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“I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock murmured into John’s neck.

John inhaled sharply, feeling a surge of desire, then blew the breath out in a soft huff of laughter. “Christ. You don’t waste any time, do you? Thought you said you’d never done this before.”

“I haven’t.” Sherlock began unbuttoning John’s shirt, pressing his mouth hotly against each bit of skin as he exposed it. “But I’ve thought about it a great deal. I want you--” he’d worked his way down to John’s stomach by now, paused to dip his tongue into his navel; John shuddered. “--Want you inside me, want to feel you...in me, John, please? Will you?” He was letting his voice go soft and breathy in a way that was probably quite calculated, John knew, but that didn’t stop it from having its intended effect.

“Oh, God, wouldn’t I love to,” John murmured, and laughed again, a bit ruefully this time. “But it’s probably not a good idea. There’s other things we can--”

“Why not?” Sherlock sat up, breathiness abandoned, scowling now, impatient. “I may be inexperienced, but I’ve done extensive reading on the subject, I assure you, along with a fair bit of self-experimentation, and I am very well aware of how to--oh!” He broke off very suddenly as John took Sherlock’s hand and guided it to press against the bulge in his trousers.

The very large bulge.

“Good heavens, John.” Sherlock sounded faintly stunned. “You never said.”

“Yes, well.” John coughed. “Not the sort of thing that comes up in everyday flatmate conversation, is it? ‘We’re out of milk again, your turn to do the washing-up, and by the way, in case you’d ever wondered, I’ve got a simply enormous knob.’”

Sherlock didn’t smile. He gripped John more firmly through his trousers and gave an experimental squeeze. “I want to see it,” he said. “Show me.”

“I--” John felt himself begin to break out in a fine sweat as Sherlock pressed harder. “A-all right then.” He opened his trousers, and Sherlock was already sliding his fingers inside the waistband of his boxers, pulling the elastic out and then down, peering inside.

“Impressive,” he said, and skated his fingers lightly up and down John’s length, then encircled him with his whole hand, measuring. His fingers and thumb were able to meet around his girth, but not with a great deal of overlap. “Have you ever...?” he asked.

“What, penetrated another man? Yes. Not the first time we had sex, though. And not without a lot of prep. Someday we can try it, if you want to. For now--”

“I want to try it now.” Sherlock looked hypnotised.

“Sherlock, you’re mad. No. I’d hurt you.” John felt his traitorous cock grow even harder at the suggestion, though--that, and the exposure, and Sherlock’s intense scrutiny, were making him fairly throb with excitement. A bead of precome welled up, and Sherlock, who missed nothing, reached out to dab carefully at it with a forefinger, rubbing it back and forth along his slit.

“You wouldn’t,” he told John. “At least, not the way you mean. You’re a doctor; you know how to be careful. We could try,” he wheedled, tracing his dampened finger around in tiny circles that made John gasp and shut his eyes. “I’ll stop you if it hurts too much. Come on, say yes.” His voice was a deep, sensual purr now. John had the feeling he’d practised that voice for ages, honed it to perfection until he could use it to get whatever he wanted from anything with a pulse.

“Um.” John licked his lips. “I don’t... Are you sure?”

Sherlock grinned widely and began to strip.

*

Sherlock enjoyed the prep a great deal, as a matter of fact. He lay on his stomach, hips propped up by a pillow, and luxuriated in the influx of new and fascinating sensations. John’s voice was low and soothing as he talked Sherlock through it, with only an occasional tremor to betray his own excitement.

“I’m going to touch, now,” he cautioned. “Lube’s going to feel cold at first, but it’ll warm up quickly. Ready?”

Sherlock made a noise of assent, but jerked a little anyway as he felt John spread his cheeks apart and rub slickened fingers over his hole. One fingertip slipped inside for a moment, then withdrew, and Sherlock gasped.

“All right?” John sounded concerned. “Never done this part before either?”

“Not...not with another person,” Sherlock admitted. “Feels a lot different when it’s someone else’s fingers. Go on, please.”

John hesitated for a moment, but then complied. His fingertips teased at Sherlock’s entrance, tracing the rim, dipping in and out, letting him grow accustomed to being touched there.

