling him, ‘I am in fact a genius, and cleverer than you’ll ever be.’ Despite, found out after conversations in between the giving of directions, Sherlock not knowing anything about the Solar System.

Twenty-six hours after meeting Sherlock Holmes, John became aware of the level of danger they were in.

Twenty-four hours after meeting Sherlock Holmes, John asked him about his finger. Sherlock didn’t even fidget as the question hung in the air between them. He just watched the buildings go by.

“Three days ago,” He said. “I was ambushed by the organization I’ve been tracking; they broke it.”

John flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. In his head his imagination ran away from him. Two shadow-y, anonymous figures loomed over Sherlock and brought him to his knees. They bent the finger back until it made a sickening crack. He imagined Sherlock screaming, but he wasn’t really sure what that sounded like. He knew what breaking a finger sounded like.

There was a ringing in Sherlock’s ears. He wasn’t quite sure why. In fact, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on much of anything. For starters, he wasn’t really sure why it was dark. He should have been making the connection that it was 7pm, and therefore the sun had gone down, so it was dark. But he didn’t. He just accepted the fact that it was dark without knowing the why.

He didn’t question the ringing, or the pain that came from the left side of his head. Pain, left, head; oh so he hit his head. On what? Sherlock couldn’t remember. He thought hard to figure out what he’d been doing. Everything was fuzzy; not his vision, just his memory. He knew exactly where he was in London. Some part of him asked himself why he was in London but another part said it didn’t matter. It mattered.

He heard footsteps, running, on his right. He turned his head slightly and saw John. No wait that wasn’t right, why was John running? Sherlock should know why but he couldn’t figure it out. He told himself he should know but he didn’t. The ringing and the pain ached the more he thought about it.

“Christ, Sherlock! I’ve been trying to follow you around for six blocks now, what happened? You just disappeared.”

“Did I?” Sherlock remembered running and then pain, his current pain forced him to stop that thought process so he did, because it hurt. He didn’t tell John about the pain or the ringing. He should have.

John was out of breath. “Let’s just get back to the car, I don’t like this part of town.”

He followed behind John by three steps. He felt slow, sluggish. He never felt slow or sluggish. Ah, so things were coming back to him.

Back before, some time before this, couldn’t have been long because it was dark then, too: he jumped out of John’s car at an intersection. He’d been scanning the streets from safely behind the window, and when he saw what he was looking for, he leapt. Didn’t think, didn’t tell John. Just ran from the car after his target, the organization, the people whom he’d been tracking for the case.

It was exactly the kind of thing Mycroft was trying to prevent. Danger.

They got back to the car. John was still on his right; why was that important? He couldn’t remember, he hadn’t gotten to that part, yet.

He became aware of people pointing at him, whispers from London civilians as they passed on the side walk. He turned his head around, pinpoint the direction. The swinging hurt his head so he stopped.

“Sherlock, what the hell!”

That was John’s voice, it came from his left.

Twenty-six hours (and fifteen minutes) after meeting Sherlock Holmes, John’s switch left ‘chauffeur mode’ and entered ‘army doctor mode’.

The left side of Sherlock’s head was covered in blood.

John opened the door to the back seat of the car and got in, pulling Sherlock with him. Under the driver’s seat was a box of medical supplies (that Mycroft had advised he keep with him at all times). Sherlock raised his hand to his head and it came away bloody.

“Oh,” He mumbled. “I see.”

John didn’t bother asking what happened, he didn’t expect Sherlock to be able to detail it out at the moment, he just started to work on Sherlock’s wound. Sherlock searched his brain to find out what happened, anyway.

About a half of an hour earlier, Sherlock left John’s car. He’d spotted the two men he had been looking for, both dressed formally in suits (like Mycroft’s, his mind supplied). He ignored John’s shouts after him, and followed them. Mostly discreetly. They navigated London’s alleys. He followed behind the brick walls, waiting until they were mostly around corners until he continued after them at a trot.

Around one corner he barely stopped, not wanting to lose them. Something hit top of his head, nearer to the left side, very hard.

Sherlock was able to think past the pain throbbing at his temple. “I have a concussion.” He said plainly.

Very seriously John replied, “Yes, you do.”

Sherlock stared at John’s face. His common decency seemed to have left when the instrument had struck him. “You were running.”

