Mrs. Hudson had had this dream before.
In fact, this sort of thing happened at least once per week, generally after she'd had one argument or another with the fellow in the cafe downstairs. Sherlock always tried to stay out of it; didn't like influencing the dreams--the one place he never liked to meddle.
She was much younger here, walking down Baker Street with a small child balanced on her hip. Her hair was a bit lighter than he imagined it had been when she was this age, and her glasses had horned rims. This, this was too deep for him to have known about from observing and deducing the woman--her want for children, the lack thereof and, later, the knowledge that she wasn't able. But in this world, it was attainable. Children were possible in dreams. Anything was.
As he lingered in the background, he watched as the small boy's fingers flexed against her back. His appearance changed often enough, all dependent on how she was feeling about certain men in her life. For instance, on this particular Tuesday, Sherlock had accidentally set the refrigerator on fire and the woman was rather cross about it. But later that very day, Sherlock had made sure to make John take her a cup of tea.
He would never admit that it was an apology, but the mop of black curls and light blue eyes of the boy she now carried told him he was forgiven.
When she turned the corner a few moments later, the little boy turned and caught Sherlock's eye. The consulting detective sat down on the steps to 221B and waited for his landlady to wake.
Sherlock Holmes had spent his entire adult life trying to avoid sleep.
Before John had come along, he had been mostly successful. His addiction to stimulants had been borne of necessity rather than desire for the high. Anything to stay awake--to keep from being trapped in nightmares, voyeur to explicit fantasies, re-liver of tragedies. Most dreams were mundane enough that he could get lost in the streets of London waiting for the dreamer to awaken, but those that weren't, well, they were a whole other story.
Sherlock rolled over in bed. What would his life have been like with a mother like Mrs. Hudson? He surely wouldn't have been given a mini freezer and his own laboratory at the age of six. Probably wouldn't have been allowed to keep frozen rats and frogs in the same house.
He hated thinking about such things--the what ifs, data that couldn't be proven or disproven by science. They took up too much space; haunted him in the daytime when he couldn't force them to delete. Everything was there, reminding him day in and day out that the people in his life had worlds of their own when he wasn't there--and when he wasn't supposed to be there.
Thus far, he had somehow managed to keep out of John's dreams. It had been a concern when he'd first started living with the ex-soldier, and as time went on, the worry of getting caught in the crossfire of John's nightmares continued to eat at him. When he could avoid it, he actively tried to stay awake while John was asleep. Their proximity would only make matters more difficult: The dreamer closest to him tended to be the best target, unless he was already caught in another dream.
Sherlock looked at the clock. It was half six. No surprise that Mrs. Hudson was up and about. He'd gotten about three hours of rest himself, though what constituted as "rest" to the rest of the world simply meant he'd closed his eyes and entered a body that didn't require physical energy so that his own could replenish its stores.
He'd put his head to the pillow when he heard John fumbling about in the toilet in the middle of the night. There was such a small window there for him to fall asleep and hope to end up in Mrs. Hudson's dreamland, but he'd had to take the chance. The case he'd been on had been a brutal one mentally, physically, and emotionally. The happier tones of Mrs. Hudson's hopeful dream had been the odd, welcomed respite to his daily life.
Sherlock rolled out of bed and tugged on his dressing gown before stalking out to the kitchen to check on the fragile hair follicles he'd left resting in saliva samples. He had a lot of work to do, things to catch up on after his selfish nap.
It had been happening as long as he could remember; the dream hopping. He was quite certain that he went as far back as three years old, but he couldn't be certain that it hadn't been stories he'd been told that were fogging those particular glass windows in his mind palace.
He'd broken up his parents' marriage at the age of six. That was when Mycroft found out about the dreams, though no one quite understood the depth of it until some years later.
"How did you know about Father's affair?" The thirteen year old had cornered his brother in their father's unoccupied study. He was at work, and Sherlock had announced his news to the entire lunch table only moments prior.
At that point, Sherlock had still believed himself to be a normal child.
