A/N: This story is a gift for put-away-your-harpoon on Tumblr. She reblogged a drawing by chrono-explosive and said, “This pic requires fic. Dirty, dirty, fic. I mean, Berlynn Wohl dirty.” I was so flattered by her comment, I decided to write something for her. I didn’t depict precisely the content of the drawing, but I did address the key element.
When Sherlock shut himself up in his room, that was the final straw for John. His hands shook; he was so angry, he could hardly send a simple four-character text to Mike:
He was going regardless of whether Mike was joining him. He needed to get out of the flat and he needed a drink. His and Mike’s local was a short walk from Baker Street; he was halfway there when he got a text in reply:
Be there in ten.
John and Mike weren’t in the habit of impromptu drinking invites. Mike was a family man, and kept the carousing to a minimum. So when he arrived, finding John already almost through his first pint, he said in a light but concerned tone, “What’s the occasion?”
John drained his glass, frowned as though it were bitter, then set it carefully down on the mat so that it fit perfectly in the ring it had already created. “Today,” he said slowly and deliberately, “is my birthday.”
“Is it, now? Well, happy birthday, mate. What are you doing here with me when you could be at home with your--” Seeing John’s face grow more despondent, he said, “Oh. Forgot, did he?”
“I doubt that. He doesn’t forget anything. He just doesn’t care. Couldn’t be arsed even to say ‘Happy Birthday.’” John twisted his glass in its place on the mat. “I feel like a tit about it. I’m a grown man, and it’s not like thirty-nine’s a milestone. Why should I be upset?”
“To be fair, I think your loss is greater than the average bloke’s, from a materialistic standpoint. Sherlock would know exactly what sort of present to get you, without your even having to ask. Those are the best kind of presents, aren’t they: something you want badly but don’t want to ask for.”
John’s mobile bleeped before he could devote any thought to what such a gift might be in his case. He pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket and looked at it under the table.
Where did you go? I didn’t hear you leave.
John apologised to Mike for his rudeness, texting in the middle of their conversation, and typed his reply,
Down the pub with Mike.
“He didn’t acknowledge my last birthday, either. But we’d only known each other a couple of months, and we were just flatmates then, you know. It’s a different sort of snub, now that--” His mobile bleeped again.
Come home at once.
He loathed these sort of texts. Cryptic. He had to go now, in case it was an emergency, though it probably wasn’t.
Mike craned his neck to read the message. “Doesn’t look like he’s snubbing you now.”
John stuffed his phone in his pocket and slid out of the booth. “Don’t be so sure. Probably needs me to drink something so he can determine if it causes blindness. Cheers.” He left Mike to finish his pint and made his way back to Baker Street.
As soon as he’d closed the street door behind him, John got another text. He read it as he ascended the stairs.
You left just when the fun was about to happen. Did you really think I wouldn’t acknowledge your birthday?
The door to the flat was closed, and no light shone through the adjacent pane of rippled glass. As he opened the door, he braced himself for whatever might greet him. But there was nothing. He stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. The silent dark remained.
Then, as his eyes adjusted, he sensed a dim illumination. He crept into the kitchen, and from there saw a narrow band of light seeping out from under the bedroom door.
Birthday sex , John shrugged. Not very imaginative, but I shouldn’t complain.
He knocked, and Sherlock answered, “Do come in, John.”
Once John turned the knob, the door swung slowly open of its own accord. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Sherlock breathed.
John always scanned the floor whenever he walked into a room in the flat, in case Sherlock had decided it wouldn’t be too disruptive to scatter ball-bearings or caltrops about. And so his first glimpse of Sherlock was the shoes. A pair of suede heels, four inches if you counted the inch of platform beneath the patent leather toe cap. Jesus, did Yves St Laurent make shoes in Sherlock’s size?
From there, John’s eyes travelled up the seam of the black stockings, whose slightly shimmering mesh highlighted every curve of Sherlock’s shapely calves and thighs. The seam terminated in a five-inch band of lace; the unusually wide swaths suited his endless legs.
The stockings were held up by slim black suspenders, each strap perfectly symmetrically placed, not in the center of the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, as novices often attempt, but slightly to the outside. The belt itself was floral lace, in a deep, retro style.
Beneath the suspenders, Sherlock wore plain, French-cut satin briefs. The soft, glossy fabric showed off the curves of his arse, and beneath, as he shifted his weight from one heel to the other, the little subtle crease where buttock met thigh disappeared from his right side and formed on his left.
Sherlock wore nothing else. Above the suspender belt, the muscles of his back shifted slightly, and as he brought his arms up to clasp the back of his neck, the soft glow of the lamp illuminated every aspect of his lean, masculine frame.
“Oh, fuck,” whispered John.
