Did Sherlock think he was Irene? Did he still have lipstick on him?Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Title: Too Good An Opportunity
Betas:
Misery-loathes-Company & sieerra
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Genre: Humour & Fluff
Word Count: 1,100
Trimmings:
in Finnish (K-11)
Rating: PG-13 (K-11)Based on
this, but also my johnlocked mind had a thing or two to say; I don't think I could never let Sherlock fall for Irene
From
Ariane DeVere's magnificent transcript of 'A Scandal in Belgravia':
JOHN: Yes, you’re great. Now I’ll be next door if you need me.
SHERLOCK (fuzzily): Why would I need you?
JOHN: No reason at all.
(He walks out of the room shutting the door behind him.)
... And that is where this story begins! Thanks to my wonderful betas <3
Disclaimer! I do not own Sherlock Holmes, or his partner John Watson. I'd like to, but alas, it is not to be.
Too Good An Opportunity
It was too good an opportunity to waste, John thought as he tiptoed back to Sherlock's room. After he had seen the faint lipstick mark on his cheek, he had rushed downstairs to
borrow one with the same colour from Mrs Hudson. Sherlock would never know that he had, not one, but two marks on his cheek. Even if he did suspect something, and John was quite sure that he would, the markings would be so smudgy that even Sherlock couldn't be sure that he hadn't smeared them himself while rolling on his bed.
It was a bit thin, but so was John's patience. He had tried to curb his hormones by dating dozens of women, but it had not helped — quite the contrary! John felt he was overwhelmed with Sherlock's raw sexual magnetism and was going to burst any day now. At least, his trouser seam would if nothing else.
So, if he was to steal a kiss, it would have to be now as Sherlock lay comatose on the bed and would hopefully know nothing about it. John felt a fleeting twinge of conscience but squashed it immediately. He was desperate. He was going to chastely kiss that divine face that he had actually dreamed of licking on more than one occasion. Well, first a chaste kiss, but maybe in time, it would spur Sherlock's desire to try something else with John. Like a proper kiss, preferably with tongue.
Great, now John was sporting wood which made his movements that much harder.
Sherlock was curled in the sheets and looked like an angel: a gorgeous, curly haired angel, to be precise. John licked his lips, tasting the lipstick, and leaned in. He could smell Sherlock, now more potent than ever. The scent was quite weak, but as John pressed his nose a quarter of an inch away from Sherlock's angular cheekbone, it became clear as a day. It was a mixture of soap and cologne and sleep and intelligence, as far as John was aware, and it made his mouth flood with saliva. Finally he pressed his lips right on top of the reddish mark already visible on Sherlock's cheek, savouring the moment, the smell and even the hardness against which his burning lips were pressed.
It felt like Heaven, but unfortunately, it was a very short visit for John, because after just a few seconds, Sherlock stirred in his sleep. John flinched and tried to wipe his lips clean with the back of his hand. Sherlock's lashes fluttered, and he cracked his lids open just the tiniest bit. John backed away even further, trying to keep his movements slow and not at all visible. Unfortunately Sherlock's eyes opened all the way and his gaze, even though slow and erratic, fell on John.
"Irene?" Sherlock mumbled.
John froze on the spot. Did Sherlock think he was Irene? What did it mean? Did he still have lipstick on him? John wiped his lips again, now with his sleeve, but they were already clean.
"Irene, you look like John," Sherlock slurred and tried to get up, falling on his side. "Want to... Want to..."
"What?" John asked feeling bewildered. It was one thing for Sherlock to think he was Irene, The Woman had doped him well enough, but another to be aware that even though he looked like John, he was Irene.
"Come closer," Sherlock slurred, nay begged, scrambling to his knees. "I want to..."
John took a tentative step closer, trying to calm Sherlock down. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here, Sherlock. What do you want?"
"Wantto kss," Sherlock tried to say, but was clearly dissatisfied with the delivery. "Kss. KSS!"
"Kiss?" John suggested, not even daring to hope.
"Mmm, thad," Sherlock nodded and grabbed John's shirt, pulling him closer. "Kiss you, 'cause you look sooobeautiful."
John didn't have time to respond to the words, because right at that moment, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's. For a second, nothing more happened. Sherlock just kissed John like one kisses their mother.
John peeked through his lashes and saw that Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly, and there was a frown between his eyebrows. Maybe Sherlock didn't know what to do? John decided to help, because that is what friends do, and brushed his lips against Sherlock's.
"
Oooohhh..." Sherlock groaned, sliding his hand behind John's neck and holding him still. It was unnecessary, really, because whatever John had in mind, leaving was not one of his choices.
John touched Sherlock's lips with the tip of his tongue, earning another moan from the object of his desire. John repeated the movement and Sherlock's lips parted, granting John's tongue access.
Even though, or because of, Sherlock's manoeuvres were sluggish, the whole ordeal felt better than John had anticipated. It was saying something, judging from the amount of fantasies he had had about Sherlock, but the reality was so much more: the nimble fingers kneading his neck, the warm breath puffing against his cheek, the languid tongue gliding against his.
Too soon, Sherlock leaned back to gasp for air. He was panting now, and so was John. Sherlock's eyelids were drooping, and he sagged down onto the bed.
John couldn't move, but he had to. Sherlock still thought that he had been kissing Irene, and if he were to regain consciousness anytime soon, John should probably not be whining by his bed.
An hour later, John was brushing his teeth and regretting every second his mouth refreshed further and further away from Sherlock's taste. After he was done, he switched off the bathroom lights and padded quietly along the corridor, trying not to wake Sherlock. But as he reached the door, he stopped dead, one foot already on the threshold.
Sherlock was sitting on John's bed, and as John arrived he raised his head and fixed a stern gaze on John.
"It was not Irene Adler. It was you."
It wasn't even a question, but John nodded anyway. What was the point of denying being there; Sherlock already knew everything.
"What tipped you off?" he asked hesitantly.
"Your lips. They felt too— different," Sherlock said, his eyes still trained on John.
Compared to what, John wanted to ask, but was too afraid to talk. He clenched his fists instead and embraced himself for the worst. To his surprise, Sherlock didn't rise up, nor did he order John to leave, or anything of the sorts. He just patted the spot beside him.
"I would be needing your help, now."
John spluttered for a second, before his brain caught on. "My help? What for?"
"To familiarise myself. With you."
The End
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