“Going to go a little deeper now,” John told him, and pushed one finger all the way in.

Sherlock shuddered, feeling himself clench around the intrusion. “I like that,” he assured John quickly. “I--keep doing that. More.”

John complied, wordlessly, pressing a second finger in alongside the first, wiggling them gently. When he started to slide them out, Sherlock heard himself give a whine of protest, which turned into another sort of noise altogether as John pushed them back in, beginning to fuck him slowly and carefully with his fingers.

Part of Sherlock’s mind took avid notes on the process throughout, fascinated by his own body’s reactions to the stimulation, most of which he could neither predict nor control. If Sherlock had known how amazing it would feel to be spread open and fingered and stretched in this way, he would have insisted on it ages ago--he’d tried doing it to himself, but there was really no comparison; he’d never been able to find his own prostate, for one thing. When John’s fingers rubbed against that spot inside him, Sherlock couldn’t keep still. A loud moan escaped him, and his hips began to hitch back and forth, his erection stiffening against the pillow.

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John’s voice had gone rough and deep. “You’re going to make me come just from watching you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock ordered. “I want your cock inside me. Do it now? Please?”

John gave a groaning sort of laugh. “Not yet. You’re not nearly open enough. I think you’re ready for a third finger, though. Tell me if I’m hurting you, all right?”

There was another finger inside him, abruptly, and another cold squirt of lube, and Sherlock could feel a slight burn to the stretching now. It brought him well back from the edge, which was probably to the good--they were really only just getting started here, after all.

“Have you ever used a plug?” John asked eventually.

“A... What, a butt plug? No.”

“Do you want to try it? I’ve got one. It’s not as big as me, but it’d stretch you a bit more, and keep you open while I get myself ready.”

Sherlock closed his eyes at the thought of John getting himself ready. “All right,” he managed, a little drunk from the feeling of John’s fingers inside him. He’d no idea how long they’d been doing this now, which was disconcerting.

Not as disconcerting as the feeling of sudden emptiness when John slid his fingers out, though. Sherlock made a strangled sound of protest, feeling much too open and damp and exposed.

“Just a minute,” John assured him, rummaging in his nightstand and pulling out a long, thick, curved black object. God, he kept things like this right there in his room--had he been using them on himself, all these months, Sherlock wondered, alone at night while Sherlock worked on his cases, oblivious, just downstairs? He raised himself up on one elbow and turned to look at the thing.

“Silicone,” John said, handing it to him to examine. “Sterilized, of course, but I can put a condom on it if you--”

“No,” Sherlock said, handing it back and lying down again, needing to hide his face. He was wondering just what he’d gotten himself into, suddenly--but wanted to go on, too, before he lost his nerve. “Come on,” he said impatiently. “Do it.”

John laughed, and reached for the lube again. “All right,” he said after a moment, and Sherlock felt his fingers again, spreading him wide. “Ready? Going to feel a bit cold again at first. Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll go slow.”

The thing slid into him, cool and slick and inexorably hard compared with John’s fingers, filling him up in a way that was both thrilling and slightly unpleasant. “All right?” John asked, pausing, and Sherlock nodded. He wasn’t sure what his voice would do if he tried to speak, and he was afraid to move, but John was pulling at him gently now, encouraging him to turn over. “Come on,” he said. “On your back, it’ll be easier, and I want to see you--OK?”

Sherlock settled gingerly on his back, shivering at the way the plug shifted and settled inside him, pressing at his insides in an unfamiliar way. “Oh,” he said uncertainly, and John leaned in to kiss him, which helped.

“How are you doing?” John murmured, and drew back to study Sherlock’s face. “You seem a little...overwhelmed.”

It was true, he was, Sherlock realised. More than a little. The room was too bright and his stomach was shaking and there was too much to feel: cooler air against his cock, sweat at his temples, and his arse, oh God, his arse was so stretched and sensitive, contracting again and again around the too-hard foreign object inside him. Yes, he thought of saying, it’s too much, take it out, please, let’s not,--but he was hard and wanting, too; his erection ached to be touched. He’d never felt anything like this before and he didn’t want it to stop ever.

