John never could get the hang of Thursdays, especially lately. They were his longest days at the surgery—in at 8am and not home sometimes until twelve or so hours later—plus, Sarah had Thursdays off, so staffing was short, and since the surgery was only open a half-day on Friday, patients were frantic to be seen before the weekend. All of these factors contributed to Thursdays being John’s least favorite day of the week.
This Thursday was particularly grueling. John saw six patients with flu, two with pneumonia, and he set two broken wrists before a very late lunch of a terrible chicken kebab from the shop down the street. The afternoon brought another three flu patients, a broken arm, and explaining to a fourteen year-old girl’s mother that the girl’s sore throat was the result of an STI picked up through oral sex. John didn’t think his ears would ever stop ringing after the mother’s shouting.
So it was with a pounding headache that John walked home to Baker Street. Just as he was two blocks away, the sky darkened and a chilly rain began to fall. John shook his head and hunkered down in his jacket, hurrying toward 221b.
The warmth of the front hall had John sighing with relief. He took off his jacket and slung it on one of the hooks on the wall then took the stairs two at a time. The flat was quiet when he entered, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John thought about calling out but decided against it—he didn’t want to wake Sherlock if he was finally sleeping. Instead, he stopped in the kitchen to put the kettle on before heading upstairs to change into dry clothes.
Two hours later, John sat on the sofa with his laptop and a cup of tea. He still hadn’t seen Sherlock, but he had heard thumping and banging coming from Sherlock’s room and the shower going, so Sherlock was obviously busy doing whatever it was Sherlock did when he locked himself away in his bedroom. John tried not to think about what Sherlock did while alone for reasons John didn’t quite care to contemplate for too long.
John sipped his tea before placing it on the coffee table. He noticed the email icon pop up, so he clicked on it and found a new email from Harry. The message was short: Saw this and thought of you and Sherlock, Johnny. It’s science! :D It was followed by a link. John considered ignoring it—Harry had been sending him ridiculous articles and links about his blog, as well as him and Sherlock, for weeks now—but he decided to get it over with. When he clicked the link, a webpage opened to an article with the title FIVE SCIENTIFIC WAYS STRANGERS CAN TELL IF YOU’RE GAY.
John gritted his teeth. Fucking Harry.
John heard the sound of Sherlock’s bedroom door opening, so he slammed his laptop shut and shoved it onto the coffee table then scooped up his mug. He heard a sharp, repetitive clicking noise and wondered what Sherlock could possibly be bringing along with him as he made his way down the hall and through the kitchen.
When Sherlock appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, John nearly choked on his tea.
“Ah. Another difficult Thursday, I see. Though statistically Tuesdays have the highest injury rates in most metropolitan areas. Your clinic must be an outlier.” Sherlock walked to stand in front of the fireplace mirror as he arranged the satin scarf about his neck.
John could say nothing. Not yet, at any rate. He could merely sit, mouth open, staring at the longest, loveliest pair of legs he’d ever seen in person; his eyes took in the silver-accented black stiletto pumps, followed the faint back seam of the silky stockings, and lingered over the swell of a lush, beautiful, shapely arse in a dark suede skirt that was nearly too short to be strictly decent in public.
“Sherlock, why..” John’s voice broke like a teenager’s, and he had to clear his throat to start over. ”Why on earth are you…”
Sherlock made a final adjustment to the delicate pink scarf and turned to face John. As he did, he pulled at the black lace sleeves of his very tight-fitting and nearly see-through top. John couldn’t help but look down below the neckline at the small, black, satin bra showing faintly underneath.
“Have you seen a small chest, John?” Sherlock asked, looking back toward the kitchen for a moment.
John licked his lips, still glassy-eyed, “It’s fine, yeah. I’ve never minded… erm… smaller…”
Sherlock strode over to the end table nearest John, bent down, removed yesterday’s paper, and retrieved a small wooden chest with an H engraved on the top. As Sherlock stood back up, John was momentarily awash in a light but heavenly floral scent.
“Mrs. Hudson left some jewelry, and I think I saw…. yes… this one” Sherlock took out a silver cuff bracelet and slipped it over his wrist. “And she said there would be a particular shade of red lip colour… AH! Perfect. Hold this if you will, please.” Sherlock handed the small chest back to John and went back to the mirror.
