Chapter 1: Because You Can't Get To Sleep
John can't sleep; Sherlock can help.
Beta by Riyku!
The clock at the bedside reads 3:38, and John’s been watching it turn over, minute after minute, since before it crossed the threshold of 3am. The flat is silent, and the street outside is almost as quiet. There’s no reason John should be awake. They haven’t got a case, but Sherlock’s been occupied for three days trying to disprove something he read in a recent issue of a medical journal John still gets, forwarded from the surgery, and his chemical apparatus have been occupying every surface of the flat. John had to eat breakfast and supper on the sofa the day before, while Sherlock poured over literature and statistics and molar calculations.
So it’s not worry that’s keeping him up, and it’s not adrenaline from the thrill of the chase, and it’s not a nightmare. He hasn’t had one of those in weeks. But there’s something in the stillness of this early morning that has John wide awake and staring at the ceiling.
The sound of the floorboards creaking alerts him to movement; the stair third from the top up to his bedroom makes that sound. Moments later, the doorknob turns, almost silently, and Sherlock eases the door open and peeks in. John turns over to look at him.
‘You, too?’ Sherlock asks, almost managing to whisper.
‘Me, too,’ John agrees, rubbing his face with both hands. Sherlock steps inside and closes the door behind him, and John lifts the edge of the duvet on the right side of the bed. Sherlock climbs in, cold feet against John’s ankles making him jerk away, and he cuddles up to John’s shoulder.
Sherlock, John was surprised to find, craved touch. He pretended to be above base human needs, but really he was just an incredible introvert. Once he had warmed up to John’s presence, he was constantly crowding him until John realised what he needed. Sherlock hadn’t even figured it out, being as oblivious to his own desires as he was sharp to pick up on other people’s, and the first time John had touched the back of his neck in a casual caress he’d nearly jumped out of his skin.
Now, he soaks up John’s affection like it might be snatched away at any moment. That takes John aback as well, but he gives what he can when he can.
Sherlock’s fingers sneak under the hem of John’s RAMC t-shirt, and John puts his hand over Sherlock’s.
‘I’m trying to sleep,’ he murmurs, but he’s as awake as ever.
‘You’re not,’ Sherlock says. ‘Your heart is beating above the resting rate— and yours is quite low, I might add, which makes it obvious when it’s up— and your breathing is deep. If you were trying to sleep, you’d at least be breathing shallower. And your skin is quite warm, which means you’ve been awake for a while.’
‘I’ve been lying in bed for a while,’ John counters, ‘and it was warm in my bed until you came in here with your icicle toes.’
Sherlock smiles, a shadow in the dark, and John rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be deliberately obtuse,’ Sherlock says. ‘It might help, anyway.’
‘Fine,’ John says, ‘touch all you like, but if I do fall asleep you had better not be offended.’
Sherlock huffs. John releases his hand. Sherlock begins to rub his thumb back and forth across John’s belly, barely touching his navel, and John’s eyes slide closed. Sherlock smells like chemicals and John’s laundry liquid, like the old books in his bedroom, like his expensive shampoo. John can smell, under it all, the clean, faintly salty scent of his skin, and the green tea he drank, probably less than ten minutes ago. Sherlock’s breathing is slow and deep, content, and John can almost feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze on his face. He smiles. Sherlock’s fingers caress the softening line of John’s abdomen, and John’s blood begins to heat.
He shifts, spreading his legs apart and opening his hands, palm up on the bed. Sherlock is tucked against his side, head on John’s bicep and thigh over John’s knee. He rubs his toes against the sole of John’s foot, and John pulls that foot away by a centimeter.
Sherlock moves now too, turning his head to kiss John’s shoulder through his t-shirt, and John feels a slow, steady pulse start in his groin. His cock thickens a little, just in response to the whisper of a promise. Sherlock shifts again, lifting up now to put his lips to John’s throat, and John tips his head back to give him room. Now the promise is more than a hint, and John’s nipples tighten and his breathing speeds up. Sherlock mouths at his neck, soft and then with a little bite of teeth, and John lets a little noise of encouragement escape him.
Sherlock pushes up on one elbow, leaning over John, and John parts his lips as Sherlock leans down to kiss him. John kisses him deeply, bringing his left hand up to curl his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, and licks slowly into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s hand on John’s belly slips down to his left thigh, and then up again between his legs to cup the swelling hardness there. John’s not entirely erect yet, but his cock is stiffening fast and Sherlock’s hand on it only speeds him along.
He grunts into the kiss, and Sherlock bites his lower lip and pulls back, stares at him intently for a moment, and then kisses him again, over and over, until John is pushing his hips up into Sherlock’s gentle grip. Sherlock squeezes him, fingers brushing against the weight of his balls, and John wants the barrier of his boxers between them to be gone.
Sherlock breaks the kiss and shifts down, nuzzling John’s right nipple with his nose, through his shirt. The soft scrape of fabric against the sensitive peak has John squirming, fingers tight in Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock breathes out, warm through the shirt. He bites down with just enough pressure, calculated from John’s reactions in previous encounters, to make John groan aloud.
‘C’mere,’ John gasps, pulling Sherlock back up to kiss him, and pushing on his hip until he straddles John’s lap. John pulls his heels up to his arse, and Sherlock settles against his groin, his own erection hard and thick against John’s. Sherlock rocks slowly, sliding their cocks against one another, and John eats at his mouth until he’s quivering.
The only sound is the rustle of the duvet and the sheets, and the soft, wet noise of their kisses. It’s intensely erotic, sparking in John’s blood and making his cock twitch, and he moans again to disrupt the spell.
Then Sherlock is lifting himself up, and John lowers his knees to let Sherlock pull his boxers down. He kicks them off to the bottom of the bed, and his cock lies fat and heavy against his belly. Sherlock rubs his hand between them, cupping John’s balls, scratching his fingertips in the soft curls of hair, and John kisses the incredible line of his cheekbones, to behind his ear and down his neck.
Sherlock wrestles off his own bottoms— cotton, striped, actually John’s judging by how short they are and how they hang a little loose on Sherlock’s arse— and sits back down. In the time it took him to discard his pants, he also managed to find the tube of medical grade lubricant in John’s bedside table drawer, and his palm is slick and cool. He takes both their cocks in his hand, pushing his against John’s through the circle of his fingers that can’t quite close, and John grips his hips tight.
‘God, yes,’ he whispers, and Sherlock kisses the words from his mouth.
He sits up again, letting his own cock bob stiff and slippery between his thighs, and rubs the wet tip of John’s between his cheeks. His mouth falls half-open, his eyes half-shut, and John realises a half a second before he sinks down that he’s already slick and open back there, ready for John’s cock.
‘Christ,’ John hisses, as Sherlock takes him to the root, sitting back until his arse is against John’s hipbones. ‘Fuck, you’re incredible, what did you—?’
‘I was awake,’ Sherlock mutters, working his hips in a maddening circle that has John’s brain short-circuiting, ‘and I was thinking about you—‘ and now John has an image of Sherlock, in his bed, on his back, with his fingers inside himself, picturing John— ‘and it wasn’t really what I wanted, so I thought I’d come up and see if you were awake—‘
‘Fuck,’ John says again, digging his heels into the mattress to thrust up into Sherlock’s hot, welcoming body. ‘Do you even—?’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, grinning and planting his hands on John’s chest, ‘I know what I do to you, John, and I can’t get enough of it.’
John groans, steadying Sherlock on his lap again with both hands on his hips, and he curls his fingers under the curve of Sherlock’s arse as he guides him up and down. He can barely see in the low light from the streetlamp outside, but what he can see is the space between their bodies where his cock is sliding in and out of Sherlock’s arse, gleaming and bare, feeling so huge and hard and wonderful. He lets go of Sherlock’s hip with his left hand and curls it around his cock as it comes out, rubs it teasingly against Sherlock’s hole, and Sherlock gasps, ‘Ah!’ John pushes up again, arse off the bed, rocking Sherlock forward above him. Then, with that hand newly slippery, he curls his fingers around Sherlock’s cock and begins to stroke him.
It evokes a soft, desperate sound that comes from low in Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock’s body twists in pleasure. John’s cock throbs, his balls tightening, and he starts to fuck in earnest, hammering up into Sherlock’s body and bouncing Sherlock ridiculously on his lap.
‘I’m not going to last,’ he warns, already feeling the warm, tingling feeling building in his balls and in the root of his cock.
‘Good,’ Sherlock says, ‘because I’m halfway there already, and I just need—‘ He breaks off.
‘Tell me,’ John hisses, twisting his wrist and jerking Sherlock faster. ‘Tell me what you need.’
‘Harder,’ Sherlock says, ‘and kiss me.’
‘Well get down here,’ John says, pushing on his back, and Sherlock folds until they are breathing each other’s air. John’s thighs burn with the effort of thrusting, and Sherlock meets him blow for blow, their hips coming together with a slap. John kisses him roughly, more teeth then tongue, and Sherlock moans.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘yes, John, there,’ and comes, cock pulsing in John’s fist, spurting his load all over John’s belly. His whole body tightens in sympathy, arsehole squeezing John’s cock, and John needs to come so badly he can taste it. Sherlock groans, stunning and beautiful in his ecstasy, and John reaches his orgasm in a wave of pleasure, his back arching and his toes curling.
He holds Sherlock against his chest, shaking all over, and Sherlock pants hotly against his collarbone until he summons the coordination to lift his head with a luxurious sigh. John kisses the tip of his nose, and he smiles. When he lifts his hips, they both wince at the slick, wet slide of lube and come.
‘I ought to have planned for that,’ Sherlock breathes, rolling to the side.
John lifts his knees again to keep the duvet from touching him. ‘Shower?’ he offers, though he feels like he could fall asleep any second now.
‘Better do,’ Sherlock agrees. He gets up, throws the duvet back, and pulls John up by the hands.
The shower is warm and too small for the both of them, but Sherlock washes John’s front and his own backside efficiently and then bundles John into his towel and back down the hall to his bedroom. The pillows get damp when they lay down, and Sherlock’s hair will be a ridiculous mess in the morning, but John’s already half asleep when Sherlock mutters a complaint.
‘Needed that,’ he whispers, dozing.
‘I know,’ Sherlock whispers back.
Chapter 2: Make-Up Sex
Sherlock comes home. Post-Reichenbach.
This is a more appropriate size for these fics. Derp.
Sherlock goes about it all wrong. When it’s all over, when he has Moriarty’s final pet sniper in the palm of his hand, and he knows he can go back to London— back to John— his excitement gets the better of him. Instead of easing John into it, leaving clues or beginning to turn up in the periphery of John’s everyday activities, he breaks into John’s new flat (not that new, occupied now almost a year) while John is at work, makes a cup of tea, and waits.
When John comes home, Sherlock’s heart is in his throat. He hears John’s slightly uneven tread up the stairs— carrying something? Limping again?— and the scrape of the key in the lock, and he stands up, despite his desire to appear cool and collected.
John opens the door, takes one look at Sherlock standing in his sitting room, and faints dead away, dropping his armload of shopping all over the floor. The milk jug explodes and apples roll in every direction, but Sherlock steps over them to get to John. He didn’t hit his head, thank god, but he’s out cold. Sherlock half-drags, half-carries him to the couch, and John comes ‘round in a few minutes, groggy and confused.
‘I had no idea,’ Sherlock says. ‘Please, forgive me.’
John punches him. And he doesn’t avoid his mouth or nose this time, just socks him square in the face. Sherlock gushes blood like the milk on the carpet, and John bears him to the floor. Through the haze of pain and the taste of blood, Sherlock can hear John hissing, ‘You can’t do this to me!’
‘I had to,’ he splutters, tilting his head back in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. ‘I had to, they were—‘
And then John is kissing him, rough and savage, and Sherlock is kissing back, smearing blood between them, biting at John’s mouth like a starving man.
John is hard, his cock a thick line in his jeans, and Sherlock’s body responds instantly, surging with desire. He locks his legs around John’s hips and grinds against him, panting. John plants his hands in the soaked carpet on either side of Sherlock’s head and begins to work his hips in short, sharp thrusts, fucking Sherlock fully clothed into the floor. Sherlock clutches at him, pulls at his shirt and his hair, and John has a swath of Sherlock’s blood from his left cheekbone, across his mouth, to the right side of his chin. He looks insane, furious, and Sherlock groans aloud.
He tries to flip them over, get John under him, but John pins him to the floor by his throat, gritting his teeth in a snarl and pressing the heel of his hand into Sherlock’s windpipe. Sherlock struggles, choking, but his erection isn’t subsiding, and he can taste the power John has over him.
This is what he was missing. He was lost without John, and John is like an animal now. Sherlock stops trying to breathe and puts his hand instead over John’s heart, flexing his fingers against the soft knit of John’s jumper. He comes, staring into John’s eyes, mouth open, his whole body trembling. John groans, long and low, and his hips jerk, and Sherlock feels him go still.
For a moment they are silent, and then John lets go of his throat, looking horrified. Sherlock sucks in a painful breath, stars dancing in front of his eyes. John pushes off him and stumbles backwards, and Sherlock rolls onto his side, his chest heaving.
When he can stand up, John is gone. The door to his bedroom is closed. Sherlock crosses the sitting room, his fingers and toes numb, and presses himself against the door. His face aches. Inside, John is silent.
Almost silent. When his pulse pounding in his ears subsides, Sherlock can hear the rhythmic, muffled sound of John crying. The door isn’t locked. Sherlock closes it again behind him, and this time John lets him approach. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his pillow pressed hard to his face. Sherlock climbs over the bed to sit behind him, his legs on either side of John’s, and wraps his arms around John and the pillow together. He presses his forehead to the center of John’s back and rocks him while John sobs.
John quiets after a while, hiccoughing, and Sherlock lifts his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. His voice feels raw, like he's been the one crying this whole time.
John turns. His face is red and blotchy, but he’s giving Sherlock a watery smile. ’You absolute git,’ he says, touching Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I’m glad you’re home.’
Chapter 3: Break-Up Sex
The night before the Fall.
The night before the day he dies, Sherlock pins John to the bed and kisses him until he’s breathless, soft-mouthed and pliant. He strips John naked and lays him out on his front, and proceeds to kiss every inch of him, from the nape of his neck to the curves of his heels. John knows something’s wrong. He’s not an idiot. He keeps trying to turn over, get his hands on Sherlock, but Sherlock’s not allowing it. He’s going to be dead tomorrow, and he wants to take with him the feeling of John’s skin against his lips, John’s scar under his fingertips, John’s warmth seeping into his blood.
‘Sherlock,’ John whispers, squirming against the bed, ‘don’t make me—‘ but what it is John will do, he doesn’t say. Sherlock goes on, smoothing his hands down John’s sides, up his thighs, over the globes of his arse. He kisses the base of John’s spine, lower, until he has his mouth between John’s cheeks, and John is whimpering.
He’s tasted every inch of John’s body outside. He wants to taste him inside, too, but this is the only acceptable way to do that. He can’t touch John’s heart, his lungs, the muscles in his back and legs, so he has to settle for licking him here while John shakes in embarrassment and arousal.
‘I need—‘ John says, pushing a hand underneath himself, and Sherlock yanks hard on his hips, lifting him away from his own groping fingers. John’s yelp of protest is muffled in the pillow, so Sherlock rolls him over onto his back. John’s cock is hard, leaking, and the sight of it makes Sherlock’s throb in sympathy. He’s forgotten about it until now.
Sherlock presses his face to John’s belly, inhaling as deeply as he can. He’s been cataloging the way John smells in different situations since they met, since it became acceptable for him to stand as close as he likes to, and now the scent that he has determined is John’s true scent is so strong he wants to cry. John’s essence is so pure, so perfect. Sherlock makes him like this, and Sherlock taints him. Sherlock has to leave. He could weep for joy that he can take this most concentrated smell of John with him.
John’s cock twitches against his throat, and he kisses it, wetting his lips in John’s excitement. John’s fingers slide into his hair and grip tightly. Sherlock pulls against the pressure, his scalp tingling, and John groans.
A little later, when Sherlock finally slides into him, after long minutes of teasing and testing, John grips his shoulders fiercely and looks into his eyes. Sherlock is terrified, worried that John can see what he has planned. John knows something is going to change. He tightens his legs around Sherlock’s narrow hips, as if he could hold Sherlock in bed forever. As if, if they never left here, the world would disappear and none of it would matter.
But it does matter. Sherlock has made a mess of things, and he has to clean it up. John is blameless, and he has to be kept aloof.
As he fucks John, pressing deep into him and making him moan and curse, Sherlock murmurs, 'I love you,' and he thinks, Goodbye.
Chapter 4: Your Friend Told You About a New Position
John, I’ve been doing some research.
‘John, I’ve been doing some research,’ is not a sentence John wants to hear very often coming out of Sherlock’s mouth. Most of the time it results in kitchen fires, minor explosions, sprained ankles, drugs busts, trespassing, and/or arrests. Lestrade and Mycroft have their backs, most of the time, and when they get into trouble they can usually get out of it again, but John wonders what his file looks like after all this time living with Sherlock Holmes. The fact that he might have a criminal record at all concerns him deeply.
Which is why, when the word ‘research’ makes an appearance on a Saturday morning in April, John is very, very pleased to find that Sherlock is referring to anal sex, and not a bit of B&E.
‘I think if I shift a little to the left,’ Sherlock says, and John bites back a groan. He is lying on his back in Sherlock’s bed, his legs extended, and he has become one of Sherlock’s experiments. He likes being the centre of Sherlock’s attention, but at this point they’ve been at it for almost forty minutes, and John is starting to ache with how turned on he is.
‘Oh, there, that’s good,’ Sherlock says, shifting again. The view is magnificent. Sherlock is crouched like a skinny crab above John’s cock, holding himself up on hands and feet with his belly to the ceiling and his arse to John’s hips. John’s cock is sliding slowly, torturously slowly, in and out of him as he moves, and his own erection is long and stiff against his stomach. He’s biting his lip, his face furrowed in concentration, and John’s hands wander restlessly up and down his thighs, his abdomen, to curl around his waist and give him a little pull.
‘John,’ Sherlock warns. He’s working, and John has already been scolded about touching his cock and distracting him.
John is sweating. His hands are shaking. His cock is so hard, so big where it’s entering Sherlock’s body, and every little movement of Sherlock’s hips sends waves of pleasure up his spine. He rustles his feet in the mess of the duvet at the end of the bed and tries to rock his hips up.
‘That’s it,’ John mutters, ‘you’re done.’
‘Oh,’ Sherlock says, ‘no,’ but John grabs his hips and yanks. Sherlock yelps as John’s cock slides into his arse to the hilt, and his eyes roll back into his head. John can’t move much from underneath, but he braces his heels in the mattress and rocks up and up while he pulls Sherlock back and forth to meet him.
Sherlock was right, this is a fun, new position.
Sherlock groans, ‘Oh, fuck, John, you’re ruining everything.’
John lets go of one hip to grab his cock. Sherlock leaks like no one John’s ever fucked, and he’s dripping with pre-come. John’s hand slides easily, up and down his shaft, and his thumb glides smoothly over Sherlock’s plummy cockhead. He jerks Sherlock quickly, fucks him shallowly, and Sherlock writhes in fury and distracted pleasure.
John’s close. Sherlock’s arse grips him tightly at this angle, and Sherlock’s rising moans have him on edge. Sherlock’s back starts to arch and his cock swells and stiffens further in John’s fist, and John growls, ‘Come on, then,’ as Sherlock shouts and comes. He spurts come up his belly, all the way to his chin, and John’s orgasm hits him like a train. He grinds up hard into Sherlock’s body, making Sherlock moan sharply, and holds there, thighs trembling, as he blows.
Sherlock sags and slips sideways, limbs akimbo. John reaches for him, panting, and gets a hand on Sherlock’s heaving chest. They lay for a minute or two, recovering. Then Sherlock sits up and says, ‘Well, that went horribly.’
‘Beg pardon,’ John says, too fucked out to get offended, ‘I thought it went rather well.’
‘I wanted to see if I could come like that without you touching me,’ Sherlock says.
John ponders this for a while, and pats Sherlock’s pectoral. ‘We’ll have to try it again sometime, then,’ he says.
Chapter 5: Revenge
God damn it, Sherlock, we’ve talked about the appropriate use of the word “emergency.”
John bursts into the sitting room, his thundering steps up the staircase announcing his arrival eight and a half seconds before he actually throws the door open. He’s breathing hard, running since he quit the tube station a block away. He shouldn’t be so winded, but Sherlock may have exaggerated his need slightly.
‘What’s wrong,’ John gasps, ‘what’s going on? Are you all right?’
‘Ah,’ Sherlock says, from the sofa by the wall, ‘I need you to send an email.’
There’s a pause, and then John yells, entirely too loud for their small sitting room, ‘You need me to send an email?’
‘You don’t like it when I use your computer,’ Sherlock says. ‘Mine is upstairs.’
John is still panting, though now it’s more rage than exertion. He fumbles his phone out of his pants pocket and reads the text aloud. ‘Need you home. Emergency. God damn it, Sherlock, we’ve talked about the appropriate use of the word “emergency.”’ He heaves an enormous sigh, and begins to deliberately slow his breathing. It’s still rapid, though, as he takes off his coat.
‘You’re not going back to Megan’s?’ Sherlock asks, suddenly hopeful.
‘Not anymore,’ John grumbles, ‘not now that I’ve dumped her on the floor mid-act to come send a bloody email for you.’
Sherlock turns over on the couch and sits up. ‘Good,’ he says, ‘because I’ve got a few other things that need—‘
‘Ah, ah,’ John says, and suddenly he’s across the room and on top of the coffee table, blocking Sherlock’s normal barefoot route of escape. He steps down, straddling Sherlock’s knees. Sherlock has to look up and up into his face, which is unusual, and he can’t help but notice certain things about John that confirm his story of where he was when Sherlock summoned him. His belt is one notch looser than it usually is, and his shirt is untucked. There’s a very slight discoloration five inches below the bottom of John’s zipper, where his cock was already hard enough to have started leaking. They were well into it, Sherlock thinks, and he can smell Megan’s perfume on John’s skin. ‘You’ve interrupted me once too often,’ John says, hands going to his belt, and Sherlock’s pulse shoots through the roof. ‘Finish what I started, and I’ll send your email.’
It’s bribery, Sherlock thinks, and revenge. John is wasting his time as punishment for the inopportune summons, but with the way his face is heating and his hands are trembling, he may not object as strongly as he thinks he does. He reaches for John’s fly and tugs it down. John pushes his jeans down around his hips. He’s half-hard now, the energy wasted at his latest boring girlfriend’s rising up again, and his cock is already an impressive bulge in his boxers. Sherlock’s mouth is watering alarmingly. This is not the first time he’s sucked John’s cock. He knows how John tastes, how John smells here, what the delicate skin of John’s prick feels like against his tongue. He likes it, god help him, and he wants it right now.
John’s cock swells further when Sherlock pulls it out of John’s boxers, and a few quick strokes have it fully hard, the foreskin pulled back and the glans exposed. Sherlock pokes his tongue out and gives the tip of John’s cock a little experimental lick.
‘Don’t be a tease,’ John warns. Sherlock opens his mouth and breathes out humidly, before he moves forward to take the head of John’s cock between his lips. He doth protest too much, Sherlock knows. John loves the way he sucks cock, otherwise he wouldn’t be thinking up excuses to demand it all the time. Last week it was because Sherlock had left the milk out on the chair and let it go sour. The week before, it was in exchange for hoovering around the experiment Sherlock had going in the sitting room.
Sherlock works his tongue slowly against the sensitive head and works his other hand around the base of John’s cock. It’s thick and warm in the circle of his fingers, and John’s hair against his palm is soft and slightly damp. John tastes purely of himself, so Sherlock knows Megan’s mouth hadn’t touched him yet tonight. He suspects she hasn’t done this for him yet at all which is why he’s so keen on getting Sherlock’s mouth.
John’s hand comes to rest gently on the top of Sherlock’s head, twining pleasantly in his hair, and he gives Sherlock a little pull that sinks his cock deeper into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock hears himself moan, his senses overloaded. His own cock is fully hard, trapped in his pants, but he can’t spare a hand for it. The fingers not around John’s cock are stroking up and down the inside of John’s thigh, closer and closer to the full weight of his balls.
Above him, John has his head tipped back and his eyes closed, and he’s breathing slowly in and out through his nose. It’s his concentration face: brow slightly furrowed, tongue darting out to wet his lips. When Sherlock’s wandering fingers finally work their way between his legs to cup his sac, John sighs and spreads his feet on the floor, giving Sherlock room. John likes it when Sherlock plays with his balls, likes a gentle tug with every upstroke of Sherlock’s mouth, a little rub of Sherlock’s palm underneath while her works John’s prick with his other hand.
John’s breathing is picking up, and Sherlock can read him like a book. His shoulders are starting to ache with the angle, and his lips are numb, but he bobs his head faster, plunging John’s cock into his mouth, and wanks him with long, firm strokes that have his fist meeting his own lips on every other pass. John’s balls are tightening up, and his cock is swelling, and then he says roughly, 'Fuck, Sherlock, I—' and comes with an aborted thrust. His semen fills Sherlock’s mouth in a rush, thick and bitter, and his groan of relief is almost better than a concerto. Sherlock slows, working John through it the way he knows John prefers, and finally John pulls away gently, his softening prick slipping wetly from Sherlock’s abused lips.
'Now,' John says, tucking himself away and buttoning up his trousers, clearly intent on leaving Sherlock throbbing and desperate on the sofa. 'What did you want the email to say?'
Chapter 6: Rebound
It's not exactly an accident that John turns to Molly after Sherlock… after.
It's not exactly an accident that John turns to Molly after Sherlock… after Sherlock. She knew Sherlock in a very different capacity than John did, but for whatever reason, he feels like she's a kindred spirit. It would be unkind to say she was obsessed with Sherlock— she has her own work, her own interests outside the morgue— but she dropped everything to help him when he turned up at the door, and John thinks they have at least that in common. He's not sure if she ever was really in love with Sherlock, but again, they have a mutual sense of fascination with the man. It unsettles John, late at night, when his flat is empty and quiet and he can't sleep for all the silence. Why?
He invites her out for a drink, which turns into four or five, and by eleven o'clock she's looking rather unsteady and John is downright embarrassing. He's laughing like an idiot over something she's said about the morgue— god help him, laughing about death, what is the world coming to?— when she goes quiet and touches his elbow.
'I'm sorry,' she says, as his laughter trails off and he wipes his eyes. 'I am. About. About everything.'
That sobers him up damn quick. He wrinkles his nose and looks down at his pint glass, mostly empty, beads of condensation sliding down the outside. Sherlock would be able to tell how many he's had by looking at the stains on the bar top.
'It's not your fault,' he says, rubbing a thumb in the moisture and wiping it on the napkin.
She hesitates, taking a little breath, and then says, 'I know.'
'D'you want to get out of here?' He shouldn't ask her that— she's a friend, not a shag— but there it is, out of his mouth anyway.
'Yeah, all right,' she says all the same, standing up. 'Your place?'
It's only a dozen blocks or so, so they walk. He takes her hand, and she squeezes his fingers. She's warm and lovely and she isn't wearing any make-up, and it feels all right. They don't speak the whole way back. John breathes in the warm, stale summer air and doesn't think either.
The flat he has now is smaller than Baker Street, the sitting room and kitchen taking up the same space and a tiny bedroom beside the bathroom. It's hateful. Molly heads right for the bedroom door and has her skirt off before John can reconsider. She's gorgeous in the streetlight coming in the window, and when she's finally naked he's breathless with wanting. She undresses him quickly, and he goes to his knees beside the bed, parting her legs. Her back bows and she lets out a breath, fingers wrinkling his sheets.
They fuck slowly, John's shoulder aching like it hasn't in months, holding himself up above her. She locks her ankles behind his arse and holds onto his spine, and they smear kisses against each other's mouths, imprecise and uncaring. John's attentive, determined that she enjoy as much as he can give, and she comes twice before he reaches his own crisis with a shudder. Afterwards, she pulls the sheet up under her armpits and stares at the ceiling. The alcohol in John's blood makes him feel ill, and he tries to lie very still.
'I should go,' Molly says finally, sliding out of his bed and into her clothes. She's straightening her blouse by the time he rouses himself enough to offer to call her a cab. 'I've got it,' she says, grasping his hand and kissing his forehead. 'Don't worry about me. I'll see you soon.'
It's more than five minutes and less than ten before he finally hears the door shut behind her and a car pull away in the street below. The silence is worse than before, now that he's heard her moan and gasp and say his name like that. He'll be able to look her in the eye next time they cross paths. Greg will probably be a bit put out.
To hell with them, John thinks, turning on his side. It hasn't changed anything.
Chapter 7: Paratrooping (Banging for Roof)
Sherlock needs a place to stay. Accidentally 1 reason for semi-platonic bed sharing and less-platonic smooching.
'I suppose you've got somewhere to stay,' John says, unable to take his eyes off Sherlock. He looks so different after all this time, thinner and badly cared for, and John thinks it might have been his influence that kept Sherlock in a good state. The regret that he couldn't be there while Sherlock followed every strand of Moriarty's web is a hollow carved in his chest.
Sherlock looks surprised, as if he hadn't expected the question. He glances around John's little flat, eyes flickering from the door to the cupboards to the desk. He pauses briefly on the hallway to John's bedroom, and John thinks suddenly of the mess in there, the laundry on the floor and the disarray of his unmade bed.
'Actually,' Sherlock says, 'I haven't. Mycroft hasn't set anything up for me, and I haven't been back to Baker Street yet. I came here first.'
'Mycroft knew?' John demands.
'He had to,' Sherlock says. 'Please, John. I've got one more task to achieve, and then I can tell you everything.'
'Well, do you want to kip on the sofa, then?' John should offer him the bed— the poor man looks like he's been living rough for three months at least— but he can't quite reconcile the idea of Sherlock in his bed without him. And he's not sure where they stand on that count. Before Sherlock died— left— they were just mates. Good mates, good friends, but there's something stirring where John's heart was, and it feels like whispering Sherlock's name in the dark.
Sherlock's distaste at the sofa is clear on his face, but he almost hides it in time.
'That will be fine,' he says.
'Never mind,' John says, 'take the bed.'
'I wouldn't dream of—' Sherlock says, and his pause is just slightly too long— 'depriving you.'
John says, 'I can sleep there too,' as casually as he can. 'It's a big enough bed, 'long as you don't sprawl.'
'I don't sprawl,' Sherlock assures him, with a smile pulling the corners of his mouth.
They end up side-by-side, John in his boxers and a t-shirt, Sherlock in a pair of John's old sleep pants and John's t-shirt. He didn't have anything else on him but the disguise he'd showed up in, and John refused to let him into the bed in it. He'd also made Sherlock shower.
'Do you think they'll come looking for you here?' John asks in the dark.
Sherlock shifts, and the bed dips as he rolls over. 'I have to get up in three hours and make sure that they don't,' he says.
'Sorry,' John whispers.
'No, no,' Sherlock says. 'I need you to come with me. I need the back-up for this one.'