"I saw him kissing the--"
"You didn't, Sherlock! You saw nothing!" Mycroft grabbed his brother by the shoulders, shaking the skinny bag of bones harshly. "You're making things up again, and lying isn't good, Sherlock. It's upset Mummy, and you know how delicate she is about these matters."
"But I did." Sherlock was positively petulant about his honesty. "When I was sleeping."
Mycroft's face had paled, but he had believed his brother was actually dreaming rather than invading the privacy of their father's mind.
When Mummy confronted their father, he admitted everything. His things were boxed and gone before the Holmes brothers woke the next morning.
Sherlock hadn't felt a bit smug.
He'd felt mortified when he was witness to Mycroft's first wet dream a year and a half later. He could never look at his French tutor the same way.
At the age of ten, Sherlock finally understood that not everyone could see into the dreams of their friends and family. Not everyone could read between the lines and see affairs and masked hatred. Not every child enjoyed finding a dead animal and figuring out what had killed it.
That was the year someone first called him a freak.
The way most childhood nicknames seem to, it stuck.
Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd ever had his own dreams. He didn't know how that would work; if the people he knew in his walking life would somehow make their way into his sleep and keep him company in his head rather then their own.
He had only ever been truly willing to share his space with one person, and that person was, unfortunately, the one person whose dreams Sherlock never wanted to encounter.
The fear Sherlock had--and this was a legitimate, encompassing fear made all the more troubling by James Moriarty's kidnapping of one John Watson--was of seeing the good doctor lying in a pool of his own blood in Afghanistan, begging for his own life while trying to dig a bullet from his own shoulder.
He knew John had nightmares. He also knew that he couldn't make them better by starring in them, no matter how much he wished he could slip into a disguise and be that angel John had so wished for on the battlefield.
If he could save him, just once, maybe the nightmares would cease.
But no, he couldn't.
They had an agreement of sorts. Sherlock wasn't supposed to deduce John if he could avoid it. And by "avoid it," they had decided that he would keep his observations to himself.
Sherlock tried to ignore the signs that would lead him to his usual deductions, but it was hard. John was an easy man to read, a creature of habit. He woke up each morning, dressed in simple clothes that made him look more like a middle-aged father than a man trying to find a suitable wife, he made his tea, he put on his shoes, he did the shopping and went to the surgery. He was a calm man ninety percent of the time, and he other ten percent were entirely made up of Sherlock pressing buttons.
There wasn't anything about John Watson that could surprise Sherlock.
Until there was.
He didn't know when he'd fallen asleep, just that when he opened his eyes in the dream, all he could see was black.
Immediate deductions were thus: Black blindfold. Velvet-lined inside, leather-lined on the outside. Sex fantasy, then. No one spends money on hostage victims. Knot tied precisely enough that he wouldn't be able to shake it off. Tug of hands; bound to the headboard with matching leather cuffs to the blindfold. Shoulders strained, but just enough to cause a twinge of pain, not meant to be excruciating. Room was warm, but he was obviously naked and rather aroused on soft cotton sheets.
Most likely candidate was the taller of Mrs. Turner's married ones. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had fallen into the middle of a dream where he'd found himself shagging someone. The only downfall to it was that it tended to leave him in an awkward situation when he woke, and, occasionally, sore for several days after with unexplainable suction marks on his chest.
He didn't even know the man's name, but he'd taken it up the arse for him more in the last year than his husband had.
This was new, though. He'd never been tied up before in a consensual environment, and he hoped he was meant to be willing. If the dreamer's fantasy was for an unwilling partner, he would have a hard time complying when the curiosity for the situation was turning him on so thoroughly without even being touched by the dreamer.
Sherlock swallowed, letting his throat bob just a bit harder than usual. There was no sound in the room and he wondered for a moment if he was alone. That was unusual; it wasn't as if a dreamer would need to leave to get condoms or to answer the phone or shut of the telly before continuing his sexual escapades. Distractions just weren't there in dreams.
He couldn't even hear breathing, not even with his senses heightened to figure out who his dreaming lover was.
A hand splayed over his lower abdomen, pressing lightly before sliding down, forming a V with two fingers on each side of the base of his cock. Sherlock shivered when the hand moved back up, slid back down, and continued to repeat the motion. The only sound in the room was his own breathing and the gentle glide of skin on skin, the light scritching sound of those fingers parting in his pubic hair.