John placed the chest strategically over his lap. “You’re… you’re wearing a skirt… and you’ve got on a…. all of the rest of that…. well, all of that.” John nodded his head in Sherlock’s direction as if to indicate the taller man’s entire person.
“How observant.” Sherlock opened the small cylinder of lip stain and began carefully applying a first coat with the tiny sponge-tipped wand attached to the underside of the lid.
Two seconds of watching those gorgeous full lips pout and pucker, and John had to swallow hard and close his eyes. He kept them closed as he asked, “Why? Why are you dressed like that, Sherlock? Please tell me this is for a case, or that you lost a bet…”
Sherlock stopped, frowning slightly. “Must it be for a case or a bet? Are you suddenly that narrow-minded, Doctor John Watson? Rather disappointing… I must admit, I expected a bit more from an educated man such as yourself.”
John’s cheeks began to flush with the sting of embarrassment. “No, Sherlock, no, I didn’t mean… Look, sorry, it’s not my place to ask, and I didn’t think about how that sounded; you’re right. No, I just hadn’t ever seen you… Well, I didn’t know that this was how you, um, how you expressed your..”
“As it happens, John, it is for a case.” Sherlock returned to applying colour to his lips. “Though I should hardly think it would matter…” he added. ”But to satisfy your curiosity, I intend to meet with an informant who would prefer to do so at a particular club, and he suggested everyone involved would feel more comfortable if I dressed as most of the other members usually do. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, um, thank you.” John leaned forward to place the chest on the table. As he settled against the back of the sofa, he grabbed the Union Jack pillow and hugged it to his lap. When he glanced up, he saw Sherlock watching him in the mirror—the look in Sherlock’s eyes made John feel as if he’d been punched in the gut. A tense, breathless moment passed before Sherlock chuckled and gave himself a final once over.
Sherlock turned to face John and shifted his posture, putting his hands on his hips and slightly extending one leg. Suddenly he wasn’t Sherlock at all. His sharp lines and angles faded into dips and curves, and the cold, calculating expression he normally wore was replaced by something altogether more sultry.
“That is uncanny.” John shook his head. “How do you do that?” He heard the wonder in his voice and wanted to cringe at his obviousness.
“Do what?” Sherlock’s tone was lighter, higher than his normal voice, but still sensual.
John licked his lips nervously. “Completely become someone else. It’s amazing.”
Sherlock stalked toward John, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. When he reached John, he leaned over, extended his arms on either side of John’s head, and braced himself against the back of the couch. “I can be whomever you like me to be, John.”
John looked up at Sherlock and swallowed, and when John answered, goddamit, he told the truth. “You.”
Sherlock dropped his flirtatious pretense and looked confused. “What?”
“I want you to be…you.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he started to retreat, but John grabbed Sherlock’s wrists and pulled him forward. “You can wear whatever you like, but I just want you, Sherlock.” When Sherlock’s mouth fell open, John cleared his throat. “I mean, I want you to be you.”
“That is…” Sherlock managed to slip John’s grip and turned back to the mirror. “Surprising. But kind of you, John.” He gazed at his reflection as he fiddled again with his scarf.
John stood and walked up behind Sherlock, catching his eyes in the mirror, then put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. They stared silently at one another for what John thought was much too long, and his fingers tightened, digging into the lace that couldn’t quite conceal the softness of Sherlock’s pale skin.
John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock blinked slowly before moving toward the door. “I have to go,” Sherlock said, voice low and a bit rough to John’s ears. “Wouldn’t do to be late.”
Sherlock nodded stiffly. John watched as Sherlock went out the door and shut it behind him. John listened to the footsteps down the stairs, the sound of Sherlock’s heels clicking against the wood, and he sighed when he heard the front door open and close.
John frowned and massaged the back of his neck with one hand. He felt…unsettled. Yes, unsettled.
John spent the better part of the next two hours moving from one insufficiently-distracting activity to the next. Nothing on telly - nothing but a crime drama, that is, and John couldn’t enjoy those anymore, thanks to Sherlock. He’d already skimmed the papers, flipped through most of the magazines (at least the ones not primarily devoted to the life-cycle of bacteria or the chemical composition of various regional topsoils).
