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It occurs to John one morning, as he's moving a thumb out of the microwave and into the refrigerator, that perhaps the time has come for a serious discussion about house rules.
"What would that accomplish?" Sherlock asks when John mentions the idea. Judging by the look on his face, Sherlock considers the negotiation of house rules to be only slightly less ludicrous than fishing for sharks in the Thames.
John sighs. "It would make me more comfortable knowing we've agreed on a few things."
Sherlock's eyebrows go up. Clearly, the thought of making one's flatmate comfortable is a new concept to him, so John allows him a few seconds to analyze.
"It wouldn't be one-sided, of course." John knows he's going to regret what he's about to say, but his sense of fairness barges straight past his self-preservation instincts. "If there are any rules you'd like added to the list, we could--"
"Done," Sherlock says. There's a smug expression on his face, like he's just won an argument that only he was aware they'd been having.
John sighs again and wonders what he's just got himself into.
THE RULES
1) No dead things on the living room floor.
John supposes that after six months of living with Sherlock, he should know better than to walk barefoot across the living room without looking where he's going. But then, he's not sure what it would say about the state of his mental health if he ever actually became accustomed to finding dead foxes lying around.
"What is that--" John points to the fox and tries to forget what its hind leg had felt like beneath his bare foot "--doing in the sitting room?"
Sherlock is sprawled on the settee in a three-piece suit, with Carmina Burana playing on a portable stereo beside him. The look on his face when he lifts his head says, quite clearly, that he resents John for interrupting his brooding with such trivial questions. "I came across it and thought it might be useful for an experiment I plan to conduct. Is there a problem?"
"Is there a--? Sherlock, there are so many problems, I'm not sure where to start. First off, one doesn't just come across dead foxes in the middle of London."
Sherlock stares at him with the expression usually reserved for those times in which John is being particularly unimaginative.
"You're like a bloody cat, you realize?" John says. "Honestly, leaving dead animals on the living room floor? What's next, hacking up pigeon feathers all over the furniture?"
"There's no need to be so dramatic," Sherlock sighs and lets his head fall back onto the pillow.
"Dramatic," John repeats as the opening chorus of O Fortuna swells in the background. "I'm being dramatic?"
Sherlock doesn't reply.
"Right," John says, then walks over to the whiteboard that Sherlock has set up specifically for keeping track of the rules, and writes: Rule #1: No dead things on the living room floor.
2) John fetches the groceries.
John comes home from work one evening and discovers that apparently, according to the whiteboard, he's been given the task of doing the weekly shopping. Of course, he's been doing the weekly shopping since the day he moved in, but that doesn't stop him feeling annoyed by the presumption.
"You know, despite what you seem to think, it wouldn't actually kill you to do the shopping once in awhile," John gripes as he flings his jacket down onto his chair and glares at Sherlock, who's hunched over his laptop in the chair opposite.
"Mm," Sherlock acknowledges. The way his gaze flicks back and forth over the screen would probably fool anyone else into thinking he's not paying attention, but John knows better.
"I'm serious," John says.
"Boring."
"Sometimes shoplifting happens at the market," John points out hopefully.
"Boring."
John closes his eyes, counts to fifteen, and wonders how easy it would be to get away with murder if the man who would usually solve the crime happens to be the victim. After deciding the theory isn't worth testing (for now) John just scowls at the top of Sherlock's head and then goes over to the whiteboard to make an adjustment to the second rule: John fetches the groceries but Sherlock pays for them.
3) 'Science things' shall be confined to the bottom drawers of the refrigerator.
"Really John, 'science things'?" Sherlock snorts.
John resists the temptation to throw the whiteboard marker at Sherlock's head. "You can call them whatever you want as long as you keep them in the drawers where I won't have to see them first thing in the morning."
"What if I have a head to store and it won't fit in the drawers?" Sherlock asks, as if that's a perfectly reasonable concern for a person to have.
"Then you'll just have to find a way to make it fit, won't you?"
John immediately wishes he'd kept his mouth shut because Sherlock's eyes glaze over in a way that usually means he's about to suggest an 'unconventional' solution to a problem.