Sherlock's lips parted and he began to breathe almost raggedly through his mouth, already feeling overstimulated. How much had his body gone through in this dream world before he'd joined it?
And then there were two hands on him, running up his sides from hips to armpits, thumbs brushing lightly over his nipples on the downstroke. He arched his back into the touch and was promptly pushed back down onto the bed.
As if in punishment, those hands drew away and he panted for a moment, fearing that it was over, he'd ruined it, he'd wake up aching between his own sheets.
He was wrong.
His dreamer climbed completely onto the bed and straddled his hips. Sherlock was surprised to find that the other man--and now he was completely sure it was a man, and a very impressive one at that--was completely dressed, clad in jeans that were rough against his over-sensitive cock and a wool jumper that was just a bit itchy against his lower belly.
Wool jumper, his mind supplied belatedly. No, it can't be.
Lips pressed against his neck--soft lips, bottom slightly chapped where it'd been bitten and chewed, nervous habit. He barely had time to register it further when those very lips parted and teeth grazed over the sensitive bump of his Adam's apple.
His lover was apparently aiming for silence in this scene, so Sherlock gave it to him, but all the same, he let his hips push upwards, seeking that parallel hardness and being sorely denied such purchase when the other man lifted his hips.
Lips again, now on his left shoulder, sucking a spot into the flesh just above his collarbone. Sherlock tugged at his restraints and tried not to whimper. It was pathetic of him to want so desperately, but in the place of darkness, his mind was readily supplying a backlog of every image of John he'd ever had, supplementing those images with what was currently happening to his body.
A pair of hands--sturdy hands, careful hands, surgeon's hands--slipping from his shoulders to his elbows, from his elbows to his wrists and just holding.
Sherlock's entire body trembled with the intimacy of it, the trust John's mind had given Sherlock to give back in turn. He knew that he'd have a mark when he woke up, in the same place John had his scar.
He didn't focus on that, though. He couldn't focus on anything. Not when John's clothed body was pressed up against him lengthwise, not when John's mouth was doing wicked things to him and preparing to venture downwards. It didn't matter that Sherlock was the one receiving all the pleasure. John was the one who was in control.
John, Sherlock thought. This had to be John. He couldn't imagine anyone else's hands would be able to take him apart so thoroughly, even if he'd never imagined this in the first place.
Mouth working down his chest, fingers slipping down his arms in feather-light touches as he moved. Sherlock squirmed, which earned him a harsh slap to the small expanse of his right arse cheek.
Interesting. Need more data.
But then those lips were dipping below his belly button, following the smattering of dark hair down to his groin with a slow, teasing lick. Sherlock's eyes closed behind his blindfold and he scrunched up his face and clenched his fists; anything to keep him from thrusting upwards into the face he imagined was only centimeters from his cock.
He was rewarded for his self control with a hot breath ghosting along the head of his cock. The resultant twitch found Sherlock's hips bearing down against the bed to keep from pushing up.
And then his dreamer's tongue pressed pointedly against the wet slit and wiggled just so and it was all Sherlock could do to keep from screaming in frustration. He wished his legs had been bound so he could have controlled his wills better, but then there were hands on his hips and a doctor settling on his stomach between his legs and oh God his cock was slipping between lips he could visualize so well.
How obscene it looked behind his closed eyes. He spread his legs further, wantonly, practically begging for it with the answering silence of a man who had agreed to unspoken terms.
The underside of his cock had a rather prominent vein and John was running his tongue along it while the head rubbed torturously against his soft palate. He could feel every ridge along the top of John's mouth against his glans and it lit a desire in him for so much more. He wanted to push up into that warmth, to learn the texture of John's mouth with his own, with his fingers, with his cock.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose, clamping his mouth shut when John's lips closed completely around him, just below the ridge of his head. The doctor began to slowly lower himself, until--and Sherlock imagined that such a maneuver was only possible in dreams--his nose was pressed into the thatch of dark hair at the base.