John remained silent. He didn’t see what that had to do with anything. Finally he said, “Yeah, I was.”

Sherlock didn’t really remember a lot, wandering the alleys. He did remember fear, though. He looked as though he might cry, but he didn’t. “I thought they were going to break another finger.” He managed, taking careful breaths. Sherlock did recall that feeling, even if he couldn’t remember the specific event of being in danger, of having another digit bent all the way back to his wrist.

John’s eyes went from Sherlock’s head to his face.

“I’m sorry,” John said as he moved on from fixing the gash to wiping the blood from Sherlock’s skin. “I wasn’t a very good chauffeur; I let you run off and you got hurt again.” It was a bit unsettling being watched by Sherlock like this. Normally the man had a very humble sense of personal space and common decency. Now, his head did not turn and his eyes remained on John’s, almost studying him. It would have been less strange if Sherlock’s eyes were brown or green, but the bright clear blue made it almost uncomfortable. It was not even solid blue, but almost like a colourful shell, with patterns made by years of waves crashing against it.

He had a nice face with high cheekbones; very slim (from not eating, John guessed), a long but not necessarily skinny nose, and lips of a bow.

John knew it was the concussion making Sherlock empty-headed. Being empty-headed seemed like a dangerous thing for Sherlock Holmes, because what he could gather from anything Sherlock had told him was that his brain was the only thing going for him.

Sherlock remembered why John couldn’t run. “Your leg.” He didn’t look at John’s leg, just brought attention to it. “You left the pain behind to come after me.”

John’s face hardened, like thinking was difficult. John wasn’t the one with a concussion. “I have to take you home.” He shifted across the seats to exit the car. “You’ve had enough danger for one night.”

Sherlock’s head still hurt. The ringing was gone. He forgot to put on his seat belt but John drove him home. He walked up the steps to his flat without assistance. John made him tea, and laid him on the couch so he could keep an eye on him. Sherlock forgot about the tea, and instead fell asleep.

John woke up hunched over the kitchen table. His neck ached and so did his legs, but he just stood up and went into the sitting room, where Sherlock was on his computer. He seemed to be fine; just lost in concentration. John stood around awkwardly until he cleared his throat (to which Sherlock still did not look up) and said, “D’you mind if I use your shower?”

Sherlock continued his fast paced typing and mumbled a, “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead.”

The shower felt good. God, how long had it been since his last shower? He’d been at Sherlock’s whim for at least 30 hours and in the rush it had slipped his mind. But waking up at the kitchen table feeling unclean was unpleasant at the very least. When he got out there was a freshly pressed chauffeur suit on the back of the door.

In the sitting room, Sherlock hadn’t moved since he’d last been out. “Did... Mycroft leave another suit here?” He asked, brushing off imaginary dust.

“His assistant dropped it off this morning while you were still asleep. She’ll be back by evening to take the other one to get cleaned.” He shut the laptop and stood. “We have to go. I’ve lost precious time to catch the men Mycroft is looking for.”

“Oh so you- how did you...”

“Of course John, I solved the case last night. My... injury certainly did impede my ability to do anything about it before now.” Sherlock stood by the door, fixing up his scarf and coat, ready to leave. “But now that I’ve recovered past the pain and moved on to a dull ache we really should go, I’m sure Mycroft is eager to have this case shut quickly and quietly.”

John followed him, because what else could he do?

After they got in the car John started up the engine, pulled out into the street. “So,” His fingers tapped anxiously. There was something uneasy about all of this but he couldn’t quiet place it exactly. “Where are we off to?”

Sherlock looked at John’s eyes through the rear view mirror for a short time before he gave out directions, almost reluctantly. He was quiet, but in a stiff and unyielding way. It was very uncomfortable.

John was right to feel uneasy. If he were Sherlock Holmes he may have made the immediate connection that the ‘case’ had been solved, and the he had been told their destination was the people Mycroft obviously had issues with. Mycroft was in the government; he was a very dangerous man in a very non-threatening way. Enemies of a dangerous man (obviously) had to be dangerous, themselves.

“Sherlock.” John spat through his teeth, trying to be quiet but his temper was getting the better of him. “We are breaking and entering a home.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer. Stating the obvious was not worth the time to offer a response. John continued to follow him, anyway, regardless of whatever qualms he had with house-breaking.