"Hm," Sherlock replies, then turns and leaves the room without another word.
John adds another rule to the whiteboard: Rule #4: No chainsaws. Ever. (I mean it).
5) Rule-breaking will result in punishment.
John notices the fifth rule as he's stumbling out of the kitchen with his morning coffee, and he pauses with his mug raised halfway to his lips. "Punishment?"
"Punishment."
John blinks at the whiteboard and then turns to look at Sherlock.
Sherlock is lying on the rug, stretched out on his stomach with his feet kicked up in the air like a teenaged girl. There's an illustrated encyclopedia of torture devices open on the floor in front of him like his very own macabre version of Sugar Magazine. It's not an encouraging sight.
"Exactly what sort of punishment are we talking about?" John asks. He's not opposed to the idea, per se, but a certain amount of caution is necessary when one's flatmate is a self-diagnosed sociopath.
Sherlock flips a page in his book. "Whatever sort of punishment the other person deems appropriate."
"So you're saying I'd get to choose how to punish you," John replies, just to make sure he's not missing anything. He's not sure whether to be honoured or insulted that Sherlock trusts him enough to put that kind of power into his hands.
"Mm," Sherlock agrees, then glances up from his book and says, "I would have the same right, of course."
"Of course." John rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee. After considering the proposal for a moment, he comes to two conclusions: one, he's not likely to break any of the rules, and two, Sherlock is likely to break them quite regularly. Just to be on the safe side, though, he says, "All right, but there are rules to that rule: nothing that will cause any permanent physical damage or warrant a trip to the hospital, and you don't get to use the punishment system as an excuse to turn me into a human guinea pig."
Sherlock's eyes narrow, but then he waves his hand dismissively and turns back to his reading. "Fine, whatever you like."
"Fine," John says.
"Fine."
John walks away from the conversation feeling like he's just lost a bet.
6) Do not think about rule six.
"That's the most ridiculous rule I've ever seen," John says without inflection. "There are no words for just how ridiculous that is."
"You're breaking rule six," Sherlock points out.
"That's entrapment." John jabs a finger in Sherlock's direction, then realizes, "and you're breaking it too, by talking to me about it."
Sherlock smirks.
"You're not funny," John mutters as he uses the inside cuff of his sleeve to erase rule six from the whiteboard.
Behind him, Sherlock lets out a barely audible chuckle.
7) No giggling at crime scenes.
"Did you-- oh god, did you see--" John gasps as he and Sherlock stumble up the stairs to their flat. It's past midnight and they both reek of alcohol. John has never seen Sherlock drunk before, but he wishes it would happen more often because it's absolutely marvelous.
Sherlock is laughing so hard he can't fit the key into the lock. "I can't believe you didn't know, John. I can't. You must have done it on purpose."
"A hairpiece," John giggles. "Anderson wears a hairpiece. That's the most brilliant thing..."
Sherlock finally manages to get the door open, and they tumble through it still laughing, clutching at each others coats in an attempt to stay upright. They somehow make it to the settee without falling, and John grunts as he flops down onto it. Sherlock lands atop him in a surprisingly graceful heap of limbs. There's an elbow lodged in John's ribs and a heel digging into his shin, and he hasn't been this happy in ages.
"You," Sherlock announces, "should be ashamed of yourself."
John snorts and pokes Sherlock in the side. "Shut up, you thought it was bloody hilarious and you know it."
"I did not."
"You did so. In fact, you broke a rule tonight."
"No I didn't."
"Yes you did," John insists. "We're not supposed to giggle at crime scenes, remember? That should've been the first rule we wrote down; the first one we ever thought of: no giggling at crime scenes."
When Sherlock twists around to look at John, the corners of his lips are twitching. "I wasn't giggling. I was chuckling. It was dignified."
"Giggling," John replies.
"Chuckling."
"Giggling."
"Chuckling."
