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It all started with a box. An ordinarily-looking, unassuming wooden box. No ornaments, no incrustations, no inscriptions or tags, which is exactly why it attracted John’s attention right away.
Nothing Sherlock did these days indicated his rather interesting history with intravenous drug use. Neither the fascination with gore and death nor his eccentric diurnal cycle indicated that there was a history of substance abuse. Pale white skin betrayed no needle scars, eyes were never fogged with intoxication, always crystal-clear and calculating. Sherlock Holmes’ addictive personality manifested itself to cases and the life between these cases. The former could look to some bystanders as if a child was lost in the excitement of their own world, others might think this was a man high as a kite, his body fuelled by the illicit substances flowing through his veins. The latter meant no less than withering in the grips of post-case boredom as if suffering from withdrawal symptoms. It could also look like a once happy child lost their favourite toy and started to believe they will never have another one. The knowledge that somewhere in Sherlock’s past a stretch of time was buzzing with cocaine gave John a sinking feeling in his stomach and, both as a doctor and a friend, he ventured to go through his flatmate’s belongings in search of any suspicious-looking powders, bottles, or other paraphernalia. There was no guilt as John steadily scanned the drawers and shelves, his resolve to be sure that Sherlock doesn’t do anything stupid made his movements steady, his hands and eyes were looking for something both blatantly obvious or completely unassuming. He had no assumptions as to potential hiding places and to what he was looking for. John had no illusions about Sherlock’s cleverness and therefore subconsciously knew he most probably wouldn’t find anything at all. If the man didn’t want something found, it most likely wouldn’t be. Oh, John had no scruples about invading his privacy – after all his own belongings were often subjected to inexplicable ‘snooping around’.
Sherlock’s bedroom was surprisingly tidy, almost pedantically so, which made it almost unbelievable for anything to be hidden there. After all the drawers, mostly containing clothes and perfectly indexed socks, a few drawers filled entirely with bees under a glass cover, John was ready to come to terms with finding nothing. There was, however, a pile of boxes stacked in one of the room’s corners. The first three boxes contained beakers, test tubes, books, notebooks, and, to John’s dismay, plastic bags with fingernails and hair. One of the boxes looked much less like a mere storage unit, it looked older and as if it was cared for. If John didn’t know better he would have thought Sherlock kept it because of some sentimental attachment. Or maybe he was a bit sentimental about his equipment. That’s it, that’s the one, John thought before he raised the lid of the box. Whatever he thought he would find there didn’t prepare him for what was laid on the red velvety interior of the wooden box.
“Heels,” John said aloud, as if to convince himself about what his eyes were seeing. The box that was supposed to contain cocaine supplies or some vintage glass syringes and spoons or god knows what equipment actually revealed a pair of women’s shoes. The turn of events made John’s head spin with possible explanations accounting for their presence in Sherlock’s bedroom and what is more, in a box that was evidently kept out of sentiment. He took one shoe and raised it to his eyes. Beautiful, leather pumps with fancy red-lacquered soles. A 5 inch pin heel. Jesus how do you walk in this thing and don’t break your neck?. A souvenir from a former lover, was his first deduction. Lover? That was so out of character for Sherlock to have a lover, the Sherlock that John knew from their day-to-day existence that his lips were pursed and his eyebrows came close together in puzzlement as John’s mind supplemented his deduction with an image of long legs in black-red pumps wrapped around Sherlock’s lanky frame. John’s ears were tinged with pink as he visualised a scene of narrow hips thrusting forward as the pair of these sinful shoes jerked in the air, an unidentifiable sounds escaping both of them as they worked each other. The shoes were like a cherry on top of a particularly dark and alluring cake, a souvenir from a faceless lover from the past. A souvenir John thought and then it hit him. A souvenir from her, John thought instantly, the green-eyed monster once again taking over his mind. The scene that materialised in John’s mind was now supplemented by the face of the Woman, the moans now accompanied with Are you jealous? played on loop in her voice. He almost threw the shoe back into the box and run out of the room, wishing he didn’t search Sherlock’s things at all, wishing he could delete the information he just acquired but then he sobered and stopped himself, his hand freezing midair as his eyes fell on the number positioned on the beige surface, against which a heel would rest and he realised how uncharacteristically large the shoe was. The size was 45. 45, god damn it, what UK size is that... There was no original box to check the size chart. Frustrated, he took both pumps in his hands and examined them closely. Were her feet really this big...? He couldn’t remember for sure but his memory brought him back to the posh house in Belgravia where the Woman sat wrapped in the Belstaff coat and took off her ridiculously high heels. He couldn’t remember exactly what the pair looked like, damn his observation skills. He was much more mesmerised with Sherlock’s stuttering. Far too absorbed to pay attention to Irene Adler’s heels, much less her shoe size. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes to guess someone’s measurements from one look. John put the pair on the floor next to him and glanced at the wooden box and a slip of paper folded neatly on the bottom. It turned out to be an invoice. Invoice? The brand name told John absolutely nothing, the figure made his head spin, but the description baffled him even more.
