Title: Lost
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: R
Length: 3,340
Content notes: No warnings apply
Author notes: My take on the challenge was, rather than losing an hour of time, to have a character be lost for an hour. Self-beta'd, so please point out any errors to me! Also, I haven’t written a sex scene for ages, so sorry about the quality of the writing/how rushed that part is.
Summary: John comes home with news, and Sherlock has to figure out why John is telling it to him.



7:09pm. Sherlock checks the clock. He can hear the soft pad of footsteps on the staircase; more downward pressure from one leg than the other, the gait of a man who still occasionally forgets himself, forgets it’s all in his head, and limps. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches, and he sniffs. He has been waiting.

Precisely twelve second later, John is standing in the doorway. Sherlock, lying on the couch and facing the ceiling, doesn’t sit up, or even turn his head in John’s direction. But he knows. Knows from the uneven tread that gave away the limp. Knows from the extra slow creak of the door handle turning, and from the nervous air billowing into the room. John is carrying a great weight upon his shoulders. He has something terribly important to say.

“Well,” John starts. And that’s boring, predictable. He’s either delaying or attempting to entice, and in either case Sherlock isn’t interested.

“Well what?” he mutters, possibly too sharply, into the back of the couch. He can almost feel John’s frown deepen; the furrow of the man’s brow is evident in the tone of his voice.

“I did it.” And that’s boring too. It is vague and meaningless, and it tells him nothing.

“Hm,” Sherlock says.

John crosses the room, footfalls heavy on the floorboards. He comes to a stop by the end of the couch, next to Sherlock’s head. The shadow of his body swallows Sherlock’s head and shoulders, and he curls his fingers into fists, uncurls them, repeats. He isn’t saying anything, and Sherlock is still waiting, and the silence in the room is heavy with promise.

Sherlock rolls onto his back, and stares up at John through a messy curtain of dark, curly hair. “Go on then John,” he says, “what did you do? Enlighten me.”

John shifts on the spot, shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. It’s hard for Sherlock to read his expression upside down, but the narrowed eyes, the knitted brow and the downturned lips all point to frustration, impatience, something like sorrow. Sherlock laces his fingers together atop his chest. He counts the seconds, every second that it takes for John to reply.

Nine. Ten.

Eleven.

Then, “I broke up with Elise.”

Whatever Sherlock may have been expecting, it certainly wasn’t that.

He tries in the instant following John's revelation to picture Elise in his head, but he can see nothing beyond shockingly blonde hair and excessive eyeliner. He wants to imagine her mannerisms, her voice, anything at all. But all he can manage is John. Sherlock can see John and Elise sitting in the flat, talking quietly. He can see the way John moves, the quirk of his mouth when a smile tugs at his lips, the gestures of his hands. Elise's presence matters little, for Sherlock notices her none. He wants to say this out loud, but thinks perhaps John might not appreciate such information. It seems, however, that he is expecting Sherlock to say something, because he clears his throat loudly, and looks pointedly at him.

Sherlock closes his eyes. For some reason he can’t look John in the eye. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks.

John sighs roughly. “You know why I’m telling you. I know you do. Don’t play dumb, Sherlock. Not now.”

Eyes still closed, Sherlock shakes his head. The whole situation is tiresome. He was waiting before John returned, and now he is waiting still. For what, though, he isn’t entirely sure.

“Do I actually need to spell it out?” John says, and still he receives no reply. “I did it because… I did it for you, Sherlock. For you.”

That might be it. The thing Sherlock has been waiting for. He replays the words in his mind, over and over. ‘For you’. It doesn’t make sense. Is it supposed to make sense?

“What do I have to do with it?” he asks, hoping he hasn’t chosen now to, for the first time, miss something obvious.

“Don’t be an idiot,” John spits.

Sherlock recoils slightly, affronted. “I am many things, John,” he says, “but I am not an idiot.”

Again, John sighs. This time it is softer, more weary than angry. “I know,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything. “Look. I know you didn’t like Elise. I’ve always known. I mean, okay, you’ve never liked any of my girlfriends. But you seem to dislike each one more than the last. And with Elise, it was just too much. So you didn’t like her, or any of the others. I knew. But it took me while to figure out why. She was a nice person, you know. She made me happy. And she put up with all your shit; your comments and the state of the flat. It didn’t seem to add up. Then I realised. You know what it was? It wasn’t anything about her, or anything about any of my girlfriends, come to think of it. It was just them, just Elise. Elise as a being. She was an obstacle. A… a wall in the way of me.”