“Just need a minute,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound like his at all, and the humiliation of it made him even harder. He shut his eyes and let his head fall back, lost and swirling and more deeply anchored in his body than he could remember being since he’d gone off the drugs.

Suddenly he opened his eyes again with a gasp; John was reaching between his legs, pulling gently at the base of the plug, drawing it out of him. “Shh, sorry,” he said. “This was wrong, I shouldn’t have--we’re stopping, it’s fine, you don’t have to say anything, I--ow? Ow! Sherlock!”

Sherlock had shot out a hand and seized him by the wrist, gripping it hard enough to bruise. “We’re not stopping,” he said.

*

John knew from bitter experience that when Sherlock got that particular determined look on his face, it was useless to argue with him. You could flat-out refuse, and put up with days of sulking, or you could decide it wasn’t worth it and give in. Even so, he was prepared to go with the refusal-and-sulking route in this case--Sherlock pretty clearly had no idea what he was getting into, despite his stated wishes; it would be unconscionable of John to follow through.

“We are stopping,” he said. “It’s enough, I told you, we can do other things; what’s the rush? Another time, if you feel ready, we can try-- Oh god.” John broke off abruptly as Sherlock sat up and wrapped a hand firmly around his cock. “That’s--oh.” He tried halfheartedly to pull away, but Sherlock gave him a sharp warning squeeze that made him gasp, then began fluttering his fingers coaxingly in a way that soon had John fully hard and squirming. What had he been objecting to? Why? He couldn’t quite remember.

“We’re going to do this,” Sherlock said, taking his hand away just long enough to make John bite back a whimper of protest, “exactly the way I want. And what I want is this.” His hand came back, wet with lube now, stripping up and down the length of John’s shaft in long slick squeezes. “You. Inside me. Filling me up, making me beg. You like that idea, don’t you,” he said, pausing, sounding suddenly pleased. “Yes, of course. The great Sherlock Holmes, undone. I like it, too,” he went on, moving his hand in gently pulsing strokes again. “But only for you, John. I’ve been saving this for you, it seems, all these years--I’d no idea you’d turn out to be so uniquely suited to taking me apart in this particular way.” He was kissing John all the while he delivered this extraordinary speech, breaking off to murmur the phrases against John’s mouth, his neck, biting at the underside of his jaw, while his hand continued in its inexorable work.

“Fine, then,” John said helplessly, when he could catch his breath again. “We’ll try it. Just let me get a--”

“Unnecessary. I’m a virgin, you’re clean, yes? Come on, let’s get on with it,” Sherlock insisted, but this was one matter in which John refused to accommodate him.

“Absolutely not,” he said, getting some of his own steel back. “I’m fairly sure there’s no need, but fairly sure’s not good enough. Besides, if I penetrate you with nothing on it’s likely to be over the moment it begins--is that what you want?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Very well,” he sighed, and lay back to watch with interest as John sheathed himself and stroked more lubricant onto his erection. Sherlock toyed with himself lazily as he watched, then let his hand drift down to feel where the plug still protruded from him, his eyes going wide as he twisted gingerly at the base of it.

“Let me.” John pushed Sherlock’s knees apart and back, then knelt between his legs to draw the toy slowly, carefully from his body, easing it out with one hand. The other went to Sherlock’s belly, pressing down firmly to hold him still, feeling him contract and clench against the sudden absence.

“Oh, that feels--” Sherlock shuddered as the device slipped free and left him empty again. “John, I need--”

“I know. Shh.” John put the plug aside and checked Sherlock with his fingers again; two went in easily, a third with very little resistance, and the muscles convulsed around him greedily. Sherlock was biting his lip, his eyes tightly shut, but not, apparently, in pain.

“John, do it now,” he begged.

“All right,” John said. He placed the tip of his cock against him, just nudging at the slick, rhythmically contracting entrance to Sherlock’s body for a long minute, and Sherlock gave a keen of frustration and thrust forward with his hips, hands clutching at John’s lower back to try and force him in. John pulled away entirely, and the keen became an outright howl.