Christian Louboutin Black Big Stack 120 Leather Pumps, custom size order 45 (UK 11).
Custom size? If the size was unusual enough then the words custom and order used on an invoice which had Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker Street, London NW1 6XE on it posed even more questions. As the cogwheels started to turn in his head, John’s features slackened, his furrowed brows were raised high and his jaw dropped in a silent realisation: Not a souvenir, then.
If the thought of Sherlock keeping a souvenir of a sexual conquest was out of character, then what John found himself suspecting was outright unbelievable. These can’t be his, he tried to argue with the data that presented him with the evidence to the contrary. John plunged to retrieve a pair of one of Sherlock’s usual designer shoes from the nearby wardrobe. Size 11. Now John’s head was spinning with quite a different mental image from the earlier one.
As he sat on the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom, holding one black shoe and staring into blank space before him, he saw with vivid detail Sherlock’s pale figure standing before the huge mirror in his wardrobe. He was naked, all smooth skin and angles, except for his feet which were clad in a pair of pumps, the ones that John found in the box. His eyes were cast onto the designer shoes and he kept turning to have a full view of his feet in them. John’s eyes were wide, his pulse suddenly quickened and breath went a little ragged. If he was a little pink while he envisioned an enthusiastic coupling with Irene Adler, now his face was burning. As if woken from stupor, he waved the hand holding the shoe in front of him to disperse the mirage before him.
“Bloody hell”, he muttered under his breath.
***
The front door clicked and then there was the familiar sound of hurried steps on the 221 staircase that indicated a day pleasantly spent. Pleasantly, meaning that there probably had been an interesting corpse that Sherlock got to examine or a particularly vicious triple-murder that Sherlock got to solve in 15 minutes and afterwards insulted the hell out of the Yarders’ incompetence and slowness. John sat on the sofa, reading a crime novel and attempting to still his body language so that it didn’t scream at Sherlock I was going through your things and where I thought I would find a bag of coke I found heels and I can’t stop thinking about you wearing them. Sherlock stepped over the threshold, a bag with takeaway in his hand.
“The husband poisoned the mother-in-law,” was the only greeting that Sherlock gave and John’s lack of exasperation at the revelation of the plot-twist in the novel and a nervous jerk caused the detective to frown slightly as he went to put the takeaway on the kitchen counter. A while later, Sherlock’s voice trailed from his bedroom:
“John if you messed up my sock index ag-,” and then there was silence that followed a realisation of some sorts. John kept reading the same paragraph for at least fifth time and now he felt cold sweat on his neck as he thought bugger, he got me. When Sherlock emerged from his bedroom and stood in the middle of the living room, John spotted the accursed wooden box in his hand.
“Did you like them?” Sherlock asked and John’s head jerked up to look at him. He expected... well, he didn’t know what sort of a reaction he expected once Sherlock discovered that John found the shoes. He suspected Sherlock would know that he was through his things the instant he got back to his room and glanced at all the items slightly more to the left or a skewed lid on one of the boxes. On the box. That nervous playfulness that resounded in the question was not what John expected. His reaction was only to open his mouth but when no words came out he closed it and licked his lips, the gesture an obvious tell-tale to what the answer would be. Then, as if intending to confuse John further, Sherlock raised the lid of the box and took the shoes out of it. He held them in front of himself, as if looking for invisible markings on them. John swallowed audibly, still not having uttered a sound, kept his eyes fixed on the shoes in Sherlock’s hands.
“Yes, I thought so,” Sherlock responded to John’s unuttered answer, evidently picking up John’s obvious body language: arousal, uncertainty. And then, as if that was the most logical thing to do next, he put the pumps on the floor before him and started to strip.
John’s breathing sped up and he licked his lips once again as his gaze followed Sherlock’s hands twisting and flicking his buttons open, peeling himself out of the expensive shirt only to discard it on the floor behind him. Still rooted to the sofa, John watched intently as Sherlock’s fingers touched his belt. Their eyes met and Sherlock grinned mischievously, taking in all the little (perhaps not that little) cues that betrayed John’s arousal. The book was entirely forgotten now, all John’s attention being concentrated on Sherlock’s fingers now fiddling with the button and the fly. One quick and no less graceful shove later the trousers puddled around Sherlock’s bare feet along with his pants. He stepped out of them and kicked them slightly to the side. Now, standing completely unclothed in the middle of the living room in 221B Baker Street was Sherlock Holmes, gracing John with a smug smirk and John hungrily devoured the pale body in front of him with his eyes. John’s gaze darted from all the known places that the detective never bothered to cover while parading around the flat in only a sheet to all the places that John’s wild imagination conjured up this morning. As he eyed Sherlock’s long and shapely cock, already half-mast, he realised his own arousal straining against his jeans and he shifted his hips both in discomfort and seeking some friction, anything, because jesus fuck bugger hell. As John’s eyes unashamedly explored Sherlock’s cock and thighs, the scrutinised man suddenly moved, only to put on the almost forgotten shoes that were still before him on the floor.