John tries not to let the irony of that get to him, but Sherlock has a sixth sense for John's displeasure.
'You're the only person I trust besides myself,' he murmurs, and then his hand is resting on John's belly. John almost jumps, steadies himself, and rolls onto his side to face Sherlock.
'And you didn't need me before now?'
'I needed you every step of the way,' Sherlock says, without hesitation. 'I needed you alive. Now Moran is back in London, and I need you by my side.'
John thinks about it, about the months alone, about the hours in therapy talking about it, about packing up Baker Street and finding the new flat that has never felt like home, about seeing Sherlock's shadow everywhere he went. 'All right,' he says finally.
Sherlock's hand, still resting on his flank, squeezes lightly, and then Sherlock shifts again, unexpectedly, and kisses John square on the mouth. John is not gay, not quite, not really, but he responds so quickly he surprises himself, cupping Sherlock's face and kissing back. Sherlock's hand slips neatly under the hem of John's t-shirt, and John pushes up on one elbow and bears Sherlock back to the mattress.
Sherlock's eyes are wide and surprised in the light coming in from the street, and John stares at him, fiercely determined. His heart feels like it will beat right out of his chest if he isn't careful.
'This is not a joke to me,' he says.
'No,' Sherlock agrees. 'It never was.'
Chapter 8: Nothing good on TV
Sherlock's seen this episode of QI before.
'Bored,' Sherlock mutters, and John's blood runs cold. God above, it can't have started so soon. Without a case, Sherlock is an absolute menace. John loves the man, more than he thought possible, but if the time between Sherlock's case ending and his boredom starting up is decreasing, John will absolutely go mad.
He turns around from his laptop to look at Sherlock, where he is crunched up in his armchair watching telly. He's got QI on, which he usually likes, but a closer look shows panelists John has seen before, which means this is a extended re-run. Sherlock doesn't stand for re-runs.
'Well?' John says carefully.
Sherlock tips his head back on the chair and looks at John upside down. A smirk turns the corner of his mouth. 'Come here.'
John obliges. Better to give the man what he wants, provided his demands are reasonable. When he's standing in front of Sherlock's chair, between him and the telly, Sherlock lets his heels slide off the seat and bracket's John's knees with his. He reaches out and takes both of John's hands, and before John can say, 'What's all this, then?' he pulls John off balance. John stumbles, hands trapped, and ends up clambering into Sherlock's lap under duress to keep from falling.
Sherlock's smirk grows, and he lets go of John's hands to slide his palms down John's back. John's jumper is thin, cashmere, and Sherlock makes a little noise of appreciation. His hands are warm as they reach the small of John's back and the jumper ends, and then Sherlock's pulling the tails of John's shirt out of his jeans.
'Hey, there,' John says, but there's no protest in him. All of Sherlock's attention is on him now— not on the telly, not on a case, not on anyone but John— and John thrives on it. Sherlock slips his hands under John's shirt and begin to map the length of his spine, and then Sherlock is pressing on him, bending him and at the same time tipping his chin up to meet John in the middle.
Sherlock was a terrible kisser to start out, but it took him all of eighteen seconds to understand what John was after, and he's picked up and improved upon every trick John knows. John's lips part in anticipation, and Sherlock's tongue is instantly flickering between them even as he pouts and opens his mouth against John's. John has taught him everything he knows about this, but Sherlock is better at it. He kisses John until John is breathless, hands clutching at the expensive silk of Sherlock's shirt, sliding restlessly through his hair; until John has his knees wedged into the crevasses of the chair, his thighs as wide as they'll go, and his groin right up against Sherlock's. Sherlock parts his legs, sinking down into the chair, and John goes with him.
After John passed the age of thirty, he had never imagined he could get off on ten or twenty minutes of snogging alone, but Sherlock exceeds his expectations, as always. He's come in his pants more than once like this, just kissing and grinding and Sherlock's hands down the back of his jeans. He finds he hates it almost not at all. Feeling Sherlock get worked up, listening to him gasp and try to stifle his moans, tasting the desire in his mouth and on his skin— it makes up for the mess.
John breaks away from the kiss to roll his hips down into Sherlock's and ask, 'D'you want to turn that off, then?'
Sherlock stares at him for a moment, his pupils so wide and dark it's a wonder he can focus at all, and then clears his throat, finds the remote without taking his eyes off John, and puts the telly on mute. John can still see the light of it flickering past him, but now it doesn't sound like Stephen Fry is watching John get a leg over. Sherlock drops the remote with a clatter on the floor, and then he's got both hands in John's back pockets, and he's pulling John down hard against his cock.
John says, 'Ah, fuck,' and Sherlock kisses him again roughly, eating at his mouth and groaning. John's own prick is stiff in his jeans, rubbing hard against Sherlock's. It's sending little shocks of nervy pleasure up John's spine and building hot and heavy between his legs. He grabs Sherlock's hair tightly, fingers scrunched in Sherlock's soft curls, and Sherlock winces and bites John's lip. John yanks him out of the kiss again, their mouths parting wetly, and Sherlock snarls as he grinds against John harder, faster. He's panting, staring up at John with his mouth open.
John gasps, 'Stop, wait,' and Sherlock does, stuttering to a halt, unable to resist one more shove. John lets go of his hair, cards his fingers through to soothe him, and kisses him again, more slowly, lips and tongue and no teeth. Sherlock hesitates, licks his lips and John's by proxy, and then begins to kiss back. 'That's it,' John murmurs against his mouth.
'You were going to come,' Sherlock accuses, and he shifts his kisses from John's mouth to his cheek, his jaw, and then the line of his throat. John tips his head back, offering, and doesn't deny it. Sherlock finds the tender spot below the bolt of his jaw and worries it, drawing the blood to the surface, until John squirms away in pain. 'I want to fuck you in this chair,' Sherlock says, kissing the spot. 'I love the sight of you in my lap.'
'Oh my god,' John mutters, flushing hotly and shuddering closer to orgasm. It doesn't take much, not with Sherlock.
'You're close,' Sherlock murmurs. 'But you're holding back, why?'
'So I know you'll get there too,' John says through his teeth. Sherlock's picking up the pace again, humping up against John's arse, rubbing his cock against the back of John's thigh. John's cock is trapped between them, rigid against his zipper and bumping against Sherlock's belt. It would be painful if it weren't so fucking good.
'I like watching you come,' Sherlock says. 'I'm collecting data.'
John loses it. His coordination fails and his thighs shake as he comes, pleasure surging through him. He's panting, eyes squeezed shut, and Sherlock says, 'Yes, that's perfect; that's gorgeous.' Sherlock's composure falters, then, as John's whole body trembles, and he mutters, 'Oh, god, John, oh—' and comes too with a low groan of satisfaction.
It takes a minute for John to catch his breath, and he does it with Sherlock's tongue in his mouth. Sherlock is very fond of kissing. John suspects he is collecting data even now; John's recovery period, a monograph. He hopes it doesn't turn up on the Science of Deduction.
Chapter 9: In A Hotel
John's first instinct upon entering the hotel room is to cross to the window and open the curtains. He always likes to get a sense of where he is when he's in a new place like this, get the lay of the land, and this one has a perfectly lovely view of Edinburgh castle. The sky is growing dark with the evening, and the city lights are beginning to sparkle. The hotel is only a few stories tall, so looking down John can see pedestrians clearly; if they looked up, they probably would be able to see him in return.
He spots Sherlock in the reflection on the window just before Sherlock presses against him from behind, flattening him to the glass. The glass is chilly against John's cheek and Sherlock is warm against his back, and John finds he rather likes the contrast. But they're on a case, which means Sherlock isn't generally in an amorous mood. John doesn't bother trying to seduce him when he's working; he's gotten the brush off enough times to know better. But with Sherlock tucking his face into John's neck and lining up their hips so that his groin rubs against the curve of John's arse, John's starting to suspect he might get to have him tonight after all.
He has to ask, all the same. "Sherlock, what's all this?"
Sherlock presses a kiss to the skin under his mouth and slides his hands around to the front of John's hips, pulling him back more firmly against Sherlock's crotch.
"Sex, John," Sherlock says. "No doubt you're familiar with the notion."
"You're working," John says, suppressing a shiver as Sherlock nuzzles the back of his neck.
"Not yet," Sherlock says. "I don't have all the facts, and I cannot start drawing conclusions until I do." He huffs a breath down John's collar. "I would like to begin," he admits, "but until Lestrade's liaison arrives, I don't believe I will be very successful."
The idea of Sherlock waiting for the go-ahead makes John snort. They both know they're out of their element here in Scotland— not John, not really, but he hasn't been home home for twenty years— and they need an official personage to make Sherlock's participation in the Edinburgh Castle murder investigation ship-shape.
"All right," John says, widening his stance to make room for Sherlock's wandering hands, "have at it then."
He shouldn't have given Sherlock free reign, because of course the first thing Sherlock does is cup John's crotch through his jeans and start to rub, kissing and biting at his neck until his cock is fully hard. John tries to tilt his hips away from the window, but Sherlock gives him a shove from behind and flattens John against the glass again. It's floor-to-ceiling exposure, and John has to close his eyes. People could be watching from the street. People could see him being fondled by the world's only consulting detective, and that will be his reintroduction to Edinburgh. Good god.
Sherlock's other hand slips underneath his jumper and his button-down and his nimble fingers find John's left nipple. John shudders with pleasure, distracted from his embarrassment. Sherlock kisses behind his ear and rubs with both hands. He can play John like he plays his violin: expertly and with relish, alternating between teasingly playful and deadly serious. Now he's tempting John with promises of more, rocking his hips slowly against John's arse and mimicking the way he'd like to fuck. They both know John won't allow it against the window like this, but he does like the cold glass against his cheek and chest now, with Sherlock's hands cushioning the pressure.
"Come on," Sherlock says abruptly, pulling John away from the window by groin and sternum and turning to toss him on the bed. John goes down on elbows and knees on the mattress, and Sherlock climbs up behind him and practically mounts him right there, shoving John's knees apart with his own and grinding against him hard. "I want to fuck you at least twice," Sherlock mutters.
John lifts his head from the surprisingly soft bed coverlet. "Pardon?"
"We've got all night," Sherlock says, "and you're not washing the sheets. Isn't that the point of a hotel room?"
When he puts it like that. "We'll see," John says, cock throbbing. He's not a kid anymore. Sherlock's stamina is impressive, but he's not nineteen either.
Sherlock pushes John's shirt and jumper up his back and bends to kiss between John's shoulder blades. The chill of the room on John's skin makes him shiver, and nestling his face into the blankets below him helps. Sherlock trails his mouth down the length of John's spine to the waist of his jeans, and then his nimble fingers are slipping between John and the bed to unfasten the buttons. He pulls John's jeans and shorts down the curve of his arse. John flushes hot with the realization that Sherlock's mouth isn't stopping, and he muffles a shout into the bedclothes when Sherlock's tongue touches his hole.
Sherlock has him pinned, between his jeans around his knees and Sherlock's hand in the middle of his back, and he can't squirm out of Sherlock's grip for anything. God, he's mental, but he loves being held down like this. Sherlock is completely in control, licking John out like he hasn't got anywhere else in the world to be, while John gasps and his cock throbs. John's hands won't obey him, just stay clenched in the sheets over his head, and Sherlock doesn't even have to hold him open to get his tongue practically inside John's body.
Then Sherlock pulls away wetly, and John moans in desperation. He wants that gorgeous mouth back; he'll take it anywhere so long as it comes back. But two of Sherlock's long fingers are rubbing him there briefly, in warning, and then sinking in to the knuckle. John's back arches as he groans, and Sherlock presses a kiss to the middle of his back, muttering, "God, look at you."
John doesn't care to formulate an answer. Sherlock likes to tease, and if he makes too much of a fuss Sherlock will draw this out until John cries from wanting. It isn't nice to do that to a man still half-dressed.
Sherlock takes pity on him, and John hears him tearing a foil packet with his teeth. Sherlock spits, and then he's squeezing lube down the crack of John's arse, warm from being in Sherlock's pocket.
"Oh, you dirty thing," John tells him over his shoulder, and Sherlock laughs.
"I like hotels," Sherlock says. "Well, I like hotels with you." He leans down to kiss John's back again, and then skips over the rumple of his shirt and jumper to kiss John's ear. "You're not exactly adverse to them, yourself."
"Good deduction, that," John says, which earns him a deep, twisting thrust of Sherlock's fingers. "Fuck!"
"In a minute." Sherlock eases his fingers out and replaces them with the blunt, bare head of his cock. He rubs against John for a long moment until John is cursing at him, and then pushes in. He fills John with a long, smooth thrust of his hips, and then folds himself down along John's back. He nuzzles John's cheek and temple, peppering kisses along John's hairline. "How's that?"
"How's that?" John echoes, finally prying one hand from the sheets and fisting it instead in Sherlock's hair. "It's fan-fucking-tastic, you vain git, now fuck me like you mean it."
"If you insist," Sherlock laughs, and fucks like he means it.
They manage it three more times before they check out: twice in the bed, once in the chair by the window, and once in the shower the next morning, Sherlock with his forearms against the wall and John behind, the water pouring between them. When Lestrade's contact finally meets them in the street, Sherlock is still flushed with exertion and John can't get the idiotic just-got-laid grin off his face. Lestrade's man doesn't seem to notice. As Sherlock would say, he might see, but he doesn't bother to observe.
Chapter 10: Curiosity
'I want to try fitting your whole hand inside me,' Sherlock announces upon his entrance to the sitting room with a sweeping gesture of his dressing gown. John chokes on a mouthful of tea and spits it on the eighth and ninth page spread of the Guardian.
'I beg your pardon?'
'I'm serious, John,' Sherlock says. He flops down in his chair across from John, his arms and legs sprawled wide, and John doesn't bother to keep himself from glancing down the length of Sherlock's body. He's allowed. Sherlock is wearing only his outrageously expensive silk pyjama pants and his dressing down, and his nipples are just showing where the dressing gown falls open. He's doing this deliberately. Christ, does that get John's blood up. Not that it wasn't up already, starting from the moment Sherlock walked in talking about John's whole hand.
Sherlock goes on, 'I read about it the other day, and I think I ought to give it a go. You've got small hands,' and he leers at John, good God. The man is a menace. John should have introduced him to carnal knowledge ages ago. 'And I'm already having sex with you on a regular basis anyway, so you're the most logical choice.'
'You read about it?' John asks, putting down the damp paper and his mug before he does either of them more harm. 'That's not something you just run across by accident while you're browsing news blogs, Sherlock.'
'Well, it was a specialty website,' Sherlock says. 'Despite Mycroft's opinions on the matter—'
'Please don't bring your brother into this conversation.'
'—Sex does not actually alarm me, not since… well. At any rate, I'm not ashamed, like you are, of what my browser history says.'
'So what you're saying is,' John says, 'you want me to fist you. For science.'
'It's an experiment like any other.'
'All right,' John says.
'Did you expect me to turn down an opportunity to shag you in the name of intellectual pursuits?'
'Just your hand.'
'Fine,' John says, standing up and adjusting his trousers unselfconsciously. 'I'm curious to see how long you last.'
Sherlock gets up, and towers over John, stretching himself up deliberately so that he can look down at John from above. John stands his ground, tipping his chin up and squaring his shoulders.
'It's not a bet,' Sherlock says.
John grins. 'Of course it isn't.'
'You're not winning anything,' Sherlock says.
'Sure I am. Are we doing this, or what?'
Sherlock huffs and deflates a little, and John catches him gently by the chin to give him a kiss. Sherlock's lips part instantly, letting John in, and John spends a delightful eight or ten seconds licking the inside of Sherlock's mouth before Sherlock jerks away.
'Just your hand,' he says again, looking flushed.
'What, no kissing?'
'I need a control experiment.'
'God, this is going to be dull,' John says. 'Where do you want it?'
Sherlock turns on his bare heel and leads John down the hall to his bedroom. He closes and locks the door, and John yanks his jumper over his head.
'You don't have anywhere to be, do you?' Sherlock asks, dropping his dressing gown and shimmying out of his pyjama pants.
'You know I don't.' John untucks his shirt and undershirt from his jeans and unbuckles his belt. 'Are you trying to be polite?'
'No,' Sherlock says. He lays himself out on the bed, gloriously naked, and pulls his heels up to his arse. His stomach is flat and soft in the fresh morning light, and John puts both hands on it as he kneels between Sherlock's spread legs. John runs those hands up Sherlock's sides and over his lean, muscular chest, and then back down.
'Right,' he says to Sherlock's pointed glare, 'control experiment. You might want to turn over, actually. Easier access.'
The blush that John spotted before on Sherlock's cheeks returns, and Sherlock turns over in a huff, as if it was his idea in the first place and John was just getting in his way. Now John can smooth his hands up and down the long, sinuous curve of Sherlock's spine.
'Christ, Sherlock, I've got to get you relaxed before I go stuffing my whole damn hand up your arse,' John says, rubbing his thumbs in the dips on either side of Sherlock's spine above his buttocks. 'I'm not going to injure you just so you can prove a point.'
Sherlock sags a little, and he rearranges his arms and face in the pillows. John nudges his knees a little farther apart and strokes the backs of his thighs, warming them up a little, until Sherlock sighs softly.
'Right,' John says, 'hand me the lube.'
Fingers slick, he begins to work little circles with his left thumb and down the crack of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock's hole is darkly pink and twitching in anticipation, and John swallows the rush of saliva that fills his mouth. He anchors his other hand in the crook of Sherlock's hip, and presses in carefully, stretching the muscle ever so gently.
Sherlock grunts, but says no more. He shifts his hands restlessly as John continues to tease him, and John leans down to kiss the middle of his back.
John's cock is fully hard between his legs, tenting his boxers and getting in the way. Sherlock's only about halfway erect, cock filling as John touches him, but clearly he's considered the implications of this in a purely intellectual fashion, and didn't count on the addition of John's human desire. Bit foolish, that. John presses his thumb in again, this time to the knuckle, watching the ripples of tension up Sherlock's back.
Sherlock's ready, he decides, to move on to his fingers. His whole hand is slippery, and John has to take a breath when he remembers how that's going to serve him well later. His index finger goes in smoothly, making Sherlock wince and whine, but he's not crushingly tight around John's finger, so it's not a complaint. John rocks his finger slowly in and out, pushing deeper each time, until his knuckles are pressing against Sherlock's buttock.
'Another,' Sherlock says.
John obeys. He eases his first finger out, straightens the second, and sinks them both back into Sherlock's arse. Sherlock lets out a hiss, back arching.
'This isn't much of a control,' John says, keeping his voice from shaking, because, Christ, that's a sight, 'if you're getting off on it already.'
'It's part of the experiment,' Sherlock snaps.
'I don't think this is an experiment at all,' John says, twisting his two fingers ninety degrees to hear Sherlock moan. 'If you wanted me to fuck you with my hand, you could have just asked.'
'I did ask,' Sherlock says, fingers scrabbling at the sheets. 'Sort of. I said I wanted to, and you said fine.'
'I'm only saying,' John says, fucking in and out a few times, 'you don't have to disguise it as science.'
'Everything I do is scien— oh, fuck, that again.'
'Found it, did I?'
John rubs it again, the gland inside Sherlock that makes him tense and clamp down, gasping aloud. John's cock throbs in sympathy, and he manfully resists the urge to rub up against the back of Sherlock's trembling thigh.
He adds a third finger carefully, testing the resistance of Sherlock's body and listening to the rising pitch of Sherlock's unconscious moans. He needs more lube. Normally, at this point in the game, he'd be balls deep in Sherlock, shagging him senseless and sending the headboard bouncing against the thin paint. But since— god, since he's still got to get his little finger and his thumb and the width of his hand in there instead, he has to be so gentle. Sherlock's reactions are beautiful. He has sweat pooling in the dip of his spine, and he can't seem to keep his hands still. His hips are rocking back against John's shallow thrusts, and his cock is all the way hard now, his glans exposed, gleaming with pre-come.
Three fingers is a squeeze already, but with more lube and a little time, Sherlock relaxes into it. John's hand is beginning to cramp from this position, with his pinkie folded down against his palm, but soon he decides Sherlock can take it, and slips it inside as well. Fuck. Sherlock's arsehole is stretching tight as John presses his hand further in, grinding the bones of John's fingers together against one another. He can't even imagine what that feels like on the other end.
'John,' Sherlock says, surprisingly loud, 'is it—? Oh, God, it hurts—'
'I'll stop,' John says instantly, starting to pull away.
'No!' Sherlock barks. 'Fuck, no, don't stop. It's so strange. It's so good.'
'But it hurts?'
'I'm never going to be able to write this down,' Sherlock moans into the pillows. 'There's so much sensation.'
John's heart falters in the wake of the wave of lust that sweeps through him. 'How much more?' he manages, hoarse. 'How much more can you take?'
Sherlock lifts his head and looks over his shoulder. His face is gleaming with sweat, and his eyes are dark and wild. 'Everything.'
John groans, squeezing Sherlock's hip with his un-occupied hand, the one that isn't metacarpal deep in Sherlock's arse. Sherlock lowers his head back to the bed, and John risks a glance at the clock behind him. They've been at it almost half an hour, and there wasn't even any foreplay. It's all been this: John opening Sherlock up slowly and gently, to take his hand.
He pulls back, until his little finger is just barely breaching Sherlock, and folds his thumb in underneath. The noise that Sherlock makes when he pushes back in is inhuman, guttural. Then Sherlock says, 'Oh, fuck, I might come.'
'Don't,' John warns, petting his back desperately, 'don't, not yet. Relax, just relax for me. Please!'
'Please!' He stops pushing, stops with four fingers and the tip of his thumb inside Sherlock's arse. The heat is incredible, the pressure so strong. Sherlock's body doesn't exactly want him there, but he knows it can be convinced. More lube. More lube will help, while Sherlock deliberately slows his breathing and forces his muscles to relax. He's almost limp everywhere else, barely holding himself up, and John can feel it as his perineal muscles begin to give way. Sherlock was right, John's hands are smaller than some men's, but they're not small by any stretch of the imagination. Easy does it.
Sherlock moans again when John squeezes lubricant down his crack, and then louder when John presses his knuckles against the resistance. John can't hold in the gasp that comes when he finally does it, pushes the widest part of his hand past the barrier of Sherlock's anus. Sherlock shouts, wordless, and his body spasms, squeezing down hard on John's hand. John barely gets the meat of his palm inside Sherlock when Sherlock comes, completely silent in his shock. John freezes, terrified, but Sherlock bears down and the sound finally escapes him again, like water bursting from a dam.
He shouts, 'Fuck!' at the top of his lungs, and then just, 'Ah!' over and over as the muscular pulses of his orgasm squeeze John's hand tighter and tighter. John can't help himself; he wiggles his fingers in there, drumming against Sherlock's prostate, and Sherlock twists in ecstasy, overwhelmed. John's other palm is damp against Sherlock's back, stroking down his arse and hip, up and down his thigh. Sherlock's whole body shakes and his cock continues to twitch, long past the usual few seconds his orgasms last. Finally he lets out a whimper, and the grip on John's hand eases.
'Steady,' John tells him, his own breathing erratic. He's so hard he could come in a second, but he has to take care of Sherlock first. He rubs up and down Sherlock's spine as Sherlock pants for air, and begins the slow process of easing his hand out of Sherlock's arse. Christ.
Sherlock whimpers again as John's metacarpophalangeal joints stretch him impossibly, and then he releases his breath on a deep sigh as John's fingers slip out, still held tightly together. When he's clear, John lets his hand relax and Sherlock eases himself to the bed, wincing.
'Christ, that feels strange,' he mutters.
John yanks down his boxers with his right hand and grips his rigid cock with his left. His hand— his goddamn hand— is still slick with lube and tingling from the strength of Sherlock's internal muscles, and it only takes him a few fast pulls before his hips jerk and he comes, striping the curve of Sherlock's arse with his semen. Sherlock moans softly, pushing his face deeper into the pillows, and John sinks down beside him with his messy hand aloft.
'Well,' Sherlock says, turning his head to regard John with one sparkling eye, 'we've got a baseline for comparison.'
'You can't be serious.'
Sherlock scoffs. 'I liked it,' he says. 'Now I want to know what that's like while you suck my cock.'
'Work, work, work,' John murmurs.
Chapter 11: It's Raining
John woke to the sound of the rain pattering against the window panes. The wind was gusty in the back alley, making the bins below rattle and the wires above sway and shake. The light was grey, not quite daylight, but John's clock said half seven. He sat up. The dent in the pillow beside him was cool. Sherlock had been up for a while, then.
He'd got halfway out of bed and back into his boxers when Sherlock's tread on the stairs interrupted him.
'Finally,' Sherlock said, climbing over the footboard and up to the pillows. 'I've been waiting ages for you to wake up.'
'Good morning to you too,' John said. 'Have we got a case?'
Sherlock reclined, propping himself up on his elbow and pulling at John's arm until John lay down again. 'No,' he said. 'If we'd had a case, I'd have woken you up, obviously.'
'Obviously. What were you waiting for, then?'
'It's raining,' Sherlock said.
John stared at him. 'Bit of a basic deduction, for you.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Please,' he said. 'I was doing it for your benefit.'
'Are we going to have sex or not?'
'What about it?'
'God, you really do need to be led, don't you.'
'We're not having sex if you're going to go on like that,' John muttered, sitting up again.
Sherlock tugged him down once more. 'Isn't sex what people do in the rain?'
John snorted, rubbing his hands over his face. 'People also occasionally go to the shops and buy produce in the rain,' he said, 'and sometimes they go to work.'
'You're not at the clinic today.'
Sherlock lifted his legs up and shucked off his pants. He was left in his silk dressing gown only, but just for a moment, as it quickly joined his pants on the floor. 'Well?'
'Your seduction technique needs work,' John said, but he was already reaching for Sherlock. Sherlock moved to meet the grip of his hand, sliding the back of his neck into John's palm, and John leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock tasted like tea and toast. John wondered if he'd left the heels of the loaf again for John to make a sandwich with, or if he'd been man enough to eat them instead.
Sherlock rolled on top of him, which was distracting enough that he stopped worrying about the bread. John wrapped both arms around Sherlock and held him tightly as they kissed, mapping the span of his ribs with his fingertips. Sherlock's tongue was slow and gentle in John's mouth, and John spread his legs so Sherlock could settle between them. Now that Sherlock wasn't talking, the sound of the rain took over, filling the room with its organic rhythm. Cars in the street passed slowly, carefully, tyres splashing.
John's cock was hard, pressing against Sherlock's thigh and trapped in his boxers. Why, oh why, had he put them on? Sherlock on a mission sometimes couldn't be budged for something as trivial as clothing, and John rather liked these boxers. He didn't need to come in them.
'Shift up a minute,' he said against Sherlock's mouth, and got enough room between them to yank the boxers down. His cock sprang up, eager to be free and to be touched, and Sherlock settled against him again with a groan. Sherlock's prick rubbed against John's, deliciously long and slim. They rocked together, Sherlock pushing with his hips and John locking his legs around Sherlock's thighs, their kisses devolved into smearing lips and heavy breathing.
It wouldn't be enough friction to get either of them off, but the heat building slowly between John's thighs was worth the wait. He fisted both hands in Sherlock's hair to hear him moan, and then slid those hands down Sherlock's long back to his tight, pale arse, gripping hard. Sherlock jerked, gasping, and John felt the warm burst of pre-ejaculate that slicked them both. He slid two fingers down into the crack of Sherlock's arse, rubbing dry against his hole.
'Fuck,' Sherlock said, bowing his back. He dug his elbows in hard on either side of John's head and pushed up to look him in the face. His eyes were dark as sin, the silver rings of his irises thin around his expanded pupils. His face was flushed, colour high on his cheekbones, and John bit at his lower lip.
'Let me—' John said, letting go of one arse cheek to feel around near the headboard, and came up with a nearly empty tube of medical lubricant. It was cheapest, and he could open and close it with one hand. With his fingers slicked, he worked that hand between their bodies and took hold of both their pricks.
Sherlock swore again and lifted his hips a fraction to give John some room. He kept thrusting into the circle of John's fist, rubbing himself against John from every angle. John's own hips were twitching, his cock throbbing, and now that he had a grip on them he knew it wouldn't take much. Sherlock was gasping, his eyes closed and his face creased in concentration. It was a face similar to one that appeared in public, but John could tell the difference between his thinking face and his about-to-come face. This one involved more open mouth, more furrowed brow, more grunting.
He tightened his hand and murmured, 'That's it, yeah,' and Sherlock stiffened all over. His cock pulsed in John's fist, and John's own orgasm took him before he could count how many times. He was shaking, trembling, and Sherlock's rapid breathing was louder than the rain outside.
When he was done, spent and over-sensitive, he let them both go and slid his hand out, wet with lube and semen. Sherlock went slack, flopping down on top of John, and tucked his face into the crook of John's neck. His exhalations were humid against John's skin. John rubbed his clean hand up and down the sweat-damp length of Sherlock's back and gazed absently out the window at the sky. He didn't mind a little lie-in when it was raining.
Chapter 12: Halftime
John's rugby match on telly is distracting.
'Is that bloody match ever going to be over?' Sherlock demanded from the kitchen, not looking up from his microscope. The maturation of the fruit flies in the old cherry preserves was coming along well, but the racket from the telly was distracting him from his work. A man's life sentence depended on the maturation rate. He could have looked it up, sure, but that was dull.
'It's not even half gone,' John protested from the couch. 'I know you don't give a rat's arse about this sort of thing, but this is Blackheath. I played in the club, once.'
'Yes, I know,' Sherlock sighed, refocusing the microscope to look more carefully at the flies' legs. 'And a thumping great time you had, too.'
John chuckled. 'So I did. Oh!' he cried, pointing at the telly to something Sherlock couldn't bloody well see, 'that was a good one!'
Sherlock couldn't focus. John's whole demeanour changed when he watched sporting events, revealing a part of him Sherlock didn't get to see very often. Sherlock rather hated the idea that there were bits of John he wasn't privy to. He stood up, pushing the stool back, and crossed the sitting room to flop down at John's side.
'Hallo,' John said, sliding an arm around his shoulders. 'Just a few minutes left in the half, and then I'll give you a bit of quiet.'
Sherlock shrugged and slid down a little to rest his head against John's. 'Never mind,' he said. 'I'll look at them later, they're not going anywhere too quickly.'
'I'm glad I don't know what they are,' John said, refocusing his attention on the television. Sherlock almost told him, but then he'd have to explain where he was keeping them, which John would not find amusing.
The rugby match was baffling, and there wasn't enough time on the clock for Sherlock to grasp the rules. Another few minutes and he'd understand the basics. But the buzzer sounded, and John leaned back in satisfaction. He set his empty lager can on the table beside the sofa, and Sherlock tucked himself more securely into John's side. John smelled like beer and warm wool and wishful thinking.
'You injured your shoulder playing rugby,' Sherlock said.
'I injured my shoulder in Afghanistan,' John said. 'Bit more dramatic.'
'The other one.'
'The right shoulder, John,' Sherlock huffed. 'Dislocated once, sprained twice?'