"That's it." John grabs Sherlock and yanks him down so that he's sprawled on his belly across John's lap. Sherlock wriggles and tries to get away, but John uses the angle to his advantage and manages to hold Sherlock in place as he lands a swat on Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock is still laughing, but he lets out a surprised grunt when John's hand makes contact and asks, somewhat breathlessly, "Really, John? A spanking? How juvenile."
"Oh, like you're one to talk." John grins and gives Sherlock's arse another good slap.
Sherlock just sighs, like he's disappointed, and tells him, "You hit like a girl."
John takes the bait.
Sherlock lets out an undignified yelp of laughter when John begins spanking him in earnest, but he keeps talking anyway, egging John on and bragging about his high tolerance for pain. This, of course, just makes John hit him harder, until his hand starts to sting and he's sure Sherlock's arse is probably bright red underneath the fabric of his trousers.
But somewhere along the way, the mood changes. John doesn't notice at first-- doesn't notice that they've both stopped laughing, and that now, instead of squirming to get away, Sherlock is rocking backwards to meet his hand-- but then Sherlock twists against him in just the right way to make his breath hitch, and his hand freezes in mid-air.
Sherlock has his face pressed against the couch cushions so John can't see his expression, but he's breathing hard and there's a special kind of tension in his muscles that John thinks he recognizes and wishes he didn't. When Sherlock turns and looks up at him with his cheeks flushed and his eyes narrowed, John panics.
"I have to-- you know-- bed--" John stammers as he turns Sherlock loose and squirms out from underneath him. "There are things-- the clinic-- goodnight."
John bolts from the room as quickly as he can with the world spinning around him. Once he's reached the safety of his bedroom and locked the door behind him, he slumps back against the wall and presses his hands to his face, trying to catch his breath and calm his erratic pulse.
8) Sherlock will not ask John to get his mobile phone out of his pocket for him.
"You know, the fact that you sent me a text asking me to come here means that you were, at one point, perfectly capable of getting to your phone yourself," John complains.
Sherlock doesn't look up from the microscope. "Yes, but I'm not capable of getting to it now and now is when I need to send a text message."
John grinds his teeth and resists the temptation to knock over the rack of test tubes sitting next to Sherlock's microscope. "Why didn't you just ask me to send the message from my phone at a certain time?"
"Because the recipient of the message is a serial killer," Sherlock murmurs, "and I know how you feel about text messaging murderers."
John had woken up feeling surprisingly cheerful, if a little hungover. Sometime during the night, he'd convinced himself that the spanking had just been two drunk blokes playing around, and if it had gone a little too far, well, that was perfectly understandable given the combination of alcohol and high spirits. These things happened. Being summoned to the hospital just to send a text message on Sherlock's behalf, however, has destroyed his good mood. John is starting to wonder if Sherlock's manic depression is contagious.
"You know, it's not like my aversion to contacting serial killers has ever stopped you from asking before," John points out with a resigned sigh.
"I was being considerate."
"Right, considerate, how silly of me." John rolls his eyes, then gestures to Sherlock's blazer and asks, "Which pocket?"
Sherlock still hasn't looked up, but he gestures with the stirring rod he'd been using to poke at whatever is under the microscope. "Left trouser."
"Couldn't you have at least put it somewhere more accessible?" John gripes as he moves closer and shoves his hand into Sherlock's pocket.
Two things happen at once: Sherlock twitches and drops the stirring rod, and John realizes he can feel the warmth of Sherlock's thigh through the lining of his pocket. Neither of them move.
"I didn't mean to, uhm--" John begins hoarsely. "I mean, did you--"
Sherlock finally lifts his head, and the look on his face is startling because, for the first time since John has known him, he looks confused. Any suspicions John had entertained that Sherlock is doing this on purpose promptly vanish.
"I'm not comfortable with this," John confesses, but he can't seem to make himself move away. The fact that he's reacting this way to another man doesn't bother him-- John has a somewhat relaxed stance on heterosexuality after spending so long in Afghanistan with nothing but his hand and other men to keep him company-- but the fact that he's reacting this way to Sherlock borders on masochistic. And it's ridiculous that he's even there in the first place, on the other side of the city from his nice warm flat just because his flatmate asked him to be, and even more ridiculous that he has his hand in his flatmate's trouser pocket and they're just staring at each other instead of backing away and making excuses.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock murmurs.
