atlinmerrick

For two people swimming with emotional sharks, John and Sherlock were sure doing a lot of devil-may-care fucking.

It was barely fourteen hours since my little soldier had asked problem child to marry him, and they'd already done it three times. They were right in the middle of number four and I'll confess the particulars were a touch new.

You've seen Sherlock. He's all elegance and grace, right? Except right now he was slumped boneless and low on the couch like a naked, ragged drunk, hips hanging off the edge with legs sprawled wide, John kneeling between those thighs, pounding away and just about growling.

They'd been pretty much going at it just like this for the last one hundred years—okay, maybe ten minutes—and frankly I was (hugely turned on) confused. Was this make-up sex? Relief-they-were-still-together sex? Was it—

"John!" Sherlock threw both arms over his head, dug his fingers into the couch cushions and arched his back like a bow.

The man in question didn't reply, just tucked chin to chest and pounded a little harder, while Sherlock thrashed—"J-J-J,"— arms and legs shaking—"oooooo"—the word a smear of garbled sound—"hhhhhnnnnnnn."

With mutual growls of need and frustration both reached for Sherlock's cock at the same time, one man's hand fisting around the others, and it took just three sloppy, rough yanks in unison before Sherlock was coming with a guttural moan.

John slowed his pace but didn't stop moving until Sherlock's body started to relax. Once boy genius' breathing evened, the good doctor pulled out, sat on his heels and…so help me, just shut down, an automaton without power.

It was quiet like that for forever. I couldn't even hear them breathing, which freaked me out because breathing—breathing is only boring if you can breathe. For someone like me breathing is…it's the sweetest music there is.

Finally Sherlock sat up, and I thought he'd say something, I thought…in hindsight I don't know what I thought. What happened was that Sherlock looked John in the face, looked at the erection between his legs, back to his face and so help me he said nothing and he did nothing. Then after entirely too long he slowly, gently ran the fingertips of one hand down John's cheek, got up, and walked away.

Okay. I…I can't even. I don't—no, seriously. What was that? What was that? Can you explain it to me? Using small words? I was a therapist for nearly twenty years, I should know what a box of crazy looks like but this I don't get. What are they doing? Because it's definitely both of them doing it.

But what is it? Mutual flagellation? I would expect that of Sherlock, but of my little BAMF soldier? Never. What I really need is to, well damn it—

John.

He was still on his knees, back to me, chin to chest and staring at nothing.

JOHN.

The room wasn't cold, as a matter of fact the heat was working a treat for once but I could see my little soldier shaking.

John. John. John.

I wanted to shout. I wanted to run around the place and bite some ankles. I wanted to holler at everyone in plain English, What the fuck, guys?

Joh—

Finally my BAMF boy moved. He lifted his head and turned, looking in the direction Sherlock had gone. And for awhile that's all he did. Then in slow and almost painful degrees he dragged himself up on the couch, slouched in a position much like Sherlock's, and stared at me.

I stared back at him so hard his nipples should have been smoking, but he didn't see me.

I saw him. Every inch.

Look, I don't get off on any of this second-hand mind you (liar liar liar), but I really do love looking at my boys and even now, under these circumstances, how could I not?

Despite what he'll insist John is small. Five foot seven (I still have to think about the conversion…um, one hundred sixty seven centimeters and some change) isn't pint-sized but it is diminutive, and if you don't think that makes a man sexy you are so clearly not a straight woman. Um, well a dead straight woman. A dead straight woman's, um, skull.

Anyway. Moving on.

Slouched there, body blushed and sweaty, muscles swollen from the exertion, sandy hair tousled as if he'd just crawled from bed…look, there's not much to do around here and I get my distractions where I can and right now I was staring hard and I was getting an eyeful of seeing and then I was finally seeing what I was seeing.

That raging hard-on that was going nowhere? That absolutely fine erection that could have won awards if they were, you know, giving out awards for boners? That bit of proud and lonely flesh answered at least one of my questions and that was this:

Why did Sherlock leave before you got off, John? He's a selfish git in lots of ways but he's never done that before.