'Christ, that's right,' John said. His hand rubbing up and down Sherlock's arm was strangely comforting. Sherlock wasn't used to the kind of casual affection he got from John on a regular basis, 6.8 times as often now that they'd been sleeping together for three months.
'Of course it is,' Sherlock said, nuzzling his nose into the front of John's shoulder.
John gave him a squeeze, and reached for the remote to turn down the volume. 'Commentary's all crap,' he said.
'How long is the break?'
'Ten minutes,' John said.
Sherlock put a hand in John's lap.
'Right,' John said.
'Rugby get you a bit worked up?'
'Shut it.' John spread his legs and pushed his crotch against Sherlock's palm. 'The human body reacts in all kinds of funny ways to excitement.'
Sherlock gave him a look, a please don't be so daft within my hearing look, and started to rub. John dropped his head back against the couch, his lips parting, and Sherlock shifted up so he could kiss him. John tasted like beer, and crisps, and Sherlock associated that particular combination with athletic activities he had no interest in. Fencing and boxing were not sports in which the spectators consumed crisps at a regular rate.
Sex, however, was an athletic activity Sherlock had developed a great interest in, and it mostly had to do with the way John Watson kissed. His was a slow seduction, little flickers of his tongue that increased in measurable frequency and depth until he had Sherlock's mouth wide open and well invaded. Sherlock moaned, licking back, and John's arm around his shoulders tightened. John's cock was swelling quickly to full hardness, and he was rocking into the press of Sherlock's hand.
A little bit of fumbling had John's trousers open and his cock out through the slit in his boxers. Sherlock stroked him slowly, pushing his foreskin up around the fat head of his prick and then pulling back to bare it to the air. John gasped against his mouth when Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the crown, and Sherlock's thumb was quickly slicked with a pulse of pre-come.
'Oh, gentle,' John murmured, shifting his knees even farther apart as Sherlock touched him. Sherlock's hand was a bit dry, and the friction between them would get to be too much if he wasn't careful.
Careful would take too long. Sherlock pulled away and curled down, bringing his face down to John's lap. John's hand settled on the back of his neck, hopeful but not demanding, and Sherlock took him smoothly into his mouth. John's prick bumped the back of his throat before he was ready, but coming in from the side like this made the fit different. Better. With a little effort, Sherlock could get more of John into his mouth at once, and John's rough curse meant he'd noticed as well.
With hands and mouth together, cupping John's balls through his boxers and then stroking up and down his shaft to bump against his own lips, Sherlock had John squirming and panting in a few short minutes, his fingers tangled now in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock's mouth was full of the thick, sea-salt taste of John's rising excitement, and his throat was slick with mucus, the easier to swallow John to the root and press his nose into the thick, blond curls there that smelled of clean sweat and arousal and John's shampoo.
'Fuck,' John said, 'Sherlock, I'm so close, oh—'
Sherlock couldn't quite say, Get on with it, then, with his mouth as full as it was, but a little squeeze to John's bollocks made the message clear, and John's arse lifted right off the couch as he came. Sherlock choked, his eyes watering, but he stood his ground and swallowed what he could.
'Oh, shit, sorry, sorry,' John panted, hips still twitching, and Sherlock gave a tiny shake of his head. John said, 'fuck,' once more and subsided, and Sherlock pulled away. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips. John's grip on the nape of his neck tightened, and then he was licking the taste of himself out of Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock moaned happily, scrunching his fingers in John's jumper.
'Give you a hand, there?' John offered, warm palm finding its way to Sherlock's erection.
'It's all right,' Sherlock said, slanting away and climbing off the couch. He motioned to the television, smirking. 'You've got a match to finish.'
John stared at him, his eyes narrowed. His cock lay softening against the placket of his trousers, and he tucked himself away without looking.
'Doing time trials, are we?' he asked, finally, and Sherlock couldn't keep his smile from widening.
'Personal best,' he said.
Chapter 13: Near-Death Experience
The car's bonnet misses them by a few inches, and the bullet misses by only slightly more.
The car's bonnet misses them by a few inches, and the bullet misses by only slightly more. Sherlock pins John in the alcove of the alley— lucky, he can't rely on luck when it comes to John's life— and breathes hotly down the back of John's coat until the car screeches around the corner. John pushes him off roughly, hand pressed to his solar plexus— Sherlock knocked the wind out of him when he pushed him into the brick— and gasps for breath.
'Too close,' he wheezes, and Sherlock nods distractedly, looking around the alley. They have work to do— there are women's lives at stake, John has been reminding him on a regular basis since this whole kidnapping thing turned up on their doorstep— and he cannot be distracted by the way John smells when his life is in danger.
Fuck, it's delicious. Sherlock has never imagined he could smell adrenaline on a person, but he can smell it on John. It's magnificent. His own body is coursing with it— weak, subject to the whims of hormones, ridiculous— but John's identical inability to control his own internal workings is beautiful to behold. He is such an organic creature.
John is pulling out his gun, now, checking the magazine and slotting it back into place.
'I've got five more rounds,' he says. 'We need to move.'
'We know where they're going,' Sherlock says. 'They're on alert now, they won't try anything until nightfall.' He pushes John, more gently this time, back into the alcove.
'Sherlock,' John warns. 'Lives. In danger.'
'They'll keep,' Sherlock says. What is he doing? He can't take a break in the middle of the case like this. He's gone mad. Clearly, John makes him go mad. He presses his nose into the crook of John's neck, between his throat and his flannel collar, and inhales deeply. John sags a little, making a noise of protest.
'Sherlock,' he says again, breathier this time. The adrenaline must be fading.
'Won't take a minute,' Sherlock says, pressing his erection against John's belt. John huffs a breath. His hands tighten in Sherlock's coat lapels.
Sherlock licks John's mouth open, insinuating his tongue between John's lips and teasing out a little moan. John spreads his legs, welcoming. Sherlock has to bend his knees to get his cock up alongside John's, but the strain building in his quadriceps is worth the look of pleasure that crosses John's face. John tips his head back and closes his eyes, and Sherlock worries a little red bruise into the corner of his jaw.
'This is inappropriate,' John groans, his cock stiffening in his pants. Sherlock starts to grind against him, rubbing in slow circles, staring at the beads of sweat gathering in the notch of John's throat. John swallows, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down. Fascinating. Sherlock has seen dozens of throats, but none of them are ever as interesting as John's.
He needs to kiss John again. John acquiesces, murmuring, and Sherlock humps him more quickly, breathing hard into John's mouth and clutching at his hips. John doesn't taste like adrenaline— or if he does, Sherlock wouldn't know what he was tasting— but he tastes like cheap beer and overdue adventure. They were waiting a long time in that bar. John always surprises Sherlock, with his ability to shake off the influence of alcohol. He's nothing like his sister. Sherlock's met John's sister.
And he doesn't want to think of her now, as he grinds against John in a dank alleyway in Zone 1, bins on either side of them, getaway car speeding towards the docks. He needs to protect John, to keep him safe. For the animal part of his brain, the illogical part, that means fucking. Sherlock has to fuck John to prove his claim— as if John would ever let him have a claim— and he'll make do with what he's got.
What he's got suddenly changes, when John takes his hand off Sherlock's coat and stuffs it between them to unfasten every pair of trousers he can reach. A bit of wrestling has both their zips undone and their cocks out, rubbing together in the close, wool-and-cotton space between their bodies. John leaks a lot, his prick wet with his own pre-come sometimes long before Sherlock touches him, and now he's leaking on Sherlock's trousers, on the hem of his own shirt, on Sherlock's cock.
Fuck. Sherlock's erection throbs, and John wraps the same hand around both of them.
'Fuck my fist,' he hisses.
Sherlock doesn't waste time. He grunts, holding tighter to John's hips, his belt, and rocks his hips hard and fast, thrusting his cock against John's, slipping slickly through the circle of John's gorgeous, blunt hand. He's going to come, jesus christ, all over John's shirt— such a mess, dry cleaning won't get it out, John will have to throw the shirt out— when John pushes him away again and drops to his knees on the pavement. He swallows Sherlock down in a single motion, his nose pressed against Sherlock's pelvis, and Sherlock reaches his orgasm, hard and fast.
John coughs, swallows, and swallows again. His own prick is still jutting out of his trousers. Sherlock braces both hands on the wall above him, gasping, looking down at the sight of John's head between his legs. His vision swims, and he has to close his eyes. His knees are weak. Damn his body. Usually he can ignore these urges, especially when he's working, but something about John— it's always something about John.
John stands up again, wiping his mouth, and tucks Sherlock away in his trousers while Sherlock rallies. His hands wander, finding the open gape of John's trousers, the stiffness of his prick.
'Oh,' John says, as if he'd forgotten, 'yes, please.'
Sherlock jerks him off quickly, reading John's body like an open book, and when John's hands clench and his hips stutter, Sherlock cups his handkerchief protectively around John's cock and catches the spurt of his emission. John bites at Sherlock's neck, groaning, and goes limp.
'Got that out of your system?' he mutters, pulling back to look up at Sherlock with a silly, satisfied expression on his face. Sherlock huffs.
'Your smell is distracting,' he says.
'My smell— all right,' John says, 'I'll just leave that where it is.' He hops a little, getting himself re-situated, and zips up. 'I'm not sure I can run in this state; gone a bit wobbly.'
'Oh please,' Sherlock says, mind already starting up again. They do need to get moving; sunset is two hours away, and they have to get across town and then some Although, his legs do feel unsteady after the force of his orgasm. 'I'll call Lestrade and have a car pick us up.'
Chapter 14: Finally Get the Chance to Show Childhood Bed Some Action
'Your own wing, are you serious?'
'God,' John said, 'your own wing, are you serious?'
'Unfortunately, yes,' Sherlock said, leading him around yet another corner to yet another hallway. John was carrying both of their bags and lagging a bit, but Sherlock was so caught up in dramatic fury that he be required to attend a family function that he wasn't bothering to notice. 'Mummy never wanted her children too close to her, in case she had guests.' The way he said 'guests' suggests more than afternoon tea.
'Which room is Mycroft's?' John asked.
'We've passed his sitting room, his bedroom, and his bathroom,' Sherlock said over his shoulder. 'Why, are you planning on stopping in for a visit?'
'This house is like a small city,' John said. 'You grew up here?'
Sherlock sighed deeply, and stopped in front of a door. 'Yes,' he said, more softly than before. 'It hasn't changed, much.'
The first room of the suite was more like a library than a sitting room, lined with oak bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The high windows looked out onto the front garden and admitted a cheerful wash of natural light that illuminated the opulent furniture. It looked nothing like the version of Baker Street that John had glimpsed briefly before he'd moved in. It was pristine and un-lived-in, preserved for Sherlock's rare visits home.
Sherlock was already doing his best to disrupt the order of the room, throwing off his coat onto the back of a settee and leaving his shoes under the table. He crossed to the window, scoffed at whatever he saw, and disappeared through a door on the south wall without asking John if he needed a hand with the bags.
John dropped them both on the floor with a sigh, and went to look at what put Sherlock out so.
A long, black car was sitting on the white gravel driveway, its motor running. John recognised Anthea, which was not her name. Mycroft, then. They were all due for dinner in an hour; Sherlock had been appalled to find that he wasn't the last one to arrive. He'd been hoping to cut it as close as possible, so that the time spent with the Holmes family was minimised.
John, having now met his mother, couldn't tell why. Lady Holmes seemed like a perfectly nice woman; she had shaken John's hand warmly, welcomed him to her home, asked if he wanted a cuppa. She was tall and thin, like her sons, and age had softened the domineering air that they had, on her amounting to the comfortably firm running of a household and enough influence over Mycroft and Sherlock to bring them to heel. John, however, she didn't seem to need to intimidate. He sensed a kindred spirit in her; someone who could control Sherlock without making him rankle as badly as Mycroft did.
He turned away from the window to find Sherlock coming out of the left doorway at the far end of the room. 'They've made up the guest room for you,' he said stiffly, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling them up his pale forearms. John spotted two nicotine patches on his left arm. He raised an eyebrow.
'Should I stay there?' he asked.
Sherlock shrugged. 'If you like.' He was being coy, John decided. That, or a right bastard, which wouldn't be out of place at the moment.
'No thanks,' John said, crossing the carpet and sliding past Sherlock into the room beyond. 'This one yours? Christ, look at that bed.' He grinned, giving Sherlock a sidelong look. 'Did you sleep alone in that bed?'
Sherlock sniffed. 'Yes,' he said. 'I don't need to remind you about my brief and uninteresting sexual history, John.'
John kicked off his shoes and hopped up on the enormous bed. He scrambled inelegantly backwards on his hands until he was in the middle, heels barely reaching the edge, and lay back on his elbows. 'Well,' he said, ''bout time you break this thing in.'
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he approached the bed all the same. 'We don't have much time before dinner.'
'So we'll warm it up now,' John said, and paused to pull his jumper over his head, 'and tonight you can fuck me and I can fuck you and we can make an embarrassing mess and I won't touch the guest bed at all.'
Beginning to smile, Sherlock put a knee on the bed and climbed up, crawling until he was straddling John's hips and peering down into his face. John gripped him by the backs of his thighs and pulled until he was kneeling just under John's armpits, and then began to unzip his trousers.
'What, like this?' Sherlock asked, suddenly perplexed.
'Sure,' John said. 'Lean down, love.' He pulled Sherlock's half-hard cock out of his briefs and gave it a gentle tug, licking his lips. 'You can make it up to me later. This is important.'
Chapter 15: To Avoid Doing Work of Any Kind
Sherlock tries to tell the story of the Gloria Scott.
For the most part, John did what he considered to be a very good job not shouting at Sherlock every other day, but his long-suffering tolerance did have a limit. He ignored the body parts in the fridge, the chemistry on the kitchen table, Sherlock's indiscriminate use of any electronics he could get his hands on to send messages or do research, but when Sherlock's papers and books and general mess expanded so extremely that he couldn't do all that ignoring from the comfort of his own armchair, things came to a head.
'Sherlock!' John hollered, standing in the hallway with an armful of shopping and not a thread of patience left. 'Why has a bomb gone off in the sitting room?'
'A bomb?' Sherlock asked, opening his bedroom door and poking his head out. 'Don't shout things like that unless you mean it.'
'It's a fucking mess in there,' John said, glaring at him. 'I'm not eating dinner standing in the hall again. Clean it up.'
Sherlock huffed and slunk out of his room. To be fair, he'd just finished up a rather engaging case of kidnapping and murder, and all of the newspapers and print-outs and pamphlets in the sitting room were relevant to solving it, but the last time John had checked it had only occupied about half of the room. Apparently, in tying up all the loose ends, Sherlock had seen fit to take over the rest.
John pushed past him perhaps more roughly than necessary to get into the kitchen to put away the shopping. He found a home in the fridge for the new quart of milk and the loaf of bread that only he would eat, the vanilla yoghurt that Sherlock preferred and the fruit in its flimsy plastic boxes that he'd better consume fast lest they too turn into an experiment.
It took him a few minutes to put everything away, but when he turned back to the sitting room, Sherlock hadn't made much progress. He was standing in the middle of the catastrophe, his hands full of file folders, frowning at the sofa as if it was somehow to blame for being covered with maps.
'Did I ever tell you,' Sherlock said, looking up, 'about the unfinished case with the prison bus?'
'No,' John said firmly, 'and you're not going to tell me about it now.' He wasn't an idiot, for all Sherlock's assertions. He did love hearing about Sherlock's cases before they'd met, but he wasn't going to be distracted this time. He had to play taskmaster sometimes, and this was one of those times. 'Not until I can sit down,' he amended.
His chair was the first thing cleared, after that. John picked his way over piles of books from the London Library and settled into it to watch Sherlock work. Sherlock glanced his way a few times, scowling lightly at his smug inactivity, but he kept on task for almost ten minutes before he came to another stopping point.
'The Gloria Scott,' Sherlock announced, 'was a prison bus that crashed under suspicious circumstances on what should have been a routine prisoner transport.'
'You can talk and clean at the same time,' John said, but he put down the newspaper all the same.
Sherlock smirked and stood up. He had to step over six piles of papers to get to John, but once he was there he fitted himself deliberately into John's lap and tucked his hands behind John's neck. 'This one came from my friend Victor,' he said, lowering his voice. 'When I say "friend."'
John's traitorous body had realised, at some point, that Sherlock's arse was pressed firmly against his crotch, and had decided now was a good time for a stiffy. Sherlock shifted, felt it, and his smirk widened into a smile.
'John,' he chided, 'I had no idea hearing about my cases affected you that way.'
'All right,' John said, trying halfheartedly to shove him off. 'Less teasing, more cleaning.'
'Hang the cleaning,' Sherlock said, gripping tight with his thighs, 'and hang the case. It'll keep.'
'I'll keep,' John protested, but then Sherlock was kissing him, deep and warm, and he figured the tidying could wait a bit. The mess would still be there when they were done.
Chapter 16: Diet/Exercise
John comes back from a run.
Seven a.m. on a Saturday, and Sherlock was glaring at the hissing coffee machine when the downstairs door opened and closed, and John's footsteps came up the stairs. Sherlock blinked. He'd assumed John was upstairs in his own room, still asleep. They'd only been having sex for a few weeks, and they didn't always stay the night in each other's beds: John had nightmares, still, and Sherlock tended to kick. He hadn't even considered the possibility that John had not been in the flat.
'Morning,' John said, stepping into the kitchen. He was wearing a faded grey RAMC T-shirt, jogging bottoms, and his old green trainers that didn't get much use in the day-to-day. He was damp with sweat, a dark V formed at the neck of his shirt and arcs under his arms. When he turned away from Sherlock to fill a glass of water, Sherlock saw that he had also sweated through the small of his back. He smelled like salt and city smog and adrenaline, and Sherlock wanted to taste him all over.
He cleared his throat and estimated, 'Five miles?'
'Six,' John said, leaning back against the kitchen counter and gulping down the water. 'I did a few laps around the Inner Circle at the end there.'
'Ah.' Sherlock looked again. Sandy mud from the jogging path at Regent's Park had dried twice on the soles of John's trainers. Damn.
John turned to fill the glass again, and paused. 'You all right? You look a bit flushed.'
Sherlock swallowed. Lust made it hard to think, sometimes, and he hated that, but the rest of his body loved the way that felt. He knew he was staring at John, and John looked down at himself, suddenly self-conscious.
'Nothing,' Sherlock said, smiling. He put his— John's— coffee cup down on the counter and crossed the kitchen to him. John eyed him warily, but when he realised Sherlock was just coming in for a kiss, he relaxed.
'I'm all sweaty,' he protested, accepting the kiss all the same. He smelled incredible, and his body's temperature was elevated. His skin was warm to the touch, and his arms were slightly damp. His neck was gleaming, and he grunted in surprise when Sherlock shifted his attention from John's lips to his throat. Sherlock could taste London on him. He moaned sharply against John's neck, opening his mouth, and John echoed him, more softly, his hands coming up to clutch at Sherlock's dressing gown.
Sherlock pulled away, salt in his mouth, and slid to his knees. John huffed, pleased, and spread his legs when Sherlock pressed his face against the bulge of his crotch. John's cock was fattening up in his shorts, and a little bit of nuzzling and exhaling had him almost fully hard in less than a minute. His smell was stronger here, headier, and Sherlock's own prick throbbed between his thighs. Fuck, he'd gotten himself worked up quickly.
He pulled John's bottoms down, and John's cock sprang up, hard and thick. Sherlock pushed up John's T-shirt, sliding his hands up John's sweat-slick belly, and took his cock in his mouth. The fluid already leaking from his slit was salty in a different way than his skin, and Sherlock had to stop to try to catalogue the difference. He sucked lightly on the head of John's cock, feeling it pulse in his mouth, and then pulled off to flatten his tongue against the groove of John's hip and thigh, tasting the sweat. It was grittier, more impure, but no less fascinating.
'Stop teasing,' John murmured, his fingers finding their way into Sherlock's hair.
'I'm not,' Sherlock said, curling his hand around the girth of John's prick and rubbing it deliberately against his lips, still trying to compare. 'This is research.'
John snorted. He flexed his hips, pushing his cock between Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock obliged, sinking his mouth down until his nose brushed the thick, gold curls at John's groin. John's cock bumped the back of his throat, threatening to make him gag, but he quelled the reflex and pulled back slowly, of his own accord. John's cock twitched, leaking.
Sherlock glanced up John's body, meeting his eyes. John's chest was rising and falling rapidly, and the pulse in his femoral artery was beating hard and fast. Sherlock wondered if he could induce the same heart rate through a blow job that John had achieved while he was running. He'd have to set up some kind of experiment; this off-the-cuff speculation wouldn't do. He swallowed John down again, his pale hand making up the difference on John's flushed cock. John groaned, arching again, and Sherlock began to pump him in and out of his mouth. He could feel the trembling in John's muscular thighs, could see the white-knuckled grip John had on the edge of the counter, could hear the way John's trainers squeaked against the linoleum as he tried not to fuck Sherlock's mouth.
He was sweating again, or still, Sherlock had no idea. His left hand, not wrapped around John's prick, slipped between John's legs to cradle the weight of his balls. John moaned, fingers tightening in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's prick stiffened, flexing against the constraint of his pyjama pants. He knew he was leaking, making a wet spot in his pants, and he spread his knees apart on the floor, hungry for more.
'Fuck,' John said, his hips twitching minutely. Sherlock let go of his bollocks and grabbed his arse instead, urging him to rock against his mouth, push his cock in and out. John began to move, groaning with relief, and Sherlock let his mouth go slack even as he tightened his grip. John's cock slid through the circle of his hand and straight to the pit of his throat, thick and huge and salty with pre-come and sweat. He tasted like exertion, like want.
'Ohhh,' John muttered, 'that's so good, Christ, that's so good. Your mouth is so gorgeous, unh. Fuck, Sherlock, I'm getting close, oh—'
Sherlock tried to moan and got cut off by a well-placed thrust of John's hips. He settled instead for squeezing John's arse cheek, delighting in the firm muscle under his damp skin, his fine, soft hair. John arched, fucking faster, tugging on Sherlock's hair in a way that made his scalp tingle. His cock was swelling, stiffening further against Sherlock's rubbing tongue.
'I'm coming,' John said, 'oh, fuck I'm coming, fuck, Sherlock,' and then he was, filling Sherlock's open mouth with a few hard spurts, his body shaking. Sherlock held it in his mouth, overwhelmed by the thick, bitter taste, and finally swallowed when John sagged back against the counter. He let John's prick slip from his mouth and sat back on his heels, panting. John roughed his hand through Sherlock's hair, pushing his head back, and then sank to the floor to kiss the taste off his tongue.
Sherlock groaned, hands clutching at whatever parts of John he could find, and John grabbed his stiff prick through his pyjamas. He bore Sherlock down to the linoleum, covering him with his body, and jerked him off roughly, through the fabric. Sherlock's cock was so hard; he was so close. He locked his arms around John's neck, pushing up into his grasp. John held him, his forearm under Sherlock's neck, and ate at his mouth, kissing him until he was breathless. Sherlock's orgasm started low in his body, tightening his balls and making his skin tingle, and his prick throbbed in John's hand as he came. He could feel the emission caught by the fabric of his pyjamas, sticky and wet and warm against his sensitive cock-head.
John's kisses slowed as Sherlock's trembling subsided. He pulled back to look down into Sherlock's face, and Sherlock let his head hang back, his neck relaxed. John smiled at him, beautiful and bright.
'That was unexpected,' he said.
'Are your orgasms more or less intense after you exercise?' Sherlock asked.
John thought about it. 'Probably more. Why; you keeping track?'
'Now I am.'
Chapter 17: Prom Night
Well, dressed in tuxedos for good reason.
John looks good in a tuxedo. Sherlock should have expected this. He should be better prepared to ignore the fact that John, when forced into any sort of uniform of any ilk, instantly reverts to his soldier's posture. The line of his back is so straight, so mathematically perfect, that Sherlock can barely focus on anything else. John's shoulders are held back, his chest is puffed out, and his stance is slightly more spread than it usually is. He moves with deliberate care, hyperaware of his surroundings, and they're only at an art gallery opening. Sherlock is supposed to be guarding against a high stakes art theft, but he can't take his eyes off John. They're undercover, and Sherlock is ruining their cover.
He has to do something about it. Soon. The speeches about the art gallery are due to begin in thirty five minutes, and Sherlock knows the theft will be attempted then. When everyone's attention is focused where the state is brightly lit, someone with small hands and a short stride will be making off with priceless originals. It's modern art, so Sherlock isn't sure what counts as priceless and what counts as shite (as John put it), but he knows something will go missing.
He has thirty four minutes.
Sherlock catches John's elbow, returning to him after another tour of the perimeter of the room, and draws him away from a conversation with a buxom brunette. She's John's type— tall, hippy, with big blue eyes and a lot of cleavage showing.
'So sorry, only be a moment,' he lies, flashing teeth at the woman, and John goes willingly.
'Need something?' he asks, turning to Sherlock, all innocence. He doesn't know what he does to Sherlock. How can he not know?
'Gent's room,' Sherlock says, 'beyond the stairs.'
'Did you find something?' John's interested now— in the case, god damn it— and he follows eagerly.
'Yes,' Sherlock says. He pushes John ahead of him into the washroom and locks the door. There are two stalls, empty, and two sinks to the left. The mirror above them is immense. 'Look at yourself.'
'What?' John turns to look.
Sherlock pins him to the counter, stiffening cock against John's arse, and slips his hand into the front of John's jacket. He undoes the button, opens the jacket, and palms John's stomach through two layers of shirt. He presses his nose to the nape of John's neck and inhales deeply.
'Oh,' John says. He drops his head forwards, braces himself between the sinks. 'Right.'
'Can I fuck you?' Sherlock asks. He's getting better about asking.
'Now?' John squeaks. 'Here?'
'I have to.' Sherlock punctuates it with a slow grind that rubs his groin between John's clothed arse cheeks, and John falters. 'Look at you.'
'I look like a penguin,' John says, glancing up.
'Shut up,' Sherlock says. 'You're not that blind.'
'I am that modest.'
'Boring.' Sherlock starts to untuck John's shirt and undershirt, and crams his hand into John's fine black trousers. John's cock is still mostly soft in his briefs, but the heavy weight of it fits so nicely into Sherlock's hand like this. He mouths at the back of John's neck. 'Please.'
'All right,' John says with a sigh. He doesn't look that put out, so Sherlock accepts it. He smiles against John's collar, and rucks John's trousers down around his thighs. John doesn't usually wear briefs— tends to prefer boxers under his jeans, for ease of movement— and they are a treat tonight. They hug his arse in soft, grey cotton, and cradle his package, starting to pull tight as John's cock gets hard. Sherlock cups him again, encouraging him, and John lets out a little moan.
Sherlock doesn't have lube with him. He can trust that John has a condom in his wallet— ever prepared, as a soldier should be. They've been in this position before, Sherlock isn't ashamed to admit. So he folds to his knees, tugging John's briefs down, and parts John's cheeks with both hands. John chokes in surprise, but he goes to his elbows all the same. Excellent.
John's arse is tight and round, covered with a dusting of pale gold hair, and perfect for biting. Sherlock indulges himself, nipping at at John's cheek for a moment before he delves between them, tongue outstretched. John squeaks, hips jerking. Sherlock holds him more tightly. He can't have him escaping or injuring himself during a bit of good rimming.
He licks at John's hole with determination. He wants to fuck, as delightful as this is with the way that John reacts, and so he's not going to waste any time. His presses his open mouth firmly against John's arse hole, and John squirms as he pushes the tip of his tongue inside. Sherlock should use a finger or two on him, but then he would have to let go of John's cheeks, and that would make him lose his focus. This will have to be enough, if he does it for a little while.
He doesn't need long, it turns out. John is groaning and rocking against the counter within a few minutes, and his cock is fully hard and leaking. There is a wet spot forming on the fabric of his briefs where his cock is bent to the side, and Sherlock pulls away to rub his fingers in it.
'Oh, fuck,' John says, 'come on, Sherlock.'
Sherlock stands up. He unfastens his own belt and trousers, and pushes his underwear down until the elastic is snug under his balls. His cock stands up, stiff and proud and glossy, and he indulges in a moment of teasing, rubbing the wet head up and down John's slippery crack.
'Wait,' John says, and knocks Sherlock back a step with a well-aimed jolt of his hips. He shakes off one shoe and his trouser leg, and then the only thing holding him is his briefs, stretched to the limit around his wide-spread thighs. 'There. Get on with it.'
Sherlock stifles a moan in his throat, and does. He pulls John's briefs down farther, and squeezes John's arse with both hands. John's wallet— a mercy— is out on the counter, and Sherlock finds the condom packet without having to look. It's a new packet, too, not battered by six months of portage, and Sherlock tears it open with his teeth. John pushes his hips back, rubbing himself against Sherlock's jutting cock, his arse firm and muscular, his crack damp with sweat and Sherlock's saliva.
The condom goes on without a hitch, and then Sherlock takes himself in hand and presses, with intention now, against John's loosened hole. John bends a bit farther, groans softly, and then his body relaxes and Sherlock can push forwards, sinking in to the hilt. They moan in stereo, Sherlock clutching John's hips, John scrabbling for a hold on the counter. His head is almost against the mirror, and from this angle Sherlock can see the top of his head reflected in perfect detail. He slides a hand into John's sandy-fair hair and grips tight.
John braces himself against the sink. Sherlock starts to rock into him, pulling out a few centimetres and pushing back in, then a few more. Finally he's thrusting, nearly the full seventeen centimetres of his cock sliding in and out of John's body. John moans, covers his mouth with his hand, lets go again to push back against the mirror. Sherlock reaches around him, gripping his prick firmly. John shouts aloud, and then Sherlock's hand is suddenly wet as John's cock throbs. John's whole body goes rigid when he comes, clamping down, and Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. He had no idea John was so close. How could he have missed it?
Groaning more softly, John goes limp against the counter, and Sherlock has to hold onto his hips to fuck him as hard as he needs. He's hammering the tops of John's thighs right into the edge of the counter, and he feels terrible about the bruising that will result, except for how spectacular his orgasm is about to be.
'John,' he gasps, overwhelmed, and John reaches behind him blindly to grip the back of his thigh. Sherlock's cock is swelling, impossibly huge, and his bollocks are full to bursting.
'Harder,' John rasps, worn out from shouting, and Sherlock stiffens, pleasure cracking like a whip through his body, across his nerves.
He comes with a groan, pulsing his load into the condom, deep in John's arse. John clenches, the deliberate bastard, and another sharp wave of pleasure shakes Sherlock to the core. He twitches, grinding against John's arse as the flashes of light behind his eyes begin to slow. John flops, pinned to the counter, and Sherlock pulls away with a slow, reluctant squelch.
'Fuckin' mental,' John mutters. He rests his forehead against the counter and tugs up his briefs. When he steps away, he steps on his trousers and nearly goes down, but Sherlock grabs him by the upper arm. They stare at each other for a long moment, both indecently unclothed from the waist down, and John begins to giggle. He pats Sherlock's hand and frees himself, and he can't stop giggling as they put themselves back together. Sherlock's heart beats double-time in his chest, and his face feels warm.