John's nostrils flared as he exhaled harshly, the air slipping down and fluttering over Sherlock's balls. The tongue settled against the underside of his shaft was moving slowly, like a tidal wave, a gentle, teasing ebb and flow that stimulated him perfectly. The moist heat of John's mouth, the stretch of his lips around the base, the mental image of their play behind his eyes were all adding to this perfect wet dream.
John slowly slid back, pulling all the way up until his lips pressed a closed-mouth kiss to the head of the shaft, lightly teasing at the leaking slit before suddenly sliding back down with unmatched fervor.
Hands gripped his hips and held him in place as John fucked his mouth with Sherlock's arousal. That glorious tongue was swiping in small curves on each up and down stroke, keeping Sherlock's mind at war with what he wanted--torn between wanting to climax and wanting to ride it out for as long as the dreamer would let him.
John's left hand released it's vise grip on Sherlock's right hip and reached down to give the consulting detective's balls a good, solid tug, obviously realizing that they were drawing up in preparation for orgasm. Slightly calloused fingers held him, lightly caressing, distracting enough that Sherlock Holmes didn't notice the middle finger slipping along his perineum until it was pressed up against his hole.
A testament to John's preparedness: Sherlock's opening was already slippery with lubrication when that finger pressed inside him.
Oh God, what Sherlock would have given to truly see these events rather than supplying a mental image for the entire dream. The fingertip pressed further, seeking, and John's knuckle curled upwards, eliciting a shower of sparks behind Sherlock's eyes.
His hips surged upwards, seeking solace from the intense pleasure that was bordering on pain, only to sink deeper into the doctor's waiting mouth.
There were too many sensations. It was quickly becoming more than Sherlock could comprehend in his state of mind. His cock, slipping in and out of John's mouth while being sucked with such enthusiasm; the light brush of wool against his thighs from John's jumper-clad person; the finger that was now thrusting slowly inside his arse, curving gently to ghost against his prostate; the burn in his shoulders and wrists from pulling against his restraints; the gentle sound of suction, a wet, obscene slurp each time his dreamer's mouth disengaged from his cock.
The only reason he hadn't come yet was sheer force of will to see if John had more to give him.
That mouth drew away and Sherlock's body protested at the loss, hips rising off the bed in search of what he wanted. Then John's finger slipped out of him with a teasing brush against his innermost gland before coming up to lightly wrap around his cock.
John was still laying between his legs, fully clothed. The conflicting textures were driving him mad when his greatest desire was for skin on skin. He wondered if he'd get that in this dream.
The fingers wrapped around his cock stroked him once, twice, three times and then simply rested against the right side, curved around him so the doctor's mouth could press a series of open-mouthed kisses along the other side. Before Sherlock had the chance to enjoy this slower pace, John drew away completely, leaving him hard and wanting and confused.
The bed creaked below the dreamer's shifting weight and Sherlock's mind tried to theorize what was coming next. He arched his neck and rolled his shoulders a bit, but he was pressed down into the pillows by a commanding hand on his shoulder.
The lack of control was exciting, a possibility Sherlock had never considered.
And then there was denim on either side of his chest as John straddled him, still fully clothed. Strong thighs, a solid arse, and then there was a bulge of rough material against his cheek.
John's fingers tangled in his hair and lifted his head to that heat. Sherlock followed the instruction willingly, turning his head without question and nuzzling his nose against the erection he could feel buried below too many barriers.
His mouth watered and he licked his lips, waiting.
The fingers in his hair tightened and held him closer. Those hips began to gyrate against him, slowly, agonizingly so. Sherlock decided to test the waters by opening his mouth to the concealed flesh, mouthing at it and breathing humidly against it. He was rewarded by a sharp tug to his hair, angling his head back so that the clothed cock could be rubbed against his mouth until his lips were red and begging for it.
He was pushed back onto the pillows and Sherlock would have mourned the loss if he hadn't known that John's fingers were necessary to unbutton his jeans.
A rustle of fabric and a strong, musky scent that was unmistakably sex--and then Sherlock got his prize.
