The record John found stuffed in among the books on the bottom shelf is soothing and makes the afternoon feel timeless. John doesn't usually listen to classical music, but the sonata on the scratchy old record player feels comfortable, like it belongs in this room. John wonders how long it's been since it was played last, and whether Sherlock even knows he still owns it.
John is standing at the bookshelf, listening absently and trying to find the monograph on snails that Sherlock said in a text ten minutes ago was utterly essential to his most recent case, when he hears the door to the street downstairs open and close. It's followed by the quiet but unmistakable sound of Sherlock's footsteps coming up the stairs, and John can practically feel his attempt at stealth. John starts to turn around, ready to call Sherlock on it, but thinks better of it at the last moment.
The music almost covers the sound of Sherlock pushing open the door to the flat-- they keep it unlocked most of the time, since Mrs. Hudson is a better gatekeeper than a guard dog, and doesn't often take the police as a good reason to let anyone up. John keeps his eyes on the books, pretending to frown and skim their titles with his fingertip, while Sherlock shucks his coat and toes off his shoes. It's hard to act like he hasn't heard him, but John's left ear is dodgy anyway and he can feign inattention well after what felt like a lifetime of close quarters and no privacy in Afghanistan. He is a doctor, after all, and doctors know discretion.
Sherlock doesn't waste any more time, and, even though John was waiting for it, the touch of his hands on John's hips makes John twitch. He turns his head, smiling, and Sherlock presses his lips to the back of John's neck.
John lets out a little breath. This, Sherlock has discovered and exploited with great frequency and enthusiasm, is his weak spot. One touch, one hint of sensual attention, and John's knees are like water and his heart is racing. Sherlock kisses him again, at the same time sliding his hands around to press against John's belly and chest, holding him against Sherlock's long body, and John bites his lip. Sherlock's exhale is warm on the back of his neck. John can feel him smiling against his skin.
He tips his head forwards, giving Sherlock more room, and Sherlock bites him gently, teeth digging in around the spinous process of his C7 vertebra. John shudders, fingers clenching on the bookshelf in front of him. Sherlock soothes the bite with his tongue, and his hands move again, his right hand to rest over John's heart and the other to palm the bulge in his trousers. John bites back a moan, suddenly fearful of breaking the spell. The music from the record feels like it's winding around them. His cock is stiffening in Sherlock's grip and he spreads his legs a little, sinking lower against the bookshelf and pushing his hips back. Sherlock nips again, more sharply, and John can feel Sherlock's erection against his arse. Fuck, yes, he wants it just like this.
Normally Sherlock is loud, expressive and vocal in his appreciation-- for John's hands, John's mouth, John's body. But right now he's silent, breathing quietly against John's neck and groping him through his trousers, and John wants it right here, against the bookshelf, in the middle of the flat in the middle of the day. He almost wants to tell Sherlock to lock the door, but that would shatter the moment.
Sherlock's nimble fingers find John's belt and flies and undo them both with a quiet clink and zip, slipping into the vee of John's trousers and under the elastic of his shorts. John's cock jumps at the touch of skin on skin, and he huffs a breath. Sherlock kisses another spot on his neck, closer to his shoulder, and then sets about worrying the skin, raising a bruise that will smart for a couple of hours and linger for days. John loves finding the bites later, in the mirror or in the shower, and Sherlock loves giving them to him.
Sherlock pulls John's cock out of his trousers and gives it a squeeze, running his dry thumb against the exposed crown. John's whole body jerks, the pleasure too concentrated, and Sherlock backs off. He removes his hand, lifts it to John's mouth, and John takes Sherlock's thumb between his lips to wet it. Sherlock muffles a little moan against John's hairline, kissing behind his ear, and John's cock jerks. He closes his eyes and sucks hard, then pushes Sherlock's thumb out with his tongue and is offered Sherlock's two first fingers instead.
John gets them as wet as he can, and with his tongue he can feel the roughness of Sherlock's calluses from the violin strings, the neat edges of his fingernails, and he can taste the grit of London and the lingering tang of soap and the salt of his skin. Sherlock kisses his throat again, withdrawing his hand, and then his wet fingers on John's now-leaking cock-head are not too much. He arches into the touch and Sherlock's fingers bump clumsily against him, slide down his shaft, and card through the curls of his pubic hair until Sherlock is cradling John's balls in the warm palm of his hand. He must have been wearing gloves, John decides, because in April the air is cool enough that Sherlock's hands would have taken some time to warm up, even on John's overheated skin.