The hallway is empty when they emerge, but John blushes scarlet all the same as Sherlock pulls him back down the hall towards the gallery opening event.
'You're really pushing it,' he hisses, slipping into the function behind Sherlock. The lights in the room have dimmed, and the spotlight is pointed at the front of the room. The speeches are about to begin.
'I timed it perfectly,' Sherlock whispers back. 'We haven't missed a thing.'
'You don't know that,' John mutters, crossing his arms.
'Yes,' Sherlock says as he spots movement in the corner, going the wrong direction, 'I do.'
Chapter 18: Already There, Don't Want To Move The Car
Or get on a train back to your hotel room where you've been living since you returned from Afghanistan. The new flat is much more appealing, after all.
'So it's all to do with the MSG,' John said, following Sherlock into the dark hallway of 221 Baker Street and up the stairs.
'Now you see,' Sherlock said. 'The less they use, the more pure the oils, the more greasy their fingers.'
'I'd never have noticed.'
'Of course not.' Sherlock opened the door to the flat and shrugged off his coat. 'But that's to be expected.'
All but one of the lights had been turned out, presumably by Mrs. Hudson, and the one that was left shone softly from beside the window. John glanced around at the haphazard unpacking Sherlock had already done. His bedsit was all the way across town, and now that the adrenaline of the whole insane affair had faded, he realised he was exhausted.
'So,' Sherlock said, 'fancy a shag?'
John did a double-take, mouth falling open. 'Beg pardon?'
'I'm just asking,' Sherlock said. 'It's no trouble. I just get all wired after a case, and an orgasm usually helps me settle. They're always more fun with a partner.'
'I thought you were married to your work,' John said, crossing his arms.
'She's a frigid companion,' Sherlock said, and grinned. 'She doesn't mind me having a bit of fun on the side.'
Now that Sherlock mentioned it, John found he probably could do with a bit of mano-a-mano. His cock was stiffening at the thought of it. It had been an awfully long time, and the case had been terribly exciting. Besides, Sherlock was rather fit, and he didn't seem to expect much from John.
'All right,' he said.
'Really?' Sherlock looked genuinely surprised.
'Yeah,' John said, and dropped his coat over the back of a chair. He pulled his jumper over his head. 'Why not?'
Sherlock moved quickly for so tall a man. In an instant, he was across the room and within the limits of John's personal space. For a moment they stared at one another: John admiring the green and grey of Sherlock's eyes, Sherlock presumably assessing John's level of commitment to the next move. John was going to have to make it.
He lifted his left hand and slid it slowly along the side of Sherlock's neck to cup the back of his head, fingers sinking into the warm, soft curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, and John tipped his chin up in invitation.
'Come on, then,' he murmured.
Sherlock tilted his head and slotted their mouths together, softly at first, testing. As John reacted favourably, Sherlock became more aggressive, wrapping one arm around John's middle and the other around his shoulders, and pressing his tongue eagerly against John's lips. John opened for him on a sigh, the familiar weight and pressure of another body against his so bloody welcome. His cock was already half-mast and getting harder, and he took hold of the back of Sherlock's jacket to pull him even closer.
Sherlock moaned into his mouth and broke away to work a line of kisses across John's jaw and down the side of his throat. John dropped his head back, eyes closing, and pressed himself firmly against Sherlock. Sherlock clutched at him, biting softly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and insinuated one thigh between his knees.
'Fuck,' John said, spreading his legs so that the pressure of Sherlock's surprisingly muscular thigh could be applied directly where it was needed most.
'On the couch,' Sherlock said, pulling away and dragging John halfway across the room to where the furniture sat haphazardly beside the fireplace, disturbed by the so-called drugs bust. He sat down hard and John climbed straight into his lap, thighs spread wide, already reaching for another kiss. This time Sherlock let him take the lead, and he licked as deep into Sherlock's mouth as he could. The kiss was wet and slick, and Sherlock moaned in appreciation.
When John grabbed double-handfuls of Sherlock's hair and squeezed his fists tight, Sherlock groaned deeply and his hips rocked up against John's arse. Sherlock's hands were roaming up and down John's spine, working their way underneath his shirt and undershirt, and when Sherlock finally reached skin John nearly wriggled in his eagerness. His prick was straining in his trousers now, fully hard and aching to be touched.
Sherlock read him loud and clear. His right hand slid from the small of John's back to cup John through his trousers, mapping the length and girth of him with steady fingers. John groaned, the long-denied pleasure catching up with him. Sherlock leaned in and pressed his mouth to the notch of John's clavicle, and John stared open-mouthed at the ceiling. He was leaning back so far, hips pushed into Sherlock's hand so firmly, that it was only Sherlock's other hand on his back and his own arms looped around Sherlock's neck keeping him on Sherlock's lap.
Sherlock nipped him, and said, 'Can I touch you?'
'Yes,' John gasped, letting go of Sherlock's neck to fumble at his belt. 'Please.'
'Give us a hand, then,' Sherlock said, shifting their hips apart. John opened his trousers and pulled his cock out through the slit in his boxers, and Sherlock sighed. His long, warm fingers closed around John's prick and began to stroke, slowly, gauging his reaction.
John's whole body was trembling. His bollocks felt tight and full, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. Sherlock was watching his face, watching him bite his lip and squirm, and seemed to like it. John grinned at him, feeling ridiculous, and Sherlock smiled back.
'It really was an excellent shot,' Sherlock said.
'Oh Christ,' John said, hips jerking in Sherlock's grip, 'you're not still going on about that?'
'Where did you learn to do that?'
'Government secret,' John said.
'Fuck,' Sherlock said, and let go of his cock. 'I hate government secrets.'
John said, 'Please, no, I was kidding,' but Sherlock was only unfastening his own trousers and pulling out his own stiffy. His cock was gorgeous: long and slim and pink at the tip, and when it touched John's as Sherlock wrapped his hands now around both it twitched beautifully, spilling a little clear bead of pre-come.
'I hope you're close,' Sherlock murmured.
'Kiss me again,' John said, instead of answering. Sherlock was the bloody detective; he could figure it out.
Sherlock obliged, opening his mouth on a groan to John's questing tongue, and he jerked them both off as they kissed. John's arms were locked tight around Sherlock's neck and his hips were rocking rhythmically in Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock's hand on his arse was urging him along.
John could imagine what it would be like to fuck him properly. Sherlock probably liked to be on top, be in control, but John rather wanted him on his back with his knees at his chin. Well, to be honest, he would take it both ways. Sherlock's cock would be perfect in his arse, and Sherlock's arse would be perfect for his cock.
'John,' Sherlock said sharply, making John jump. 'Please, say you're—'
'I'm close,' John said, realising it was true. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock's and looked down between them. His orgasm was building, fast and hot between his thighs, deep in his spine, and he could feel his cock stiffening.
'Yes,' Sherlock gasped, and came abruptly, spurting thick and wet over his fist and John's prick. It caught John by surprise for some reason, and then he was coming too as Sherlock's body surged under his. They trembled against one another for a long few moments, panting and laughing against each other's mouths.
'We'll still be needing two bedrooms,' John said finally, lifting his head. 'Judging by the state of the kitchen, I'm not sure I want to see what else has ended up in your bed.'
Chapter 19: Just Shaved
The prompt says "legs," but. There are other things one can shave for SCIENCE.
'Why would anyone,' Sherlock asked from the sitting room, glaring at John's laptop, 'want to shave their anogenital region? Why would that be a point of contention in a marriage? This whole thing is nonsense.'
John was digging for a teabag in the nearly-empty box in the cupboard, so he didn't answer right away. Once he had extracted said teabag, however, he dropped it in the bottom of his cup and said, 'I dunno; feels nice I suppose.'
'What part of razoring your privates feels nice?'
Fuck. John should have left it at, I dunno.
He poured the water into his mug, stopped at the fridge for a spot of milk, and stood in the kitchen doorway. 'Well,' he said, 'it's nice for a couple of days, I suppose, but really it's a damned uncomfortable hassle. I suppose that's why it would be a point of contention.'
Sherlock was staring hard at him. He always hated it when there were gaps in his knowledge, but he usually didn't mind John filling them in. He was expecting elaboration. John wasn't sure he could talk his way out of this one.
'Look,' he started, privately making a decision he hadn't made in a long time, not since uni and a boyfriend who preferred it. Then he realised what Sherlock had open on his computer. 'Hang on a tic, what are you watching?'
'It's a very badly done plot,' Sherlock said, showing him. 'His wife won't shave her vulva, so he's having sexual intercourse with a college student. I'm not sure why. It doesn't quite justify the college student, although she is conventionally attractive.'
'Sherlock, it's half three in the afternoon. Turn that off.'
Sherlock did, grudgingly. 'I'm also still not clear on why pornography must be restricted to after dark, while intercourse is permitted at midday.'
John rolled his eyes. 'Do you have not a case after all?'
'No,' Sherlock muttered, sinking back into the sofa cushions. 'Bloody idiots lost their cat in the move. It was at their old flat. Only too the six-year-old going back for a look.'
'Right,' John said, abandoning his tea to cool on the table. 'Well, can I interest you in intercourse, instead?'
'Fine.' Sherlock got up with a great sigh, but he crossed the room to his bedroom door, already stripping.
'Be there in ten,' John said, heading for the bathroom.
'What?' Sherlock called after him. 'Why?'
When John did make it to the bedroom, freshly showered, Sherlock was lying naked on his bed, belly up, a monograph about snails in his hands. He frowned at John when he came in with his towel on and put the monograph aside.
'John,' he said peevishly, 'you know I don't mind putting my mouth on your anus, even if you haven't showered in the last five seconds; you don't have to make a special trip.'
'That's not what I was doing,' John protested, blushing and feeling like an idiot. 'Okay, not entirely. I'm proving a point.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he also rolled over onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. Between his thighs, his cock was thickening slowly, plumping up just because of John's nude presence. John was a little flattered. He loosened the towel and threw it over the corner of Sherlock's bookcase.
'Oh,' Sherlock said. He frowned. John felt even stupider. He opened his mouth to suggest they forget the whole thing, when Sherlock put up a hand. 'Don't talk yet,' he said, 'I haven't got all the facts. Come here.'
John obeyed. He crossed the two steps from the door to Sherlock's bed, the bare, sensitive skin of his balls and pubis feeling strange in the open air. Sherlock reached out, touching the top of John's thigh, and slid his fingers slowly up to the now-naked skin of his abdomen. He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth— thinking face— and took John's mostly-soft cock in his hand.
'Well?' John said, shivering at the touch.
'Shh.' Sherlock reached up with his other hand and caught hold of John's left knee, urging him down onto the bed. John knelt, and then crawled as Sherlock rolled onto his back once more. Once he was far enough onto the bed, John lay down beside him, and Sherlock easily flipped their positions, putting John on his back and snugging up against his side. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, palm against the long, narrow line of his back, and tipped his chin up for a kiss.
Sherlock obliged him, his lips soft and pliant. He was moving slowly, almost tenderly, kissing John carefully as he explored the shaved plane of John's groin with his palm. John's cock stiffened against his wandering hand, and the unfamiliar sensation of Sherlock's fingers against his bare skin sent frissions of pleasure running up his spine. Then Sherlock dipped his hand between John's spread thighs, cupping his naked bollocks, and John jerked in surprise.
Sherlock lifted his head. 'All right?' he asked. His eyes were dark and serious; analysing John's reactions.
'Yes,' John murmured. He spread his legs a little more, urging Sherlock on. Sherlock bit his lip in concentration as he refocused, his long, nimble fingers touching John, oh so delicately. John up over his head for a grip on Sherlock's headboard, needing an anchor. He pulled his knee up and planted his heel in the bed, giving Sherlock even more room. Sherlock let out a breath.
'That's exquisite,' he murmured. 'I never—' He didn't finish his thought, instead shifting suddenly and pushing himself up on his hands. He moved down the bed and climbed over John's outstretched leg, settling himself between John's thighs. John closed his eyes. Sherlock's hands returned, warm and sure, cradling his balls and dipping between the cheeks of his arse. John hadn't shaved all the way— he had limits to discomfort induced by stubble— but his skin felt hypersensitive everywhere. Sherlock murmured something indistinct, and his exhalation against John's balls was warm and humid and tingly. John's own breath caught in his throat.
Then Sherlock's tongue was on him, hot and wet, and they both moaned. Sherlock started to lick John's bollocks with shocking enthusiasm, lips and tongue moving rapidly over the sensitive skin. John groaned through his teeth and his cock throbbed, making a little wet puddle of pre-come below his navel. He didn't leak much, usually— not like Sherlock did— but he was so turned on just from this little bit of teasing and testing. He might have to lie here for ages while Sherlock explored every inch of his balls, and he wasn't sure he could stand it.
Sherlock's hand shifted from John's arse cheek to curl around his erection, and he began to stroke John as he licked him. John arched almost off the bed in surprise, trying to escape the intensity of sensation even as he tried to push himself closer to it. Sherlock grabbed his thigh and pulled him back down, and then fit his shoulder under John's knee and pushed John's thigh towards his chest. John dug his heel into Sherlock's back.
'Are you going to fuck me?' he asked, looking down the length of his body at the top of Sherlock's head. 'Please?'
'No,' Sherlock said. 'There's so much— I'm not finished here.' He straightened up, let John's thigh slide off his shoulder, and hooked his elbow under John's knee instead. John moved his other foot out of the way, and Sherlock lined them up groin to groin. The soft prickle of his pubic hair against John's bare skin was exquisite torture. John felt the muscles in his legs fairly shaking with the exertion it took to keep still. His knuckles ached from gripping the underside of Sherlock's headboard so hard.
Sherlock wasn't finishing his sentences. John had never seen him like this before, not in the bedroom. Sherlock and sex got on like well-planned arson, and Sherlock always knew what he wanted. He had not been the blushing innocent John had expected. He hadn't really understood the point of relationships before John came along, but he had quickly warmed to the idea. Being allowed to try any number of outrageous things with the same person appealed to his love of the scientific method. This was no exception. He was staring at the admittedly pale, blank canvas of John's pubic region like he'd never seen anything so wonderful before. It was probably better than murder. John hoped it was better than murder.
'Get on with it, then,' John urged, giving Sherlock's arm a squeeze with his knee, reminding him there was a person in the body he was admiring. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet his, and Sherlock grinned.
'I haven't forgotten you're there,' he said, stroking John's upper thigh. 'Just admiring the view.'
'Well it's not the Tate Modern,' John said. 'So don't be afraid to touch.'
Sherlock's grin widened, and he reached with his other hand between his legs to take hold of his own prick, full and stiff with excitement. He shifted a couple of centimetres closer, looking back down at his work, and began to rub the wet head of his prick against John's sensitive, well-licked bollocks.
'Oh, fuck me,' John groaned. He wanted to close his eyes, to give himself over to the pure feeling, but he couldn't stop staring. They were both captivated. Sherlock was stroking himself, urging out the pre-ejaculate, and painting John's naked groin with it. John wasn't sure who was using whom, here. Sherlock was rubbing himself off on John's balls, but every touch of skin on skin made the pleasure building between John's legs ratchet up.
Then Sherlock pressed his cock against John's and leaned down to kiss him again, the fine, soft hair on his belly brushing against John's prick. With Sherlock's tongue in his mouth John couldn't manage more than a muffled groan, but it got his point across, and Sherlock started to rock his hips. John wrapped both arms around Sherlock's shoulders, the skin-on-skin sensation almost overwhelming. Then Sherlock fit one hand between them and wrapped his fingers around both of their pricks. Now the slow grind of his hips worked Sherlock's cock against John's, slippery with pre-come and saliva, and John found himself lifting his pelvis to meet Sherlock's rhythm, his thighs trembling. His orgasm was rising fast with every slide of wet skin and brush of hair. Sherlock's kisses were falling apart, dissolving into tight, desperate panting, and the evidence of Sherlock's own impending crisis made John's inevitable.
'I'm going to come,' he gasped, like Sherlock needed the warning.
'Yes,' Sherlock hissed, 'I want to see it on your skin.'
John came, hips surging up as his balls tightened and his cock stiffened, and his orgasm spurted out of him in thick, wet bursts. Sherlock moaned and went almost completely still, the muscles in his back and legs trembling as he reached his peak. His spunk was hot on John's belly. John's nerves twinged in sympathy, sending another ecstatic pulse through him, and he pressed open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock's taught, pleasure drawn face. Sherlock began to kiss back as his orgasm subsided, and his hand slipped out from between them. John pulled him down, chest to chest, and kissed him through the tail end of it, squirming to keep the contact live.
'Well,' Sherlock said against John's mouth, and pulled back to look down between their bodies, smeared now with come and sweat. The slickness against John's bare abdomen made John shivery. 'I can see how it might become a point of contention.'
'Enough to have a porn affair?' John asked, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock's back.
'No,' Sherlock said firmly. 'It's just one experiment, and it might bear repeating, but there's so much more to be done with you that I certainly wouldn't throw you over for it.'
John grinned, warm inside and out. Sherlock had a funny way of being sentimental.
The next two weeks, of course, were a miserable affair of prickly bollocks and hyper-sensitive, itchy skin, but Sherlock took it in stride very well. He seemed to like this growing-back-in stage as much as the previous one, and offered lotioned-up hand jobs like they were going out of style. John decided, ultimately, that it had been worth another instance of the practical education of Sherlock Holmes.
Chapter 20: Celebrate Weight Loss
A midweek special: Mycroft/Anthea, 150 words.
'Half a stone,' Anthea said, glancing up at Mycroft from her Blackberry. 'In two weeks. That's rather admirable, isn't it, sir?'
Mycroft pursed his lips, trying not to look pleased. 'Perhaps,' he said.
'Don't be modest, sir,' she said, gracing him with a rare, sincere smile. 'You've been working very hard.'
'Thank you, my dear,' he said, and stepped off the scale.
'Should we celebrate, sir?'
'Now, now,' Mycroft chided, although he was loath to turn her idea of a celebration down. 'Too much of that and it won't be a treat.'
'Well,' she said, and her phone went into one hand, which meant she was putting aside the Commonwealth, 'perhaps not, but I do believe we ought to reward every noticeable change, so that you are encouraged to continue.' She reached behind herself and unzipped her skirt.
Mycroft swore under his breath. She really was too good to him.
Chapter 21: Roommate Out of Town
Sorry for the delay! Many commitments, some of them big bangs, etc. etc. Excuses excuses.
In other news, these are supposed to be 500 word snapshots, not 3600 word boarding school AUs, but there you have it.
Heads up for a moment of questionable consent, wherein Sherlock holds John's head down.
'Quick,' John hissed, yanking Sherlock into the room. 'Stamford's gone home for the weekend to see his grand mum; get in here.'
Sherlock sauntered across to John's bed, glancing from side to side, like he was trying to take in every detail. He had a dorm room of his own, John thought— couldn't be anything new about this one.
John closed the door behind them. He wished to God he could lock them in, but he had to rely on the visual impression of the key not being in the door to convince people he was Not At Home. He slid his desk chair into place under the doorknob, as an afterthought.
When he looked up again, Sherlock was sitting on his duvet and smirking, his shoes already off and his tie undone. John swallowed hard. He was supposed to be the composed one, being the older, more dignified of the two of them, but Sherlock made him flustered. Sherlock was sharp as a tack— sharper: he was a bloody genius and not just at chemistry or maths or biology— and he always made John feel like he was half a step behind. But Sherlock seemed to think the rest of the world was five or six steps behind, so he rarely gave John a hard time about it.
Fuck, he was gorgeous, though. His dark, curly hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and his high cheekbones and incredible grey-green eyes made him look almost ethereal. His blue blazer had obviously been tailored to his frame and fit him impeccably. His trousers were fine, dark wool, and he usually managed to look disrespectfully disheveled without a seam out of place.
John, in the jumper his mum knit and his slacks from last autumn, felt a bit like a berk, but it didn't matter. Sherlock was here, sitting on his bed, ready to shag him. He was, in fact, unbuttoning his shirt while John stood there gawping, so John hurried over to join him. Sherlock let his hands drop slowly as John took over, and then Sherlock leaned in to kiss him.
Sherlock's lips were warm and soft, despite the perfectly ridiculous chill out in the hallway, and as John unbuttoned his shirt he lifted his palms to John's face and kissed him deeply, quicksilver tongue slipping between John's lips to steal his breath away. John moaned, stopped himself, and felt Sherlock smile against his mouth.
'Come on, Watson,' Sherlock whispered, 'don't hold back. I hear that beautiful tenor comes in handy.'
Jesus. John's face was hot. He'd had a solo at a service a few weeks ago, and Sherlock obviously hadn't missed it. John hadn't even seen him there, had assumed he'd been skipping, as usual. Sherlock got away with a hell of a lot for being a King's Scholar, and John wasn't sure whether it was his parents' money or his incredible brain.
'Shut up,' he muttered, and Sherlock grinned. He shrugged off his shirt and stood up to unzip his trousers. John could see the line of his cock, already stiff. He ran his hands slowly up the outsides of Sherlock's thighs until he reached Sherlock's pockets, and then passed his palm over the obvious bulge. Sherlock's cock twitched under his fingers and John looked up, mouth watering, to meet Sherlock's dark, intent gaze.
Sherlock touched John's face, cupping his chin and thumbing his lower lip. John swallowed hard. His heart was in his throat. This wasn't the first time they'd fooled around, but it was the first time they hadn't done it in a hidden corner, in the middle of the night, or drunk. The mid-afternoon sun shone in John's dormitory window, across his narrow bed, to slant across Sherlock's shoulders and find the almost-blue highlights in his coal-black hair.
'Well?' Sherlock asked. 'Do I have to tell you what comes next?'
John grinned. 'No, I think I know what comes next.'
'Get to it, then,' Sherlock said, nudging John with his knee.
John fumbled to open Sherlock's trousers, to delve into the slit in his silk— absurd, and so indescribably appropriate, John thought— boxers, to pull out his long cock. The head was already peeking out of Sherlock's foreskin, pink and gleaming with pre-come, and John licked his lips.
'Fuck,' Sherlock whispered. His hand slid carefully, almost hesitantly, into John's short hair, and John gave him a quick smile to get him to stay. Sherlock's fingers tightened. John leaned forwards, feeling the pull of his grip, to put his lips to the tip of Sherlock's prick. The first taste made him moan despite himself, and he opened his mouth to take Sherlock in, deep and fast. Sherlock's cock bumped the back of his throat and made him cough, but Sherlock's grip on his hair kept him securely in place. John sucked in a breath through his nose, his eyes watering, and clutched harder at Sherlock's hips.
Then Sherlock relented, grasp loosening, and John pulled back with a gasp.
'Wanker,' he rasped.
'Hardly,' Sherlock said, stroking John's hair and reaffirming his grip. 'Why bother, when I have you?'
'I'm not a bloody sex slave,' John said, shifting his hands to take hold of Sherlock's cock and give him a firm stroke. Sherlock's warm laugh made him smile all the same, and Sherlock's fingers under his chin made him look up.
'I know that,' Sherlock said, 'but you look so good from this angle, sometimes I can't help it.'
John blushed again, and his cock throbbed in his trousers. 'Lose the pants,' he said, 'and get on the bed.'
Sherlock dropped his trousers and pants without needing to be asked twice, and climbed onto the bed beside John. John stripped him of his shirt and undershirt, and laid him out, naked, on his duvet. Sherlock watched him from under his eyelashes as John hurried out of his own clothes, and then opened his arms when John moved again to the side of the bed.
John lay down beside him, tucking his arm behind Sherlock's head and lining them up knee to knee, hip to hip, and cock to cock. Sherlock's was still wet from John's mouth, gleaming, and John took it in his hand once more as he leaned over and put his mouth to the tight peak of Sherlock's right nipple.
'Oh,' Sherlock said, surprised, his back arching into the touch. John licked again, closed his lips and sucked, and Sherlock squirmed, hips jerking. 'John!'
'Good?' John asked, lips moving against Sherlock's damp skin. Sherlock tasted like salt and cloves.
'God, yes,' Sherlock said. His hand came to rest again on the back of John's head. His other hand, his right hand, was wandering up and down the curve of John's hip, squeezing his arse and then brushing the lowest of his ribs. His cock was sliding through John's tightened fist easily, his excitement slicking the way. Sherlock was trembling in John's arms, little tremors working their way up and down his body as John touched him, and he dropped his head back and moaned when John switched to tonguing at his other nipple. The angle made John's neck ache though, so he settled for biting at Sherlock's newly exposed throat.
John had always hated hickies. He thought they looked cheap and showy, like someone couldn't be bothered to keep themselves in control, but now he was overwhelmed with the urge to leave one, just here, above where Sherlock's collar would fall, below his ear, at the bolt of his jaw. Sherlock groaned and squirmed, his fingernails digging into John's back, but he didn't pull away even when John sucked hard enough that his lips tingled.
When he pulled back to survey the damage, Sherlock opened heavy eyes and fixed him with a slightly admonishing glare.
'Showing off, Watson?' he asked. 'Want all the lads to know?'
John blushed and pressed the jut of his erection against Sherlock's hip.
'It's all right,' Sherlock said, smirking. 'I just didn't figure you for the type.'
'I'm not,' John insisted. He was still tugging slowly at Sherlock's prick, rubbing his thumb over the slippery head at every pass, and he could feel the tension in Sherlock's long, lithe body.
'Ohh,' Sherlock said, and fit his free hand to the curve of John's ribs, trapping John's working hand between them. 'So, special occasion, is it? You're not the sort to boast about a shag, but you can't quite let this one slip by.'
Shit. Sherlock was doing his party trick, the one where he told your whole history from the cut of your trousers or the ink on your fingers. John didn't mind it, but it always left him feeling a bit silly afterwards, like all those details were so obvious. Sherlock had pegged John for a charity case in a second, even though his uniform was the same as all the other boys', but, unlike all the other boys, hadn't made a fuss beyond the simple statement of fact. Now he was about to figure out that John was a little more interested in Sherlock than he'd let on, and there was nothing John could do about it.
Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, but he hadn't lost an iota of his erection, so John counted that as a win even though Sherlock was distracted. After a moment of staring he relaxed, and John let out a breath.
'Well,' Sherlock said, 'that is rather flattering. I don't think anyone's ever admitted to having a crush on me before.'
'I don't think anyone's admitted anything,' John said, giving Sherlock's prick a squeeze. 'You do tend to go on.'
Sherlock jumped and laughed, his fingers tightening on John's body. It was a caress, and John returned it with one of his own, leaning down and kissing the mark he'd just made. Sherlock was flushed, colour rising in his cheeks and spreading down his neck. John kissed his Adam's apple too, for good measure, and then his lush mouth, while Sherlock murmured in approval.
'Do you want me to finish you with my mouth,' John whispered, embarrassed, 'or we could…?'
'We could?' Sherlock prompted, grinning.
'Well, we could just go ahead and shag,' John said quickly, even more embarrassed. God, why did sex with Sherlock always make him feel so ridiculous? Was it the sex, or was it Sherlock?
Sherlock's thumb on John's ribs moved slowly across his skin, back and forth, and John imagined he could feel the touch in his cock. He shuddered. Sherlock said, 'You planned for that option, didn't you.'
'Well, maybe.' John had been practicing, and in the corner of the bed was a jar of Vaseline that his mum had packed for him, worried about him getting dry hands in the lab in the winter.
'Well,' Sherlock said, 'we'd better take advantage of the absence of your friend, and 'go ahead,' as you put it.'
'Grand,' John said. He let go of Sherlock's prick— somewhat reluctantly, it was a gorgeous prick— and climbed astride Sherlock's hips.
Sherlock's lips parted in surprise. 'Oh,' he said, looking up at John, 'I was certain you were going to want it the other way 'round.'
'No, thanks,' John said, unable to stop the grin. 'But I would like to be up here, if that's all right.'
'More than all right.' Sherlock slid his hands up John's sides and down again, over his arse and down his thighs. Then he went back the way he came, up John's legs and back, palming John's cheeks and pulling gently, closing the space between their bodies. Sherlock's cock fit snugly between John's legs, and John's pulse was thudding heavily through his body.
'Just,' he said, 'reach up, to your right, there's a lad, yeah,' as Sherlock found the Vaseline. Sherlock didn't need telling; he opened the jar and scooped with two fingers, and then tossed the jar aside. John lifted his arse, keeping his shoulders low and tucking his face into Sherlock's neck. He'd done this a few times on his own and knew it felt good, but he wasn't sure about another person's fingers going exploring.
'Gentle,' he warned, as Sherlock squirmed his hand between them and touched him there, cold and slippery.
'I know,' Sherlock said, 'I know.'
Joh held his breath. The Vaseline on Sherlock's fingers was warming up, and as it did Sherlock became more bold, rubbing it over John's hole, pressing it in, easing his middle fingertip in as well. John let his breath out, determined to relax. Sherlock smelled good here, in the crook of his neck, warm and woody and sweet. His other hand was resting on John's back, reassuring.
Sherlock slid his finger in to the knuckle the moment John stopped thinking about it. The penetration was so strange at first, it always was, and John's body clamped down instantly.
'Fuck,' Sherlock said, 'I knew that— oh, God, you're incredible.'
'Give us a mo,' John muttered, squirming. He bit down on Sherlock's neck, which made Sherlock jolt, and then said, 'All right, go ahead.'
Sherlock aimed a kiss at his ear and mostly missed, but he began to move his finger inside John, slowly and shallowly, in and out, until John started arching his back, lifting his hips, trying to get him to go faster. After the initial weirdness, this was much better than his own fingers. Sherlock, with his almost unnatural affinity for human anatomy and physiology, had managed to find his prostate without a hitch. Not like John's own awkward, groping attempts, hideously embarrassed by how strange and wonderful it had been; the pad of Sherlock's finger was brushing against him just right, coaxing the pleasure to the surface. John clenched his fists in the sheets, his whole body trembling.
'Can I—?' Sherlock asked, and John nodded. He'd closed his eyes at some point, and he opened them again to look down into Sherlock's face. Sherlock was regarding him open-mouthed, his eyes intent, like he was cataloguing every one of John's reactions. John swallowed hard.
The second finger was very different from the first. He was already desperate for it, and Sherlock didn't waste time in getting him accustomed, just slid it in and started working them in and out. John moaned and got caught in a kiss, Sherlock taking advantage of his parted lips to slip inside.
'Enough,' John gasped finally, when he felt like he was coming apart at the seams. His thighs were sticky with the Vaseline. Now or never.
Sherlock slipped his fingers out and then the head of his prick was pressing against John's hole. John took a breath, let it out, and pushed back. Sherlock's cock slid right into him, spearing him deep.
'Christ,' Sherlock said, good and loud, his back arching up and his hands going tight on John's hipbones. 'Fuck, I didn't—'
'It's all right,' John said. It was more than all right. His erection had flagged a bit, with the sudden intrusion and all, but John knew it was only going to get better.
'You've never done this— this particular part before,' Sherlock said, glaring accusingly up at John. 'You didn't say.'