John's fingers twitch against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock doesn't gasp, exactly, but there's an audible hitch in his breathing and something subtle changes in his posture: his legs jerk a few centimeters apart and his lower spine curves just enough for John to notice.
"Stop it," John whispers. "I'm not an experiment."
Sherlock's brow furrows, like he honestly has no idea what John's on about (and oh god, he really might not know), and John jerks his hand out of Sherlock's pocket.
"I'm leaving now," John announces. It comes out low and hoarse, not like his voice at all.
Sherlock's frown deepens. "All right."
"All right," John repeats, and stands there for a few seconds more before turning and fleeing for the relative safety of home. Back at the flat, he goes straight to the whiteboard and adds rule eight: Sherlock gets his own mobile phone. It's a formality, really; he's sure neither of them will be eager to repeat the incident.
9) Only one person in John's armchair at a time.
"Hand me my phone, will you?"
John lowers his book just far enough to glare at Sherlock over the top of it. Things have been tense between them all morning, and John isn't ashamed to admit that it's mostly his fault. Sherlock doesn't seem to have caught on that he should be feeling awkward about the night before.
"It's in my coat pocket," Sherlock adds without lifting his head or opening his eyes. He's sprawled in the armchair across from John with his long legs stretched out in front of him. Their ankles would be touching if John hadn't moved his foot away. John wonders if Sherlock is doing it on purpose, then decides it's probably better for his temper if he doesn't know.
"You're closer," John mutters, and lifts his book again so Sherlock can't see his face. "Get it yourself."
There's a long silence. John tries and fails to focus on the page in front of him. Sherlock is too quiet.
John lets out an annoyed grunt when the book is snatched out of his hands and tossed aside. Before he can ask what the hell Sherlock is playing at, though, Sherlock is in his lap and there's an eager mouth pressed against his. At first, John is too surprised to move, but when Sherlock makes an impatient sound against his lips, he acts on instinct and grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck to deepen the kiss.
It's like nothing he's ever felt before.
Sherlock kisses like it's the last kiss he'll ever have, like he's saved up all the emotions he should feel and doesn't, just so he can pour them all into this one moment. Both of his hands are clutching at John's hair, and when John bites his bottom lip, he lets out a shivery little moan that claws its way under John's skin and burrows down in the heat that's building between his thighs. John thinks this kiss might be the most honest thing Sherlock has ever done to him.
"Whoa, okay, wait, just-- just hold on for a second," John pants as he breaks the kiss. Sherlock eyes him warily, like he's about to put a stop to what they're doing, but John finds, to his surprise, that he has no desire to do any such thing. There are a million questions whirling about in his head, but there isn't a single one of them that's stronger than the urge to kiss Sherlock again. There is one thing he wants to clarify first, though: "It's fine, this-- the kissing, I mean-- it's just, I didn't know, so I didn't think we'd ever-- you know. I mean, you made it sound like you didn't do this sort of thing."
"I never said that." Sherlock's voice is ragged at the edges, but despite being flushed and tousled, he somehow manages to look elegant as he lifts an eyebrow and says, "I thought you weren't interested in men."
John lets out a breathless chuckle and shakes his head. "I never said that."
"Brilliant," Sherlock replies with one those vague little smiles that makes John feel like they've just shared an inside joke.
John beams up at him. "Brilliant."
Their second kiss is slower, languid and teasing in a way that makes John want to grab Sherlock's hips and tug, so when Sherlock purrs into his mouth, that's exactly what he does. Part of him expects Sherlock to shy away from the contact, so it's a pleasant surprise when Sherlock sighs through his nose and pushes forward to rub against John's stomach.
"So you've done this before, then," John gasps as he breaks away to catch his breath.