John took his head in both hands and guided Sherlock forward blindly. His parted lips found John's ample arousal standing straight up against his jumper. The dreamer's hips helped him get a proper angle for penetration, and there Sherlock was, suckling the head of that perfect cock like an infant on a tit.
He dipped his tongue just below the glans to the tempting ridge, flicking lightly and taking the light tug on his hair as a good sign. His head was guided further, further and John was taking what he needed, stuffing Sherlock's mouth full of his cock and then holding him there.
Finally, Sherlock's position mirrored what John had done to him earlier. Nose pressed to groin, John's fingers tightened in his curls and Sherlock relaxed his jaw. This was so much easier in dreams; the entire reason for false expectations in the light of day, but fuck all if it wasn't hot to feel the tip of that cock against the back of his throat.
John's hips began to thrust against his face and Sherlock couldn't help the moan that bubbled up his throat when the hands in his hair pulled him forward just a little too forcefully. The thrusts started to become erratic, and Sherlock knew well enough to know that this dream had been going on long enough for John's sleeping body to be on the verge.
He didn't want it to be over, but he did want to experience John's orgasm. He didn't want that sleeping form upstairs to wake a moment before climax and leave them both unsatisfied.
Sherlock let his mouth be used as a vice for John's pleasure, hollowing his cheeks, sucking hard, grazing his teeth just enough to be noticed. His tongue worked at the underside, undulating as best he could with the pace his dreamer set. And then the hands in his hair clenched to fists, pulling him forward as the jean-clad hips in his face thrust that cock all the way to the back of his throat.
Sherlock woke with a sore jaw and the taste of John on his tongue.
He closed his eyes, put three fingers in his mouth and the other hand in his pyjama bottoms.
It wasn't the same, but the memory was fresh as the taste.
John looked the same as he always did, but Sherlock found himself watching the doctor more often, looking for clues. Had the dream been a one-off? The result of Sherlock "cock-blocking" all of his dates? Or had the doctor been fantasizing about controlling him? About spreading him out on a bed and showing him who's boss?
There were no signs in either direction. If John had a secret control kink, he hid it well.
Sherlock needed more data.
John told him he needed sleep, doctor's orders.
Sherlock didn't fight him, just went to his bedroom and waited for the sounds of John getting into bed. He waited another hour for John to reach an ideal sleep cycle and then closed his own eyes.
He knew it was John's dream again; he recognized the now-familiar tug of the straps on his wrists (this time bound above his head) and the blindfold over his eyes. He logically knew there were no ceiling restraints at Baker Street, but the floor below his knees felt like the pattern on the living room rug.
Again, anything was possible in dreams.
Knowing he was in no immediate danger this time, Sherlock closed his eyes, ready and waiting for whatever John's subconscious mind wanted of him.
There was a rustling behind him and the sound helped Sherlock place himself in the sitting room. They weren't far from the fire place, perhaps between their two chairs, pushed out of the way.
John's right hand tapped twice against his right thigh from behind him and Sherlock took it as a queue to spread his knees. He did as requested, wondering if this was another instance where he wouldn't hear John speak until climax.
Once he was settled again, waiting impatiently for another touch, another clue, he felt the slippery, warm pressure of a lubricated finger between his arse cheeks. John's middle finger, same as last time, only this time he was sure of his dreamer, certain of that careful finger as it teased at his puckered entrance. When the tip of his finger stopped just short of penetration, Sherlock pressed back, causing a slight breach of his body.
John gave a hard swat to his bum, but pressed his finger in further. The sting of the slap combined with the stretch around that finger was tantalizing, and Sherlock dared to wonder if he'd be bearing down on the cock that had so exquisitely fucked his mouth earlier in the week.
He wanted to protest, to tell John to get on with it. This sort of preparation wasn't needed in dreams. Why waste precious time and risk the chance of waking up and losing it all?
But this must have been something John enjoyed; the slow build of pressure, the stretch around his fingers. He had worked Sherlock to two and was pumping them in and out, avoiding the younger man's prostate, even when Sherlock tried to twist his pelvis to force the sensation. Each time he so much as moved, John would introduce his right hand to Sherlock's arse with a loud smack of skin to skin, one by one, surely leaving handprints that Sherlock would be able to trace in the light of day.