'Didn't seem relevant,' John muttered, squirming. It made Sherlock hiss and grip him again. John smirked. 'Besides,' he said, 'neither have you, am I right?'
Sherlock let out a harsh breath. He shook his head, his dark curls a wreck on John's pillow.
'So.' John sat up, suddenly confident. He braced himself on Sherlock's chest with both hands and grinned. This wasn't a subject on which Sherlock had any more information than John did. They were in it together. 'Shall we go on?'
Baring his teeth, Sherlock said, 'Yes, let's,' and jerked his hips up hard, punching the breath right out of John's chest.
'Jesus,' he scolded, 'be gentle, you prat.'
Sherlock stroked up and down John's thighs, looking pleased with himself. 'Sorry,' he said. He didn't sound sorry. 'Do continue.'
John lifted himself slowly, pressing his knees and toes into the bed and his palms into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock made a noise behind his teeth and his hands stilled high on John's thighs. John's cock was starting to get interested again, and he could feel his heart rate increasing again. His face felt hot.
He began to rock, back and forth, up and down, working Sherlock's prick inside him. He closed his eyes to focus on the feeling, the intrusion deep in his abdomen, the slow, sweet drag against his spot. It wasn't as dead-on as Sherlock's fingers had been, but John suspected that if it were he'd be quite overwhelmed by now. Instead the pleasure built slowly, promising a grand finish if only they would work for it.
'How is it?' Sherlock asked, barely above a whisper.
'Good,' John grunted. He could move faster now, more smoothly. Sherlock shifted suddenly, drawing his heels up, and John felt Sherlock's legs against his arse. It gave Sherlock the leverage to push up into John's rhythm, working with him. 'You?' John asked.
Sherlock sighed deeply. 'Fantastic,' he said. John could feel his thighs flexing. Sherlock took hold of his wrists then, moving John's hands to either side of his head again. 'Stay still a minute.'
John obeyed. His head was swimming. His cock was fully hard again, the head exposed and flushed pink, gleaming anew. Sherlock tipped him forwards and thrust into him from below, and the wet squelch of their bodies was the only sound John could hear over his own ragged breathing. Sherlock's cock felt enormous, like it was splitting him open. He let go of the pillow with his left hand and reached for his own prick.
'Yes,' Sherlock said, giving a hard jab with his hips that made John gasp. 'Get yourself off; I want to see your face when you come.'
'Fuck,' John hissed, taking himself in hand. It wasn't going to take much. Already he could feel his body coiling tight. He was practically bouncing on Sherlock's lap, his thighs burning with the effort. Sweat was running down his back and prickling at his hairline, under his arms, behind his knees. Sherlock's face was gleaming with it, his cheeks bright pink, his eyes wild. John stroked himself urgently. Sherlock's hands slid 'round to grip his arse, pulling his cheeks apart and shoving him down on every thrust. John sat up again and spread his knees as far as they would go, rocking his pelvis in short, sharp jerks. Sherlock moaned at the change in angle, his fingers digging into the flesh of John's behind.
'Come on,' Sherlock urged, 'I'm nearly there, I want you to— please, John!'
That was enough. John stiffened and came, pulsing over his fingers, his body bowing with the pleasure of release. He shuddered, all his nerves lit up with the orgasm. He knew he was making noise and he couldn't stop himself.
Somehow, though it felt like an eternity, John knew it had only been a few moments. He let go of himself and relaxed, reaching down to put his hands back on the bed. Sherlock's face was tight with effort, his eyes screwed shut, his lower lip well abused. John swallowed hard, aftershocks of his orgasm tingling up his spine. He clenched his pelvic muscles, which made the aftershocks stronger as Sherlock continued to thrust, and moaned aloud when Sherlock grabbed his hips again.
'That's it,' John whispered, his voice shot, 'hard as you can, lad.'
'Fuck,' Sherlock groaned, 'fuck, oh fuck. Please.'
John braced hard against the bed. Sherlock was frantic, barely keeping a rhythm. John tried to help, pushing back into his thrusts, but Sherlock's hands tightened to keep him still.
'Don't move,' Sherlock hissed. 'Just do that— that thing again, I'm nearly— oh, Christ, I'm nearly there.'
John arched his back, tightening again with all his might, and Sherlock shouted aloud. John could feel him throbbing, or maybe he imagined it, but all the same Sherlock groaned with relief, gasped his name, and his hips stilled as he came, pulsing inside John's body.
Then Sherlock went limp, collapsing, his heels sliding down the bed, his hands falling away. John lowered himself shakily to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock inhaled deeply, cupping John's face, and pulled him up for a slow, imprecise kiss. John licked at the backs of his teeth, the underside of his tongue, marvelling the whole time. His body still trembled, and he knew he would ache by supper.
'That,' he said aloud, against Sherlock's mouth, 'was amazing.'
Sherlock 'hmm'ed in agreement. His fingers skated up the length of John's spine and ended in John's hair, ruffling it up to his crown. 'You,' was all he said.
After a minute, John eased himself off of Sherlock's hips. Sherlock hissed, too sensitive, and John tucked himself against Sherlock's side, his legs shaking. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close, so John caught his breath against the joint of Sherlock's shoulder. He could span the length of Sherlock's sternum with his hand spread wide, thumb to little finger. Sherlock drew circles across his shoulder blades.
'Gone all weekend, you said?'
Sherlock's voice startled John. He opened his eyes. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Till Sunday night.'
He could almost hear Sherlock's smirk. 'Well,' Sherlock said, 'we'd better be sure not to waste any time, then.'
John lifted his head. He was still damp with sweat, sticky with Vaseline and come, and he was grinning. 'You think so, eh?'
'The human body,' Sherlock said, drawing John close and kissing the tip of his nose, 'is capable of incredible things. It would be a shame not to explore its limits.'
Chapter 22: Show off New Lingere
John has brand new, red, silk pants.
It isn't until Sherlock has John fully in his lap and his hand shoved down the back of John's trousers that he notices something is different.
'Silk?' he asks, pulling away from John's kiss.
'W-' John protests, blinking. 'Er, yes.'
Sherlock pushes John backwards firmly, earning himself a yelp of protest, and undoes John's belt and trousers. The silk pants are red.
'Why are you wearing these?' Sherlock demands, baffled. John doesn't wear silk pants. John wears cotton boxers almost exclusively, except when he's wearing cotton briefs under a suit. John wears navy and grey and dark green, sometimes white, but never red.
John purses his lips, frowning. He's embarrassed. The pants are new: never washed, never worn until now. It's not a special occasion. Sherlock's birthday was over a month ago, and John's isn't until March. John went shopping a week ago and came back with two jumpers and a pair of jeans, but Sherlock had gone through his bag and found nothing like these red, silk pants.
'Er,' John says again, which is unusual. 'They're for you.'
'How can they be for me?' Sherlock asks. 'You're wearing them.'
John sighs deeply and moves to climb off Sherlock's lap. Sherlock clamps his arms tight around John's waist.
'It's a sexy thing that girls do sometimes,' John mutters. His face is almost as red as his pants now. 'Wear sexy underwear so you can take it off.'
Sherlock considers this. 'You're not a girl, though,' he says.
'No,' John confirms, rolling his eyes. 'Never mind, I won't wear them again. They feel a bit funny.'
That's when Sherlock notices. John is shifting in his arms, squirming very subtly. His blush has not faded, even though he's more exasperated now than embarrassed. Sherlock opens his arms carefully and grips John's hips instead. 'Funny how?' he asks.
There. The blush deepens. Sherlock loves that.
'I dunno,' John says.
'Is it good?'
'Yeah, a bit.'
'Don't go,' Sherlock says, letting John's hips go to tease at the top of his red, silk pants. 'If you're wearing them for me, I'm bloody well going to enjoy them.'
'Hm,' John says. He squirms again, holding onto Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock passes a hand down the front of John's open trousers. John's cock is rigid, and Sherlock can feel a wet spot where he's already leaking.
'Lean back a bit more.' Sherlock tugs at the back of John's trousers, working them down his arse, until he can get his whole hand into the gaping zipper at the front. John hisses when Sherlock's hand brushes him, and Sherlock cups him from below, drawing him out of his trousers. The red silk strains against the bulge of John's prick, and it's so soft against the backs of Sherlock's fingers. He strokes them up and down the underside of John's cock, marveling.
John hides a soft moan in a clearing of his throat, and Sherlock glances up again at him. His eyes are dark, fixed on the gap between there bodies where Sherlock is fondling him. His fine, golden eyelashes descend slowly as he blinks, and the blush on his cheeks reaches down his neck. His shirt is buttoned up to his Adam's apple, all prim and proper, but Sherlock has his cock out of his trousers and John is loving it.
Sherlock curls his whole hand around John's prick. 'How about now?' he asks. He fixes his other hand to John's hip again, holding him in place.
'How does it feel now?'
'Hum,' John says, swallowing hard, 'it's— it's good.' In Sherlock's hand, John's prick twitches, its head dragging wetly against the silk. 'Feels nice.'
Sherlock tips his head up, nosing at John's hairline. He plants a kiss on the curve of John's ear. 'Just nice?' he whispers, which gets him a sharp shiver that travels down John's body.
'Not just,' John breathes. He tightens his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, so Sherlock tightens his grip on John's cock. He starts to stroke, dragging the silk against John's hot, sensitive skin. Unlike with the cotton boxers, through the silk Sherlock can feel every vein and ridge on John's cock, the thick, tender seam underneath. Sherlock presses his thumbnail against John's slit and John jolts, cursing.
'Spread your legs,' Sherlock murmurs, spreading his own to give John the hint.
'Unh,' John says, obeying. His arse presses against Sherlock's own erection in his trousers, and now his uncontrollable squirming rubs Sherlock just right. It's not quite enough to get him off, not before John does, but it takes the edge off.
Sherlock slides his hand down John's cock to fill his palm with the heavy weight of John's bollocks. John moans through his teeth, eyes shut tight, and Sherlock begins to press John's bollocks up against the spine of his cock, rubbing them through the silk. He loves the conductivity, loves being able to feel John's heat as though he were naked, while still working through the barrier.
And he likes the idea of making John come in his brand new, red, silk pants.
'Please,' John whispers, tipping his head back. He's riding Sherlock's lap with more enthusiasm, hips pumping, and Sherlock swallows the saliva suddenly flooding his mouth. He grips John with both hands— one under his balls, the other around his cock— and leans forward to bite at John's bared neck above his collar. John groans, loud and desperate, and Sherlock feels him stiffen all over.
Then he's coming, and Sherlock pulls back to watch the wet spot in his pants grow, seeping through to dampen Sherlock's hands. John's hips jerk, thrusting into Sherlock's grip, and he presses hard enough against the fabric that a shot of come spurts out and lands on Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock's body surges, suddenly on the edge, and he shoves his hips up against John's arse and comes in his trousers.
He's still trembling when John relaxes, dropping his head on Sherlock's shoulder and laughing breathlessly. Sherlock slumps back against the sofa, sliding his hands out of John's trousers, and can't help but join him.
'That was—' John starts, and starts over. 'That went better than I thought it was going to.'
'I like my present,' Sherlock says. He strokes up the length of John's thighs and nuzzles at John's jaw until he gets a kiss. It goes on for a while, slow and leisurely, until John bites Sherlock's lower lip.
'Good,' he says against Sherlock's mouth, 'because that might be the only time you get to use it.' He glances down between them at the ruined silk. 'Hard to explain that to a dry cleaner, I think.'
Chapter 23: Celebrate Major Victory by Favorite Team
Sherlock pretends to like sports.
Sherlock could care less about sports, or politics, or current events that had no impact on his line of work. He was hard pressed to name the Prime Minister, and he couldn't remember when he'd last watched even the World Cup. When John badgered him, he'd guessed 1985, which wasn't even a year it had been played. But he could fake it like none other, and a few hours on the internet gave him enough information about a single rugby team, so that he could go out and practically seduce the head of an illegal bookmaking ring into telling him all the secrets of the world of betting.
John went with him to the pub a few times, to establish their credentials as locals and regulars, and was amazed at the level of belligerent shouting Sherlock could achieve when he was in character. John suspected he was really beginning to care about Richmond. He had suddenly become aware that there was a big match coming up, and that his team was in a very good position to win it. Although, it could have been that the ringleader, Nigel Simmons, was guaranteed to be at the pub the day of the match, taking bets.
When it came, John insisted on accompanying Sherlock to the pub. Simmons wasn't just a chap with full pockets, he was funding a lot of seedy people with the money he made, and Sherlock suspected his success was at least in part thanks to Moriarty.
The match was already in progress when they arrived. Sherlock made a show of slapping his card down on the bar and opening a tab for the afternoon, promising to buy rounds if so-and-so scored a try, or such-and-such won possession in the scrum on screen. They were right beside Simmons; John could tell from the back of the man's dodgy haircut.
'John, you're on,' Sherlock said, raising his voice just enough. 'I bet you my arse they win.'
'Your arse?' John said, caught off guard. This hadn't been part of the plan.
'If they lose,' Sherlock said, and John saw Simmons turn slightly, 'you can fuck me in the arse.'
Simmons turned all the away around, his eyebrows raised.
Sherlock grinned at him, shamming queer almost as well as he faked being a sports enthusiast. 'It's the only thing of mine he hasn't got yet,' he told Simmons.
John shrugged, as if it were true.
'High stakes,' Simmons said.
'Well,' John said, 'he's pretty damn certain he won't have to give it up.' He smirked and took a sip of his beer. 'Either way, I can't lose too badly.'
Simmons glanced between them and began to smile. 'I like a man who risks it all for the sake of a team,' he said, and offered his hand to Sherlock. 'Nigel.'
'Anthony,' Sherlock simpered, shaking with only his fingertips. 'Risks, you said?'
Three hours later, Nigel Simmons was in handcuffs, Richmond had won, and Sherlock was flat on his face in bed with John behind him. John held tight to both of Sherlock's hips, grunting as he thrust. Sherlock tried to stifle his moans in the pillow, but was failing miserably.
'How did you know he was gay?' John demanded, slowing down to grind his hips against Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock lifted his head, grinning over his shoulder. 'Caught that, did you?'
'Couldn't help it.' John gave a hard thrust that made Sherlock jerk, nearly banging his head against the headboard of the bed.
'Clever boy,' Sherlock murmured, tipping his forehead down again. 'Not too hard; couple of cues. Did you really want to hear them now, or can it wait?'
John began to pick up his pace once more. 'It can wait,' he said. 'Apparently I need to remind you I've already claimed these spoils.'
Chapter 24: Keeping Up With The Neighbors
The married ones are too loud. Sherlock wants revenge.
Apologies for taking an unannounced break! I tried doing NaNo and it kind of fell apart, so now I'm back to the Regular Projects, and these were some of those. \o/
"Good God," John said, gesturing with the post at the neighbors to the south, "are they at it again?"
Sherlock looked up from his microscope. "I hadn't noticed," he said, "until you pointed it out."
"Mrs Turner's married ones either moved out, or reaffirmed their vows," John muttered. There wasn't anything good in the post: bills, solicitations, magazines he didn't want. Most of it went right in the bin.
"Tell Mrs Hudson," Sherlock suggested. His attention was back on the microscope. "She'll insinuate something, and Mrs Turner will do the same, and eventually they'll shut up or move out."
"Good neighbors would confront them directly," John said. "But we aren't particularly good neighbors. Speaking of which, my bedroom still smells like exploded frogs, so unless you want me invading your personal space all the time, I suggest you do something about it."
"What?" Sherlock turned the microscope lamp off and stood up. He was wearing one of his really close-fitting shirts, and the buttons strained across his chest when he put his hands on his hips. John couldn't help giving him an appreciative once over. "I like you sleeping in my bedroom."
"Are they really fucking that loudly?" Sherlock cocked his head, listening. "God, it sounds positively painful. Have you ever shouted that loud?"
John felt his face heat up, but he was laughing all the same. "No," he said, "you've never made me."
Sherlock's eyes went dark, and he pursed his lips. "So it's my fault, then?"
"No," John said quickly, "I'm just not the sort of chap to go around bellowing about the sex I'm having."
"That's going to change," Sherlock said, and crowded John into his bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, after a great deal of experimenting and testing and driving John mad, Sherlock finally gave John what he'd been begging for (but not at the volume Sherlock was hoping), sinking into him from behind. John had both hands braced on the headboard of Sherlock's bed, his knees spread wide and his arse thrust back. He probably looked ridiculous. But Sherlock was hissing through his teeth in pleasure as he pressed in, his cock opening John up deeper than his long fingers could reach.
"Fuck," John said finally, when he was in to the hilt.
"What was that?" Sherlock asked. He gave a little thrust to punctuate it.
"Fuck!" John said, a little louder.
"Mrs Hudson's out," Sherlock reminded him, pulling out slowly. "Gone to her sister's."
John's face was red. He sucked in a breath, and Sherlock thrust in hard. "FUCK!"
Sherlock laughed, picking up a rhythm that was hard and fast, driving into John like a piston. "That's it," he said, nice and loud. "Enjoying yourself, John?"
"Yes!" John hollered. "You mad bastard, yes!"
"Louder! You're not convincing me!"
"You're not being convincing either!" John yelled back, even as his whole body was rocked by the power of Sherlock's thrusts. The bed was shaking. "Shouting about shouting isn't shouting about sex!"
"You feel so good!" Sherlock yelled.
"Now you're just being facetious. You're doing it for the effect."
"I thought you were doing this to make me yell."
"You said it was my job."
John snorted and began to laugh, and soon he couldn't hold himself up against the headboard. He collapsed, giggling, and Sherlock had to slow down to keep from driving him right up the bed and into the wall.
"What? Stop laughing, John!"
"You're taking this too seriously," John managed, reaching back to give Sherlock's hand a squeeze. "I've never been a shouter."
"Thank god," Sherlock said. He pulled out, much to John's chagrin, and rolled John over with a gentle push. John spread his legs, encouraging him to get back to what he was doing, and Sherlock obliged, sliding back in once they were face to face. He held himself on his hands over John, rolling his hips in a slow, dirty rhythm that had John squirming. "I was going to lose my voice at that rate."
"Just fuck me," John said. "I'm having a grand time, and I don't need the damn neighbors to know."
Sherlock kissed him, and said, "We can write them a nasty note."
"A strongly worded letter," John agreed, sliding his hands up Sherlock's sides and getting a grip on his strong shoulders.
"Yes," Sherlock said, beginning to thrust again with gusto, "but we'll just leave it in their mailbox."
"Unsigned," John gasped.
"But suggestive," Sherlock replied. "Oh, Christ, John!"
"Fuck, yeah, just like that," John said.
Chapter 25: It's Cold Outside
John approached Sherlock on the couch and tugged at the corner of the blanket Sherlock had wrapped around him. 'Suffer while I was gone, eh?'
'Terribly,' Sherlock said, lifting the edge of the blanket. 'Take off your trousers, you're not allowed to bring those in here.'
Which it is cold outside. Halfway there!
'Bloody hell,' John muttered, elbowing open the door and kicking it shut behind him. February was well upon the city of London, and didn't appear to be interested in ever leaving. A quick trip to the shops for milk and apples and beans was a daunting quest, involving jumper, coat, gloves, scarf, and beanie. Sherlock had refused to go, citing cold toes, but John wasn't about to go without milk for another week in the hopes that winter would give up a bit in the meantime.
Sherlock might have been feeling guilty about the little snit he'd had as John left, for there was a cup of tea, piping hot, sitting on the counter in the kitchen when John banged his way back in. John bit back on his snarky observation about Sherlock not having moved since he left and put away the groceries in silence.
Once he was out of his coat and so on and had the peace offering in the shape of a cuppa in hand, John approached Sherlock on the couch and tugged at the corner of the blanket Sherlock had wrapped around him. 'Suffer while I was gone, eh?'
'Terribly,' Sherlock said, lifting the edge of the blanket. 'Take off your trousers, you're not allowed to bring those in here.'
John shucked his jeans and climbed into the cocoon of blankets Sherlock had reconstructed while he was gone. Sherlock's body heat enveloped him immediately, and he sipped gratefully at the tea while Sherlock readjusted all the corners around them.
'We could turn the heat up,' John suggested.
'No,' Sherlock glowered. 'Mrs Hudson has a rule about eighteen degrees.'
'Bloody hell,' John said again. 'Maybe we should just move into your bedroom and hibernate until June.'
'It's not a bad suggestion.' Sherlock had insinuated his hand up underneath John's shirt and was resting his cheek against John's shoulder.
'You're cozy, though,' John said. 'You'll do for now.'
Sherlock smirked. 'Oh, will I?' His hand shifted and dipped beneath John's undershirt, palm warm against John's belly. John felt a flare of heat start up under Sherlock's fingers, deep in his gut, and he squirmed a little in the tight embrace of the blanket fort— to call it anything else would be doing it an injustice— in order to spread his legs. He felt Sherlock's smile of approval against his shoulder. It was rare to find Sherlock in a mood this tender— John suspected the cold had almost everything to do with it.
Sherlock kissed John's neck and spent a few lazy minutes just passing his hand back and forth across John's stomach. John tried to scoot down a little, give him more room to play, and Sherlock obliged by working his hand up and rubbing his fingertips slowly over John's nipples.
John couldn't help a sharp inhalation at the touch. Sherlock stayed there, tender fingertips touching and teasing until John's nipples were hard and his cock was getting there. Then he slid his hand down John's stomach to the band of his boxers and dipped his fingers underneath. At the same time, he began to kiss John's neck. John sighed, closing his eyes. Sherlock's hands were warm and sure, getting a grip on him just the way he liked, nice and firm. John's cock twitched in appreciation, and John felt Sherlock smile against his skin.
For a while Sherlock just touched him slowly, his nose tucked in the crook of John's neck and his hand down the front of John's pants. John slid his near hand into Sherlock's hair, the curls wrapping silkily around his fingers. He closed his hand and tugged softly, and Sherlock murmured a moan. John knew he should be reciprocating, but Sherlock didn't seem impatient. Instead, John gave another tug and pulled Sherlock up for a slow, uncoordinated kiss, licking into his clever mouth and tasting tea and the hint of biscuit. If there was anything Sherlock could be convinced to eat, it was food that accompanied tea or coffee.
John's heart rate was picking up, and he began to push his hips gently into Sherlock's grip. Sherlock pulled away for a moment, leaving him tingling with the need to be touched, and spat indelicately into the palm of his hand. When he wriggled it back into John's pants, his grip was slick and warm; much better.
'Oh, yes, that's it,' John murmured, mouthing a kiss to Sherlock's temple. Sherlock lowered his head again to bite at John's collarbone. There was hardly any space to move. The heat coming off Sherlock's body was incredible. John twisted his hands in Sherlock's t-shirt, trying to get closer.
Sherlock refused to speed up, even as John's squirming became more insistent. John was panting, eyes closed, drowning in sensation. It was so fucking simple, and so fucking good. John was going to come in his pants from a hand-job, and he wasn't going to regret a minute of it. The cocoon of blankets had become something of a sprawl across the couch, and still John's movements were hampered by the tight bindings. Sherlock's body weight was keeping him still, and he needed to move.
'Close?' Sherlock whispered in his ear.
'Fuck, yes,' John said. Damn him, he could estimate the timing of John's orgasm when they'd barely started; he didn't need to be told. But he knew John liked to say it, liked to warn him, and Sherlock liked to play games.
'How about now?' Sherlock asked, stopping his hand entirely.
'Fuck you,' John replied. His thighs were trembling with the urge to thrust. He pushed his hips against Sherlock's traitorous hand.
Sherlock started up again, faster, gripping John more tightly, and John grabbed whatever he could reach. The t-shirt was in his fists again, stretching out of shape as he pulled. Sherlock leaned farther over him, almost covering him with his body, and began to suck a mark hard into the soft skin of his throat.
'Yes,' John said aloud, 'yes, oh, there, I'm there,' and came with a shudder and a groan, spurting hot between Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock worked him through it, hard and fast, and then gentled as John sagged.
'You now?' he gasped, letting go of Sherlock's shirt to reach for the bulge in Sherlock's pyjama pants.
'Later,' Sherlock said, deflecting his hands and wiping his own on John's t-shirt. He pressed John to the sofa, bringing their whole nest of blankets with them, and stretched out on top of him. His cock was a hard ridge against John's hip and his knee fit neatly between John's. The difference in height between them meant that Sherlock's chin was at the level of John's mouth, so he kissed it. Sherlock tucked his face into John's neck once more. 'Just this for a while,' he said, muffled, snuggling down and rocking his hips slowly. 'You're very warm.'
Chapter 26: One Chance with a Celebrity
Sherlock is an inadvertent celebrity. John doesn't want to miss it.
The door had barely closed behind Sherlock when he'd spotted his quarry. John was at the bar with a pint already in his hand, gazing blankly upwards at the football match on the telly. His shoulders were loose, his whole posture tired, and Sherlock slipped up behind him and ordered a G and T over his shoulder.
'Christ,' John gasped, 'make some noise, will you?'
Sherlock sank down onto the stool beside him, smirking. 'Just nice to know I can still surprise you,' he said. 'Why in God's name did you want to meet me here?'
'Because I wanted a pint after work, and I knew you'd be out avoiding the press. I figured you could use a drink, too.'
Taking the gin and tonic from the bartender with a nod, Sherlock said, 'I've been dodging photographers all day. Do they really not have anything better to do?'
'They do not,' John said with a grin. 'Did you have to lose a tail or something getting over here?'
'Hell is right. Why do they care? All I did was find a bloody painting.'
'Do you remember that business with the lost Vermeer? You can't have deleted it.'
'I never delete anything to do with Moriarty,' Sherlock said tensely. He sipped at the drink, hardly tasting it.
'Well,' John said, 'there you are. Some people are nuts about art. Especially long lost art. Sorry, you're a celebrity.'
'Do I have to be one for long?' Sherlock asked. 'This is your fault, you know. With the blog.'
'You know what else is my fault?'
'The money in your bank account.'
Sherlock snorted. 'I don't do what I do for the money,' he said.
'I know, you do it for the attention, so let's blame cash on me and publicity on you.'
'Fine.' John was smiling, despite his tone. He leaned over and bumped Sherlock's shoulder with his own. 'Forget about it,' he said. 'Things will quiet down soon.'
'Not soon enough,' Sherlock said, catching sight of the television over their heads. The five minutes of news at five o'clock had got hold of some footage of him and John at the reception for the lost painting. Reichenbach Hero my arse.
'Oh, lord,' John teased. 'They'll recognise you any minute now. You want to go?'
'I'll pick the pub over the paparazzi, thank you very much.'
'But would you brave the paparazzi for a shag?' John asked. 'Seeing as you're a celebrity and all, I don't want to miss my chance.'
'Your chance for what?'
'Shagging a celebrity.'
Sherlock hesitated, halfway to an idiotic question, while John waved a tenner at the barman. Finally he said, 'Yes, all right, I suppose,' as John settled their bill.
'Fantastic,' John said, getting up from the stool and taking Sherlock's hand. 'Then once more into the breach, for the sake of orgasms.'
Sherlock could get behind that.
Chapter 27: Time an Egg
The average sexually active human male can achieve orgasm without a partner in under four minutes, the article had said, and Sherlock had called bullshit. John had looked over his shoulder to determine the source of the derisive snort and said, 'What, less time than it takes to boil an egg? I bet that's true.'
John looked over his shoulder one last time before he turned on the stove, started the timer, and said, 'Go.'
Sherlock shoved his hand down his pants.
The average sexually active human male can achieve orgasm without a partner in under four minutes, the article had said, and Sherlock had called bullshit. John had looked over his shoulder to determine the source of the derisive snort and said, 'What, less time than it takes to boil an egg? I bet that's true.'
'How long does it take to boil an egg?' Sherlock had asked, baffled by the very specific association.
'Five minutes,' John said, 'to get 'em the way you like with the yolk still runny.'
'Oh,' Sherlock said.
Now he was starting from zero, as they'd agreed, and John was not allowed to touch or make any comments. Sherlock was tremendously stimulated by auditory input, and they'd discovered John's voice could set him off in a pinch.
John appeared to be having a hard time giving that up. He was leaning against the counter, arms and ankles crossed, and he'd covered his mouth with one hand to keep silent. He was watching Sherlock touch himself with ferocious intensity. Sherlock licked his lips and pulled his hardening cock out of his pyjama bottoms. He was seated across from John with his back to the table and his bare feet up on the first rung of the stool. Already he knew this experiment was skewed: having John watch him like that, here, like this, was much too exciting.
He closed his eyes. His prick grew stiffer as he fondled it, rubbing the flat of his palm up and down its length, shivering when the bowing callous on his right palm caught and dragged against his sensitive head. John made a noise and stifled it, but Sherlock's cock jumped.
He shouldn't be trying to slow himself down. They were in it for speed. Sherlock let go of his cock, spat in his hand, and resumed his activities, gripping himself tightly. His grip slid more smoothly, and soon he was leaking generously, making it even wetter. He dug his teeth into his lower lip, hips flexing, as if he could keep up with himself. His breath was coming short, and he could hear the water boiling in the pot.
Sherlock opened his eyes again. John's erection was obvious in his pyjama bottoms, tenting the soft cotton up obscenely. Sherlock tightened his hand and groaned at the shock of pleasure it sent up his spine. John's gaze was dark, fixed on his rapidly moving hand. John was biting his lip too, worrying the corner with his left canine and front incisors. His cock twitched when he looked up and met Sherlock's eyes.
'Christ,' Sherlock said, hips bucking off the stool. He was already getting close. Manual auto-stimulation appeared to be as effective as the article had claimed. He knew exactly how to get himself off as quickly as possible (practice dispensing with bodily demands), but having John standing there watching was deeply helpful. His prick head was fat and wet, slippery pre-ejaculate making his hand glide. Sherlock jerked himself fast and hard, the obscene slap and squelch of his masturbation drowning out the clinking of the eggs in the pot as they were jostled around by the boiling water.
'Yes,' he said, suddenly certain. His cock was swelling, the sweet pressure in his balls rising, and he said, 'Yes, now, John,' as he started to come, shaking and spurting. He heard the beep of the timer button being pushed, and he sagged back against the table, utterly spent.
John cleared his throat twice before he said, 'Three thirty six, love.'
'Fuck,' Sherlock said, wiping his hand off on a discarded sheet of bibulous paper, left there from a spell with the microscope earlier. It wasn't as effective cleaning up semen as it was cleaning off slides. John laughed and tore a tissue from the box by the sink; handed it over.
'Results?' John asked.
'Null experiment,' Sherlock said. 'You were standing right there. Even though you didn't say anything, I'd hardly call that 'achieving orgasm without a partner.''
John shrugged and gestured at the tent in his trousers. 'I can always give it a go.'
'Later,' Sherlock said. 'My egg's nearly done and I'm starving.''
Chapter 28: Practise
'Practise?' Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing. 'John, I delete unimportant information; I haven't deleted every bedroom encounter we've had.'
Some necessary (consensual) roughness.
'Practise?' Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing. 'John, I delete unimportant information; I haven't deleted every bedroom encounter we've had.'