Sherlock moves, then. Sits up, dressing gown catching awkwardly underneath him, and stares straight ahead, not blinking. There is a strange feeling bubbling in his chest. Something he can’t quite identify. He checks the clock. 7:14pm. He is in the flat, on the couch. But suddenly, somehow, he has no idea where he is.

“Why would you assume I saw her as an obstacle?” Sherlock queries.

“To be fair, it wasn’t purely my own assumption. Mycroft had a lot to do with it.”

Sherlock curls his lip up distastefully at this.

John continues, “He told me that the way you’ve been acting… That anyone looking in from the outside could be forgiven for thinking you were jealous. But then again, who’s to say you weren’t?” There is a pause. Then John says, “I suppose I didn’t do it just for you, either.”

Still, Sherlock doesn’t look John’s way.

“I did it for myself, too.”

Finally, ever-so-slowly, Sherlock turns his head. Locks his gaze with John’s. His eyes are wide, and shining with something John can’t quite identify. John waits for Sherlock, this time, waits for him to react beyond a look.

“What makes you think I care about any of this?” Sherlock’s tone is flat, but his face and eyes read worried, intrigued.

“I don’t think, I know.”

“If you believe Mycroft’s opinion is enough to keep you up to date with the intricacies of my mind, I won’t attempt to dissuade you,” Sherlock huffs.

“I don’t need Mycroft whispering in my ear to know you care about what’s happening here,” John tells him. “I have eyes of my own. I can see this is affecting you.”

Sherlock looks away from John once more, directing his gaze at the floor. The unusual bubbling feeling in his chest is still present. With his fingers entwined, he presses the pads of his thumbs together so hard that the digits turn white.

“So,” John starts, after a time, “did I do the right thing?”

There is no answer. No answer Sherlock can give that will be satisfactory. A ‘no’ would imply Sherlock approved of Elise, and that there was nothing at all the matter with John seeing her. But a ‘yes’ would indicate John was correct, and ground the continued bubbling in his chest firmly in reality. Sherlock wonders briefly why ‘no’ seems to be the least viable of the two choices, while simultaneously selecting option three: utter silence.

The decision backfires on him rather quickly.

John, unimpressed with Sherlock’s verbal inertia, steps around the end of the couch to stand in front of Sherlock. Sherlock, who had until that point had his gaze fixed on the ground, is met by the sudden intrusion of John’s feet into his field of vision. He notes the shoes, John’s best, worn but polished, and it occurs to him that John had been on a date. That somehow what started out as a date has ended with John standing before him, informing him that his relationship is over. And that he, Sherlock, has something to do with it.

Sherlock narrows his eyebrows, and closes his eyes. He can’t seem to get his thoughts in order. That bubbling sensation has dropped to his stomach, and John has broken up with Elise, and Mycroft has suggested to John that Sherlock is jealous, and none of it makes any sense.

John steps forward, just one pace, so that his knees brush gently against Sherlock’s. Floundering, Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and finds himself most definitely in John’s personal space. John doesn’t so much as flinch, but his furrowed brow and tight-lipped frown tell all.

“John,” Sherlock says, but can think of nothing else appropriate, or even inappropriate, to say.

“Sherlock,” John replies, giving nothing.

“I…”

There passes a silence so pregnant with anticipation that both men are surprised that the room can hold it.

“Tell me,” John says, finally, and Sherlock looks vaguely confused. “Tell me how you feel. Right now. About all of this.” He motions with his hand at the two of them, and the room around them.

Sherlock blinks slowly, and a blinding light flashes in front of his eyelids. When he opens his eyes again, John is almost smiling.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks him, tone close to suspicious.

In contrast, John’s tone of voice is verging on amused. “You’re genuinely uncomfortable right now.”

Sherlock huffs in a disgruntled fashion.

“If it helps,” John tries, “I can tell you how I feel. I’m angry, Sherlock. I’m angry, but I’m also hoping you’ll tell me I did the right thing. Can you do that? Can you do that, for me?”

There is something behind John’s request. Something that a ‘yes’ would confirm. John wants, Sherlock realises, for him to admit that he was jealous. Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, reconsiders his response, and closes it again.

“See, I know what you want to say,” says John. “You’re just too proud to say it.”