Sherlock murmurs something, a whispered, 'Yes,' as John slides his socked feet apart on the floor to give him more room, and his other hand finds the peak of John's nipple through his shirt and jumper. John squirms, gasping. His body is hot from head to toe, throbbing with arousal. Sherlock's cock fits against the cleft of his arse, the ridge of it thick and hot and heavy, and every slow roll of Sherlock's hips grinds him into John, and John into his teasing hand.
With a last kiss to the tender spot at the top of John's spine, Sherlock lets go of him and sinks silently to his knees, keeping his hands on John from shoulders to hips. He tugs John's trousers down, pulling them to his knees, and fits his fingers into the hollows of John's hips. John changes his grip on the bookshelf, knuckles white, and spreads his legs until the trousers catch and hold. He presses his forehead to the shelf between his hands, panting open-mouthed, trembling with anticipation. Sherlock smoothes a hand down the curve of his arse, slowly, and brushes his thumbs, one of them dry and one wet, into John's crack. He parts the globes of John's arse and John can't help the way his legs are shaking. He squeezes his eyes shut. Sherlock's breath is warm, focused, and then John has to stifle a yelp as the tip of Sherlock's tongue touches him.
He doesn't usually let Sherlock do this without any warning, prefers to be as clean and inoffensive as possible, but Sherlock is gripping his arse with almost painful force and moaning, working his tongue against John's hole. It's slick, so wet, and John rolls his forehead against the shelf, panting. He can't get enough air into his lungs, overwhelmed by Sherlock's enthusiasm, licking him and teasing him. His knees are weak, and his cock is shiny at the tip.
Sherlock lets go of one arse cheek and sneaks his hand between John's legs, tickling his balls and sliding up the shaft of his cock. Sherlock gathers the wetness John is leaking and smoothes it down his length, and then curls his long fingers around and jerks John slowly as he licks him.
John is whimpering. He can hear himself, gasping and pathetic, and Sherlock pulls away, breathing ragged. He releases John's cock and gives his hip a squeeze, and then John is left standing at the bookshelf, his pants around his knees, his cock stiff and leaking and leaving smears of pre-ejaculate on his t-shirt.
He can hear Sherlock rummaging in a drawer, cursing, and he lets himself take a careful, steadying breath. His pulse is pounding in his ears, and his stomach is twisting pleasantly.
Sherlock returns with another kiss to the back of his neck and a murmured apology, and then he's sliding slippery fingers into John's crack. He rubs them up and down, over John's sensitive hole, smearing the slick everywhere, so generous with it that John can feel it beginning to run down his legs. He's desperate for Sherlock's fingers inside him, arching his spine and pressing back against Sherlock's wandering hand, and Sherlock huffs a laugh and obliges, sinking his long middle finger knuckle-deep into John's body.
John can't help the 'Fuck,' that escapes him as Sherlock mouths at the back of his neck again, rubbing his clean hand over John's belly and chest, pushing his shirt out of the way. He rocks his finger back and forth inside, sliding sweetly over John's prostate, giving John just enough pressure to make his blood sing with desire and his cock jerk. Sherlock can play John's body like his violin, tender and slow until John is begging, and then vigorous and with such enthusiasm that John has been known to shout aloud when he reaches his peak. It's embarrassing, and Sherlock seems determined to make him do it as often as possible.
Sherlock adds a second finger, pressing them deep, and takes John's cock in hand again. He strokes John as he finger-fucks him, slow and deliberate, the squelchy sound of both actions a counterpoint to the record that still plays across the room.
'Sherlock,' John whispers, wetting his lips, and Sherlock nudges his head, turning him for a kiss. He captures John's mouth, kissing him deeply, flickering his tongue in and out at the same pace that his fingers are moving below. Then he pulls away abruptly, mouth and fingers and all, and John bows his head again. His stomach is hot and his groin is tight, and he's never felt more ready to be fucked.