John didn’t know if Sherlock knew that he was carrying his army gun with him. For reasons he hadn’t understood at the time, Mycroft had advised him to stay armed, so the weapon remained in the back of his suit pants in his belt. He kept one hand on it as he followed Sherlock among the dark house; all the windows and curtains closed, and any sunlight that tried to get in was blocked by stacks of computer parts or discs.

“What are we even doing here.” John seethed; he took to walking backwards while following, not wanting anyone to sneak up behind them. The house sure seemed deserted but there was no telling when you were warned to carry a weapon.

“Evidence, John. Can’t convict anyone on a word; you’ve got to have the proof. Ah-ha.” Sherlock picked up a shiny disc, labeled with some numbers. “Here it is, John.”

“Sherlock there are hundreds of discs just like that in here.”

Sherlock pulled a scrap of paper out of his coat pocket and pushed it into John’s hands, turning to make his leave. “If you really must know all the details I’ll explain in the car. Now we have to go.”

The bit of paper in John’s hands had numbers that matched the disc’s. He sighed and put the bit in his jacket and followed Sherlock to the back of the house. “Why are we going this way?”

“Because they’re coming in through the front; when they discover this disc is missing they’re going to know it was me.” Sherlock led him down the steps of the back, across the yard and climbed the fence.

“Sherlock, wait!” John climbed over the fence slowly, not as agile as his detective partner. Partner? No, no. He was just... just the driver. Just the chauffeur.

“Hurry up, John!”

They jumped three yards’ fences before Sherlock led him back to the street. When they returned to the car, John drove off quickly, uncomfortable being anywhere near a house they just broke into. “S-so er... Back to Baker Street, then?”

“No, no; I have to get this disc to Mycroft immediately.”

“What is it, anyway?”

Sherlock was silent, watching John through the window that separated them, before he finally spoke up.

“It’s backup files and data for certain dates and times. Those men were hackers. Barely, men, anyway. Fresh out of Uni, hacking into government files for a bit of fun. The thing about people who work with computers like that, is they take their work far too seriously, even when they’re just having a laugh.”

“I don’t follow.” John sighed, Sherlock was obviously leaving out important details. “Start from the beginning?”

“A matter of days ago Mycroft hired me because there was a breach in a part of the government’s security program. Files were taken; important files. The cameras were wiped clean; whoever hacked the system was in an out in less than ten minutes and they left no digital footprint. Oh it was all in good fun for them. Steal a few seemingly harmless files and never touch them again, piss off the government, have a laugh, forget about it, do it again with the post office a week later.

“None of them thought they were going to get into any real trouble. None of them have ever met Mycroft.”

John only listened quietly. He took the quickest route he knew to Mycroft’s office. A part of him was reminded that since Sherlock had in fact solved the case he was working on- he no longer needed John. He would not need a driver, and John’s services would be obsolete. The inevitable bothered John more than he thought it would.

“Before your services were required, I traveled London by foot, sometimes by cab. I knew who to look for. I followed to right people. Unfortunately, I got my finger broken because of it. After they knew I was following them, I almost had to start from scratch. I had to take new leads; my Homeless Network is so very useful, John; and the young man at that Thai place graciously helped me twice in searching for what I needed to find.

“Last night, I attempted to follow them to their hideout. I should have known that they were waiting for me to catch them. Leading me this way and that until they were able to knock my lights out.” Sherlock held a hand to his head as if recalling the pain, but undoubtedly the pain was still very real, thought a bit dulled. “This morning before you awoke I received the email I had been waiting for with the address. We went in, found the disc with the numbers I’d already had in my possession, and left quickly. It doesn’t matter if they know we have the disc right now; Mycroft will be able to take care of all of that as soon as he has this.” He held up the disc to illustrate his point.

John let out a breath as he parked the car in front of their destination. “Mr. Holm- I mean, Sherlock. That was brilliant- you are a brilliant man.” He unlocked his seat belt and turned to look at Sherlock through the window. After a moment Sherlock looked back at him. “It was a pleasure to work with you.”

Sherlock didn’t waste his time with formalities or secretaries. He stalked down long government hallways with John always no more than a step or two behind. It seemed that everyone in the building knew exactly who he was and no one dared to stop Mycroft’s insufferable brother. When Sherlock got to Mycroft’s office he wasted no time. The door opened and John was barely through the threshold when the disc was on Mycroft’s desk and Sherlock on his way back out.