Silence falls once more, and Sherlock counts each breath, both his own and John’s, as a means of staying present. He is waiting again, although for himself now. He knows he needs to speak soon, or John will move back, walk away, leave him standing there buzzing with some foreign feeling. But to respond is to take a risk also. He weighs his options, steps up to the diving board, and propels himself over the edge.

“You… did the right thing.” Though he tries, Sherlock cannot help the waver in his voice.

Everything seems to freeze for a moment. Then suddenly John’s hand is on Sherlock’s face, fingertips grazing his cheekbones, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, and Sherlock is struck motionless. Their faces are already hovering too close for casual conversation when John destroys any last semblance of platonic relation by leaning in further, and kissing him.

Sherlock goes rigid when John’s lips meet his. John breaks away, studying Sherlock closely. The man’s eyes are wide and frightened, and he looks questioning. Lost.

“I’m sorry,” John offers. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He doesn’t, however, move away.

Sherlock shakes his head at John’s apology, and reaches up to John’s face, running a shaking hand along the line of his jaw. His fingers curl around the curve of bone, cupping John’s face gently. Then he darts his head forward and catches John’s lips in a second, much longer kiss.

For a time, the two of them just stand together, exchanging slow, gradually deepening kisses.

John clutches Sherlock’s shoulder with one hand, trailing the other down the man’s arm to his wrist, which he grips tightly. Partially restrained, Sherlock flinches, not used to the lack of control. He can feel heat pooling in his gut, replacing the fluttering and bubbling from earlier. His body is betraying him, eyes struggling to stay open, erection straining his trousers. He feels ashamed. John chooses this moment to attempt to press up against him, and Sherlock pulls away quickly.

Alien emotions are streaking through his body, blazing trails of fiery feeling. He is slightly flushed in the face, and though John tries to look him in the eye, Sherlock refuses to meet the man’s gaze.

“Sherlock. Are you okay?” John asks, steady and serious.

Sherlock replies, just as serious, with another question. “Where am I?”

John knows, then, that Sherlock is in a place he has never been to before. “You’re safe.”

It takes a minute or two, but eventually Sherlock seems to absorb this affirmation. He nods, very slowly, uncertain. Then, “Will you… John, will you… touch me?”

So John lets go of Sherlock’s wrist, and places his nervous hand on the man’s hip. He lets it rest there for a moment or two, before trailing it down to Sherlock’s thigh, then across to his crotch. Sherlock shudders instantaneously at the contact. Not knowing whether to be encouraged or deterred by this reaction, John stills his hand there, and waits for Sherlock to tell him what to do.

The response does not come quickly, nor verbally. The command that he eventually receives is a mixture of a look and a touch.

Sherlock blinks slowly, heavily, then locks eyes with John again. One hand drops carefully down to meet John’s, which is still lightly touching him, and covers it completely, pressing John’s palm firmly against his erection. Sherlock’s expression changes almost imperceptibly to one of pleasure at the pressure of John’s assisted touch.

Then John says, “Sherlock. I’d like to… would it be okay if we…”

Sherlock merely nods, understanding, accepting and approving all at once. So John grabs him by the hand and leads him away, through the flat, to Sherlock’s room.

With the door closed and the almost total darkness cloaking their inhibitions, John again reaches out and places one hand over Sherlock’s crotch, palming heavily at the stretched fabric of his trousers. Sherlock pushes himself forward ever so slightly into John’s hand, and takes John by the hips, fingers digging into the wool of the man’s jumper.

They kiss, Sherlock parting his lips to John’s tongue, noting that while having someone’s tongue slide against his was a strange feeling, it was also rather pleasant.

Then Sherlock is being pushed backwards, towards the bed. The backs of his legs meet the mattress, and he sits, watching as John sinks to his knees in front of him. John’s fingers are at Sherlock’s fly, carefully, purposefully undoing the button, the zip. He looks at Sherlock all the while, just in case he sees something, a flash of second thought on Sherlock’s face, that would be an indication to stop. However, he sees nothing but a soft haze of desire floating in Sherlock’s eyes.

John hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Sherlock’s underpants, still maintaining eye contact with the man, and tugs at them, Sherlock shifting a little to aid John in removing the garment. Once both Sherlock’s trousers and underpants are crumpled around his ankles, John leans in, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s knee, then up his thigh. He can hear Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath as he approaches the man’s groin, and when his lips finally brush the head of Sherlock’s cock, everything is silent and still. Neither one of them dares to even breathe until John parts his lips and takes Sherlock into his mouth, at which point Sherlock lets out an undignified, uncharacteristic yelp, and John is sure the pounding of his own heart in his chest must be audible. He huffs out a nervous breath of air, mouth around Sherlock still, and Sherlock moans, a short, quiet sound.