And the answer was? Sherlock had nothing to do with it, this was John's doing. This was all on John.

Look, John and Sherlock? They're both damaged goods and don't think they aren't, but I used to believe they were screwy in completely different ways. Now the tardy realization had hit—they're messed up the same way, veer in exactly the same direction. And that direction my friend, is martyr.

Sherlock's not good enough for John, he says, blah blah blah. John's so golden he'll sacrifice himself for Sherlock et cetera et cetera. Old old old old old oooold.

Senseless self-sacrifice so you can say 'I tried?' Lazy git. God damn you.

Oh crap. Did I just say that out loud?

John's distant gaze focused fast and those deep blues eyes blazed up at me.

"Excuse me?"

I huffed. Huffed. Now that I'd started I was actually mad. Mad at my little brave soldier. A total first.

You heard me.

John's brow furrowed and despite himself he stood, unconsciously reaching for the jumper I love the most, the long brown one that makes him look even smaller than he is. Does he know what those jumpers say about him? Does he even realize that—

No, stop it Rory. Stop. Okay. Stopping. Stopped.

He slipped the floppy thing on, but not before I noticed he'd finally gone soft. Thank god. I did not need him whispering right at my ear, knowing that that was down there.

Anyway, I was about to give him a piece of my mind, don't you think I—

"What the fuck is it to you?"

Oh. Well. Hello cranky.

"I don't recall asking your opinion on this."

My goodness, someone was very—

"I know what I'm doing."

Ah, so here we go.

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

Fine. I'll play along.

And what is that?

John's brow furrowed. John's eyes blazed. Tendons in John's neck stood out like little straight-backed soldiers.

Right. Great plan John.

The good doctor turned his head, looked out the window, his jaw working.

Fucking the situation into submission is a very good idea.

"It's not submission god damn it!"

Sure, okay, now my little lionheart gets BAMF.

What is it then?

Good god I could hear the grinding molars from a foot away.

John. It's not his submission I'm talking about.

The grinding stopped and again that frown and blazing gaze was aimed at me. "What?"

Showing him how much he means to you by becoming less than you are? By giving him what you think he wants? By wearing a very unstylish 'Kick Me' sign? Where'd you get this remarkably bad idea, sweetie?

The iron in John spine turned to rust and he slumped, forehead pressing to the mantle. "Oh god."

Arms. Just…arms. Give me two and I'd jump for joy. Give me even one and I could—

"What am I doing? What have I done?"

You're swimming with sharks little love—pesky emotional sharks—and you panicked.

He said nothing.

It's okay. It's fine. We're not done here. We're not even close.

"I just thought that if I…if I showed him…Jesus, what? Was it physical affection? Not really. That he's irresistible…god that sounds ridiculous the second it comes out of my mouth. I have no idea what I'm doing. None."

You and six billion other people, sweetie.

John stood, his back a little straighter.

"You're right. Yeah."

What is it you're trying to say? Lay it on me in ten words or less, right now. Now, John. What? What?

When I was alive I used that trick in my practice all the time. Don't give them time to think, get them to push it out, hard and fast.

"That I need him. That oh god I'm not perfect. That he's overthinking things. That if getting married is a mistake it's fine. No one dies. It's reversible. That it's silly to not even try."

John got taller. Straight as iron, just as beautiful.

"Right." He glanced at the kitchen clock. "Right," he murmured again. He stroked my head several times, smiled, waited for me to say something.

That's another trick I learned. When they've talked themselves into a good place stop. Just stop.

Still smiling John kissed the top of my head then took off like a shot, not quite late for work.

An hour later the flat was empty, they were both gone. An hour after that Mrs. Hudson came and took me (as I mentioned before; crap crap crap), and now I'm sitting here on her mantle while she goes to answer the knock on the door and so help me if it isn't John or Sherlock or fluffy little unicorns with rainbow manes coming to rescue me I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.