“Slowly,” John admonished. “Or we don’t do this at all. Look at me, Sherlock.” Sherlock, obedient for once, looked. How unnerving, John thought, to see those sharp pale eyes gone dark and glazed with lust. He looked less strange than usual, a little sweaty and human and vulnerable with want, and that was just...strange. “You have to let me set the pace,” John insisted. “I don’t trust you to respond to your body’s pain signals, especially not right now--I’m not going to injure you for this, do you understand?”

His cock was throbbing and aching for more contact while he delivered this speech, and John wondered if he’d really have the strength to call it all off if Sherlock reacted in his typical petulant-child fashion, but he didn’t have to put it to the test, thankfully. Sherlock simply nodded and slid one long-fingered hand around the back of John’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

“All right,” he agreed. “Your pace. You’re very good; you won’t hurt me.” Sherlock kissed him again, more deeply this time. “Come inside me now?” he murmured. “Please?”

*

It hurt like fuck. Appropriately enough. Sherlock had expected some brief discomfort but nothing like this, not this burning relentless ache. He didn’t mind it, it wasn’t that--but he was afraid he couldn’t keep his body from showing signals that John would be able to read. Dull as he was in some areas, John was often inconveniently expert at deducing pain. Sherlock’s pain in particular.

And it didn’t stop, annoyingly. The burn actually increased. Sherlock felt a sort of lizard-brained panic after a bit, an urgent need to pull away that began to cloud his resolve. If only John would just thrust and get it over with--

“All right?” John said, seeking out eye contact which Sherlock didn’t want to give. He nodded.

“There is a bit--” he caught his breath, “--more discomfort than I’d anticipated.” Because John wouldn’t believe him if Sherlock claimed it felt fantastic, but the more honest answer it feels like you’re trying to cram a bloody cricket bat up my intestines would probably make John stop altogether. The thought of John stopping increased his panic, and he had to remind his fingers not to clutch.

“I know.” John kissed his temple, licked away a traitorous trickle of sweat. “Burns, yeah? It’ll ease up soon. No rush.” His hips rocked slightly, giving Sherlock the smallest of testing nudges inside, and Sherlock felt himself gradually relax as he realised John wasn’t on the point of abandoning the whole experiment--abandoning him. “Good,” John breathed, nudging deeper. “Oh--god, Sherlock, so tight,” he gasped. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. We’re both mad. Sure you’re all right?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what all right meant anymore. His consciousness had narrowed to a single point of sensation: the white-hot flare of pleasure/pain where his body was stretched around John’s flesh invading his own. He felt utterly obliviated. It was terrifying. It was amazing.

“Sherlock?” John went still.

“Yes, all right, yes,” Sherlock snapped. “Just--move, will you?” He planted his feet flat on the mattress and shoved upward with his hips, then froze and grabbed hard at John’s forearms; the pain was so intense, he felt as though he were breaking in two.

“Easy,” John said, pulling back a bit, stroking Sherlock’s hair away from his forehead with a slightly shaky hand. “Had enough yet? Should I stop?”

Sherlock shook his head violently. “I need this,” he insisted, letting his voice break a little, and it was only partly a calculated move. “Need you in me, John. All the way. Please.

Sherlock had pitched his voice low on the plea, knowing John would feel the vibration of it all through his body, and sure enough John paused and shuddered before speaking.

“You can’t--I’ll damage you, Sherlock, how do you think that’s going to make me feel, if--”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s arms again and wrenched him right over on to his back, taking him by surprise. In a moment their positions were reversed, Sherlock straddling his thighs, poised to lower himself down onto him. “Here. Let’s try this. My body weight will do the work, and I can control the pace, stop if there’s too much pain.”

“If you’re sure.” John still sounded doubtful, and his hands were gripping Sherlock’s hips tightly now, preventing him from any sudden movements.

Eyes closed, teeth caught in his lower lip, Sherlock steeled himself and eased down slowly, inch by inch, until John’s cock was sheathed in his body--not completely, but as far as it could go. He held there for a long minute or two, trying to remember how to breathe, while John made broken little gasping sounds beneath him and clutched at Sherlock’s hipbones so hard he was sure he’d have bruises there the next day.