So. Back to the laptop, then.
The metaphor was hardly lost on him.
The email notification popped up once more, and it was another message from Harry.
Okay, Johnny, the last one was a bit rubbish, but here, real science for when you two finally get round to doing it: Top Scientists Get to the Bottom of Gay Male Sex Role Preferences - Read now, thank me later.
“Jesus…” He slammed the laptop shut in anger (only to re-open it, click the link, bookmark it, and slam the screen down again).
John covered his face with both hands for a moment, then slowly dragged them down until he was resting his chin on his interlocked fingers, lost in thought.
What the bloody hell was happening. And what the bloody hell did he HOPE would happen?
He sat like that for quite a while, until he heard the front door open, and the unmistakable sound of stiletto heels began to grow louder as someone climbed the stairs.
Quickly, he grabbed at the nearest magazine, opened it to a random page, and stared intently, as if absorbed in the article. ”How did it go, then?” John asked, not lifting his eyes as Sherlock walked into the sitting room. “Get everything you needed…?”
He let the corner of his eye stray to Sherlock’s ankles as they moved, quite gracefully, he had to admit, across the room and over to the leather Le Corbusier chair nearby.
“Almost everything, yes, despite nearly-constant interruptions. Far too many singles there this evening, but that couldn’t be helped.”
John’s eyes took it upon themselves to follow the shapely, oh, God, wicked, lines of those long, beautiful, elegantly-crossed legs.
He expected to see Sherlock sitting as Sherlock normally did, with his fingers steepled at his lips, but what he saw instead was so… delicate. Sherlock was resting his cheek against the curved fingers of one hand; the other fingered the silky fabric of the scarf near his chest.
“Wait..” John tried to clear his head… “What would singles have to do with the interruptions? I don’t…”
Sherlock’s mouth drew upward at one corner, and he looked directly at John. “Oh, I think you do, John. You call it ‘pulling’ do you not?”
For some unexplained reason, John felt fire in his belly, and a pain in his throat. “You mean the men there were propositioning you? The whole time?”
Sherlock merely nodded, and his eyes drifted down to the magazine John was now rolling up into a tight cylinder.
”Is that a problem? Or are you preparing to kill an insect with my most recent Journal of Neurophysiology?”
John suddenly very much wanted to kill something, but he let the magazine unravel. “No. Not a problem at all. I imagine it was…well, you found it annoying, I suppose.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
John cleared his throat. “I mean, seeing as how it interfered with the case. And, you know.” He gestured vaguely in Sherlock’s direction. “Since you aren’t interested in that sort of attention.”
“Am I not?”
“No,” John answered too quickly. He felt his face heat. “You’re not, are you? That is, you’ve never given any indication you care about…all that.”
“All what, John?” Sherlock sounded amused.
John looked down at his hands. “Sex,” he mumbled.
Sherlock sighed. “Ah, yes. Sex.”
John looked up, certain Sherlock purposefully drawled the word.
Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Of late, I’ve found myself a bit more curious about…all that.”
“Oh.” John nervously swiped his tongue along his bottom lip. “Well.” He tilted his head, considering. “Makes sense, I suppose. Since the incident with—”
“Don’t.” Sherlock held up a hand. “Don’t mention her.”
Sherlock shifted in his chair, angling his body toward John. “She has nothing to do with my curiosity.” He looked at John for a long moment before he continued, “I haven’t been thinking about her.”
John’s throat tightened. “No? Who have you been thinking about, then?”
Sherlock gazed at John as silence settled around them.
John slid to the edge of the sofa. “Sherlock,” he said quietly.
Sherlock continued to stare without saying a word.
“Sherlock, come here,” John said, injecting a note of sternness in his tone.
Sherlock looked surprised but he stood and moved toward the sofa. When he was close enough, John reached out and caught Sherlock’s hand, parted his own knees, and pulled Sherlock to stand between them. Then he wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s thighs, thumbs edging along the hem of that indecently short black skirt. He glanced up at Sherlock for just a moment before burying his face in the material covering Sherlock’s flat stomach and breathing deep.