Sherlock pulls back to look down at him, eyes half-closed and lips swollen. Just knowing that he's the reason Sherlock looks that way is so hot that John can hardly breathe, and when Sherlock rocks his hips again, John makes a sound that he refuses to call a whimper. "Yes, John," Sherlock whispers, "I've done this before."
"Oh god," John breathes. He has plenty of experience when it comes to sex, but Sherlock is making him feel like a teenager. Every touch is perfect without being calculated, like Sherlock has instinctive knowledge of exactly where to stroke and how much pressure to use. John isn't surprised.
"Your ears are sensitive," Sherlock observes.
John doesn't reply. Both of Sherlock's hands are roaming over his chest and stomach before dropping to tug at his belt buckle. Being touched that way, without hesitation like they're already lovers, has all sorts of filthy comments burning on the tip of his tongue, but he holds back because he doesn't think Sherlock is the type to enjoy dirty talk.
"There's no reason to censor yourself," Sherlock murmurs. "You may have noticed that tact isn't my area of expertise."
John replies with an out-of-breath laugh. "Yeah, might've done a few times, but would you quit the mind reading business when I'm trying to get off with you?"
"Then tell me what you were thinking about." Sherlock pulls back and arches an eyebrow at him.
John knows a challenge when he sees one, so he grabs a handful of Sherlock's hair to tug him down and whispers against his ear, "I was wondering what sort of noises you'd make if I bent you over the coffee table, tied your hands behind your back, and fucked you with my tongue."
Every muscle in Sherlock's body goes tense, and then suddenly his hands are everywhere, tugging at the front of John's trousers and clawing at John's stomach. Despite the urgency in his movements, though, he still manages to make them seem graceful, unlike John who fumbles with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt so many times that he finally gives up and yanks it open.
There's no way either of them is going to last long enough to do any proper fucking, so John settles for shoving their trousers down to their ankles so that he can press up against Sherlock's bare skin. The head of his cock is wet with precome, and he growls when it skids over Sherlock's inner thigh. Sherlock's hands are in his hair again, and John's fingers are splayed over Sherlock's arse. It's all frantic and imprecise, just like sex with anyone else would be, and yet it's not the same at all because it's Sherlock Holmes rutting up against him and moaning into his mouth.
John is dimly aware that the chair has begun to rock, but nothing short of a worldwide cataclysm could make him stop what he and Sherlock are doing. Both of his hands are grabbing at Sherlock's buttocks, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, and Sherlock is grinding down against his cock. They can't seem to stop kissing.
"Say something else," Sherlock pants against John's lips.
"I-- god, I can't think right now," John groans. "Don't make me try to think when you're-- fuck, Sherlock--"
"Anything," Sherlock insists. There's a pleading edge to his voice that makes John shiver.
"I want you," John gasps. "I want you-- I want you because you're-- god, you're brilliant, and you're maddening, and you drive me out of my fucking mind, and you're just-- you're perfect, you're fucking perfect."
Sherlock seems to stop breathing, and John feels a stab of panic that he's said something wrong. But then Sherlock is crushed up against him and moaning softly into his mouth, and Sherlock's come is soaking through the front of his shirt.
"John," Sherlock whimpers.
John's orgasm rips through his body. A few more hard thrusts have him growling against Sherlock's lips, only half aware that the chair is tipping beneath them. There's a split-second freefall as his cock jerks against Sherlock's inner thigh, and then the last of his breath is knocked out of him as they hit the floor with a bone-jarring thunk.
For a few seconds, John is too dazed to work out what's happened, but then he realizes how ridiculous he must look with his pants around his ankles, his legs up in the air, and the full weight of Sherlock's body resting atop him, and he chuckles.
Sherlock lifts his head and narrows his eyes, and scans John's face like he's trying to figure out whether John is laughing at him. Apparently, he finds the reassurance he's looking for because the corners of his lips twitch.
"I think next time," John laughs, "we should do this in a bed."
"Or buy a recliner," Sherlock suggests.
John is about to point out that buying a new chair just to have sex in it is quite a commitment, but then it occurs to him that maybe that's the point. The realization must show on his face, because Sherlock's expression brightens the way it does whenever John has said something clever, and he leans down to cover John's lips in another kiss.