Sherlock teases him, taking his sweet time unbuckling his belt and unfastening his trousers, and once he's unzipped he takes his cock in hand and rubs it along John's crack, the wet, exposed head catching on the sensitive rim of John's hole. John pushes back, groaning, and Sherlock's cock slips in an inch, John's body opening for it eagerly.
Sherlock's breath leaves him in an audible hiss, and he grabs John by both hips and pulls. His cock sinks in to the hilt, so deep it leaves John gasping. Sherlock rolls his hips, rocking up on his toes, and John can't keep in the moan that breaks from his chest. He lets go of the bookshelf with one hand to reach back and clutch at Sherlock's clothed back, desperate for more contact. Sherlock laughs and leans forwards, applying his mouth to John's throat and sucking another little mark in behind his ear. His hair tickles John's cheek, and John tilts his arse up a little, giving Sherlock a hint.
Sherlock takes it, thank God. He pulls back until the tip of his cock is in danger of leaving John empty, and then he snaps his hips forwards so hard John almost bumps his head on the books on the shelf. Sherlock fucks him with hard, deep, precise thrusts that slide right across John's prostate and leave him shaking.
Across the room, the needle slides off the end of the record and stumbles into scratchy silence, and the only sound left is Sherlock's harsh breathing and the wet sound of their bodies coming together. Sherlock lets go of one of John's hips to grip his cock, fucking John into the tunnel of his closed fist, and he rests his forehead between John's shoulder blades. John's shirt is damp with sweat now, there and under his arms, and he tips his head back to touch Sherlock's briefly. Sherlock kisses his spine through the fabric, growling, and slows his thrusts down until they rock John to the core, filling him up and leaving him bereft with such lassitude that he wants to sob. His hips ache with the stretch and pressure, and his balls are heavy and tight, slapping against Sherlock's fist with every thrust.
Finally he breaks, shoving back and gasping, 'Please!'
Sherlock bites him, teeth blunted by his shirt, and speeds up again. John's body is winding tight, clamping down on Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock must feel it. He has to. John's legs are trembling and he locks his knees to keep himself up. Sherlock winds his arm around John's hips, holding him up as John's grip on the bookshelf slips.
He's going to come. He wants to warn Sherlock, wants to voice the need, but Sherlock is a detective: his job is the details. John hears him gasp, and he dips his head to look between his legs where the head of his cock pops out of the ring of Sherlock's fingers with every roll of Sherlock's hips. Sherlock's grip is tight and slick, tightening as Sherlock notices how close John is. John can feel it building, thick and hot and oh so good, and he closes his eyes as he arches his back and comes. Sherlock grunts, driving his hips hard and fast. John shudders, pressing his face into his forearm and moaning, and then goes as limp as the position allows. He hangs onto the bookshelf for dear life, letting himself be buffeted by the force of Sherlock's thrusts, and echoes Sherlock's groan of completion when Sherlock goes stiff and still, and John can feel him throbbing.
After a moment, Sherlock presses a kiss to his temple and pulls away, his softening cock slipping wetly from John's body. John straightens up awkwardly and tugs his shorts and trousers up reluctantly. Sherlock's semen is already leaking out of him, and he needs a shower now.
'Upstairs?' Sherlock offers, zipping himself up. His shirt is untucked and his hair is a rumpled mess, but somehow he always manages to make it look totally impeccable. Or at the very least, intentional.
'Thought you needed some kind of... monograph,' John says, trying not to squirm.
'The snails?' Sherlock shakes his head derisively. 'No, I figured it out. Come on, you're making that face.'
'What face?' John demands, although he accepts Sherlock's offered hand and allows himself to be pulled upstairs.
'The one you make when I come in your arse and you want a shower.'
'Jesus, Sherlock,' John says, embarrassed.
'What?' Sherlock turns on him, trapping him in the narrow hall at the top of the stairs. He puts his hands on either side of John's shoulders and tips his face in close, lips almost touching John's throat. 'Am I wrong?'
'No,' John breathes, 'but you needn't be so crude about it.'
'That was just true. Having you against the bookshelf: that's crude.'
'Not crude,' John says, 'just unexpected.'