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Like A Glove

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It’s filthy, obsessive, and downright ridiculous. But John gets off on it. Hell, he can’t get off any other way, at least not lately. Lately, it’s all his mind can wrap itself around. And oh how John would like them wrapped around him. Sometimes they’re black leather. Sometimes they’re white latex. Always they make John hot around the collar. Those damned gloves!


John gives himself another tug and moans like he’s in pain. It’s the middle of the night, and he’s in their flat’s single loo. And he’s tossing off, wearing one of Sherlock’s gloves, which he nicked from the man’s dresser.


He’s a pervert. And a pincher.


And nothing’s ever felt better.




Shit!  He’s being too loud, but it feels… it feels like, what did Sherlock say? Christmas come early. Yes. Cool, black leather fitting snugly around his fingers, fingers around his cock, fingers that belong to him but he imagines belong to Sherlock. This was the experiment tonight, a leaf out of Sherlock’s book in the guise of a glove out of his drawer.


John’s been fantasizing about Sherlock’s gloves all week – all the different kinds. The man’s hands are almost always hidden beneath a layer of fabric, as if the world and everything in it fails to be worthy of touching Sherlock’s skin. It’s a practical habit in his line of work, and yet…it’s tinged with the arrogance of one who thinks he’s untouchable.


John licks his lips and widens his stance. He leans against the wall, legs trembling. He’s not going to last long, not now – now that he’s stopped just imagining Sherlock’s gloves but actually has one pulling him off. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend his fingers are long and slim. He’s rough on himself, the gloved fingers taking, not giving; Sherlock isn’t the giving sort.


That’s not entirely true. He gives John lots of things – headaches, hard work, hard-ons. And John’s never bored. How could he be, when Sherlock’s flashing him a smile at anything from a clue to a cuppa. That’s not why John sticks around, at least it wasn’t originally, but it’s…a factor. And Sherlock smiles at him quite a bit, actually. John thinks about that, thinks about the pink lips, the sculpted cheeks, and he thinks about that mouth on his prick.


But his balls don’t tighten up all the way until his thoughts are back on those sodding gloves. The lab gloves. Snow-white. Spotless. But never for long. Sherlock dirties them quickly. He feels up a corpse. Dips a rubber-encased finger in a pool of blood. Caresses a bullet wound. Caresses John.




And it’s a whimper, a pathetic one, and John tries to curb it, because it can’t be mistaken. But it’s as hopeless as Sherlock keeping his gloves clean.




And there he is in the flesh, walking into the loo without so much as a knock or a by your leave.




Hiding the glove is the top priority, but John is flustered, caught with his pants down. He whirls around, away from his insufferable, uninvited flatmate, and stumbles on the porcelain tub. He’s falling, and he grasps for the flimsy curtain rod.


He catches the rod, and Sherlock catches him.


“Get off me, you tosser!”


Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Oh right. John’s the tosser here, hand frozen on his cock.


And that’s when John realizes Sherlock’s left hand is on his bare hip, cooler and smoother to the touch than John expected, and…oh. John glances down to confirm. Sherlock’s wearing a glove. It’s black, a sharp contrast to the pale skin revealed at his wrist, and it has an elegant button, which serves no purpose but embellishment. It’s familiar. It’s—


“The other half of the pair,” Sherlock supplies. “I noticed the missing glove from my dresser and deduced—”


“That I was wanking with it?!”


Sherlock hums in agreement – God, that voice – and suddenly the hand on John’s cock is covered by another.


John squeaks and looks down. There’s hot breath on the back of his neck as two gloved hands – his right, Sherlock’s left – slowly move up and down his now-weeping erection. Sherlock’s unexpected arrival did little to quell it, and it twitches under their combined hands with renewed fervor. “Sherlock!”




And John should expect such flippancy by now, but he’s not in the frame of mind to be miffed. He gives in, melting into the tall body behind him, sighing in pleasure. His own hand is knocked away, and Sherlock takes over completely. He’s fast, but not too fast. Not too rough, not too gentle, just…dammit, perfect, because fuck all if the man did anything less than perfectly. Not that John is difficult for Sherlock to please in this particular area. Glove; guaranteed orgasm. 


“Fuck! Your hand…! On me!”


“Hmm, yes, my hand on you,” Sherlock murmurs, his low voice even lower than usual. Gravelly. Hitched. Affected. And then over John’s shoulders is that knowing smirk that should irritate but instead arouses, and John’s coming, helplessly. His breath is stolen, mind blown, and he’s still held comfortably in Sherlock’s leather-clad hand. “Fits like a glove.”