“John.” Sherlock’s voiced was pitched low and sounded a bit unsteady.
John inhaled through his nose again then placed an open-mouthed kiss on Sherlock’s stomach, breath and tongue tip hot and wet even through the thin layer of lace.
“Fuck, John.” Sherlock shoved his hands in John’s hair and tilted John’s face up. Sherlock’s eyes were huge and dark, his cheeks and neck flushed light pink. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.” Even as John shook his head, he moved one hand from Sherlock’s thigh and tugged him down. “I don’t know,” he said again. And then he couldn’t say anything else because he was kissing Sherlock.
(To Be Continued)
Sherlock leaned into the kiss - collapsed into it - and John slid one arm around him to pull him closer, as John’s other arm guided Sherlock to the side and down, down until the long limbs were stretched out underneath John on the leather sofa.
They stopped kissing for a moment. John propped himself up and looked into Sherlock’s eyes, brushed a dark curl away from his temple, and left a soft kiss in its place.
“You, um…. You okay? So far, so good?”
Sherlock could only swallow and nod. His eyes were wide, taking in everything, just as John had seen them a hundred times, only now it was different. Now those eyes were taking in John. Taking in this moment. Processing new data, cataloguing it, evaluating it, and… something else.
A hint of a smile animated the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.
Oh, right, thought John. Not just processing it. Enjoying it.
John smiled back. “I don’t want you to feel pressured or.…”
“I want to feel pressured, John.”
John raised an eyebrow and drew back a bit.
“Oh?” He felt a bit surprised, a bit concerned, and more than a bit turned on. “Look, I don’t know if those blokes tonight were aggressive, or pushy, I mean, but it doesn’t need to be like that. Really. This isn’t about who’s in charge or who’s… um… not. I don’t want to just overwhelm you or dominate you, Sherlock… at all.”
And with every word that left John’s lips, John’s body responded, Liar. That’s precisely what you want. But you only want it if he wants it just as much.
Sherlock reached out and laid a hand on the side of John’s face. “Do that, John. Overwhelm me. Take control, completely. But only you. I didn’t… I don’t want the other men… or the Woman for that matter. I only want you, John. I trust you to make me…”
John swallowed now and licked his lips. “To make you what, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s eyes half-closed, and he shuddered as he breathed out his answer: “To make me yours, John.”
John gripped the hand Sherlock held against John’s cheek, turned his head, and softly kissed the palm. “Mine,” John whispered. He moved up Sherlock’s body, sliding against suede and lace, and dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s partially open lips. “Mine,” he said again.
John glanced up to see Sherlock watching with wide eyes as John bent his head and placed his mouth at the base of Sherlock’s throat and licked the indentation there. “Mine,” John repeated, louder and stronger. He slipped his hand down to Sherlock’s waist and tugged the lace top until he could slide his hand beneath it and push the bra out of the way. He moved down and captured Sherlock’s exposed nipple in his mouth, sucking it through the lace. “Mine,” he growled when he lifted his head.
Sherlock gasped and arched upward, pressing closer.
John trailed open-mouthed kisses down Sherlock’s torso and abdomen. When John reached the waistband of the skirt, he gripped the hem and pulled until the skirt was bunched around Sherlock’s waist. John reached out and ran his fingertips along the curve of Sherlock’s hardened cock beneath his black silk knickers before covering it with his palm and squeezing gently. He bowed his head, kissed the wet spot at the tip, and looked up at Sherlock. “Mine.” John’s voice was rough but steady.
Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the material of John’s shirt, and let out a sound very much like a whimper. John felt it echo through his own chest, resonate all the way down his spine.
He could feel Sherlock trembling beneath him, see the pulse racing in the long white throat. John wanted to possess that man. NOW. Right here. To be Sherlock’s first and only, and God… he had to stop for a moment and rest his head against Sherlock’s slender hips before it was all over far too soon.
His hand began to trail down Sherlock’s leg to the pit of his knee, then back up. So smooth, so lovely. And strangely enough, he knew that it didn’t particularly matter that these legs felt and looked like this. They were Sherlock’s legs. Bare or in trousers, smooth or covered in fine hair, they were perfect. Sherlock was perfect. John slipped two fingers into the reinforced stretch-lace at the the top of one thigh-high stocking. He pulled it down just a few inches, slowly and carefully, trailing his thumb along the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. Then he placed his mouth where he’d just drawn that invisible line, and he bit down, gently but firmly.