The sensation behind him was mesmerizing. He couldn't see or feel any part of John except those fingers slipping in and out of his eager arse. The breath seemed to be pushed out of him on each inward stroke of the doctor's knowing fingers, and Sherlock had never gotten so hard with such a singular source of stimulation. The head of his cock was bobbing, occasionally touching his naval or curving sideways to his hip, and every time it made contact with his skin, he could feel the wet residue of his impending desire.
John's fingers were withdrawn with a final slow pull, the pad of the middle finger purposefully grazing over his prostate. Sherlock's body shuddered, gooseflesh popping along his thighs as his hips jumped forward.
He was pulled back by John's dry hand, hips held firmly in place. It didn't take a genius (though Sherlock was one, of course) to know that John's other hand was busy with preparatory business.
After John's last fantasy, Sherlock wasn't surprised to hear a zipper being pulled, nor was he surprised when John got closer and he felt the wooly jumper pressed against his back.
John positioned himself behind Sherlock and the younger man straightened a bit on his knees, hoping he'd be perfectly aligned for the doctor's penetration.
The head of John's cock pressed insistently against his body and Sherlock held his breath. He hadn't known he'd wanted this so much until four days ago. Now he doubted he'd ever avoid sleep again if John regularly had dreams such as this.
Inch by glorious inch, John stretched him from the inside out. Sherlock could hear him breathing, could feel the familiar fingers gripping at his hip, pulling him back as the older man moved forward. The stinging from his spanks amplified his sensitivity, and once John was completely seated inside Sherlock's body, the hands on his hips trailed down to his cheeks to knead them further apart.
Behind the blindfold, Sherlock's mind was alight with images of their sitting room, what it would look like for John to kneel on the floor and have Sherlock lean back against him just like this. He could see it so vividly; it went perfectly with every sensation he was feeling. And John was still fully clothed, except for where he wasn't, where he was buried to the hilt in his dream lover.
John was kneeling behind Sherlock, almost flush against him, thighs to thighs, and when he began to move inside him, Sherlock realized that they were creating a pace, a movement not unlike that of the ocean's give and take. They fell into it easily, and Sherlock found himself tugging at his restraints to help John with the strain on his thighs.
John's breath was being panted hotly against his ear. John's head was resting in the space created by Sherlock's arms above his head, and the dark haired man twisted his head almost uncomfortably in search of that mouth that had so pleased him days ago.
The kiss was an awkward tumble of lips made erotic by the thrust of John's cock into Sherlock's body. They couldn't keep their mouths together at that angle--not even in dreams were they contortionists--but that didn't stop John from running his tongue wetly along Sherlock's jawline, it didn't stop Sherlock from arching his neck in invitation.
Fingers moved around to his cock and John's thumb flicked over the head to wipe at the moisture before wrapping around tightly and starting to stroke from tip to base.
On the first stroke, Sherlock's entire body tensed under the onslaught of sensation, clenching around John's cock invitingly. The other man made a soft sound in his ear, almost a gasp, almost a moan, but unquestionably John.
His balls tightened and he purposefully clenched around John again on the man's next inward thrust, hoping to elicit more sounds from his dreamer's throat. He wanted it harder, he wanted to feel John's cock inside him for days after they woke up. He wanted to be walking sideways with a tell-tale limp that people would assume was from this very act of intimacy.
He wanted John to be jealous of himself without knowing it.
John's teeth clamped down on his shoulder, almost hard enough to break the skin, definitely hard enough to leave a mark, and Sherlock thrust back against him. They were both so close, so ready. The man behind him thrust upwards and Sherlock threw his head back when the head of the cock inside him brutally pressed into his prostate. His entire body shuddered, making John pant in his ear, nipping at any skin he could graze. It was becoming frantic, carnal.
The fingers around his cock tightened, pulling him restlessly.
"Come on, Sherlock," John whispered in his ear, punctuating his words with sharp jabs of his hips. "Come for me."
His pyjamas were sticky, his arse was sore, and it was exactly what he wanted.