“My size, custom order, as you’ve probably noticed the invoice,” the sultry and a little husky baritone reverberated in the empty and eerily silent flat, almost slapping John from the mists of arousal and making him look at Sherlock’s face. His pupils were dilated and a slight blush spread over his chest as he returned John’s gaze – a challenge and a question. Sherlock turned around, his movement swift but lingering as if to keep John’s attention. The sounds of the expensive shoes against the floor were muffled by the living room carpet as Sherlock slowly approached the kitchen door only to disappear behind it. A few heartbeats passed as John’s brain was still catching up what his senses have just registered and then he got up to his feet and in a few quick steps he crossed the room only to halt in the kitchen entrance and mutter a breathy “fuck”.
“That depends entirely on you,” Sherlock was bent over the table, his arse in the air and legs spread. Propped on his elbows, he turned his head in John’s direction, his playful smirk still plastered to his mouth. His legs, already irritatingly long without the additional five inches that the shoes provided, were now truly impossibly long. The position and the pumps both rendered his arse even more shapely that it usually was in his too tight trousers. John’s breath caught as his eyes travelled from the stiletto heels through the slim calves and thighs to stop at the sight of Sherlock’s sack hanging heavily between his parted legs. If John was uncomfortable before as his erection was trapped inside his jeans on the sofa, now the excess of clothing was infuriating. “Are you going to stand there all evening? We’ve got time but still, I’d rather not wait here forever,” Sherlock’s voice betrayed only a slight drop of impatience as he swung his hips in a way that couldn’t be more obvious. That was the only invitation that John needed now.
In a few steady movements he closed the distance between him and Sherlock, his hands fumbling with his belt and fly. Finally his erection was freed from the layers of his trousers and boxers. He hesitated for a split-second and then his hands were all over Sherlock’s wantonly displayed body. His back, his thighs, his cheeks. He kneaded both arse-cheeks almost aggressively and positioned himself before them, his erection now pressing to Sherlock’s naked bottom. They both released a whimper at the contact and John rocked into Sherlock’s behind a few times scattering frantic kisses over Sherlock’s spine, teasing the creamy skin with his tongue and occasionally nipping at it. Sherlock’s breathing was now shallow and his erection all too visible and pressing against the table top. The detective was now trapped between the table and John and he kept pushing into John and at the same time desperately seeking friction with anything that was in front of him. As John noticed Sherlock’s impatience and uncoordinated movements, he grabbed his both sides and taking one step back he turned Sherlock over so that the detective was now facing him. They held each other’s gaze as they both panted, lost in the haze of desire and engulfed in the smell of arousal and musk, John still holding Sherlock’s sides. It took one swift heave as Sherlock smirked at John and one second later was sitting on the table, pushing all the petri dishes and papers aside and onto the floor. Sherlock slowly lowered himself onto his back and raised his legs, resting his heels on the table. The sight of Sherlock’s legs spread before John and his cock straining against his belly made more impression on John than the sound of shattering glass that resounded in the flat just seconds before. John’s cock was now leaking copiously but rather than doing something about it, he plunged at Sherlock to lick his belly, his hand wandering over his chest to tease one nipple, his other hand reaching to tug at Sherlock’s neglected cock. Sherlock gasped at the touch and that quickly turned into a low-key moan that went straight to John’s groin. Head thrown back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted – that was a sight that John never in all his suppressed dreams and fantasies hoped to behold. An impossibly warm and naked and male body was thrashing beneath him and now almost pleaded for more.
“Fuck me, John.”
John’s hands stilled for a moment and he regained his voice, speaking a full sentence for the first time that evening, “Oh I will fuck you alright. Be patient,” the last consonant was uttered with more force than necessary as if to punctuate the unspoken but first I will make you beg for it, twice if need be. Then, John spotted the bottle of lube and a condom on the counter: bloody wanker, he planned it and that was his last coherent thought that evening.