Sherlock inhaled sharply and raised his hips.
“Be still.” Immediately, Sherlock froze. John had intended to say “Relax,” but the words had come out sounding like a command, instead.
And that was getting them both even harder.
The satin of Sherlock’s knickers whispered against the stubble on John’s cheek as he nuzzled there for moment before placing open-mouthed kisses all along Sherlock’s shaft.
Sherlock again arched off the sofa and moaned, voice deeper than John had ever heard it. John dragged the tip of his tongue from the base of Sherlock’s satin-covered cock to the tip and swirled it over the head, which made Sherlock hiss and move his hands from John’s shoulders to bury in his hair.
“Sherlock.” John titled his head to glance up and slid one hand from Sherlock’s wrist to the bend of his elbow. When Sherlock looked down, John, without breaking eye contact, snaked his tongue again around the head of Sherlock’s cock. “I want you to do something for me.” Another slow, tantalizing lick. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and glassy, but he nodded. “I want you.” Another lick, this one accompanied by the barest hint of teeth. “To go to your bedroom and put on whatever makes you comfortable.” A lick and a nip at the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “And I want you to wait for me, all right?”
Sherlock stared at John, and John could see confusion warring with obvious desire. “Why? Don’t you—I mean, you like this. You like these clothes.”
John dropped a final gentle kiss on the head of Sherlock’s cock and smiled as he slid his body upward over Sherlock. “I like you, Sherlock. The clothes are just…well, I don’t want you to think I’m doing this because you—I mean, it’s hot, it’s definitely very hot seeing you like this, but it’s…I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be you, remember?” He ran his thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip.
Sherlock’s tongue brushed the pad of John’s thumb. “All right.” Sherlock nodded and started to rise, waited for John to sit up and move back. He stood and absently pushed his skirt down then gave John a long look before he turned to head through the kitchen and back to his bedroom.
John took a deep breath and let his head fall against the back of the sofa. So. He was about to get off with his flatmate. His extremely brilliant, other-worldly beautiful, ridiculously annoying flatmate who simultaneously made John mad with want and quite simply mad. And Sherlock was a virgin, for chrissakes, and he didn’t even care about sex, found it trivial and boring, and God, he was willing to forego that for John, which was enough to make John so hard he thought his cock might burst the flies of his trousers, and he should really, really stop thinking about this before he talked himself out of it.
Right. John scrubbed a hand over his face and stood, walked slowly and quietly as he followed the same path as Sherlock. When he reached the end of the hall, Sherlock’s door was ajar, and John pushed it open, stepped into the room. Sherlock lay on the bed, back propped against the headboard. John followed the long, pale lines of Sherlock’s legs from his bare feet to mid-calf, where the hem of his blue dressing gown rested. The dressing gown was open, barely brushing Sherlock’s skin, and John saw Sherlock was still wearing the black satin knickers but nothing else. John felt his knees go weak and stumbled toward the bed, but before he could sit, Sherlock gestured for John to stop.
“What?” John’s voice sounded gravelly even to his own ears.
Sherlock swallowed, but his eyes never left John’s. “I want to see you. Naked. I want you to undress for me so I can…so I can see all of you.”
John had never heard Sherlock sound so unsure, so he considered Sherlock a moment. “Are you certain this is what you want? We don’t have to—”
Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Please, John. I want.” He maneuvered onto his knees and crawled to the edge of the bed, caught the sleeve of John’s jumper and pulled him close then ran the palm of his hands over John’s chest. “Let me see you. Please?”
“Christ, Sherlock, yes,yes.” John caught Sherlock’s head between his hands, twined his fingers in Sherlock’s soft black curls, and captured his mouth in a deep, filthy kiss that John hoped communicated all the yearning and affection (God, yes, affection, Jesus, how had that happened without John knowing, without him seeing it for what it was?) he felt for this magnificent man in front of him.
Sherlock kissed back, still a bit clumsy but picking up the rhythm until he controlled the kiss. John let him, let Sherlock plunder and explore, but then Sherlock pulled away, breathless. “Clothes. Off,” he said.