John moved aside and stood awkwardly, the space between he and Mycroft almost oppressive.

“Glad to see that your assistance to my brother has gone well.” He reached for his desk and picked up a slip of paper which he reached to hand to John. “How is your leg?”

John looked down at his leg before he crossed the room and took the paper carefully, examining it. “Just fine, now, thanks.” He inspected the paper and he looked back up, immediately recognizing it. “This... This is a check.”

“It is, Dr. Watson. Now, if you would be so kind as to drive my brother back to Baker Street? There will be someone to pick up the car later at your bedsit.” At this, Mycroft turned, his back showing. A silent message of dismissal.

“No problem, Mr. Holmes.”

The ride back to Baker Street was silent. More silent than John could stand. Wasn’t this the time to be talking? Chances were that he may never see Sherlock Holmes again, and they weren’t even having a final conversation. A sense of closure between their short time together that John almost couldn’t understand. They just worked well together.

John tried not to drive too slow, but he didn’t race. He could see Sherlock’s face in the mirror; looking out the window, bored as ever. At the stop light he found himself really looking. The shape of Sherlock’s face, the slope of his nose, how he blinked so frequently.

“Very nice of you to do this for your brother. Getting injured and everything.”

Sherlock made an almost non-committal noise before he actually spoke up. “I only take cases that are interesting. Mycroft could probably do it on his own, or get people to do it for him as he detests legwork. But he’d rather give me something interesting to work with to keep me away from... old habits.”

“Such as?”

They matched looks through the rear view mirror, but Sherlock remained silent. He just turned back to the window and watched the streets of London pass by. It was an uncomfortable kind of silence, but not awkward. There was something both of them felt but neither could say, something missing between them. A chemistry, a functionality, a compatibility as a unit that they had. But this was it. This was the end of the line in their partnership.

When they pulled up to Baker Street and parked, John quickly got out of the car. Sherlock had halfway opened his door to get out, but closed it as John slid into the back beside him.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John I... Very much enjoyed working with you. I can’t explain it exactly, but we work well together.”

John stared. Into his eyes, unmoving. Sherlock’s eyes, however, couldn’t stay still. They moved rapidly, taking in everything he could about John, it seemed. Sherlock made a face, not quite a scowl, but a line appeared between his eyes at the start of his nose. It was cute.

John leaned in and kissed him.

It only lasted a moment, but even as he pulled away he could still feel the shape of Sherlock’s lips against his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he was content with only one kiss from this man; this brilliant man he’d known for all of forty-eight hours, if that. But one kiss was better than none. John huffed out a laugh. He felt a little ridiculous. When he finally looked back, Sherlock was staring at him. It was almost dumbfounded, which probably should never have been an expression on Sherlock Holmes, but it quickly turned soft and then they were kissing again.

This time, it was different. Whereas John had given almost a peck, Sherlock kissed slowly but insistently, determined to get into John’s mouth. When John felt a tongue against his lips, he pulled back and shifted enough that he was backed up against the door of the car.

“What are you doing?” John couldn’t help asking; it wasn’t accusatory as much as it was plain curious.

Sherlock’s fingers touched his side, grasping him around the waist as he moved closer. It was extremely intimate and John’s throat felt dry. “You don’t want to?” He asked quietly, almost a whisper. The deep vibrations of Sherlock’s voice felt infinitely loud to John.

John wanted to. There was a sense of adrenaline in it he couldn’t shake, either. He couldn’t quite place it, but he nodded despite it, to which Sherlock kissed him again. More forceful this time, deep and careful but also urgent. John’s heart pounded. He wasn’t worried about getting caught, not really. The windows were tinted. Neither of them had a place to be, really. John didn’t have anyone else, a part of him wondered if Sherlock did, but he lived by himself and didn’t seem to have any attachments. He wasn’t a stranger to sex, even with people he barely knew. A couple of times people he knew, and trusted, even less so. John’s thoughts derailed when Sherlock’s hand touched his crotch. He hissed and pulled back, not having been paying attention and letting it take him by surprise.