Sherlock pivoted with ease and grace to face John. It couldn’t be helped; the first place John’s eyes went confirmed that Sherlock had not squeezed himself into women’s lingerie; these items were meant for a man to wear. His walk was deliberate and slinky, but not imitative, not feminine. Sherlock did not attempt to swing his hips, and he kept his arms at his sides, moving his shoulders as any man would do. There was nothing practiced about it, no signs of effort to turn it comical.
“How could you possibly have known,” John rasped as Sherlock approached. “I keep nothing in the flat that would have clued you in to this. I always erase my internet history.”
Sherlock raised one hand to toy with the collar of John’s jacket. “Oh, John. Silly John. After all this time, you still think you can hide things from me.”
From his scalp to his toes, John felt himself flooded by two sharp, conflicting rushes. First, there was the cringing embarrassment of being confronted by his most private desire. But second, and thank God, more powerfully, he felt a comforting warmth: Sherlock did know everything about him, even this, and not only did he accept it, he’d made a monumental effort to indulge it.
In those heels, Sherlock towered over him, but John didn’t mind. It just brought all the things Sherlock was showing off closer to John’s eyes. Now that Sherlock was stood right in front of him, John could see the subtle lace trim on the briefs, around the legs.
Slowly, giving Sherlock the opportunity to refuse him in case that was part of the game, he reached out to dip the tip of his finger beneath the waistband of the suspender belt. The fit was perfectly snug, and conformed precisely to Sherlock’s figure, without pinching and marking his skin. Loop-and-button clips held the stockings taut, but without stretching or warping them near the tops. John caressed the back of Sherlock’s thigh. Yes, they were silk, not nylon.
“So perfect,” John muttered.
“Obviously. It’s bespoke. I had everything fitted last week.” When Sherlock saw John’s look of awe, he said, “Why would I do anything less for you?”
Sherlock took one step back and away from John and laid himself down on the bed. Every gesture was done with perfect gravity. He did not give John exaggerated bedroom-eyes. He did not pose himself in cheesecake fashion. There was nothing to lighten the mood, to break the perfect, searing tension. He simply stretched out on the duvet, and communicated to John with his serious eyes that he was ready to proceed according to John’s wishes, whatever they might be.
John shucked his jacket and toed off his shoes and socks. He reached for his belt buckle, then paused. “God, I don’t even want to take out my cock. One touch and it’ll be all over. I want to enjoy this.”
“What a needless thing to worry over. You’re good for two in a night.” Sherlock arched his back ever so slightly. “And I’m sure you’ll manage to come up with something to pass the time until you’re ready for your second go.”
John left his belt buckle alone and kneeled on the bed. “Right now I wish I was good for twelve in a night.”
He started with his hands where he’d started with his eyes: at Sherlock’s feet. He slipped the heels off -- they were nice, but shoes weren’t the important part for him -- and pressed his fingertips into either side of Sherlock’s slender but solid ankles. He dug in harder as his hand slid past the heel to feel Sherlock’s arches; he didn’t want to tickle. Back up to the ankles, and then underneath and up to feel the shapely, rock-hard calves. Every muscle was firm, every movement controlled. Sherlock did not shiver, but patiently accepted John’s reverent caresses.
John cupped Sherlock’s kneecap in the palm of his hand on his way up to that bit of thigh that peeked out from the top of the stocking. The skin there was smooth and hairless, the flesh pale but lustrous and healthy. John relished the sight, first of that suspender belt, with its panels lying flat against Sherlock’s hips; then the straps, adjusted precisely to follow the slight contours of Sherlock’s thigh muscles with no gaps; and then, rising up in the middle of it all, that protruding, pronounced and very un-feminine bulge.
John’s fingertips strained for that little ruffle of lace at the edges of the knickers. He pressed to get just under the edge, feel that softest of skin, where thigh became groin, and with his other hand, he cupped and caressed the satin-clad swell, detecting the first stirrings beneath. He traced the outline of Sherlock’s cock and each of his balls in turn. He loved feeling out where the flesh was more pliant and where it was more firm...and growing firmer. A tiny spot of wetness appeared in the silk; John rubbed at it, and at the damp slit beneath.
Meanwhile, Sherlock was reaching for John’s belt, deftly unbuckling it with one hand, so smoothly that John hardly noticed, preoccupied as he was. But when Sherlock went for his zip, John protested. “Not yet.” He was shaking with lust, his muscles seized with fear lest he become too excited and lose control.
Sherlock ignored his protest, tugging the zip down and reaching inside. John wanted to stop him, but he couldn’t bring himself to take his hands off Sherlock’s body. Sherlock pulled John’s stunningly hard cock free and gave it two good strokes. That was all it took, and John cried out and swore and shot all over the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. The longest streak of semen crossed over the lace top of the stocking and onto Sherlock’s bare flesh.
“There,” Sherlock said, “that’s calmed you down a bit.”