Their daily lives hadn't changed at all. Sherlock couldn't acknowledge that he knew about the dreams, and John was as good at hiding his secret desires as anything. It still surprised Sherlock each time he'd come into his dream body and find himself being fucked so hard he'd feel it for days after waking.
There had even been a very memorable experience with a riding crop that had fueled fantasies for Sherlock every time he'd run his fingers along his arse and felt the fading welts; every time he sat down without thinking about it and had to readjust his weight.
But he wasn't the sole focus of all of John's dreams. He hadn't expected to be, but on the days when he found himself wandering through London after losing John on a mundane Tesco trip or when he'd had to leave the scene of a sibling argument, it made Sherlock wonder how those dreams made John feel when he woke up. Did he wonder why he hadn't dreamed of his flatmate or did he just curse his sister and carry on?
Each time Sherlock woke from the fantasies, he woke with the knowledge that he wasn't the only one waking from a fresh orgasm. He woke knowing that across the flat, John was alone when they could've been spent together.
He let the dreams begin to flitter into his every day life.
He got curious.
Not that he'd thought about it, but there really wouldn't be a more blindingly obvious opportunity.
It was the murder scene that had given him the idea. A man, bound to his own headboard with thick leather cuffs about his wrists, which, like in John's fantasies, matched his blindfold.
The man had been castrated and left to bleed out, but the room only had one window and had been locked from the inside. Your typical "How is this possible?" case that Sherlock would solve just as soon as his brain stopped swimming with opportunity.
Beside him, John had simply said "poor sod" and excused himself from the room to inquire about technical details that Sherlock would likely want later but couldn't be arsed about now.
Obviously a jilted lover. Castration tended to be a crime of passion. Girlfriend, wife, or boyfriend, then. Done while he was tied up, probably while he was aroused and ready. Trust, of course, was probably not the best thing to give someone who you were pulling one over on. He'd worked out almost all of it, but he didn't say so just yet.
When he walked off the scene and hailed a cab, Lestrade asked where he was going.
He waved him away with a clipped "Research" and was on his way.
He was waiting. John had to come home eventually.
He'd asked the salesperson at the sex shop for a pair of leather cuffs he'd be able to tie himself into.
She hadn't disappointed.
It had only taken him ten minutes to blindfold himself and attach his wrists to John's headboard securely. His nakedness wouldn't actually have been necessary to his experiment, but he knew it would be appreciated. He'd solved most of the case, anyway.
The closer he was to John's fantasy, the less likely that John would simply untie him and stutter about indecency.
Downstairs, he heard the door open.
But silence had always been one of John's unspoken rules in the dreams. Sherlock was merely obliging him.
The door opened and there was a quick intake of breath as Sherlock knew John's eyes were raking over his mind's fondest wish, spread and ready for him. And Sherlock was ready for anything John wanted to give him, he'd taken care of that with John's own lubrication.
Sherlock didn't move. He knew he hadn't gotten it wrong because John hadn't thrown him out yet, hadn't moved to untie him.
The doctor was moving toward the bed, obviously taking in the details one by one, looking for every instance of consent before he would venture to touch his living dream.
Sherlock's hard cock was resting against his hip, his legs were spread open even though they weren't bound, and his hands and wrists were relaxed, even though they were stretched back behind his head. Had he been unwilling, he surely would've been very uncomfortable, and Sherlock Holmes had never been one to suffer willingly.
As further invitation, Sherlock parted his lips and licked them slowly, knowing that if John's attention hadn't been on his face before, it was now.
The doctor crossed the room slowly and hovered by the edge of the bed next to Sherlock's face.
A tentative finger pressed between Sherlock's lips and he took it in eagerly, drinking in the soft moan that escaped John as he slithered his tongue all down the underside before swirling back up to the tip.
John was still wearing his jacket, but it was no matter. Sherlock wanted him just as he was, and he suspected that John wouldn't be too concerned about his state of dress, either.
A second finger joined the first a moment later and Sherlock hummed around the pair of them, hoping the deep vibration would go directly to his flatmate's cock and serve as inspiration.