John works Sherlock in his mouth, his own nervousness and inexperience with the act a hindrance, but Sherlock’s inability to compare his performance with anything, and the breathy moaning sounds he is making enough to spur him on.

After a while, Sherlock is bucking and straining, and John releases him, slick wetness left in his wake. He looks up at Sherlock’s flushed face, and asks, “How are you feeling?”

There passes a beat, two, three.

Then, “I… I can’t see… My head… I feel… I don’t know where I am.” Sherlock is all mumbling and confusion, and like John has never known him to be,

“It’s okay,” John assures him, and Sherlock nods, just once. Then John adds, voice quiet but steady, “Sherlock. I want to make love to you. Is that alright?”

All Sherlock can manage is a thick, throaty, “Yes. Please.”

Before long Sherlock is stretched out on the bed, John hovering above him. John has removed his own trousers, and his jumper and t-shirt as well. Sherlock’s shirt is unbuttoned, hanging open, his dressing gown discarded on the floor.

For a while, everything is fingers and discomfort and warmth and new sensation. Then Sherlock’s legs are raised and spread, and John is pushing into him, and Sherlock is coming undone.

John has no care for speed or rhythm, and no technique. His thrusts are awkward and arbitrary, and he spends a lot of time not moving at all, just trying to get used to the feeling of being inside another man. These pauses allow time also for Sherlock to adjust.

As John becomes more confident in his movements, Sherlock starts to lose control of himself a little. He bucks his hips and arches his back, and grips onto the bed sheets with one hand, John’s arm with the other. He gazes up at John, eyes wide, and reads him.

Sherlock has always been good at reading both the actual lines and the spaces between. Right now the lines of John’s face are twisted in some weird hybrid of pleasure and surprise, and the spaces in between are all glistening sweat and radiating heat. Sherlock has never seen John look this way, has never seen anyone look this way before. He gasps and groans, and is struck by the thought that his own face is likely contorted into a similar expression, his own skin probably gleaming with perspiration. He can feel droplets of it beading on his upper lip, his forehead, his back…

John leans down and kisses Sherlock’s mouth, then his jaw, and down his neck. He pushes into him roughly, and bites down on the skin above Sherlock’s collar. The bite is perhaps a little too hard, mirroring John’s earlier frustrations, bruising pale skin and causing Sherlock to cry out.

A few moments later, Sherlock makes a strangled keening noise, shivers, and John can feel the heat of his climax between their bodies. John keeps thrusting, now more erratic than ever, until he comes too, Sherlock’s name catching in his throat.

Several minutes pass then in which neither man speaks, and they just lie together, side by side, on the bed. Sherlock has his eyes closed, and his face is blank, his chest rising and falling steadily. John watches Sherlock for a time, while he waits for his heart rate to slow back down to a normal pace. The man’s pale skin glistens with sweat, and there are patches of it evident on his crumpled shirt. His lips are full and dark with kisses, and there is a light bruise near his clavicle that John knows will soon darken. Beneath him, the sheets are messy and damp. He lies atop them, exposed and unfazed. John, conversely, has covered himself from the waist down. And eventually, reclined, sated, and wrapped in Sherlock’s sheets, he falls asleep.

When John’s breathing evens out and grows heavy, Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and glances across at him. He scans the man’s form quickly, taking in every detail, gaze lingering for a moment on the scar on his shoulder. He aches, strangely, to reach out and touch that scar. He sits up, and then gently, so as not to wake him, Sherlock brushes the fingers of one hand over the surface of the old wound. John stirs slightly, and Sherlock pulls away. He can feel the vaguest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Sherlock blinks slowly, several times, the smile fading as he looks thoughtful instead. He feels the need to speak, but doesn’t know what to say. In the end, he quietly says, “Thank you.” But of course, John cannot hear.

Sherlock shakes his head in an attempt to gather his thoughts. Minutes pass. Gradually, things become clearer.

He hadn’t known where he was. Now he can see. He is in his bedroom, with John. He has just had sex, with John. John. John.

John.

Sherlock checks the clock. 8:14pm.