Never in his life had John wanted to fuck so badly right after coming. He was soft, for now, but not sated in the least. He pinched the fabric of the satin knickers with both hands and tugged them down, so the top appeared from beneath the suspender belt. Then he hooked his fingers underneath and pulled them down so he might reveal Sherlock’s cock, which was now fully hard. It sprang free, long and flushed pink and ludicrously masculine against its black satin and lace backdrop. John’s orgasm had weakened him; he dropped down to lie prone on the bed, propping himself just enough so that, having twisted to one side a little, Sherlock could easily slide his cock between John’s lips.
As John sucked and licked, his hands slid as far down the backs of Sherlock’s legs as he could reach, following the perfectly straight seam down and back up again. He grasped the exposed flesh of Sherlock’s thighs and arse, between the tops of the stockings and the bottom edge of the knickers. He groaned around Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, not with the intention of stimulating Sherlock further, but simply because he couldn’t contain his delight. He only got louder when Sherlock hooked one leg around John’s hip.
“John.” Sherlock’s tone was interrogative. It was his way of indicating that he was close. John’s hand travelled back around to palm and squeeze Sherlock’s satin-covered balls. His mouth became faster and greedier, until finally Sherlock whispered, “Yes, John,” and shuddered as John swallowed every drop.
The way Sherlock looked now had John convinced that he was ready to go again. His dark curls were mussed, his skin flushed, and when he rolled onto his back, cock still out, he allowed his thighs to part, a wanton contrast to the flawless figure he’d cut when John had first walked in.
John stripped naked, which pleased Sherlock. Perhaps he was not so enthusiastic in his own admiration, particularly not at the moment, but he did enjoy seeing John unburdened by clothing. He drew his knees up slightly, inviting John to place himself between them.
John scooped up Sherlock’s legs and lifted them onto his shoulders. When the silk touched his skin, he paused to tilt his head to one side, then the other, rubbing his face against each of Sherlock’s calves, pursing his lips into a kiss whenever he moved in such a way that the fabric touched the corner of his mouth.
He reached between Sherlock’s thighs to tuck the soft, damp cock back into the knickers. Then he budged up to place his own cock against the bulge there. He rocked one, twice, pushing its stiffness against the smooth fabric and the soft flesh beneath.
Unsatisfied, he tilted forward, pushing Sherlock’s legs back so his knees nearly touched his own shoulders. Sherlock might not have been at his most comfortable, but he was fit enough to take it. With Sherlock thus pinioned, John found it easier to rut not only against the front pouch of the knickers but all the way down the length of the gusset.
Sherlock smiled slyly and squirmed a bit, for John’s benefit. “You like the way the satin feels, don’t you, John,” he said. “Mmm, so do I.” It occurred to John that Sherlock truly knew all his secrets now. There was nothing more for him to hide. But this did not make him feel vulnerable; on the contrary, he felt powerful. His most private, forbidden wish had been granted, and he hadn’t even had to ask for it.
John pushed his fingers down between the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse, tucking the fabric there and letting his cock slip into moving in the other direction, riding the crease that had formed there. A second orgasm always required a little more work, but this was just what John needed. He gripped his shaft and squeezed while rubbing the head against Sherlock’s satin-clad arse, and when he swore he felt the little dip beneath the fabric, where Sherlock’s hole was, he gasped and came, pushing at it through the satin and soaking the knickers through.
Sherlock anticipated that John’s next move would be to collapse in a heap, and so maneouvred his legs to instead guide John gently to the mattress, where he could rest comfortably at Sherlock’s side, rather than atop him, which had its charm but was not a viable long-term option.
“Sherlock.” John swallowed, struggling against his dry mouth and throat. “You have to take these off or else I’m going to have a heart attack.” Here he made a sweeping gesture to indicate everything below Sherlock’s waist. “Just, hide all this somewhere, until I can spend some time at the gym and get in better shape.”
Sherlock rolled off the bed, padded around to John’s side, and encouraged John to watch as he released the loop-and-button fastenings and detached the stockings from the suspenders.
“No, no, for God’s sake not in front of me, I’m going to have an aneurysm.” John buried his head in the pillow.
Sherlock stepped forward, until his knee touched the mattress. “Are you sure,” he said. “Are you certain that you don’t want to do it for me?”
“You will kill me. Do you understand. You’re killing me here. Is that what you want?” But John peeked with one eye.
“Perhaps you could just help me with the knickers,” Sherlock said. “Unhooking the suspenders can be a bit tricky.”
Now John could not resist drinking in the sight now. Sherlock unclasped the stockings from the four straps and rolled each one down in turn. He then put both hands behind him to undo the hooks-and-eyes of the belt, and it fell to the floor, leaving behind just the faintest pink marks where it had dug into Sherlock’s skin while he’d been folded in half. He cocked one hip toward John, inviting him to pull down the knickers. When John hesitated, Sherlock thought perhaps he needed a demonstration, and so hooked one thumb beneath the elastic and tugged it just slightly downwards, before letting it snap back into place.
“Oh, to hell with it,” John growled, as he lunged for Sherlock. “What man wouldn’t want to die shagging.”