'Just the boring ones, then,' John said, pushing Sherlock down onto the bed with a firm hand and beginning to unbuckle his belt. 'It's a joke, Sherlock.'
'Hm,' Sherlock said. He looked up into John's face, smiling slyly, and leaned back on his hands. His button-up gaped at the throat. 'I see. Well, what was it you wanted to practise, Doctor?'
John smirked. He slid one hand into Sherlock's unruly hair and with the other unbuttoned his jeans. 'I think I want to practise you shutting up a bit,' he said. He pulled Sherlock towards him with the hand in his hair, and Sherlock gripped both of John's hips, pressing his face eagerly to the gape of John's trousers. 'Oh, did you want to practise that, too?'
'I want—' Sherlock started, but John mashed him a little tighter against his groin and Sherlock broke off in a moan. There was something to be said for his well trained, heightened senses. Smell, to Sherlock, was often a deciding factor in any number of situations. John had known him to catch a smuggler from the scent of the coat he wore. He was damned it he wasn't going to use it to his advantage.
'Get me out,' John said, giving Sherlock's jaw a little rub with his thumb. Sherlock nipped at him in defiance, but his hands slid into John's front pockets and pulled his jeans down around his thighs. He nuzzled for a moment at the tenting front of John's shorts and John leaned into him, letting his eyes close. Sherlock opened his mouth against gap in John's pants and breathed hotly in, making John's cock twitch against his chin. 'Out,' John said again.
Sherlock obeyed that time. He parted the placket of John's pants with his long fingers and pulled John's prick out, where it lay, mostly hard but not entirely erect, in Sherlock's palm. Sherlock licked his lips, probably consciously, and darted a look up at John.
John raised an eyebrow. 'Doing well so far,' he said.
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something smart, so John put his cock in. Sherlock made a noise, the words he'd been meaning to say, perhaps, and his fingers dug in once more to John's hips. He sucked John down to the back of his throat, until his nose was against John's pubic bone, and John's knees buckled. Sherlock's grip held him up.
'Fuck,' John said. Sherlock pulled back, gave him a cheeky look that was mostly about his eyelashes, and swallowed him again. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair and eased him away. 'My game, my rules,' he said.
Sherlock licked his lips again, only John's cock head was in the way, so he dragged his tongue deliberately around the glans and across the slit. John shuddered, gritting his teeth, and took ahold of his prick. He began to rub it against Sherlock's half-open mouth, jacking himself slowly so his foreskin rolled up and back, almost touching Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's eyes were hazy, his face lax. Past his own cock, John could see the erection distorting the normally pin-straight line of Sherlock's trouser front. Sherlock still held John's hips through his shorts.
'Pull my pants down,' John said.
Sherlock did, slowly, giving John a chance to get his prick out of the way, and stopped when the elastic was snug underneath John's bollocks. John let out a breath, and Sherlock opened his mouth again hopefully.
'You want it?' John asked, pointing his cock down at Sherlock's face.
Sherlock said, 'Yes, you—' and was interrupted once more as John pressed himself deep. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as he groaned, and his iron grip skidded down to the backs of John's thighs. John rocked up on his toes, pushing. Sherlock clutched at him, almost choking, shuddering with the effort.
'Oh, God that's good,' John said, dropping back onto his heels and sliding out almost to the tip. Already Sherlock's lips were looking swollen, and the corners of his mouth were wet with saliva. The sight of him made John's heart pound. A lock of hair fell across Sherlock's forehead, and John pushed it away to get a better grip on him. 'Again?' he asked.
Sherlock's nod was barely perceptible but John felt it, and he rocked forwards once more, stretching Sherlock's mouth, reaching for the pit of his throat. Sherlock's breath was cut off for a moment, and then John couldn't resist anymore.
'Can I fuck your mouth,' he gasped, 'please?'
'Yes,' Sherlock said, pushing him away only as far as necessary, 'Christ, yes, do it.'
John did it, hips pumping slowly at first, warming Sherlock up, until Sherlock was pulling at his thighs and arse, encouraging him, urging him on. Sherlock had hollowed his cheeks, pulled his lips in tight, and the tunnel of his mouth was hot and slick and eager. John held him still with one hand and caressed him with the other, fingers wandering down Sherlock's neck and behind his ear, across his cheek and under his jaw as he thrust.
The smell of sex was thick between them, and Sherlock was breathing hard through his nose. His erection was obvious now, and a damp spot had formed a few inches below his zipper.
'Touch yourself,' John hissed. Instantly Sherlock let go of John's hip and palmed his cock, groaning brokenly as John continued to move. 'Are you close?'
'Uhn,' Sherlock said, squeezing John's arse and his cock at the same time.
'Are you going to come while I fuck your face?' John asked.
Sherlock's eyebrows drew together in a moment of assessment.
'Oh, God,' John said, knowing it would help, 'I'm going to come soon. Christ, your gorgeous mouth, Sherlock.'
Sherlock grunted again, gripping himself harder, and John slowed his pace abruptly, drawing back almost leisurely, until his corona rested against Sherlock's trembling lower lip. Sherlock's eyes were hot with frustration and want. John smirked at him and gave a half a dozen slow thrusts before he began to pick up the pace again. Sherlock moaned. His fingernails were leaving divots in John's leg. John was going to make him come in his trousers.
Sherlock shoved him away suddenly, so hard that he stumbled back, trapped by his own jeans around his thighs.
'Not again,' Sherlock growled, yanking open his trousers and shoving them down to his knees. His cock sprang up hard and long and slick with pre-come. He gripped himself in one hand and beckoned for John with the other. 'You think you're clever, John,' he said, so John shut him up again. Sherlock worked himself as he took John's cock down his throat, his hand flying and his whole body shaking. John resumed his grip on Sherlock's hair and gave in to the impulse of his body, fucking Sherlock's mouth hard and fast. He was close— even the surprise of being pushed away hadn't stopped him, and he could feel the orgasm building low in his spine, tightening his balls.
'Nuh,' Sherlock said, eyes squeezed shut. John's cock swelled in the moments before it happened, and he knew Sherlock could feel it. Christ, it was going to be intense. He was going to fill Sherlock's mouth to the brim, so full he wouldn't be able to hold it all.
He said, 'Oh, God,' without meaning to, and froze as he started to come, all his nerves lit up with pleasure. It thudded through him, jerking his hips, and Sherlock coughed and shuddered and tears ran from the corners of his eyes. Semen ran from the corners of his mouth. John swore aloud, arse clenched tight, as another wave took him. Then Sherlock was pulling away, swallowing inefficiently, and hunching his shoulders as he came too, spurting hard up the front of his shirt. John took himself in hand and squeezed one last sluggish bead of semen from his cock, collecting it on his fingers and smearing those fingers across the mess on Sherlock's chin.
Sherlock's eyes were closed. John tipped his chin up with two slick fingers and kissed him, licking into his mouth, tasting himself on Sherlock's clumsy tongue. Sherlock moaned, still trembling, and John bore him down to the bed, sticky faces and sticky groins together. Sherlock's come was warm on his belly, and Sherlock's arms were strong around his back.
'Yeah,' John said finally, drawing away reluctantly and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, 'I think you've got that down.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes, grinning, and hopelessly licked his lips. 'Fuck off,' he whispered, voice hoarse. 'Next time we'll practise your manners.'
Chapter 29: To Prove We're Not in a Rut
Sherlock's libido was so variable it was like watching a barometer in the tropics.
John tried so hard not to be pushy about the sex. Sherlock's libido was so variable it was like watching a barometer in the tropics. After a case it would be through the roof, adrenaline and success sending Sherlock into a veritable frenzy that would have resulted in a lot of picture frames on the floor if they had any pictures, and certainly in clothing discarded in places it shouldn't be. John had had his cock sucked against the sitting room door more times than he could count, and he'd bent Sherlock over nearly every surface in the flat. Being right could do that to a man.
Now, however, was a perfect example of the barren times between culminations. Sherlock's caseload had been brutal lately, and while it helped Sherlock's mood extremely it was hell on John's reliable source of orgasms. Sure, he had his own hands if he was desperate, but there was nothing quite like partner-induced climax. Especially when that partner was Sherlock.
But Sherlock was busy, and in times like this his brain overrode his body. John could put food in front of him and he wouldn't eat. John could be naked in his bedroom and he wouldn't lie down. There was nothing for it but waiting.
John had been waiting such a very long time. Six weeks was quite long enough without a sexual encounter, especially when you lived with your supposed sexual partner. But damn it, he was trying not to be pushy.
Which was how he ended up leaving Sherlock in the sitting room, practically upside-down on the sofa in his dressing gown, to slip into the bathroom for a wank. He knew he should save it for at least ten p.m., since that always seemed for some reason like a decent hour for a wank, but he couldn't stand it anymore. Sherlock wouldn't notice, and if he did, so much the better.
John closed the door behind him and turned on the shower. He stripped slowly as the room heated up, filling with steam, and left his clothes in a pile on top of the toilet. Better than throwing them on the floor. He tested the water with the back of his hand, then his forearm, and stepped under the spray.
The water was hot and soothing against John's back, and as he ran his hands down his body, getting used to the temperature, his cock began to perk up in anticipation. He groped himself gently, palming his cock and rubbing his fingers underneath his balls, and shivered, despite the heat. It always felt more luxurious, having a wank naked. The shower was the perfect place for it: quiet, private, and discreet.
The door opened. 'John.'
John froze, embarrassed and guilty and embarrassed about feeling guilty. 'Er,' he said, 'yeah?'
The door closed. 'Let me do it,' Sherlock said, and John heard the sound of dressing down slithering to the floor.
'Do what?' John asked, like he didn't know.
Sherlock pushed the curtain aside and clambered into the tub, stark naked. He blocked the water from spraying all over the bathroom long enough to close the curtain again and then reached for John's cock. 'This,' he said. 'I've been ignoring you.'
'No,' John said, bracing himself against the wall as his knees wobbled. God, he'd missed Sherlock's hands more than he'd thought. 'Well, yeah,' he amended, 'but you do that.'
'I know.' Sherlock crowded close, his pale skin beaded with warm water droplets. John shivered, and Sherlock wrapped his other arm around John's back. He pressed his open mouth to John's neck and bit down.
'I know it too,' John said, trying to form a full thought. 'I mean, I don't mind—'
'Yes you do,' Sherlock said. 'Now shut up and let me do it. I need you present so I can think.'
'I thought,' John said, grabbing at Sherlock's shoulders and arching his back as Sherlock began to stroke him firmly, 'I thought you were doing your mind palace thing.'
Sherlock paused long enough to look into his face, confused, and then started up again, thank God. John was already hideously close. His balls were heavy and tight against his body, his cock rigid in Sherlock's fist. 'I make you leave when I'm thinking that deeply,' Sherlock said, twisting at the end of his strokes in a way that made John gasp aloud. 'You left on your own, and you've already showered once today.'
'Oh,' John said, trembling all over. 'Right.'
Sherlock began to bite at John's neck again, hitting all the spots that made John's eyes cross. 'So,' he said, between nibbles, 'it wasn't a… difficult leap… to make. We've been… so busy…. Besides,' he asked, and pulled back to grin at John, 'do you think I can't tell from across the room when you have an erection?'
'Fuck,' John said, and came all over Sherlock's belly. He let himself revel in it for a few long moments, breathing deeply and holding Sherlock in his arms, but he knew soon enough Sherlock would get impatient. He kissed Sherlock softly, grateful, and Sherlock returned it with one of his sincere smiles.
'Better?' Sherlock asked.
'Good.' Sherlock let go of him and turned off the shower. 'We've got to go; I've realised something.'
'Lay on,' John said, reaching for a towel.
Chapter 30: Stress Relief
Sorry I'm late today!
John pulled his knees together. 'If you think a blow job is going to get you a smoke, you're wrong.'
'You're not getting them,' John said, trying hard not to give away the location of the pack of cigarettes by an accidental facial expression.
'I need them,' Sherlock hissed, hands drawn tightly into fists, his whole body coiled like a spring. 'John, I'm going mad.'
'You're not,' John said firmly. 'Stick on a patch and shut up.'
'It's not just about the patch,' Sherlock said, sidling across the sitting room and sinking to his knees in front of John's chair. 'I'm sure you're familiar with oral fixation.'
John pulled his knees together. 'If you think a blow job is going to get you a smoke, you're wrong.'
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he took on the appearance of a giant, predatory cat. He even began to crawl into John's lap, sinking his hands deep into the chair cushions on either side of John's hips.'
'No,' he said, 'but it would take the edge off.'
'Really,' John said. 'You're talking me into letting you suck my cock, now.'
'I don't think I'll need to try very hard,' Sherlock purred. 'Come on, then; do I have to beg?'
'It'd be a start,' John said, smirking.
Sherlock stuck out his lip in a soft pout, an expression John had learned to distrust immediately, and said, 'Pretty please?'
John shook his head hard. 'That face is making me very uncomfortable,' he said, unbuttoning his jeans. 'Stop it.'
Sherlock's face broke into a grin— a much more natural, slightly alarming look on him— and fumbled to help John get his trousers open. He knocked John's hands out of the way and John lifted his hips on cue to get the jeans down to his ankles.
John was already half-hard. It didn't take much, with Sherlock. A shared glance over a dead body could send his blood pressure up. Christ, he was lost.
Sherlock didn't bother with hands once he'd gotten into John's trousers, and he shouldered John's knees apart and buried his face in John's lap. John yelped, surprised that he was surprised, and slid his fingers into Sherlock's hair.
'All right,' John sighed, late, given that Sherlock was already nuzzling his cock eagerly, breathing warmly with an open mouth. John sank back into the chair, closing his eyes. Sherlock's hair under his hand was silken, the roots slightly damp from Sherlock's exerted ransack of the flat. Sherlock's fingers wiggled their way up John's thighs and under the curve of his arse, pulling him further down the seat until he was nearly horizontal, his head propped up and his rear hanging off the edge of the cushion. John's prick was rigid by then, stiffened by Sherlock's lips and breath through the fabric of his pants, and was bent at an awkward angle down the leg of them. Sherlock didn't seem inclined to do anything about that.
Instead, he was tonguing the cotton of John's shorts, dampening it until it stuck to John's skin and dragged torturously against it. John shivered, hips jerking up, and Sherlock's grip on him tightened, locking him in place.
'Is this,' John gasped, 'distracting you enough?'
'Shut up,' Sherlock muttered, muffled, working his tongue against the head of John's prick.
John grinned at the ceiling. 'It's working for me.'
Chapter 31: "Let's Get It On" Playing
As I re-read this thing, I realized Sherlock has sucked a lot of cock. Time to mix it up a bit.
'D'you hear that?' John asked, stopping dead in the middle of the living room.
'No,' Sherlock said, his attention on his petri dishes. The bacterial cultures were growing well on two samples and not on the third, which was puzzling.
'Marvin Gaye,' John said. He had sidled up behind Sherlock and proceeded to loop his arms around Sherlock's neck. 'There's a rule about it.'
'Is it the kind of rule I should care about?'
John pressed a kiss to his cheek, willfully ignoring his attitude. 'If you know what's good for you,' he said. 'No, no, don't get up.'
'John, what--' Sherlock began, but then John was on his knees on the kitchen floor, and Sherlock's cock must have known this was coming long before Sherlock did.
Glancing up at him, John said, 'If you're into it,' and Sherlock nodded. The cultures could wait.
'What's the rule?' he asked, as John pressed his face to the increasingly tight crotch of his trousers. He slid a hand over John's hair and down the back of his neck, encouraging him.
'Song plays, sex happens,' John said. He was rubbing his nose against the swelling head of Sherlock's prick. 'Haven't heard this song in ages, mind you.'
'It's a miracle you ever get laid,' Sherlock said, sighing. He tipped his head back and laughed when John bit him through his trousers.
John looked up again, eyebrow raised, and Sherlock lifted his hips to aid him in getting his trousers and pants down. 'The converse does not apply,' John said. He gave Sherlock's cock a squeeze, and opened his mouth.
Sherlock closed his eyes, his spine going weak with the soft, warm pleasure of it. John's tongue rubbed slowly against his glans and he spread his knees eagerly, pulling John closer by his shoulders. John shifted, straightening up and taking Sherlock deeper. Sherlock could hear it now on the radio, the slow, suggestive melody setting John's pace. John's hands rubbed up and down his thighs and then slid 'round to his arse for a better grip. Sherlock began to shift his hips, back and forth in response to John's gentle urging, shallowly fucking John's mouth.
The orgasm was slow to build, and Sherlock heard the radio DJ long before he could be certain he was going to get off, but John persisted, apparently not in a rush. Sherlock put a thumb to John's forehead and pushed him back for a moment, confused, and John beamed at him. His lips were swollen and red.
'It's a catalyst,' he said, his voice thick, like that explained everything. It did, actually. Sherlock rubbed his thumb across John's face and over his temple, trying in vain to get a grip in his short hair, and John bent again to his task. He was more persistent now, sucking harder, working the base of Sherlock's cock with his left hand while his right stayed on Sherlock's bum. Sherlock was biting his lip, gripping the edge of the table hard, and then he was coming with a groan, no warning, just swelling and spurting. John had felt it, sealed his lips around the head of Sherlock's cock and relaxed, and he jacked Sherlock through it with a steady hand. Finally Sherlock nudged him away, gasping, oversensitive.
John sat back on his heels, looking pleased with himself. He wiped his mouth with finger and thumb, licked them, and rose smoothly to his feet. His cock was hard in his jeans but he waved Sherlock away.
'Later,' he said, smirking. 'When you're not busy.'
Chapter 32: Celebrate Clean Test Results
Sherlock has earned it.
Passing mention of bad decisions due to drug use.
John doesn't let him throw out all the condoms, citing a potential need for cleanliness or discretion outside the flat (he says this with a blush that makes Sherlock's knees weak with possibility), but many of them go straight in the bin. To be fair, he probably should have binned them a long time ago, given that perhaps thirty per cent of them are leftover from his Uni days and sixty per cent more are from the days when a fuck would get him a quality hit, but he doesn't want to make John uncomfortable.
No, he doesn't, because what he would really, really prefer, is John's bare cock in his arse. He's earned it. John is a doctor and a ladies' man and a stickler, and he said no over and over until he said yes, finally. The round of needle pricks was worth it.
So Sherlock leaves some of the condoms in the drawer and pins John to the bed, kissing him deeply, eager to move on to the main act but cognizant of the preparation necessary beforehand. He knows his limits exactly and is certain that he can talk John into a slightly more rapid pace than they've enjoyed before. He has been waiting, after all, very patiently.
John does insist on getting out of his clothes, and Sherlock obliges. Bare from head to toe, he thinks, shivering, and climbs back into John's lap. John sits against the headboard of his bed, legs outstretched, and his arms are warm where they are wrapped around Sherlock's waist. He kisses Sherlock with a hunger that belies his hesitation about doing away with prophylactics; he wants this just as badly.
What is it, Sherlock thinks, squirting lube onto John's hand and guiding John's fingers between his legs, about unprotected sex that seems so bloody romantic? Why does the idea of bodily fluids in places he can't easily clean make him giddy with wanting? What has happened to his sense of reason, since he started sleeping with John? And what will happen now that they have, as John put it, taken a step in the right direction?
John holds him in place with a grip of iron as he sinks his fingers into Sherlock's body, and Sherlock squirms and humps the air all the same, digging his fingernails into John's broad shoulders. He is sweating, hair damp and skin shining, and when John pulls out and rasps, 'Right, then,' he nearly comes apart.
He doesn't, though, not until John is pressing into him, the splendidly slippery head of his cock opening Sherlock up and the rigidness of his shaft keeping him that way. John's eyes roll back in his head and he says, 'Oh, sweet Jesus,' in a low voice. Sherlock's nerves are lighting up everywhere— under his skin, in his brain, inside his pelvis— and he lets the weight of his body bear him down until he is seated flush against John's lap with John's soft, fair pubic hair against the sensitive skin of his buttocks. John holds him still with gentler hands this time, kisses him until their hearts are no longer thundering, and then begins to rock. Sherlock's hips shift back and forth, his spine curving less and more. John kisses his collarbone, bites it, kisses again.
'I'm not going to last,' John tells him, already trembling. Behind Sherlock, John's heels are shifting on the sheets, his toes curling as he tries to hang on, slow down, draw it out.
'Don't bother,' Sherlock says, working a hand between them, but instead of touching his cock he reaches for John's and the stretched rim of his arsehole. John hisses out a curse and his hips jolt, and then he is arching his back and groaning Sherlock's name, and Sherlock comes too with hardly any encouragement. John fucks him in short, half-hearted thrusts; anything more would be too much sensation. Sherlock clutches John's shoulders and hears himself moaning.
Afterwards he is right about the mess, but John won't let him get out of bed; he's too busy nuzzling Sherlock's shoulder and breathing deeply. Sherlock drifts, the smell of John's hair and John's sweat and John's semen carrying him to a place built of analysis and fondness, and finds that he doesn't mind the mess so much. It's all so damn romantic.
Chapter 33: They Have Air-Conditioning (And You Don't)
Snuggles in the AC; like it's not cold enough already.
The unit in the first floor window cools the sitting room, kitchen, and Sherlock's bedroom to near Arctic degrees, but the second floor— John's bedroom, bathroom, and spare storage room— remains sticky and humid at a steady thirty seven Celsius. It's a chore to even go up there, and John makes excuses to move his clothes to Sherlock's room. Sherlock doesn't mind. He hardly uses the bureau anyway, and the sock index only takes up the top two drawers. He'd much rather have John well-rested than maintain the little personal space he has left, because John has steadily become more important to his work than privacy. John gets a pass, every time.
Even if he does insist on a perfectly tedious seven hours of sleep every night. He goes to bed long before Sherlock can tear himself away from his work, and Sherlock is up again ages before John even stirs.
But, having John in Sherlock's bed means Sherlock can interrupt that pattern too, if only for a few minutes. When Sherlock finally climbs in beside him at a quarter to one or so, John murmurs and lifts his head. He blinks at Sherlock in the light that sneaks in under the curtain and gives him a little smile. He has gooseflesh on his arms from the chill of the air conditioner, and he pulls the sheet that Sherlock has disturbed up to his neck. Sherlock is careful not to touch him at first: within a minute or so, John, drawn to Sherlock's body heat, rolls up against him.
Sherlock sleeps better this summer than he ever has before. He tries putting it down to the much improved flat, the air conditioner, the quality of the work he's been doing that fulfills and exhausts him, but it always comes back to John. Baker Street is nicer than Montague Street, but John reading the paper in the sitting room makes the infinite difference. The air conditioner keeps the rooms cool, but John's unconscious habit of cuddling up to Sherlock at two a.m. is what helps him calm down. The cases have been particularly good these past six months, but it's John at his side that makes them worth pursuing. And John is always up for a run across town, which results in more exercise than Sherlock has gotten in years. He can't let John see him get tired. It's good for him.
And then there are the mornings, the rare dawn that finds Sherlock still in bed and John stretching his arms over his head with a jaw-breaking yawn. Sherlock has been woken by other partners in the past and found himself boiling with fury, but these days he just turns over and curls an arm across John's middle, compelling him to stay put. John sighs, relaxing, and his hands find their ways up to Sherlock's elbow and into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock can feel himself going melty again, despite the cold air that keeps them both sane, and he nuzzles his face more firmly into John's shoulder. Just a few more minutes.
Chapter 34: Chance to Do It in a Specific Location
'Isn't getting off with someone in an lift on your bucket list, or whatever you called it?'
The lift stopped at the exact moment that the lights went out. There was a brief, surprised pause, and then John's voice to Sherlock's left said, 'Oh, bloody hell.'
Sherlock smiled. John was only a few inches away; reaching out, he found John's elbow in the dark. 'All right?' he said.
'Well I haven't moved, have I?' John said, sounding annoyed. Sherlock let go, felt for his mobile in his pocket, and illuminated the screen. John's face was pale and blueish, and he raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. 'Should we call someone?'
Sherlock pointed the phone at the panel of buttons and pressed the one marked EMERGENCY with his forefinger.
Nothing happened. He pressed it again. Still nothing.
'Right,' John said. 'Now on the phone?'
'And call who?' Sherlock asked. 'Lestrade? Hello, Detective Inspector, the power's just gone out; think it's criminal activity?'
'All right, all right,' John muttered, 'no need to get smart about it. I guess our appointment's postponed.'
'Obviously.' Sherlock tucked his phone away again and leaned back against the wall. With a sigh, he slid down to sit on his heels. Without an explanation for the power outage, he couldn't expect to estimate a length of time it would last. It might be minutes or hours. Beside him, John lowered himself to the floor a little less gracefully, favoring his leg.
'What now?' John asked. 'I can think of a few word games.'
'Really, John,' Sherlock said, reaching for him again and finding his knee. 'There are a dozen other things two people can do in a dark room.' He could practically feel John's pause of consideration, as well as his rising interest as he caught on.
'You're not saying—'
'Isn't getting off with someone in an lift on your bucket list, or whatever you called it?'
'Well, it wasn't, but it is now.'
Sherlock grinned to himself and leaned carefully, mindful of the collision of his skull against John's. He found it with a gentle nudge and turned to kiss what he could find of John's face. John turned at the same time and they managed to meet in the middle, lips to cheeks and noses and then finally lips. John still tasted like the coffee he'd stopped for on the corner, his mouth sweet and bitter. Sherlock made a noise of appreciation in his throat and slid his right hand up to cup John's cheek.
'How long d'you think we've got?' John asked, voice dropped down to a whisper.
'How quick can I get you off?'
John snorted, his hands finding the back of Sherlock's suit jacket and into his hair. 'Depends on what you mean to do to me.'
John obeyed when Sherlock leaned away, pushing himself up the wall to his feet once more. Sherlock got onto his knees, shuffled a bit, and undid John's belt and jeans. John leaned back against the railing with a sigh, spreading his feet, and let Sherlock tug them and his pants down halfway. He wasn't fully hard yet, but when Sherlock nuzzled at his cock with an open mouth, it firmed up quickly, jutting out from between John's thighs. Sherlock wrapped his hand around it, gave it a firm tug, and licked the swelling head.
'Oh,' John said, 'that's nice,' and his hand found Sherlock's hair in the dark, fingers sliding fondly before he got a grip. Sherlock heard his head hit the lift wall with a soft thump. He spread his hands wide on John's bare, warm hips and began to suck. John's hand on his head kept his movements small and slow, and he closed his eyes against the darkness, letting the smell of John's arousal fill his nose. John began to thrust, easing himself in and out of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock let him until he could feel John's thighs begin to tremble, could hear John's breathing getting harsher.
Then he stopped.
'Can we fuck, now?' John rasped, knees flexing.
'Ooh,' Sherlock said, 'and here I thought I was going to surprise you.' And he used his grip on John's hips to turn him around.
'You do,' John said, his smugness audible, 'just not this time.' Sherlock heard the rustle of his jacket against the lift wall as he bent over, arms crossed on the railing, forehead on arms, arse out. Sherlock smiled, laid a kiss on his left buttock, and then parted his cheeks to insinuated his tongue into the space between. John jumped at the first wet touch to his hole, cursing through gritted teeth. Sherlock licked him again, more slowly, over and over until the muscle relaxed under his ministrations and John was groaning breathily.
'It's all I've got,' Sherlock offered as explanation, when John was shifting restlessly and pushing back against him, wanting more.
'It's plenty,' John said, 'come on!'
Sherlock rose to his feet, steadying himself on John's back, and opened his trousers. He fished John's wallet out of John's back pocket, found the battered condom packet tucked within, and opened it with his teeth.
'Oh, yes,' John said, 'smart thinking,' and reached back to take it. Sherlock swatted his hands away. They were on a deadline. The wrapper went back into the wallet and then, against the plan, the wallet hit the floor by John's feet. But the condom was secure between Sherlock's fingers, and it rolled smoothly down his cock. He gave himself a few tugs, nodding to himself. John had thought ahead, unknowingly, and packed a lubricated condom. Clever man. Maybe he'd known after all.
Sherlock pressed himself against the cleft of John's arse and rubbed himself up and down a bit, the heat of John's body making him growl.
'In, Sherlock,' John reminded him, reaching back to grab for his thigh, so Sherlock obliged him, lining the head of his prick up with John's hole. He was going to be gentle, really, take his time here, but John shoved back hard with a bitten off shout and Sherlock was in to the hilt.
'Oh, fuck,' Sherlock gasped, clutching at John's hips, pleasure rocketing up his spine. It was one thing to be efficient about the whole thing, another to just take what he wanted and leave John sore. John appeared to have other plans. He began to work himself on Sherlock's dick, his muscular thighs like iron under Sherlock's fingers. Groaning, Sherlock tried to catch up, and soon they were huffing and panting, the sounds of their fucking filling up the small, metal space.
A voice behind them stopped them in their tracks, John swearing aloud and Sherlock holding him tight so he didn't jump right off Sherlock's cock.
'Hello?' the voice said, tinny and metallic. 'Is there anyone in the lifts?'
'What do we do?' John hissed.
Sherlock gathered all of his willpower and pulled out. He stumbled across to the lift control panel and pushed the EMERGENCY button. 'Yes,' he said, trying to sound as harried as possible, which wasn't difficult with his cock rigid and well lubricated, 'we're in lift three. How long exactly is it going to take to get let out?'
'Oh,' the voice said, 'I'm so sorry, sir. There's been a major outage at the nearby power station; the whole block is out. We've got the fire company on the way, you should be out of there in under fifteen minutes.'
'Thank you,' Sherlock said tersely, and let the button go. He found John again in the dark; he hadn't moved.
'Fifteen minutes, oh!' John said, as Sherlock slid back into him. 'Make it quick, you berk.'
'Name-calling is not going to get you what you want,' Sherlock replied, picking up where he'd left off. John was groaning into his sleeves again, which was a good sign. His cock had gone a bit soft while Sherlock was dealing with the interruption, but a few quick pulls had it stiff and full. Sherlock began to stroke in earnest, in time with his thrusts. He bent over John's back and sank his teeth into John's shoulder through his jacket and shirt. John yelped, reached back with one hand to press Sherlock's face harder into his shoulder, and then let go to put that hand on his cock instead. Sherlock let him take over and set himself instead to trying to fuck John through the wall. John jacked himself quickly; Sherlock could feel the motion of his arm in the shaking of his entire body.
'Fuck,' John said suddenly, his body tightening down, 'oh fuck, Sherlock, I'm there, I'm coming, oh Jesus,' and his curses dissolved into a moan as he went mostly still, his hips twitching minutely, his arm moving slowly, dragging his orgasm out. Sherlock shoved in hard two, three, four more times and got there himself, shooting hard into the condom with John's arse squeezing around him.
John sagged, held up between the lift railing and Sherlock's cock. Sherlock pulled out reluctantly, his legs trembling, and eased the condom off. He tied it in the dark, eternally hopeful, and put it away in his pocket with a grimace as he pulled up his pants and trousers. The rustling from John's side suggested he was putting himself together too.