He slicked his left hand with the lotion and gently touched Sherlock’s entrance. The muscle tensed at the contact along with Sherlock’s body but John quickly distracted him with rolling a condom on Sherlock’s prick and then his lips engulfing it. Now the detective started panting and writhing in earnest, being torn between thrusting into John’s mouth and piercing himself further with John’s finger, now knuckle deep in his arse. John flicked his tongue over the sensitive ridge on Sherlock’s glans, then taking more of him into his mouth, being wary of his own gag reflex. At the same time, John’s other hand worked at Sherlock’s entrance. He introduced a second finger as he started to suck at Sherlock’s erection, hollowing his cheeks to provide more friction. Sherlock was past language in any form and now he babbled incoherently as John slowly but surely worked his hole and his cock. As Sherlock’s desperation grew, he put his calves on John’s shoulders. “Fuck me now,” he commanded, his legs entwined around John and heels insistently digging into his shoulders. “Please,” he added as if in the last act of desperation and his breath hitched at the last sounds as John curved his now three fingers inside him and brushed against that sensitive bundle of nerves, depriving Sherlock of coherent speech for good. His hips bucked, impaling him even more on John’s fingers. John released Sherlock’s cock with an audible pop and reached for another packet from the counter. Rolling the condom over himself, he slicked his neglected prick with lube and positioned himself in front of Sherlock’s arse. His latex-covered cock pressed against the loosened hole and Sherlock’s impatience reached its zenith when he bucked forward only to engulf the head of John’s cock with his body. John barely refrained himself from taking Sherlock at once, from thrusting into him like a wild unchained beast. He breathed in and out slowly, bending over to Sherlock only to flick his tongue over Sherlock’s nipple and trap the straining erection against his still clothed belly. Sherlock’s only reaction was an “Oh god, John, yes” as he took John into himself to the hilt in one swift movement.
John’s mind was reduced to white noise as the desire finally took over and he started thrusting, pounding into Sherlock, enforcing a punishing rhythm, sliding in and out of his body. Sherlock kept chanting John’s name as he enthusiastically met his thrusts. His legs were again on John’s shoulders, the red-soled shoes obscenely jerking in response to each movement of John’s hips. The friction that John’s shirt provided for Sherlock’s cock was enough to bring him over the edge and after one, two, three more thrusts, Sherlock was coming and spilling himself between them. His body contracted around John and if John lost it a bit earlier, now feeling the pulsations of Sherlock’s orgasm positively let his instincts take over and he frantically took what he needed. Sherlock met his angry thrusts as he put his fist into his mouth to refrain from moaning and when John saw Sherlock’s teeth sinking into his hand, that was enough for him. He rode out his orgasm as his body’s jerks were waning in strength to eventually still completely. His damp hair clung to his forehead as he trailed his nose over Sherlock’s come spilled on his stomach. Sherlock legs released John from their hold and Sherlock put them on the floor with a loud click.
They looked at each other at the sound and burst into giggles.
“Oh my god, Sherlock,” John finally managed when they caught their breathes again, “you utter bastard, when did you know?”
“Please, John. You’re the easiest person to read, every single emotion blatantly displayed. When I walked in you were evidently distracted, you didn’t even react to me revealing the book ending. Your brows were furrowed in a way that practically screamed guilt and shame. That was the first clue that you must have done something that I would find not good. Upon entering my bedroom I immediately saw that you went through my things again, most likely in search of some sort of a secret supply of coke. Seriously, John, have you ever found anything?” now his face was contorted in a way that conveyed utter disbelief and hurt at John’s lack of faith in him, “I saw the evidence of your search: drawer contents disturbed, shirts askew in the wardrobe, and then there were the box lids in the corner. Really, John, you couldn’t have been more obvious. I suspected you’d find the box and won’t hesitate to check its contents, as it indeed originally contained my syringe and other items that you thought you would find there, that goes to your credit of noticing something about the box. But then you found the shoes and that deeply unsettled you and most probably aroused, which was the cause of the shame written all over your face as I entered the flat,” when he finished the sentence, John released his breath and pulled out of Sherlock. He disposed of both of their condoms and throwing them into the bin gave him time to process and react to the exhaustive deduction.
“Why these?” he finally managed.
“Ah, so you noticed. Maybe there’s some hope for your observational skills,” Sherlock remarked as he stood from the table, still naked except for the pumps, “these are the same ones that the Woman had on here once we popped in at her house. Well, the same model, only the size is different. I had to order those specifically from the producer. You see, it wasn’t her that I found arousing then when you were both staring at me stuttering. It was her shoes. They were an ideal means to an end,” at that Sherlock flashed John a feral smile.
And then it clicked. “So you wanted these shoes for yourself.”
“Exactly.”
“And how did you know I wouldn’t run away screaming once you walked into the living room completely starkers?” John asked with a smirk.
“Ah, that was easy. I noticed you’ve been ogling my arse for some time now. Ever since the Woman came back and tricked you into thinking Mycroft kidnapped you again. I’ve also noticed you made a very distinctive expression whenever a woman wearing heels passed you by.”
Later, when they were laying together in Sherlock’s bed, facing each other, John said: “This might have been the best spent 500 quid ever,” gesturing vaguely where the red-soled shoes were abandoned on the floor.