“Sorry.” Sherlock mumbled, “I can-”

“No, no, it’s fine.” John breathed. He looked down to where Sherlock’s hand settled on his thigh, where his hardness showed itself behind the suit trousers. John’s hands supported him against the seats, but he brought them up to rest on Sherlock’s unoccupied arm and his neck. Sherlock moved slowly, softly. He displayed an intimacy between them that made John almost uncomfortable. “It’s okay.” John said. “You can touch me.”

So Sherlock did. He returned to kissing John and his hand rubbed over John’s erection through the trousers and pants. He fingers were delicate and slow, and precise.

When John had to breathe, he turned his head away and almost gasped in, inviting air into his lungs. Sherlock’s lips moved to John’s neck, sometimes kissing what was exposed under the shirt collar, sometimes simply resting against the warm skin. He shifted back, pulling John with him. He rested back against the seats with John straddling one of his legs, and wasted no time after that in unbuckling the belt to John’s trousers to get them down.

“Oh, God.” John breathed against Sherlock’s curls when Sherlock pulled his erection from his pants.

Sherlock stoked John’s cock a few times, very slowly, his thumb rubbing at the head on the upstroke. “How does that feel?” He asked against John’s ear.

“Good. It feels good- ah! Oh God, Sherlock.” John grasped at Sherlock’s coat, arched against him with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

He felt Sherlock kiss his neck again, close to his ear, and nearly choked when Sherlock whispered, “You can thrust a little, into my hand.” But he did. Small, almost half-thrusts, against Sherlock’s thigh and into his hand.

“I’m close.” John whispered after a minute or two. He released Sherlock’s coat with some effort and moved to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, burrowing his face into Sherlock’s neck. “Really close Sherlock, I-”

“Go ahead. Just relax and come, it’s okay.” Sherlock told him, licking and kissing at his ear and neck. John moaned, then, as he came, riding out Sherlock’s hand and slumping; tired. His grip loosened but he didn’t let go yet. After a moment of collecting himself John shifted, felt Sherlock’s erection against his thigh, and Sherlock’s hand rubbing it.

“Oh, Christ; Sherlock, sorry I didn’t. I thought you-”

Sherlock grinned, his eyes shut and his head thrown back against the head of the seat. “It’s okay, I’m really close.”

John pushed his hand out of the way and rubbed Sherlock through his trousers, “Do you want me to suck you off?” He asked quietly.

God, n-no. Just,” Sherlock groaned, “Just keep doing that.”

John’s face grew flush, not really believing that he’d just asked that, but he kept rubbing at Sherlock’s erection anyway. He did look close. John leaned forward, placing a few chaste kisses against Sherlock’s mouth, licking at his lips. Sherlock moaned, and John could feel the hot pulses of Sherlock’s orgasm through his trousers.

John kissed Sherlock’s open mouth once more before he sat back on the seats to pull his trousers back on. “Well that is not really what I had in mind when Mycroft hired me.”

“Please, John.” Sherlock took a deep breath in an attempt to right his heartbeat. “My brother is the last thing I want to think about right now.” He adjusted himself in his trousers and fixed his coat, buttoning it up to hide the stain that was going to inevitably soak through.

“Oh yes. Right.” John inhaled deeply and sighed, not really sure where to go from there. “It was good.” He decided finally. “I mean, the job, and all that. I’ve been so bored since I returned home. I really needed this; all of it.”

Sherlock stared at John’s profile for a moment. “Listen... John.” He said, finding the words difficult to say outright. “I enjoyed your company during this case. I never enjoy company. Please, come up to my flat. We can have tea.”

Tea sounded nice. Spending more time with Sherlock Holmes sounded nice. Provided that their sexual encounter wouldn’t make everything awkward. John suspected it might a little, but not enough to be a deterrent. “Alright. Yes.” John grinned at him, “I’d really like that.”

John Watson stayed for tea, then telly, and then conversation. After a few hours, evening became eminent, and with no reason left to really stay, he thought he should return home. They found the car gone, taken by Mycroft’s civil workers, so he and Sherlock spent some time on the couch snogging. John spent the night, and in the morning he found he didn’t want to return to his bedsit.

“I have another room.” Sherlock reminded him.

“I’d need a job to continually pay the rent.”

“Maybe Mycroft would see the appeal in hiring a permanent chauffeur for me.”
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