The lights came back on, making them both wince. Sherlock blinked himself used to it, and laughed aloud at John's scrunched face. John was still flushed bright red, his hairline damp with sweat, and the impression of the button on his shirt cuff was pressed deeply into his right cheek. He was tucking his shirttails into his jeans, looking put out.
'Hilarious,' John said, catching sight of himself in the mirrored doors.
Sherlock bent down and picked up his wallet for him. 'Worth it,' he said. 'We can reschedule our meeting, if you want.'
'Not on your life, Sherlock Holmes,' John said, smirking. 'You're not so tidy yourself. Like to see you interrogate, looking as well-fucked as you do.'
Chapter 35: Foreign Country Bingo
Kudos to expectative for guiding my sorry, school-Spanish-speaking ass through the French language.
'I've never gotten a leg over in France,' John said, looking contemplatively out the window at the Eiffel Tower.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him from the middle of the bed, where he lay on his back, phone raised above himself, looking up the weather for the last two weeks on the internet. 'I thought you'd got the best of three continents,' he said.
John turned around. 'First of all, France is not a continent. Second of all, that nickname, as you well know, comes from the Army, and the last time Britain had forces in France was approximately 1945.'
'Right,' Sherlock said, looking back to the screen of his phone. 'So, what, you're counting Great Britain as the European continent?'
'I'm not counting anything as anything,' John protested. He crossed the room and climbed onto the bed and right onto Sherlock's lap, sitting across Sherlock's hips. Sherlock sighed dramatically and put the phone aside.
'Of course you are,' he said. 'You're not a modest man when it comes to your conquests. So how many countries is it, then? Three Continents Watson?'
'Sixteen,' John said, without having to think about it.
Sherlock slid his palms up John's muscular thighs and rocked his hips up, pressing himself against John's arse. 'And you didn't get France.'
'I haven't been to France since secondary school,' John said, smirking. He started to unbutton his shirt. Sherlock fit his right hand against John's groin, groping him through his jeans, feeling John stiffen under his palm.
John shook his shirt off his arms, left in just his T-shirt. Sherlock unbuckled John's belt for him and opened his jeans. The alarming red of John's pants peeked out at him from the vee of the zip.
'Why do you wear these?' he asked, tugging at John's jeans so that he could reach into the pocket of the briefs. He knew his fingers were a little cold, and smiled at the way John jumped when they touched warm skin.
'To upset you,' John said, wriggling. 'Christ, is your phone made of ice?'
Sherlock's fingers were warming up rapidly, stuffed inside John's pants, so he declined to answer. John lifted himself off Sherlock's lap momentarily, giving Sherlock room to get him out. When he sat back again, he leaned down for a kiss. Sherlock parted his lips in anticipation, reaching up to curl his other hand around the back of John's neck. John kissed him slowly, teasing, flickering his tongue in and out of his mouth, not committing to anything. Sherlock squeezed him with both hands, nape and prick, and John moaned.
'Do not come on my shirt,' Sherlock warned him.
'Don't make me come on your shirt.'
'Where would you suggest you come, then?' Sherlock asked, and then knew he'd walked right into it.
John grinned. 'I'm sure I'll think of something,' he said, clearly already making his decision.
Sherlock kissed him again to distract him, and scraped his fingernails up through John's short hair to the crown of his head.
'Oh, that's nice,' John murmured against his mouth, squirming, and Sherlock belatedly felt his own cock taking interest. His mind was too occupied with the case they had come here for, though, so he didn't expect he'd need reciprocation. It didn't matter; if John was entertained, all was well.
He began to stroke John slowly, working his fist in the tight space between their bellies. The side of his thumb was getting slick with John's pre-come, so he passed his whole thumb over John's cock head and was rewarded with a bitten-off groan and another bit of wriggling. That felt rather nice. He lifted his head and kissed the column of John's throat, so John tilted his chin up to give him some room. A little bit of nibbling on John's neck, and John was panting now, mouth open, hips working into Sherlock's grip.
'You know,' Sherlock said against his ear, 'I'm not really sure this counts as having a shag in France.'
'Eh?' John asked, pushing up on his hands to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock jacked him faster, tight, the way John got himself off. John's face was flushed, cheeks and ears and down his neck.
'I mean, having a go in a hotel room isn't special,' Sherlock said. He reached up to thumb at John's right nipple through his T-shirt. 'You should suck me off on top of that bloody tower, or fuck me on the Riviera, or… I don't know, something French.'
John laughed, breathless, and said, 'Something French?'
'I speak French, you know,' Sherlock said.
'Yeah, shockingly enough, I did notice that,' John said. 'Go on, then.'
'Tu ne me comprendrais pas,' Sherlock protested, but he was obliging John all the same.
'God, do you know how much I love your voice?' John asked. He had closed his eyes, and his hips were moving in little circles now, in counterpoint to Sherlock's hand.
'Je sais, oui,'Sherlock said. 'J'espère que ce n'est pas la seule chose que tu aimes.'
John laughed again, shaking his head. 'You're a madman; that's gorgeous.' He leaned down again for another kiss, and Sherlock bit at his lip.
'Je bande pour toi,' Sherlock murmured, pressing himself against John's backside. 'Est-ce que tu me sens?'
'Ahh,' John said, breath hitching, and pushed back.
Sherlock gripped him more tightly. 'Dès que l'affaire sera terminée, je te baiserai,' he promised. 'Je te baiserai si fort que tu me supplieras de te laisser jouir.'
John's laugh that time was sharp and sudden, and he said, 'Fuck, I haven't got a clue and I don't even care.'
'Tu es incroyable,' Sherlock said, recognizing the tremors in John's body. 'Vas-y, lâche-toi John. Allez, laisse-toi aller.'
John did, reacting to the imperative in Sherlock's voice, and his hands went tight on Sherlock's shoulders as he came. His hips jerked in short, aborted little thrusts, making Sherlock groan aloud. Sherlock worked him through it, his left hand wandering up and down John's side, over his chest and stomach, and down his thigh. John shook, eyes closed, mouth open, and finally relaxed with a sigh. Sherlock was still hard against his arse.
'You, now?' John asked, swiping his tongue over his lower lip, blinking.
'After the case,' Sherlock said again, the English feeling clumsy in his mouth. He gave into the urge to thrust up, once, and then rolled John neatly off him onto the bed. 'As much as I'd love to right now, we do have a victim to interview.'
John stretched, back popping, and got up. He went into the bathroom, rummaged around, ran the tap, and came back with his trousers zipped and belt buckled. Sherlock sat up.
'Merde,' he said, looking down at his shirt.
Chapter 36: Miscommunication
Happy Valentine's Day! No sex in this one, terribly sorry.
There were roses in a vase on the kitchen table. John stopped in the doorway, squinting, still bleary with sleep. 'Sherlock,' he said, loud enough that Sherlock, in the sitting room, could hear him, 'what's all this?'
Sherlock poked his head in, spotted the flowers, and said, 'Oh, that. I was reliably informed that they are romantic, and today I'm meant to be particularly romantic towards you.'
John snorted and put the kettle on. 'It's really not necessary,' he said.
There was an expectant pause, so John turned around. Sherlock was frowning. 'Well,' he said, when he noticed John was looking, 'maybe I'll do a corrosion study on them later, in that case. Are you busy tonight?'
'No,' John said, turning back to the cupboard and digging out a tea bag. 'Got a case?'
'Dinner reservation,' Sherlock said. His voice moved back to the sitting room. 'Eight o'clock in Chelsea.'
'What's in Chelsea, then?' John asked. He took his steaming mug to the sitting room doorway.
John choked on nothing, the tea halfway to his mouth. 'What?'
'That angry chef on the telly,' Sherlock said, looking up from John's laptop.
'Yeah, I know who Gordon Ramsay is,' John said. 'Why are we going there?'
Sherlock glared at him like he was being particularly slow. 'The same reason there are roses on the table. I booked it a year ago; you'll have to dress up.'
John shook his head. 'Sherlock, you know I think this is a ridiculous excuse for a holiday, there's no reason you need to— wait, a year ago?'
Sherlock shrugged, turning his attention back to the laptop screen. He was flushing a sort of blotchy red.
'Sherlock, we weren't… involved… a year ago. You were dead a year ago.'
'Right, well, I made a prediction,' Sherlock said, obviously getting irritated, 'and it paid off, so, let's just forget about it.'
John's heart was hammering in his chest. 'I don't think so, Sherlock.'
'Look, if you don't want to go, fine. I'll just call and cancel the reservation, and—'
'No, I— Sherlock, stop.' John took the phone out of Sherlock's hand. He'd crossed the room without thinking, and now they were very close. Sherlock leaned back away from him and crossed his arms over his chest, one eyebrow raised. He was on the defensive. John stifled a sigh of exasperation. 'Why did you make a Valentine's Day reservation at a hideously expensive and exclusive restaurant for an uncertain future date that you might not have been able to keep?'
Sherlock sneered. 'Please, John,' he said. 'If you're worried that my business with Moriarty's syndicate would have taken another eight months, you're doing me a great disservice: I had an incredibly specific timeline.'
'But you predicted that I'd have agreed to sleep with you by now?'
'Oh, please,' Sherlock said, shoving out of the chair and stalking across the room to the couch where he flung himself down in a fit of pique, his dressing gown a bluish smear in the air as it swirled around him. 'I don't understand why you're being so bloody difficult,' he said, muffled by the Union Jack pillow. 'I made a gamble, based on what I know about you— which is a great deal, by the way— and what I know about me— it's not easy being this smart and this self-aware—' John snorted— 'and if I'd been wrong I'd have just cancelled it and no one would have been any the wiser—'
'Sherlock,' John said suddenly, realising he had to head this off at the pass if he wanted to actually enjoy the dinner tonight, 'how long have you known?'
Sherlock muttered something indistinct.
'Sod off, John,' Sherlock said.
'No, no, hang on,' John said, stepping over the coffee table and standing over Sherlock's form. 'You said January of twenty-ten, didn't you?' He crouched down until his mouth was level with Sherlock's ear, and said, 'You've been in love with me for four years, and you didn't say anything until last summer?'
'Things changed,' Sherlock complained. 'You're bloody confusing, John Watson, and you made everything different, even from the start.'
John pressed his lips to Sherlock's warm cheek. 'I'm not sorry,' he said.
'And you do not think this is a ridiculous holiday,' Sherlock went on. 'You go out of your way to buy nonsense for women you like: candy, flowers. I've seen you do it.'
'Are you jealous I didn't get you a Valentine bear on a heart shaped box of chocolates?' John hooked his chin over Sherlock's shoulder. ''Cause I'll go out—'
'No, shut up,' Sherlock said. 'I'm only trying— God, never mind.'
'Which suit do I wear?' John asked.
Sherlock shifted, looking over his shoulder at him, still scowling.
'To dinner; can I wear a jacket, or do I have to air out my tux?'
After a suspicious pause, Sherlock said, 'The jacket will suit, as much as I like the tux.'
John kissed his cheek again. 'I'm sorry I didn't get you even a card or anything.'
Sherlock snorted. 'I didn't expect you to; I know you're mad about me, and it doesn't take a naked baby with an arrow to make a difference. I'm taking you out because I like feeding you good food, and anyway Ramsay owes me a favour. He was the one who suggested today.'
'Gordon Ramsay owes you a favour,' John said flatly, trying not to laugh.
'It's a long story,' Sherlock said, starting to smile. 'I'll tell you about it tonight.'
Chapter 37: Called or Texted the Wrong Person
Here there be sexting.
i cant wait to get you in bed tonight, the text from John read. Sherlock blinked, read it again, and then looked around the room in case there had been a reinstallation of video cameras and he hadn't noticed. Nothing was out of place. Sherlock shifted in his chair, and was composing a sarcastic reply when the phone vibrated again.
ive been thinking about it all morning, this one read.
Sherlock swallowed hard. John had meant to text Sarah, obviously. Their numbers were sequential in his phone. Sherlock was at a loss. John would be embarrassed when Sherlock showed him his error, certainly, but he'd be more embarrassed if Sherlock let it go on. He'd just send off a quick note alerting—
god i could rub one out right now, right here in the exam room between patients.
i know you're busy today. i like the idea of you getting these all at once. I'm picturing the look on your face and it's gorgeous.
Jesus. Now Sherlock was really in trouble. If John wasn't expecting a reply, getting one from Sherlock now would be even worse. Wouldn't it? Why would it? When did it get so warm in the flat?
Sherlock unbuttoned another button at his collar and put the phone down. Better to ignore it. John's sexual appetite was none of his business, and hadn't Sherlock said it wasn't his area anyway? So, it wasn't. That was the truth. Sex had never made sense to him, though he knew it was a good motive for murder and would usually start there with his reasoning, the actual act, he knew, was messy and complicated and always, always rife with emotional pitfalls. Emotional pitfalls were certainly not Sherlock's area.
The phone buzzed again. Sherlock hesitated, bit his lip, and snatched it up.
i want to kiss every inch of your body, John wrote, and find out every spot that makes you squirm.
Another one arrived: a continuation on the one before. does the thought of that turn you on? it turns me on. i want to touch you everywhere. i'm going back to my office now, hope the nurse doesn't notice I've got a stiffy.
Sherlock was sweating, and tingling all over. His penis, normally so inoffensive, was getting hard. He shifted again, spreading his knees and staring down at it.
The phone vibrated.
i want you to touch yourself when you get this. will you do that, please? for me. touch yourself slowly, through your clothes, and think of me doing the same.
Sherlock's unoccupied right hand slid down his body, mostly without his permission, and touched the fat line of his cock in his trousers. A bolt of pleasure thudded up his spine, making him jump. He did it again, more firmly this time, and bit back a moan. He was a very bad man. This was so inappropriate. But lord, did it feel good. He was following John's instructions, too: touching slowly, rubbing his hand up and down, and picturing John. John would be in his office now, behind his desk, probably leaning back in his chair and groping himself through his slacks. Sherlock wondered what John's cock would feel like under his hand, rather than his own.
He dropped his head back against the chair and pressed harder, lifting his hips up into the pressure of his hand. He'd deleted this, early in school, disgusted by the antics of his classmates and eager to be as much unlike them as possible. He hadn't expected John to be the one to reteach him. Shit.
But John was ready for him, somehow. The newest text read: put your hand in your pants and feel for me: are you wet? i want to lick it off your thighs.
Right. John was texting Sarah. If she was aroused, presumably she would— Sherlock stuffed his hand into his pants all the same, and found that the fabric was wet. He was leaking, the head of his prick sticky with pre-come. He dragged his fingers in it, shivering with the sensation. His fingertips were cooler than the heated skin of his cock; John's warm tongue would be a heavenly substitute.
i'm going to have a wank, John wrote. i know it's wrong to do it in the office, but i'll just lock the door and say i'm on the phone with a patient. i can't wait. thinking about you reading these makes me so hot.
Sherlock had to put the phone down for a second to get his trousers open. He shoved trousers and pants down around his thighs and let his cock slap against his belly, stiff and flushed with blood, the crown fully exposed. He hadn't done this much, but he knew enough to trust his instincts. He circled his hand around his prick and gave it a tug.
'Oh, God,' he said aloud, surprising himself. It felt amazing. The skin-on-skin friction was a little much, but a quick lick to the palm of his hand cleared that right up. Then, as he stroked himself, the pre-ejaculate dripping from his slit made the slide much smoother. He had to be careful not to go too fast, or it would all be over. Already, he could feel the muscles in his pelvis tensing in anticipation.
The next text mercifully arrived. i want to use my mouth on you, lick you and suck you until you're begging me to fuck you. i want to watch you fall apart.
Sherlock already was. He was struggling to keep his hips in check as he worked his fist slowly up and down his shaft. He was trembling all over. His cock felt huge in his hand: thick and solid and so hot. His hair was falling in his eyes, but he couldn't let go of his prick or his phone to do anything about it.
i'm so close, John wrote. i want you to come thinking about me fucking you. i'm picturing what your face will look like when you do, all shocked and outraged and overwhelmed. god, it's so good i'm gonna come so hard oh fuck
Sherlock flushed, embarrassed and intensely aroused, his cock twitching. His balls felt heavy and his groin was tightening. He couldn't help but picture John in the office, cock out of his pants, wanking himself furiously with his phone in the other hand like Sherlock was now. He tried to picture the look of concentration on John's face, the furrow of his brow, the way he pursed his lips. Fuck, jesus, he was going to come, he was so--
And he did, with a shout, when the phone buzzed again. He couldn't look at the message, he was too busy spasming and spurting all over himself, lit up with pleasure from head to toe. His cock jerked with every pulse of ejaculate it sent up the front of his shirt, and he couldn't bring himself to care. He slumped back into the chair, still shaking, and squeezed one last dribble of come out of his cock. It slid wetly down his shaft, over his fingers, to puddle in his pubic hair. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath.
The message read: that was intense. this is insane. i hope you're not angry. i don't know what i'll say to you when i see you tonight.
Sherlock waited for another one. He waited so long that the come started to dry on his skin and shirt, and he knew he had to get up and wash and change. His legs shook so much they almost wouldn't hold him.
When he came back to the sitting room after a shower, there were no new messages.
'No,' John said. 'What makes you say that?'
'I—' Sherlock said, and couldn't think of a good way to answer.
John's smirk as he went into the kitchen told him everything.
Chapter 38: Calves Look Good in Cargo Shorts
The disguise took John completely off guard. Sherlock came bounding into the sitting room in cargo shorts and a pullover hoodie, with bright white trainers on his feet. Everything about him— his posture, his wild gesticulation, his open grin— said optimistic Uni first-year. And Sherlock was past thirty.
'Christ,' John said, 'what's this about?'
'You were less shocked when I came in with the harpoon,' Sherlock said, throwing himself into John's chair. John had abandoned it for the better view of the telly from the sofa.
'Yeah, well, the harpoon I expect,' John said. 'This.' He motioned helplessly at Sherlock's outfit. 'You look like you're seventeen years old.'
Sherlock's grin widened. 'D'you think so?'
'Yeah, you're like an infant. If I ran into you at a bar, I wouldn't buy you a drink.'
'Wouldn't you?' Sherlock was leaning forwards now, chin in hand.
John narrowed his eyes. 'Why, would you be angling for one?'
'Who knows?' Sherlock shrugged, his artfully tousled curls falling in his eyes. 'Maybe I'm just there to meet my mates.'
'Is this for a case, or are you having me on?'
'It's for a case, John, now focus.'
To be fair, John was focusing, but his attention was fixed not on Sherlock's developing narration of the case at hand, but at the cut of his shorts. They hit him just above the knee, and it was so unusual to see Sherlock's knees while he was dressed, that John was physically unable to stop staring. Then there was the bare, vulnerable plane of his shin; the strangely human, unremarkable leg hair; the muscle bunching in his calf as Sherlock bounced his heel in excitement.
John held up a hand. Sherlock stopped, mid-sentence.
'Do you have to go this minute?' John asked.
'No,' Sherlock said. 'I told you, I'm waiting for contact from Vivienne, she said she'll come get me at half seven and I'd better be ready.'
Vivienne was one of Sherlock's homeless network. She was very punctual, and didn't like to be kept waiting. How she had the patience to stand on a street corner all day asking for spare change was beyond John.
'It's half four,' John said.
'Yes, well, if you'd been listening—'
'Nope, stopped again.' John eased himself off the chair and onto the floor, and Sherlock looked at him in alarm as he knee-walked across the carpet. When he reached Sherlock, he slid his hands up the back of Sherlock's calves in something like amazement. The disguise changed Sherlock's demeanour, but not completely: the way Sherlock was sprawled was reminiscent of his more dramatic sulks. John knew to stay away during those hours, but now— Sherlock's legs tensed under his hands momentarily, but relaxed again as John shouldered Sherlock's knees apart and continued his manual journey up the backs of Sherlock's legs, well into the cargo shorts. John's fingers met cotton boxers, slipped inside them, and Sherlock squirmed until John felt the slightly sweaty, very familiar crease of his arse.
Sherlock's eyebrows were raised. John's sex drive occasionally confused him, but he was always game for an experiment.
'It's the shorts,' John explained, wiggling his fingers under Sherlock's bum. Sherlock spread his legs further, and John stroked the underside of his bollocks. Sherlock licked his lips, chewed the lower one hopefully. 'Take 'em off,' John said.
Chapter 39: It's Getting a Little Hard
'What is this doing?' Sherlock demanded. 'Isn't it satisfied?'
John shifted lazily against the lean, solid body behind him. The morning sun dappled the sheets, leaving little pools of warmth, and outside the traffic was just beginning to pick up. Sherlock's breath against the back of his neck stirred something hot low in John's belly, and he reached back to pat at Sherlock's hip under the covers. Sherlock harrumphed and nestled deeper into the blankets, pressing his forehead against John's C7, and then went strangely still.
'John,' Sherlock said, his voice still rough from sleep (and from the absolutely ridiculous blow job he'd given last night; the man's mouth was made for fucking). 'What's going on?'
For a moment, John's blood turned to ice water. He half-turned, suddenly very aware of how naked they were and how sore he was.
'Er,' he said. 'Thought that was obvious.'
'No,' Sherlock said with a huff of irritation, 'I remember we had sex, I'm not an idiot.'
John rolled all the way over. Sherlock was glaring at him, and then he lifted the blankets. John got an eyeful of his impressive morning erection, and had the decency to blush.
'What is this doing?' Sherlock demanded. 'Isn't it satisfied?'
'I'm not sure if I'm insulted by you or flattered by your cock,' John said, putting his hands over his face.
Sherlock let the blankets drop. 'I just— I don't bloody understand. I thought I'd gotten it all out. Isn't sex supposed to get rid of this feeling?'
'Sherlock,' John said, and pushed himself onto his elbows. 'All that stuff you said last night… you're not just horny. An orgasm is not going to solve that.'
'What will solve it?'
'Er, those are feelings, mate,' John said. 'You can't solve feelings.'
'Damn it,' Sherlock said. 'I knew it.'
John reached for him, skimming his palm down Sherlock's flat belly under the blanket to take his cock in hand. 'Here,' he said, 'I'll just take care of it.'
Sherlock hummed, stretching out on his back, so John tucked himself up along Sherlock's side. The blanket had to go. Sherlock pushed it down around his thighs. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple, since it was there, and began to stroke him slowly. His hand was dry, so he kept his touch gentle, although he knew the lube from last night wasn't too far out of his reach. Sherlock squirmed, pressing his cheek against John's chest. His breathing was beginning to speed up.
John kissed him again. Sherlock turned his face up for a proper kiss, so John obliged, licking Sherlock's mouth open. Sherlock moaned, pushing his hips up into John's grip. His cock was stiffer now, the head exposed and wet. John smeared the fluid around and let it slick his hand. Sherlock was flushed, the pink of his cheeks becoming suffused down his long neck and across his chest, and his nipples were tightly peaked.
Sherlock slid his arm under John's ribs and planted his hand in the middle of John's back, holding onto him. He broke the kiss to groan loudly, the muscles in his stomach jumping as he flexed his hips. John's own prick, now well interested in the proceedings, twitched against Sherlock's flank. He rather needed to pee, though, so he wanted to make this quick.
'God,' Sherlock said, as John sped his hand up, 'it feels so good.'
John nosed against his temple again, kissed his cheek, and murmured, 'Tell me when you're close.'
Sherlock hissed through his teeth, clawing with his blunt nails at John's back. His prick was iron hard in John's hand, his balls bouncing ridiculously as John jerked him off. His thighs tensed as he shifted his feet against the mattress, and the blankets moved up and down. His cock head was plump and slippery, little oozes of pre-come leaking out and making John's fingers wet. John's cock throbbed in sympathy.
John tightened his grip again, and Sherlock dropped his head back on a long moan, his whole body trembling. His hips were frantic, jerking up, trying to make John go faster. So faster he went, despite the ache in his wrist. Sherlock rewarded him, though, by suddenly shouting, 'Fuck!' and going tense all over. His cock swelled and jerked, and he shot come up his belly in a few powerful spurts. John worked him through it, fist tight, stroking slow, squeezing the orgasm out of him to its last sluggish drop.
'Ohh, John,' Sherlock said as the spasms stopped. He reached for John's ribs, pulling John down into an awkward sideways hug and burying his nose in John's neck. 'The feelings are all worse now. I never want to get out of bed. How am I supposed to get any work done like this?'
John patted him wetly on the hip. 'That's oxytocin; I'm sure you've heard of it. You're just going to have to factor it in from now on.'
Chapter 40: Wingman Diving on the Friend Grenade
Look, another AU chapter! This time, at University.
'Hi,' John said to the tall bloke beside Mary's fellow Victor. He was leaning against the bar, mile-long legs stretched out in front of him, and giving John a very unimpressed look from under the curls that half-covered his eyes. 'John Watson.'
'Not interested,' the tall bloke said, but he didn't take his eyes off John.
'Wh-' John said, momentarily insulted. 'Who said I was hitting on you?'
'You did. Your body language entirely gave you away. Besides, your companion wants into Victor's pants, and since I'm here with Victor it's only expected that you ought to come here and try to give me a good reason not to interfere. Don't bother. I don't care who Victor fucks, even if it is a third year medical student who should be on her fourth year with anxiety issues and at least two cats.'
'Do you know Mary, then?'
'Mary Morstan, the third year medical… with anxiety… you don't know her at all.'
'Of course not.' The tall bloke took a sip of his drink and raised an eyebrow at John. 'But it's written all over her. Now you… You're a fourth-year, exactly where you ought to be, with an internship in pathology, no, orthopaedic medicine. You live on your own in a flat that's too expensive for you since your flatmate dropped out, but you're not looking for a new one because you've only got till the end of the term. You've got an army sponsorship and you're about to be deployed. Afghanistan or Iraq?'
John gaped at him. 'Afghanistan,' he said finally. 'That was amazing. You can tell all that just by looking at me?'
'And making a few simple deductions.'
The tall bloke stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed in appraisal. 'I changed my mind,' he said. 'I am interested.'
'What, just like that?' John asked. He wasn't sure if he should push his luck. 'I haven't even bought you a drink.'
'Unnecessary.' He stood up from the bar, and he was even taller than he'd looked in his lazy slouch. John's stomach turned over, and he swallowed in anticipation. 'You don't have to come right away, but I'll only wait until midnight; after that I'll either be sleeping or working, so don't interrupt me.' He picked up his coat and slung it around his shoulders.
'Wait,' John said, reaching for him and just missing the cuff of his sleeve. 'I don't know anything about you.'
'The name's Sherlock Holmes,' the bloke said over his shoulder, 'and the address is two two one Baker House.'
John gave him twenty five minutes before he went after him, and then it was still only a quarter past eleven when he found the room in the University residence and knocked. Sherlock tugged him inside and pinned him to the wall with hard kisses and hips, and John gave back as good as he got. They undressed each other with rough efficiency, and soon enough John had Sherlock on his knees on the bed and was pounding him from behind.
'What else?' he asked, his hands on either side of Sherlock's as they braced themselves against the sheets. 'Tell me something else you noticed.'
'You're bisexual,' Sherlock grunted, grinding his hips back against John's pelvis. 'You looked a few girls up and down, but you had no hesitation coming over to me. Oh, harder!'
John obliged him. He had to take his mouth off Sherlock's gorgeous shoulder blade to grip both his hips, but Sherlock dropped his upper body to the bed then to get a hand on himself, so John just fucked him harder.
'Someone in your family's got a drinking problem,' Sherlock gasped.
'True, but you'd better not bring it up now,' John replied, pressing his hand into the middle of Sherlock's back. 'You're cleverer than that, surely.'
'Uhng,' Sherlock said. 'You're, er, you're a rugby player.'
John leaned over and said in Sherlock's ear, 'What gave it away?'
Sherlock was jerking himself off frantically, his face damp with sweat and split with a grin. 'The muscles in your thighs, the broken collarbone you suffered— oh, fuck—'
Sherlock made an indistinct noise. 'Dislocated? Yes, obviously, the scar is from the impact with the ground, not surgery—'
John straightened up again, his whole body tightening with the need to come. Sherlock's body was hot and tight and beautifully receptive, and John had no doubt about his ability to fuck Sherlock to orgasm. 'You,' he said, 'are a brilliant man.'
Sherlock went off with a muffled groan, and John followed him, feeling rather smug.
Afterwards they cleaned up and lay side by side in Sherlock's narrow bed. John got a good look at Sherlock's room, which was very cluttered, and had chemical equipment on almost every horizontal surface.
'What do you study?' he asked.
'Applied Chemistry?' John guessed.
'Organic,' Sherlock corrected. 'I don't think I'll finish the degree; I'm getting bored.'
'That's a shame,' John said. 'You must be very good at it. No one who was rubbish at Chemistry would take this much of it home with them.'
Sherlock reached over and patted him somewhat fondly on the breastbone. 'Thank you, John,' he said. 'I'll take your unsolicited opinion into consideration.'
'Do what you like,' John replied, elbowing him in the side. 'I've got to go.'
Sherlock sat up and watched him get dressed. When John reached the door, his shirt tucked in and his shoes tied, he said, 'I enjoyed that more than I thought I would, but I don't date.'
John grinned at him. 'Fine,' he said. 'But you must eat occasionally.'
'Occasionally,' Sherlock agreed.
'Good,' John said. 'So I'll ring you up sometime and we'll eat.'
Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
'G'night,' John said, and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 41: Breaking in a New Apartment
Schmoopy retirement sex!
It's an accident, of course: John is just leaning, innocently leaning, on the windowsill, surveying the new view from the new front windows. The sea is no more than a hundred metres away, and beyond the edge of the cliff the sun is glinting off the waves. The wind is blowing and the grass is swaying and it's all terribly romantic.
Sherlock hugs him from behind, tucks his face into the crook of John's neck and lets out a breath. It's not Baker Street, but after seventeen months of trying to find a place that's just right— that's not too far from the city, but can't quite be reached by public transit; that's big enough for Sherlock's library and lab but small enough that two untidy blokes won't get lost in it; that's close to the sea with a garden out back; that's only one storey since John's bad leg got worse (his other leg, not the one from Afghanistan twenty years ago, but the one he broke falling from a fire escape during a particularly energetic chase), but isn't a dowdy retirement cottage— Sherlock is ready to settle in.
First things first. He gets a hand up under John's jumper and shirt.
'Really?' John asks. 'Right now?'
'Mm,' Sherlock says into the back of his neck.
'The movers will be here any minute.'
'The movers will be here in no less than an hour,' Sherlock replies, parting John's shirt tails to get at his belt. 'Traffic on the M-23 was getting bad this morning.'
John is not resisting his advances at all. In fact, he is spreading his legs a bit and wiggling his rear, giving Sherlock room to get into his trousers. When he lowers his chin, Sherlock gets to press his lips to the curve of John's neck, the bumps of his spine, the whitening blond of his hair.
Sherlock finds him half-hard and, while not exactly eager for it, at least encouraging. John makes a noise in his throat and his cock twitches in Sherlock's hand, so Sherlock caresses him lightly until he's rigid. John shifts his weight on his hands, head bumping against the window pane.