Things are just starting to warm up again when they're interrupted by a knock on the door, and they pull away to look at each other.
"Boys?" Mrs. Hudson calls through the door. "Boys, is everything all right?"
"Fine, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock calls back.
"Are you sure? I thought I heard a crash."
"We're fine," Sherlock insists.
There's a pause, and then Mrs. Hudson hesitantly replies, "All right, then."
John and Sherlock continue to stare at each other while they listen to her retreating footsteps, and when they hear the door to her flat close, they both dissolve into helpless laughter.
10) Rules may be broken without consequence as long as all parties agree to it.
"You're heavy," John complains a week later. They're curled up in the new recliner together, watching Mission Impossible for what must be the hundredth time. Despite the fact that the chair is enormous, Sherlock seems to have made it a personal mission to crowd John as much as possible.
"No I'm not," Sherlock replies. He's draped over John's lap wearing nothing but his blue dressing gown, and he hasn't looked away from the television in over an hour.
John knows this because he's spent the last hour watching Sherlock. "Well, you're distracting at least."
Sherlock's lips twitch, and he burrows a little closer against John. "That's flattering."
"Oh good," John deadpans. "I know how low your self-esteem is, so anything I can do to help improve it..."
"You know sarcasm hurts my feelings," Sherlock drawls, and when he shifts in John's lap, his curls brush John's lips.
John can't help but to wonder if Sherlock does these things on purpose, because since the day he and Sherlock started doing whatever-this-is, he's been horny all the time.
"Not until after the movie is over," Sherlock admonishes when John's fingers creep towards the sash of his dressing gown.
John sighs. "You've seen this movie a dozen times."
"And now it will be a baker's dozen," Sherlock replies.
There's a brief pause, and then they both snicker at the same time.
"That was terrible." John shakes his head and buries his face in Sherlock's hair.
Sherlock stretches in his lap like a cat and points out, "You laughed."
"My mistake; I shouldn't encourage you," John mutters, grazing Sherlock's ear with his lips. When Sherlock doesn't push him away or tell him to stop, he repeats the gesture with the tip of his tongue and then scrapes his teeth over Sherlock's earlobe. He's about to try and tip Sherlock's head back for a kiss when Sherlock's phone buzzes in the pocket of his dressing gown.
"Phone, please," Sherlock murmurs.
John scowls. "That's the third rule you've broken today."
"I haven't broken any rules. This is our armchair since we paid for it together, and as for the foot, it needed to be frozen, not refrigerated," Sherlock replies. "And since your hand is on my leg, it's easier for you to get to my phone at the moment, so if you wouldn't mind?"
"You're still breaking the rules," John says with a resigned sigh. He retrieves the phone anyway, though, and hands it over. There's a text message from Lestrade, and John reads it over Sherlock's shoulder: 'found body under floorboards, missing all blood, no visible wounds, 20 vauxhall rd.' When Sherlock's posture stiffens, John knows their lazy Sunday afternoon has officially come to an end.
"John, I need to--"
"Move so I can get dressed," John interrupts, and gives Sherlock's thigh a gentle pat. "Should I bring the revolver?"
Sherlock moves out of John's lap to let him stand, but he doesn't get to his feet right away. John pauses to look back over his shoulder, and catches Sherlock watching him with an unreadable expression. Then, without warning, Sherlock leaps up out of the chair and flings his arms around John's neck, and tugs John into a rough, passionate kiss that leaves John gasping for breath when Sherlock pulls away.
"What--" John stammers, touching his lips with his fingertips, "What was that for?"
Sherlock beams at him, then turns away without a word and strides across the room towards his bedroom. Judging by the look on his face, he's already lost in thinking about the case, which means John isn't likely to get an explanation for the seemingly random burst of affection. But it doesn't matter; he's pretty sure he understands.
John wanders over to the whiteboard and studies the rules with a half-smile, then picks up the marker and modifies the last one on the list: Rule #10: Everything is negotiable.