Sherlock shifted a little, testing, and had to bite his lip hard so that he wouldn’t cry out. His mind, struggling to define the sensation, kept coming up with words like pierced and impaled, which wasn’t helping. There was a kind of wild elation in it, too, a shivering satisfaction in knowing he’d accomplished his objective. He was full of John, closer than close to him in a way he’d been obsessively imagining for weeks now, months.

True, he hadn’t realised there would be so much of John. It was probably only fitting, though. He’d known ever since they’d met that the man was nothing less than a concealed weapon.

Sherlock forced his attention away from his aching, burning arse and looked down at John. He was sweating at the hairline, jaw clenched, eyes tightly shut. Presumably he didn’t do this a lot, either.

“Tight,” John gasped. “Oh god. You’re so tight it almost hurts. I can only imagine what it must feel like for you. You’re OK?” He reached around and brushed slick fingers against the place where they were joined. “Oh god,” he repeated, hushed and reverent, and then moved his hand back to press against Sherlock’s lower abdomen, rubbing in firm circles. “I can feel myself inside you. Christ.”

Sherlock’s own cock had gone soft again, but something about hearing John’s voice like that, thick and desperate, made it twitch to life again. He wrapped his hand around it, stroking himself back to hardness; the spike of pleasure when he ran his thumb over the head made his hole clench around John, and they both groaned.

“Want to come with you inside me,” Sherlock panted, and the look on John’s face made it worth all the pain and then some. Sherlock gave another experimental little shift and found that it was bearable, now, to move. He tried a tentative roll of his hips.

“Fuck,” John said, and “Yes,” and then, “Let me do that,” impatiently batting Sherlock’s hand away from himself and replacing it with his own. This freed Sherlock to brace his hands on the headboard and begin to rock back and forth a bit, hesitantly, still getting used to the strange sensation of being prodded deep on the inside.

Too big, too much, get it out, Sherlock’s body was still protesting, but Sherlock was very good at telling his body to sod off when it tried to behave in ways that didn’t suit his mind’s needs. He couldn’t actually slide up and down on John’s cock, fucking himself on it the way he’d envisioned--it just stung too much--but the rocking was good, and he felt a glow of heat inside as he kept it up, letting John’s hand pull him gently into a sort of grinding rhythm.

*

John had to keep his eyes tightly shut, because the sight of Sherlock swaying uncertainly on top of him nearly sent him right over the edge. He really hadn’t done this with too many partners before, and almost never to completion. Porn films were mostly bullshit; he knew from long years of frustrated experience that having a member the size of his was more of a liability than an asset in bed.

He’d fantasised about something like this with Sherlock. God, he had. Never imagined he’d really have it, though; he’d always supposed Sherlock would want to top him, and he’d have been okay with that, more than okay. But the thought had been there, wrong as it was, especially on days when Sherlock was being particularly insufferable: bending him over, making Sherlock take all of him, reducing all that sharp-edged wit to mindless begging for--

“More, John,” Sherlock murmured, rocking faster. “I’m, you’re getting me close, it’s so...you’re so big, give me more, please--”

John opened his eyes and found Sherlock focusing on him with a familiar look of narrowed concentration. He had to laugh. “Stop deducing my fantasies,” he said. “Have you been watching those porn files on my laptop? You have, haven’t you? Is that where all this came from?”

Sherlock stopped moving very suddenly. He looked (and felt) extremely wilted, and John gave himself a hard mental kick in the arse. “Sorry,” John said. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--come here,” he added, and pulled Sherlock down very carefully to kiss him softly on the mouth, then pressed their foreheads together. “You’re amazing, and I’m an idiot, I can’t believe you’re letting me-- What do you want? Tell me.”

Sherlock breathed out a sigh. “I liked the porn,” he murmured, and John could hear the scowl in his voice. “Or, rather, I liked the idea of you liking it. It turned me on. You could say things like that. To me. If you wanted to.” He sounded hesitant, questioning, and John did a little quick deducing of his own.

“You want me to fuck you,” he said softly, and felt Sherlock’s inside muscles flutter around him a little. “You want me to hold you down and give it to you, make you like it. Yeah?” Sherlock shut his eyes and gave a little moan, hardening again in John’s hand. “Yeah,” John answered himself. “All right, then. On your back. Careful, now.”