God, that voice, so deep, a rumble, like thunder along John’s nerve endings. John stepped back and pulled his jumper over his head. Sherlock, still poised at the edge of the bed, watched raptly as John unbuttoned his shirt and let it slip from his arms to the floor. Next came his white vest, and then John dropped his hands to zip on his trousers.
Sherlock reached out and softly traced his fingertips over the scar on John’s left shoulder. John allowed it for a moment, but then he caught Sherlock’s hand and brought it to his lips, dropped a kiss on the palm before placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to push him back onto the bed. “You said you wanted to see everything, yes?”
Sherlock tumbled back onto his elbows. He nodded, eyes dark and wide.
John undid his flies and pushed his trousers down, stepped out of them, and kicked them to the side. He looked directly into Sherlock’s eyes as he slid his pants from his hips and let them pool at his feet. He nervously licked his lips as Sherlock’s gaze traveled from head to toe and back. When their eyes met, Sherlock reached toward John, and John stepped closer, caught Sherlock’s hand and curled their fingers together, let Sherlock pull him onto his knees on the bed. Sherlock sat up and ran his free hand, fingers spread wide, along the front of John’s thigh and over his hip.
John sucked in a shaky breath and bowed his head to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, “I’m going to take you to pieces.”
Sherlock’s entire body quaked as John finished his sentence with a soft kiss. He pushed the silk dressing gown aside and moved his kisses to one one pale, beautiful shoulder. His hands skimmed Sherlock's hips at first, and then they moved to the hem of the lace knickers, pushing them down and down, nearly to Sherlock's knees. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled their bodies close together, holding him tight. The whimpering moan Sherlock made when John’s hard, erect cock brushed his own made John tremble himself. He moved the hand around Sherlock’s waist lower, pressing Sherlock’s lower half even more firmly against him as he slowly, torturously moved his hips.
“Tell me you can feel me, Sherlock. Tell me you feel how hard and full and alive you make me,” He bit down on the beautiful white neck, just forcefully enough to leave a mark that would not fade for several minutes.
“God, John, yes…” Sherlock pushed himself even harder against John’s body, John raised his head to look at him, head thrown back, eyes shut, mouth slightly open, those delectable, sinful lips parted as he gasped and panted.
John took their entwined hands and moved back to let their fingers slide between their bodies, down, to where they were both hard and aching. “Hold on to me. Just like this. Do not move or let go until I tell you. Understand?”
Sherlock licked his lips and nodded, eyes still closed.
“Good.” John captured Sherlock’s mouth again. He leaned forward, farther, farther, until Sherlock was on his back and John was free to move over him. He began to slide and thrust, slowly, gently, against Sherlock’s hand and abdomen and throbbing erection. The sensation made him feel like he would come or pass out within seconds, but he held himself together, sometimes stopping, pressing against Sherlock but keeping otherwise perfectly still.
Sherlock’s breathing and moaning increased. He wrapped on leg around John’s hips and dug the nails of his free hand into the muscle of John’s back.
John kissed Sherlock’s jaw, took his earlobe into his mouth and sucked, then pressed his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “Right now, love, you belong only to me,” John whispered as he thrust again. “And I will do things to you that even your magnificent brain can’t imagine… all to make you fall apart for me. Only for me.”
The sound that escaped Sherlock's throat was more of a deep, feral growl than a cry of pleasure. John immediately regretted his promise to take Sherlock apart in a hundred ways; he knew for damned sure that he would not last very long under the onslaught of that voice and that body. He'd have to hope and pray for a next time.
Several next times.
Sherlock's body writhed against him, and Sherlock's grip tightened.
Correction: several fucking thousand next times.
Jesus! If only pleasuring Sherlock Holmes could be his goddamned career.
"John...." Sherlock's words were strangled, "John, I'm going to... I'm going..." Sherlock clenched his teeth, trying to gain enough control to speak.
"That's it, yes, just like that, Christ, Sherlock, come for me. Let me feel you and hear you.... come for me. Just for me."
Every muscle in Sherlock's body tensed as he went rigid with the force of his orgasm, and the voice that normally flowed like music gasped and broke, repeating John's name breathlessly.