Once John seemed convinced enough that this was entirely a Good Idea, he repeated what he'd done to Sherlock in that first dream, only much more tentatively. He'd unzipped his trousers and crawled onto the bed to straddle Sherlock's chest, and when Sherlock turned his head down and opened his mouth in an obvious invitation, John had groaned out loud and slipped the fingers of his left hand into Sherlock's hair, guiding his cock into welcoming lips with the other.
It wasn't as easy in real life. He couldn't take the whole thing, but he made up for it by swallowing around what he could manage, by hollowing out his cheeks the way John so loved in his dreams. His tongue worked at the underside, and he let his lover lead him with his hands, occasionally pulling away and leaving Sherlock empty just long enough to endearingly stroke his cheek or to run the tip of his penis over Sherlock's lips, glossing them with his precome.
His own cock was aching, and he wondered if he could finish without being touched outside of a dream. He was curious to find out.
The sounds John made in real life were much more open than those in his dreams. Breathy little moans, gasps and incoherent words that sounded a bit like Sherlock's name broken into half-syllables.
He could tell when the doctor was getting close. It felt like he was swelling further in his mouth, pressing more desperately into his throat but trying to hold back at the same time.
"Sherlock," John gasped, grasping at the hair on the upper left side and lower right back of his lover's head. "Sherlock, I'm close." There was more precome now and Sherlock was happy to realize that John's taste was almost identical to the man from the dreams.
Suddenly, John pulled out of Sherlock's mouth, something he'd never done in their shared dreams, and Sherlock opened his mouth wantonly to let him know it was okay to come inside. In fact, Sherlock wanted it.
He could hear John's fist working up and down the spit-slick shaft and the panting breaths he was taking. The exact moment when the orgasm hit him was shared with Sherlock, because he pressed the tip of his pulsing cock to Sherlock's flattened tongue, letting the first splash of his seed cover the pink offering before drawing back just slightly and painting the next stream along a pale cheekbone, then collarbone.
Sherlock moaned, swallowing down what was given to him before opening his mouth again and arching forward. John gave him what he wanted, pushing his over-sensitive cock back into that mouth, letting Sherlock suck him dry with lips that knew just how to work him.
When it was too much for his softening member, John gently disengaged. He sat back on Sherlock's stomach, moving away carefully. Sherlock heard and felt the other man zipping himself back into his trousers before John moved again on the bed.
His cock was in John's mouth before he had time to think about the fact that he hadn't come from John's orgasm alone. Those lips were now wrapped around him, pleasuring him as they'd done in dreams. The dreams didn't compare to this--to the knowledge that they'd both remember this as a real event, that John was dipping his tongue into the slit as his lover rather than his dreamer. And--oh God--John really could take him all the way down.
As soon as John's nose pressed into his pubic hair, Sherlock lost it. He moaned a belated warning and came down his lover's throat, hips spamming in his attempt not to thrust violently into that perfect mouth.
Once John had swallowed down his release, he got off the bed and reached for Sherlock's wrist restraints. Sherlock hoped he wasn't about to be sent away. He felt completely boneless; he just wanted to lay there a while and bask in the fact that he'd just had an orgasm he wasn't about to wake from.
John's fingers gingerly released him from the leather cuffs.
Sherlock stretched out his arms to get the blood flowing again, but left the blindfold. He'd let John do the honors there, too.
"I can't keep anything secret from you, can I?" John asked as he undid the knotted leather strap behind Sherlock's head.
Sherlock shook his head as the blindfold fell away. John placed it on the bed and leaned forward, wiping at his cooling semen against Sherlock's pale cheek. He wiped it away with the corner of a sheet before moving to clean Sherlock's chest. They needed a flannel, at the very least, though the more likely option was a shower.
John seemed to be considering leaving, so Sherlock reached for him and pulled him down onto the bed.
"Just lay with me a while," Sherlock said. "I have to work out the rest of the case."
Without protest, John settled into the bed next to his flatemate.
Sherlock had lied, of course. He'd worked out the final variable while John had made his way up the stairs.
But this--being in John's protective arms after a forceful session--was something that he hadn't been able to have in his dreams. Now he could.
He intended to take.