He had no idea if it was Sherlock’s want he was responding to here or Sherlock getting off on responding to what John wanted, and it was hard to think with Sherlock’s body shifting around his erection, adjusting, changing position while John tried not to slip out of him entirely. “Good,” John said when he had Sherlock beneath him. “You can feel every inch of me inside you like this, can’t you? You want more?”

Sherlock whimpered and nodded, his eyes huge and fascinated now, and John decided not to try and parse out the layers of real and fantasy here--as long as Sherlock wasn’t in real pain, or afraid, and John was reasonably sure at this point that he wasn’t--it felt too damned good not to just go with it.

“Going to fuck you so hard,” John gasped. He wasn’t, he had no intention of moving at all, but Sherlock moaned and arched beneath him at the words, slippery with sweat and clenching down on him, and oh god. “Going to make you come, Sherlock. Tell me what you want, tell me.”

“Oh, John, oh god, touch me harder, faster,” Sherlock got out, getting his hand around John’s fist on his cock and squeezing down hard. “There, right there--oh, god, give it to me, please--”

John worked Sherlock’s foreskin up and down his prick as rapidly as he could and nudged into him just a tiny bit deeper, letting Sherlock feel the weight of him all down his body.

*

Sherlock’s climax took him entirely by surprise. He had done it before, of course, on his own, so he knew how it felt, but with so many different sorts of sensory input and new information assaulting his senses, he didn’t expect he’d ever be able to achieve the necessary focus.

It turned out not to be a problem. With John pinning him down, he felt--his brain groped after the last shreds of language--owned, possessed, safe. He was free not to think, just to feel. His mind fuzzed into static and all his nerve endings began to sing, starting from the middle of his spine and spreading out into every extremity as he gave himself up to nothing but the feeling of John’s hand and John’s cock and that glorious glowing sensation of being filled.

John groaned “Oh, Sherlock,” into his neck, sounding utterly desperate, and that was it, that was finding the trail, solving the case, winning every game all at once. I’m dying, Sherlock thought frantically, and exploded into a million sparkling fragments of pure light.

*

When he came back to himself, John was still heavy and solid on top of him, kissing his damp neck and collarbones and murmuring fragments of ridiculous things with beautiful and brilliant and so, so amazing in them.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Sherlock said in a slightly shaky voice, when he could speak again.

“What?” John pulled back a bit, still panting. “What, all of it?” He looked so panicked that Sherlock shook his head quickly.

“No! Just the ending part. I didn’t think I’d...you know. Finish.”

“You said you wanted to!” John protested. “You did! I heard you! And I quote, ‘Want to come with your cock inside me...’ oh god, that was just a line, wasn’t it?”

“I wanted to make you come,” Sherlock said crossly. “I was planning on observing it. I didn’t expect it would be so--Ah! What are you doing?”

“Pulling out,” John said. “Hold up,”--Sherlock hissed, screwing up his face--“And...there we are. Sorry. Sorry. You all right?”

“God, that hurts worse than when you put it in me. Yeah, I think so. Fine.”

“Can I check?” John asked, and Sherlock bent his knees and moved his legs apart unselfconsciously for him.

“I expected it would be rather terrifying, losing control so completely around another person,” Sherlock continued thoughtfully. “And I’d have thought the element of pain would prevent--ow, ow!”

“Sorry,” John said again. “You’ll be a bit sore for a day or two. No bleeding, though. Was it terrifying?”

It was unfortunate for John, Sherlock thought, that he looked so absolutely lovely when he was worried. Sherlock wanted to make him look that way at him all the time. In the end he relented, though. Satisfying enough to know that he could make John look that way whenever he wanted.

“No,” Sherlock said, and pulled him close to kiss him. “It was good.”

John waited. “That’s it?” he asked eventually. “‘Good’?”

“I can’t think of any other words,” Sherlock admitted. “My brain’s not working properly after that.”

“That’s...possibly the biggest compliment I’ve ever had from you,” John said, and his pleased expression was nearly as lovely as his worried one, so that was all right.