John held tight, felt warmth on his own nearly-bursting cock as Sherlock spilled over against him. Two or three frantic thrusts, and John was coming, too, face contorted with strain and pleasure.
And then both were lying on the bed, still tangled, panting.
"God, you are amazing.... Sherlock,.... truly." John huffed. "That was the most gorgeous thing... I've ever seen."
Sherlock pushed damp curls off of his own forehead, and he smiled. A genuine smile, not the ones he used to for manipulation. The black knickers were still bunched around his knees, relatively unsoiled thanks to the position both men had been in. John reached down and slipped them off past Sherlock's ankles.
"I think we should frame these," he laughed, then he handed them to Sherlock. "I'll get a towel so we can clean up, okay?"
Sherlock nodded. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, but they were bright and observant as ever.
When John returned and did his best to tidy them, he laid down and put a hand on Sherlock's chest. "You all right? Was it too much? Not enough?"
Long fingers covered John's, and Sherlock pressed their hands together over his heart.
"It was both, John. Both too much and not enough. Too much to analyse and catalogue, not enough to sustain me for more than a day or so. I'm afraid I must insist we repeat this process."
"What, for scientific purposes, you mean?" John smiled.
"Precisely. I need to examine all possible variables and contributing factors." Sherlock returned John's smile with a wicked grin of his own. "In fact," he added, "Let's get one experiment out of the way right now." He handed the lace knickers to John. "Here. Put these on for me."
"What? Um, that's not actually... what's your line? Not my area?"
"Three minutes. You may use the countdown function on your wristwatch if you want. I need to see this."
Rolling his eyes and sighing rather more dramatically than was strictly necessary, John complied. The knickers were much too snug (he didn't have Sherlock's sleek, slender hips, after all), and they did nothing, as far as he could see, to accentuate his assets.
Sherlock's eyes scanned him from head to foot once again, just as they had when he'd first been naked.
"Interesting. Yes, I believe I prefer you without them. Though you are still quite attractive even like this."
"Thanks, now can I take these off for God's sake? They're like a tourniquet. I'd rather not have to amputate anything down there."
Carefully, Sherlock helped John remove them.
"Let's hope not, Doctor Watson. I seriously doubt there's room for it in the fridge."
A week later, both men found themselves down by the docks, crouching over a fresh corpse that Lestrade said had appeared as if by magic, unseen by any of the security guards or their cameras.
"No signs of struggle... looks like blunt-force trauma to the head, only, Sherlock, why isn't there more blood? I've seen head injuries. In training, and in the war. If this is where he died, there should be a pool of it."
"Mmm," Sherlock replied, "And his hair. Medium to long and wavy, yet it's almost perfectly clean. Only just damp near the wound. Whoever left him here wasn't even trying."
Sherlock slid forward onto his knees and bent all the way over the body, sniffing near the dead man's neck and ears.
It made for a singularly spectacular view of the Consulting Detective's behind.
That's when John noticed it. There, underneath the taut fabric of the seat of Sherlock's trousers, was the faint but unmistakeable outline of ruffled edging.
He cleared his throat.
"Sherlock," he said in a low voice, "are you going out again tonight? On that case from last week? The one with the clothes, I mean."
Sherlock sat up and looked at John. "No. I thought we'd have a night in, if you're amenable to it, that is."
"Oh, I'm amenable. I'm definitely amenable."
"Okay. Yeah. Good." John looked around. "How much longer before we can get back to the flat?"
Lestrade joined them and bent down to have another look at the lifeless body.
"What was it, then, Sherlock? He can't have died here, right?"
"So someone brought him here after he died."
"Which means that, perhaps, there was foul play."
Sherlock stood up, and Lestrade straightened up to meet his eyes. "Is it your plan, Detective Inspector, to rattle off the most inane and obvious statements for the rest of the afternoon, or are you prepared to shut up and listen?"
Lestrade put his hands up, palms outward, in an attempt to calm Sherlock down. "Yes, yes, fine. I'll shut up. Jesus, Sherlock, you don't have to get your knickers in a twist over it."
Even an hour later, in the taxi cab on the way to Baker Street, John had not managed to stop laughing.