'Should we move?' Sherlock asks him in an undertone. He doesn't want to move. He wants to bring John off in their new home while he looks at the sea— if he can tear his eyes away from John's neck, that is.
John shakes his head. He turns to look over his shoulder and grins. 'Finish what you started, eh?'
Sherlock gets him out of his trousers and gives him a few firm strokes, all the while nibbling thoughtfully on John's nape. John rounds his hips, pushing himself gently against Sherlock's groin. Sherlock isn't hard, and John doesn't really care, but he does like a little pressure against his backside, so Sherlock leans into him in return. John lets a little moan escape.
His prick is wet at the tip, slippery under Sherlock's fingers. John's breath hitches. Sherlock can feel the tremors as they run up John's body. He plants a hand in the middle of John's chest to measure his heart rate. John's hips twitch as Sherlock strokes him, matching the motion of Sherlock's hand. He's panting now, squirming under Sherlock's slow, deliberate ministrations. Sherlock takes pity on him.
The sea is an endless sort of blue, and the division between water and cloudless sky is a fine, sharp line. The waves glint and sparkle, and John moans and tightens his grip on the windowsill until his fingertips turn white.
Sherlock works him faster, tighter, tickling his balls on every pass with his little finger and rubbing his fat, plummy head with his thumb. John groans through his teeth, tenses all over, and comes with a drawn-out curse. The back of his neck is salty like the air outside.
Most of the mess ends up on the floor between John's feet, which John is instantly embarrassed about, but Sherlock scuffs it into the hardwood with his shoe and cleans John up with a handkerchief. He tucks John's prick away and pries himself off John's back. John straightens up with a less-pleased groan. He puts both hands into the small of his back and leans backwards until it cracks.
Then he turns and loops his arms around Sherlock's neck. He doesn't kiss Sherlock, not right away, just tucks his face against Sherlock's collarbone and catches his breath.
'Welcome home,' Sherlock whispers into his hair.
'What was that?' John asks. His hearing in that ear is starting to go, poor devil.
'I love you,' Sherlock tells him.
Chapter 42: Forgot to Buy a Birthday Present
Some scholars suggest that March 31st/April 1st is John Watson's birthday. I'm inclined to agree, for no obvious reason. :D
'Oh, shit,' Sherlock said aloud to the empty basement laboratory. The sterile equipment around him didn't react. Sherlock checked his phone. Yes, that was the date, and yes, that was today. It was almost six o'clock, and Sherlock hadn't done a damn thing for John's birthday. He'd left the flat before John was up, texted him a few times throughout the day, and was almost certainly looking forward to a very angry flatmate come suppertime. Not that he'd intended to eat supper.
Oh, shit, he was probably expected to take John out to eat.
Sherlock was going to have to improvise. Fortunately, he was fairly good at that.
The microbes under the microscope could wait. They were already dead. Sherlock turned off the lamp, picked up his coat, and hurried out the door.
First stop was at Simpson's, to secure a table. Eight o'clock. Fine, John would think a late dinner was cosmopolitan, and since it hadn't come out of a tin, so much the better. That would impress him. Wouldn't it? John liked holidays— he liked Christmas and Easter and Guy Fawkes Day— it stood to reason he'd expect his birthday to be celebrated. And not for anyone else would Sherlock make an effort on so arbitrary a day as the one your mother decided she was sick and tired of you feeding on her organs.
He texted John again on the way back to Baker Street. Going out to dinner, wear a jacket. SH
The booth in the restaurant was close and dark, and partway through the first course Sherlock slipped his hand into John's lap. John, predictably, jumped halfway out of his seat.
'Sherlock!' he hissed. 'What are you doing?'
'Really, can you not tell?' Sherlock asked, snugging his hand over John's soft prick and giving it a gentle squeeze.
'Sherlock, the last thing I want to do on my birthday is have you grope me under the table at a nice restaurant.'
Sherlock smirked, not looking at him. 'I bet I can change your mind.' John was already swelling under Sherlock's palm.
'It's indecent,' John protested.
'Incredibly,' Sherlock agreed. 'Are you worried someone will see?'
John's cock twitched, and John breathed, 'Jesus.'
'I doubt it,' Sherlock said, squeezing him again. He rubbed his thumb slowly over the fattening head of John's cock. If he'd been really unhappy, he'd have moved Sherlock's hand for him. Instead, he was squirming, bracing his hands against the table. In the light from the candle in the middle of the table, Sherlock could see the flush in his cheeks.
'What if I come?' John asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
'Then you'll come in your pants,' Sherlock whispered back.
Mentally, Sherlock patted himself on the back. He'd noticed along the way that John, while not much of a show-off (Sherlock did enough of that), liked to be watched. Sherlock had taken a gamble on whether this translated to the idea that he liked to think he was being watched, and so far it was paying off. John's cock was already almost fully erect, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. Sherlock could smell the arousal on him. He leaned over and put his nose to the crook of John's neck, just to make sure. Yes, definitely interested in this turn of events.
Sherlock picked up his fork again, and continued to massage John slowly through his trousers. He made a show of twirling the pasta on the fork until it was manageable and then lifting it to his mouth. John fumbled to collect himself, following suit, and picked up his own utensils.
He didn't get around to using them, though, just held them in his hands while Sherlock rubbed his hand back and forth, up and down the length of John's cock. John slouched down in his seat, spreading his legs a little.
The waited breezed by their table, asking, 'Everything all right?' and Sherlock said, 'Yes, fine,' before John could get a word out. But then John was sitting up again, clamping his legs closed on Sherlock's hand.
'I can't,' he said. 'You can't. This is, Sherlock—'
Sherlock leaned into him and said, lips against his ear, 'Tell me no and I'll stop, but I'm not an idiot, John. I know you want this. It's dark, it's late, who's going to see?'
'Everyone,' John breathed. After a pause, his legs relaxed. His cock was as hard as ever. He wouldn't meet Sherlock's eyes when Sherlock pulled away, so Sherlock let him have that illusion of privacy. In reality, if anyone looked their way for longer than a few seconds, they'd almost certainly notice something was going on. John was too expressive, his face giving them away. He'd tucked his chin against his chest, and was watching Sherlock's hand between his thighs.
Sherlock took a sip of water and worked his hand down until he could cradle John's balls in his fingers. John bit his lip.
'This is so wrong,' he said.
Sherlock smiled at him. 'But you're enjoying it.'
'God help me,' John whispered, 'I am. Do it harder.'
Sherlock squeezed harder, rubbing the heel of his hand against the ridge of John's cock, and John's shoulders rounded as he tried to suppress a shudder. He was twitching under Sherlock's palm. Sherlock had no illusions of grandeur; it wasn't so much his technique as the context that was getting John off. Still, he could take credit for that. He leaned over again to whisper into John's ear.
'Don't make that face, John,' he said, 'you look like a man getting a hand-job.'
'Bloody right,' John gasped.
'Are you going to?' Sherlock had lowered his voice to a rumble that had proven to drive John wild.
'Come in your pants.'
John whimpered, his hips jerking erratically, and nodded. 'Jesus,' he said, 'oh, Jesus. I'm— I'm going to, any fucking second, oh—'
'Do it,' Sherlock said, 'come on, John.'
'Fuck,' John said through his teeth, and came with a jolt. He shook the table, rattling the silverware and the water glasses, and Sherlock felt the hot pulse of come under his fingers. John gasped for breath, grabbing at Sherlock's hand in his lap. Sherlock let go reluctantly. John said, 'Fuck,' again, more quietly, and opened his eyes.
Sherlock followed his gaze around the restaurant. No one had taken any notice of them. John was flushed, sweating lightly, and his mouth was a soft, astonished 'o'. Sherlock leaned over to kiss him.
'You mad bastard,' John said against his lips.
Chapter 43: He Wants To
"Please," Sherlock said, clutching at his own hair in desperation. "Please, John, please!"
"Not quite yet," John said. He was resting on his elbows between Sherlock's legs, Sherlock's left knee over his right shoulder, and was tracing the fingers of his left hand up and down the inside of Sherlock's right thigh. "Soon it'll be inevitable, you know. I want to see if I can push you that far."
"Jesus," Sherlock said. His cock was so hard it ached, and his belly was wet with pre-come and saliva. John had sucked him to the edge of orgasm four times, but hadn't gotten him all the way there. Tremors ran up and down Sherlock's legs, up his spine, shaking his hands. His toes curled and uncurled as he flexed the muscles in his abdomen and pelvis, but none of alleviated any of the tension.
John kissed the inside of his thigh. "Do you know how gorgeous you are?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question, Sherlock could tell.
"John," he said.
"All right," John replied, and cupped his bollocks in his left hand. John's palm was warm and damp, and the touch sent a thud of pleasure through Sherlock's body. He whimpered.
"Can I put my fingers in you?" John asked.
"Anything," Sherlock breathed. He was fairly surprised it hadn't come up before now. But then, John had been rather fixated. He passed down the tube of lube and listened with his eyes closed to the sound of John uncapping it, squeezing it, and fumbling the cap back on one-handed. Then John was easing a finger into his arse. Sherlock said, "Fuck, please."
He felt John smile against his thigh. Damn the man. They were both enjoying this too much. Sherlock knew the orgasm he would eventually have would be perfectly spectacular, but part of him didn't want to get there. The build-up was so intense by now, every nerve in his body felt like it was weighing in. The anticipation made him want to cry, just a little bit.
John's finger in his arse was joined by a second, and John began to move them inside him, working them back and forth, staying carefully away from his prostate. Sherlock breathed his thanks and his hands began to wander again, searching for something to hold onto. He settled for John's back, under his knee, and let his fingertips dig into the firm muscle of John's good shoulder.
"If I touch it," John asked, his mouth against Sherlock's skin, "will you come?"
"Why don't you try it and see?" Sherlock asked.
"That sounds like a no," John said, and slid his fingers across Sherlock's spot. The jolt of pleasure rocked Sherlock to his core, made him arch up and cry out, but he didn't come. John's fingers were deep, his knuckles digging into the tender skin of Sherlock's perineum, and when he slid them out again Sherlock shouted aloud, his cock jerking. It was dripping like a god damn leaky faucet all over his stomach; the hot, thick smell of sex filled the room.
"I'm going to die," Sherlock moaned.
John huffed a breathless little laugh. "You're being dramatic," he said, "but you're being so good. I wish you could see yourself."
Sherlock made a noise that conveyed both agreement and embarrassed disapproval, and John kissed his thigh again. Then he added a third finger to the two already buried in Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock said, "Ah, fuck."
"I might do," John said quietly. He shifted, and without removing his fingers pushed himself up onto his knees, shuffling closer. Sherlock's knee slid from his shoulder and John caught it on his right elbow, still lifting it up. The change of angle made Sherlock groan. He was so exposed, so vulnerable like this, the spreading of his legs sent urgent pleasure racing up his spine. He clenched all the muscles he could think of, desperate to stay in control.
John murmured, "Close," almost to himself. "I'm going to fuck you," he said louder. "And you're not going to come from that, either."
"Jesus, we'll see," Sherlock replied. He reached over his head to grip the underside of the headboard. He couldn't think straight. All his thoughts not directly related to his dick, John's hands, or John's magnificent mouth were scattered in the wind. Unimportant.
John pulled his fingers out, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn't been prepped very much, but his body was so desperate, so eager, that he felt wide open, relaxed, aching to be filled. His pelvis felt empty, even though his balls were almost painfully full. "Please," he heard himself saying.
The first touch of John's fat, slippery cock head to his anus made him shudder with delight, and then John was pressing into him, meeting barely any resistance. John leaned over him, his hands on Sherlock's hips, holding him in place. "All right?" John asked. His voice was shaking now too. Sherlock nodded.
John began to thrust, slowly at first, testing Sherlock's reactions. Sherlock's reactions were to grab the headboard so hard his fingers hurt and start to yell in response to every thrust. John laughed, almost disbelieving, and picked up the pace, punching involuntary sounds right out Sherlock's lungs.
"Oh, Christ," John said, sweating freely, his face going pink with the effort of fucking Sherlock up the bed, "I'm so close, I'm not going to last."
His cock was the perfect size: not enormous, but nothing to scoff at. Sherlock had had trouble getting it all the way into his mouth the first time he'd tried. Now, with Sherlock on the edge of a precipice, it rubbed him all the right ways inside, sliding across his prostate, tugging at the tender rim of his anus, stabbing deep into his guts. As John moved, Sherlock inched inexorably closer to orgasm, despite his best efforts.
"Don't come," John warned, reading the progress off his face. "Sherlock, don't fucking come."
John grunted— not an answer— and his thrusts began to grow erratic. Sherlock sobbed his disapproval. John let go of one of his hips to plant a hand in the middle of his chest, grounding him, and groaned deeply, fucking Sherlock now with short, sharp jerks of his hips. His face twisted in pleasure, his mouth open, and he said, "Ohh," with every shudder that shook his frame.
Sherlock clutched at him, grabbing at his forearms, his hips. "Don't stop," he begged, "please, don't stop!"
John groaned again, relaxing, and pulled out. His semen dripped out of Sherlock's body, making his thighs and arse cheeks sticky and warm. Sherlock was actually shaking from head to toe, and his prick was a deep rosy colour, engorged with blood and ready to burst. His balls were pulled up tight against the shaft, aching. It was going to happen. Sherlock could feel it building, no stimulation; just the thought of coming had him about to come. He closed his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him.
"Are you—?" John asked, breathless, and Sherlock nodded. He was still holding John's arms.
John loomed over him, pressing his hands into the bed on either side of Sherlock's head, and Sherlock could smell him as he came closer until their faces were nearly touching. John pressed his knees into Sherlock's thighs, opening him up just a little farther. Sherlock sucked in a breath, suddenly there, tingling, pleasure and anticipation and all his good behaviour coalescing in his pelvic region. His cock jerked, stiffening, and John kissed him hungrily as he started to come, untouched, spurting up the length of his chest, almost to his chin. John ate at his mouth, bit his lips, sucked his tongue, and Sherlock just breathed, beyond the ability to reciprocate. The orgasm was sweeping through him, taking all his thoughts with it in strong, wrenching pulses, and he knew he was probably hurting John where he held onto him.
After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock opened his eyes. John's kisses slowed, gentled, and ceased entirely when John pulled away to look down between them. Sherlock's emission coated his stomach, and his cock still twitched hopefully in a puddle of come.
"Fuck," John said, "that was." He sat up, and dipped his finger wonderingly in a puddle of semen that had reached Sherlock's nipple. "You are an incredible creature."
Sherlock was still trembling too hard to answer.
Chapter 44: To Change the Subject
221B Con was amazing, but it ate all the writing time I hoped to have! Please accept my apology, with this rough sex.
They were having a row. Ultimately the whole situation was not Sherlock's fault, but he could see where John was coming from. The smuggling ring had caught onto him during the infiltration, and had one their utmost to stop him communicating with the Yard on the outside. That had meant locking him in a storage container, smashing his cell phone, and interrogating him once every twelve hours in the hopes that he would give up his identity and purpose. It had also meant losing contact with John, who, when they'd finally find Sherlock, looked about out of his mind with worry and anger.
The interrogations had taken the form of light beatings and a lot of yelling, both of which Sherlock could withstand with hardly any effort. It meant, however, that when he was finally rescued— not that he'd have needed a rescue if they'd turned up six hours later, as he'd already ascertained a way out— he looked a right mess. His torso was covered in bruises, his lip was split and his right eye was swollen shut, his cheekbone bruised but mercifully not fractured, and he was incredibly filthy.
'You've got to be fucking joking me,' John said when he saw him, pushing past the constables and going to his knees in front of Sherlock on the floor of the container.
Sherlock had given him a lopsided grin, but when he'd tried to stand up he'd felt a little woozy, and John had ignored anything he'd tried to say about it. Instead, he practically draped Sherlock across his back and half-carried him out of the container, thence to an ambulance. Sherlock had refused to be admitted to hospital after they'd checked him out, and he remembered John swearing to the A&E nurse that he'd be able to care for him at home.
He'd followed through on his promise, treating Sherlock's contusions and stitching up the cut on his eyebrow, but once that was done he had slammed shut his med kit and stormed upstairs. Sherlock didn't see him for almost a whole day (although to be fair Sherlock spent most of that time sleeping like the dead).
Three days later, John had not let up on the silent treatment until Sherlock had provoked him, which led them to the row. This row consisted mostly of John shouting about Sherlock's blatant regard for his own safety, but Sherlock made sure to urge him on every couple of minutes if it seemed he was losing steam. This side of John was fascinating, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel it was leading to something. The silence had been too complete, too personal. And then John had exploded, his self-control unraveling the moment Sherlock called him on it.
As Sherlock watched John pace the length of the sitting room, hands waving, face going red with the effort of raising his voice to such a pitch, he realised what it was. The fury lurked under John's skin most of the time, and Sherlock had seen it before. John cared for him almost despite himself, and his anger and sentiment had gotten confused somewhere in his mind. This wasn't about Sherlock's actions, it was about what the consequences had done to John. Sherlock saw him sitting in his chair, grey with concern; checking his phone every other minute; sleeping fitfully as he waited for news.
Sherlock had known John was more than a colleague, that was obvious. Perhaps he has underestimated the depth of John's regard.
He stood up. John came to a halt in front of him, suddenly looking confused and exhausted.
'Do you feel you've made your point?' Sherlock asked.
'For all the bloody difference it'll make,' John said.
'Good,' Sherlock said, and kissed him. John reacted immediately, grabbing him by his shirt lapels and crushing Sherlock backwards against the wall.
'You absolute bastard,' John muttered into his mouth, even as he bit at Sherlock's lower lip and and pressed the length of his body against Sherlock's. His hard-on could be felt though his trousers and Sherlock spread his legs to let John settle against him more firmly. He bit back, parted John's lips with his tongue, and worked his way into John's mouth and under John's shirt. John made a noise when Sherlock's hands touched his waist, a gasp and a moan; Sherlock shoved both hands under John's vest to hear it again.
The anger was still there, simmering and heating John's skin, but Sherlock could feel it transforming into desire. He pulled John closer, moulding his palms to the lumbar curve of John's spine. John groaned, arching into it, and Sherlock broke himself away from the rather frantic kiss to bite at John's throat. John's stubble scraped his cheek, his ear, and John's, 'Oh!' vibrated through him. John's hands worked at the buttons of his shirt, fumbled, and then yanked.
'Christ,' Sherlock said against his neck as plastic buttons hit the floor in every direction.
'Fuck off,' John replied. He pressed his hands hard into the bruises that were yellowing on Sherlock's ribs, and Sherlock winced and bit him hard on the collarbone.
'On the floor,' he said, giving John a push. John went down on his arse, half-falling, half-sitting, and Sherlock got on his knees and crawled on top of him. John pulled him down for another kiss while Sherlock opened John's trousers.
John's cock was rigid in his hand, and John arched when Sherlock stroked him. He swore again, grabbing at the back of Sherlock's shirt, pulling it up and up until he was touching skin. The contact sent pleasure skidding down Sherlock's spine. He pressed into it, letting go of John's cock to sit on his hips instead, and John moaned. Sherlock tore his shirt off his shoulders, done with it entirely. John's hands settled low on his waist.
They stared at one another for a moment, gauging the other's reaction, and then Sherlock began to move, working his hips roughly against John's. He was only wearing his pyjama pants, and John's zipper bit into his skin through the thin fabric. John's eyes were blazing. Sherlock watched the play of reactions across his face, the way the muscles twitched, the way John's brow furrowed and then relaxed, how his lips parted and sealed again, the way his nostrils flared as he breathed. He lowered his mouth to John's again, breathing with him, still thrusting, and John went suddenly rigid. His orgasm was a wet rush against Sherlock's belly, and Sherlock let it take him over the edge too, his legs aching, his shoulders cramped, his ribs sore.
John exhaled, his grip going soft, and Sherlock rolled to the side. The carpet only extended under his shoulder; his head lay on the hardwood floor.
'Don't do it again,' John said, staring at the ceiling. His hands were relaxed on on the carpet, palms up, fingers curled.
'Can't promise that,' Sherlock said.
John snorted. 'Well, then take me with you next time, you prick. Someone's got to watch your arse.'
Chapter 45: To Cheer Someone Up
Sherlock is in a mood, and John knows how to cure what ails him.
Sherlock didn't acknowledge John's presence when he walked into the sitting room, unless it was to burrow further into the sofa cushions. He listened to John pause, rifle briefly through the post, and then move into the kitchen. The kettle clicked on and began to hum, and John opened every cupboard in the kitchen in search of a clean mug. Then, accompanied by a mutter of disappointment, the faucet was turned on and a stainless steel clanking began as John washed out one of the collection of mugs in the sink. The cupboards again, bang bang bang, and then tea bag, fridge open, splash of milk, and the kettle boiling.
John came back into the sitting room and said, 'Shove over.'
Sherlock lifted his feet. Carefully, not spilling his tea, John slid in underneath them and patted Sherlock's ankle as Sherlock set them down on John's lap. Sherlock pressed his nose against the Union Jack pillow and closed his eyes again, listening to John sip and read the post. John's thumb on his ankle kept him grounded; a reminder that all was not lost in this gutter between cases.
'Have you eaten all day?' John asked. Sherlock heard him put the mug down on the table, empty.
Sherlock didn't answer.
'I didn't think so. I'll order us a curry, shall I?'
Sherlock shrugged. John would harp on about it either way, so he might as well not put up a fuss. p>
John wriggled around, digging for his phone, and then gave up when Sherlock refused to let him move and reached for Sherlock's. Sherlock let the sound of John's voice wash over him and focused on breathing in and out slowly.
'Right then,' John said, putting the phone down and returning his attention to Sherlock's ankle, 'that's thirty five to forty minutes we've got to waste now.'
Sherlock grunted. He could hear John smile. John slipped his fingers up the leg of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and pushed the fabric up as high as he could reach, ruffling Sherlock's leg hair the wrong way. Sherlock squirmed in displeasure, but it only gave John access to the backs of his knees. John's hands again his skin were warm and dry and irritatingly pleasant. Sherlock uncurled himself a little to glare at John over his shoulder, and John bent nearly double to press a kiss to Sherlock's calf.
Sherlock sighed deeply, giving in. He stretched out his legs and wriggled his way onto his back. John's eyes crinkled when he smiled.
'There you are,' John said, which was absurd. Sherlock scowled at him. It didn't stop John from smoothing his hands up the fronts of Sherlock's legs, though, and Sherlock let his legs fall open, feet and knees turning out. John's hands on his thighs made him suppress a shudder. His body was responding to John's careful, deliberate touches despite his melancholy: his heart rate was becoming elevated, his breathing was shallower, and the hair was standing up on his arms. His cock stirred in his loose bottoms, and he could feel a blush spreading down his neck. John's smirk only spurred him on.
Languidly, Sherlock stretched his arms over his head, letting his shirt ride up and bare the hollow of his abdomen, hipbones prominent. John took the invitation for what it was and slid his hand up to spread his fingers across Sherlock's belly. Sherlock sucked in a breath, lifting John's hand, and let it out again in a rush. His cock bumped against the heel of John's hand. John's eyebrow went up in query, and Sherlock lowered his chin.
John's hand on his cock was warm in a way it hadn't been on his bare stomach, and Sherlock's thighs parted further, reflexively. John rubbed him slowly, shifting the fabric up and down, his touch sending little sparks of pleasure to coil in Sherlock's gut. He closed his eyes. His hips began to move of their own accord, rolling up into the pressure. He wanted more. His nerves were coming back online, connecting him to his fingers and toes, the tips of his ears, his kneecaps. The tender skin of his belly and thighs and forearms felt hot, over-sensitive. John pressed more firmly, and Sherlock's cock twitched, getting wet at the tip. His balls were full and heavy, tightening up against his body. He could hear John breathing harder too, through his nose, keeping his composure. Sherlock's fingers tightened on the sofa cushions over his head.
John switched his grip to curl his fingers around Sherlock's prick through his trousers, and then changed his mind and fumbled to pull Sherlock's trousers down around his hips. The air was cool on Sherlock's skin, making it prickle, and he groaned at the sensation. Then John's warm fingers covered him again. Now Sherlock was leaking freely, slicking John's steady pulls. Sherlock squirmed, wanting more and unsure what that would constitute. He could feel John's erection under his calf, but he knew John was ignoring it. He stretched his leg, pressing down, and John's grip tightened.
The orgasm came in a slow, inexorable wave, John's touch building it up and up until Sherlock was shaking with need. He tipped his head back and let it happen, the jolts of pleasure arching his spine and heating his blood. John held him steady with his other hand on his knee, and slowly brought him back down, drawing the aftershocks out. Sherlock finally had to push him away, hands loose and fingers clumsy. John caught that hand and brought it to his mouth to press a kiss to the middle of the palm.
Sherlock's stomach growled.
'When is dinner coming?' he asked.
'Thanks for the wank, John,' John said, 'couldn't have done it better myself.'
Sherlock sat up, ignoring the sticky mess on his stomach, and cupped John's face in his hands. 'Thanks for the wank,' he said, kissing John's mouth, 'probably couldn't have done it better myself. Now, when is dinner coming?'
Chapter 46: Not Ready to Say 'I Love You' Back
Frantic blowjobs must be my default.
'Christ, I think I love you,' John said, leaning against the door as it shut behind him and laughing breathlessly. 'Only you could make a double murder into an afternoon of fun.'
Sherlock had stopped in the middle of the sitting room, halfway out of his coat. He stared at John, innocuous John, with his jumper and his tan lines and the gun shoved into the back of his jeans. Something hot was blooming behind Sherlock's sternum, unfamiliar and uncertain and somewhat unwelcome. That wasn't the kind of thing you said to your flatmate of only a few months, even if you had fallen into bed together once or twice (or six times, but who was counting?).
John seemed to have realised this as well. He turned away from Sherlock, his shoulders taut, and made for the kitchen, tea kettle in his sights.
Sherlock dropped his coat on the sofa and hurried to get in his way. John came up against him with a soft grunt and stepped back, his hands up. His expression had gone from open and joyful to blank with denial. Sherlock put his hands on either side of John's head and forced John to meet his eyes.
'Sherlock,' John warned, his voice gone icy.
'Don't pretend you didn't say that,' Sherlock said. It would be easier, he knew, to let it slip by. But this was important. 'You didn't mean to, but you said it.'
'Christ, Sherlock, it's just an expression,' John said, trying— not very sincerely, otherwise Sherlock would be on the floor with a bloody nose— to get out of his grip. 'No need to get alarmed.'
'I'm not alarmed,' Sherlock said, aware that he might have sounded petulant. John was throwing his brother's words in his face, after all. But it was true, he wasn't alarmed, just very alert. This was important.
John was staring at him, his eyes wide. Sherlock stared back, assessing, calculating, and coming to a conclusion. He closed the distance between them. John's mouth was a hard, indignant line, but as Sherlock pressed against him it softened and his lips parted. Sherlock kissed him again, more gently, and John responded, his hands coming up to rest hesitantly on Sherlock's hips, under his jacket. Sherlock made a noise in his throat, designed to make John react, and John did, fingers clenching in Sherlock's shirt, pulling him closer.
John tasted like adrenaline and coffee and the thrill of the chase, and Sherlock opened John's mouth with his tongue and slipped inside, thinking maybe he could taste those words as well. He took a step forwards, bearing John back into the wall, and got his leg between John's thighs, pushing upwards until John was on his toes. John groaned, his hands gripping tighter, and let himself be lifted off balance. He sighed into Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock bit down on his lower lip.
'Don't say anything else,' Sherlock said, pressing his own erection into John's pelvis. 'Just let me—'
He didn't know what he wanted to do, exactly, but he knew he needed to do something. He needed John to know he'd been heard, and that the sentiment wasn't meaningless. It mattered— everything about John mattered, from the way he cold be awake in an instant if Sherlock called his name, to the way he fell asleep against Sherlock's side sometimes in the cab after a night gone on too long; the way he took his tea when things were quiet and his coffee when they were busy; the smell of his shampoo in the bathroom and on Sherlock's skin; the feeling of his fingers on the back of Sherlock's neck, grounding Sherlock when his mind raced too fast and his body couldn't keep up.
Sherlock slid to his knees and John went down on his heels with a grunt. His cock was a hard line in his trousers, hot against Sherlock's cheek. John curled a hand in Sherlock's hair, steadying him, and Sherlock opened his mouth around the blunt head of John's prick.
'Oh, God,' John said, forgetting Sherlock's directions already. Sherlock reached up and put a hand over his mouth. John bit his fingers, so Sherlock bit his cock. Not hard, just a gentle dig of teeth that made John jump.
'Jesus, you're a right bastard,' John said behind Sherlock's palm. Sherlock let him go and fumbled to undo John's belt. John smelled like the city, smoke and haze, and of his own warm heat. Sherlock's breath was coming short; God, he needed this. He yanked open the flies and John's hands were in his way, pushing John's underwear down around his thighs. Sherlock grabbed John's hands in his, lacing their fingers together, and took the head of John's prick in his mouth. The familiar salty-slick taste of him made Sherlock's mouth water hard, and he swallowed John down as deep as he could go.
'Fuck!' John said, breaking out of Sherlock's grip to push Sherlock's head back. 'Easy now.'
Sherlock glared at him. He was proving a point. When John let go of his forehead, he closed his eyes and eased himself forwards until John's cock bumped the back of his throat.
John let his breath out on a long, shuddering sigh, and he found Sherlock's hand again. Sherlock wanted to devour him, take him apart from the inside out, but he stayed himself. Patience. He could feel the tension in John's thighs and John's heartbeat in his prick. Sherlock's mouth was stretched, overfull, the weight of John's cock heavy on his tongue. As he started to move, he heard John's breathing pick up a notch until he was moaning with every stroke of Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hands until they were clutching each other, holding on for dear life. John's hips twitched minutely but never came off the wall behind him. Sherlock was grateful for that; with his hands occupied he couldn't stop John from thrusting too deep. He rested their joined hands on John's belly and John's fingers touched his hair.
'I'm gonna come,' John whispered. 'Jesus, Sherlock—'
Sherlock wanted to tell him yes, do it, but he couldn't stop, so he only pressed his fists against John's abdomen and kept moving. His neck ached, his lips was sore and numb all at once, and he couldn't think of anything he wanted more. John began to tremble, his thighs and buttocks tensing, and then he shouted and came, filling Sherlock's eager mouth. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, tightened his lips, and held on. He heard John groan, and the thump of his head hitting the wall behind him, and then he went slack all over.
Sherlock pulled away slowly and untangled his fingers from John's to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. He didn't look up until John's fingers under his chin forced him to. His pulse beat heavy and hot between his legs.
'I don't know what that was,' John murmured, and pulled him to his feet. 'But I think I liked it.'
Sherlock leaned against him, forehead to forehead and hips to hips. He couldn't help rubbing off against John a little, trying to ease the ache. John kissed him slowly, opening his mouth and tasting himself on Sherlock's tongue.
'Yeah,' John said after a moment, 'definitely liked it. Come on to bed, and I'll show you how much.'
Actions, Sherlock thought. He understood those best. He took John's hand again and followed him out of the kitchen.