John didn't know what he'd expected from a music video shoot, but hours of waiting and short bursts of frenetic activity wasn't it. But, Sherlock had wanted him there, so there he was, trying to stay out of the way of grips and PAs and whatever that guy was called who was in charge of the smoke machine.
Sherlock was sprawled on his stomach across some heavy black netting that had been strung over a series of different coloured lights. He was currently writhing around mouthing the lyrics to his next single while the lights flashed beneath him. Like many things to do with Sherlock, it should have been ridiculous, but instead it made John wonder if there might be a chance to pull him into a corner somewhere for a few private moments.
"Cut!" yelled the director, and the music playback stopped. "Sherlock, love. We need you to look more... menacing."
Sherlock propped himself up on his hands and said, "I'm strung up like a fish in a net wearing five-inch heels. I'm not sure 'menacing' is a word that comes to mind."
John tried not to laugh, but it was true. Sexy as hell, absolutely, but not really menacing at all.
The director leaned over and said something to the scriptwriter. They conferred for a few minutes while Sherlock looked bored up in his hammock. John had to smile at the image of Sherlock leaning his chin in his hand like a teenager, feet crossed at the ankles and kicked up above him. He was dressed all in black but for his shoes, which for some reason wardrobe had decided had to be bright blue, criss-crossed with black leather straps. Oh, and the heels, which tapered to a wicked-looking point. John honestly had no idea how Sherlock managed to walk in them, but it clearly wasn't his first time.
John also had no idea it would drive him absolutely mad to watch Sherlock walk across the set in those shoes. When Sherlock had first walked out of the dressing room, the first thing John noticed was the tight black t-shirt and the tight leather trousers. That was enticing enough. But it took John a moment to realize that Sherlock's walk was all wrong, a sway in his hips that wasn't normally there. John watched the undulating movement of Sherlock's arse as he crossed the soundstage, fighting the urge to lick his lips, when it hit him.
Sherlock was walking like a woman. That was when John noticed the shoes.
He spent the next several hours of the shoot trying to figure out how soon he could corner Sherlock, and how in the hell he could manage to get off with him while he was still five inches taller than normal. It was amazing how creative he was getting.
The director heaved a sigh and said, "All right, everyone take fifteen minutes while we sort this." He gave the scriptwriter a dirty look and carted her off for a chat. Meanwhile several stagehands went over to help Sherlock climb out of his nest. John stayed where he was, and just watched as the netting was lowered to a more reasonable height, so Sherlock could step out easily. He was gratified to see Sherlock looking around, only to stop when he saw John. He smiled, while waving off his latest assistant, and started to walk across the soundstage.
John's heart thudded painfully in his ribcage as he watched every single step of that slow, sashaying walk. That bastard. He knew exactly what he was doing to John. John lifted his chin and stood, carefully schooling his face into a neutral, bland smile. "So, sounds like there's some artistic differences going on," John said as Sherlock got closer.
"Mmm." Sherlock leaned down to John's ear and murmured, "I have a perfectly serviceable trailer just outside."
"You're working, Sherlock." John tried not to squirm, thankful he didn't need to adjust his jeans—yet.
"Not right now, I'm not," Sherlock said, then flickered the tip of his tongue over John's earlobe.
"You are such a brat," John said, smiling up at him.
"And you are incredibly obvious. I saw the way you were looking at me."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." John started to walk away, but Sherlock caught him by the elbow and reeled him back in.
"Yes you do." Sherlock's breath was hot and damp across his neck as he leaned down to speak. "You've been sitting here all morning thinking about fucking me, and I know why. You can stay here and waste time playing hard to get, or..."
"Or?" The urge to play hard-to-get was fading quickly.
"Just come with me."
John barely heard the trailer door close before Sherlock was on him, pressing him hard against the counter and leaning down to devour his mouth. John groaned against Sherlock's mouth and reached up, up to put his arms around Sherlock's neck. By an unspoken accord, John tightened his arms and Sherlock grabbed him just under his arse, lifting John so he was sitting on the countertop. Sherlock leaned in, wriggling his way between John's knees until their bodies were pressed tight together.
"Which was it," Sherlock growled against his ear, leaning to bite the pulse in John's neck, "the trousers, or the shoes?"
"Both," John gasped, grinding his hips against Sherlock's and letting his head fall back. "Both of them. Fuck, Sherlock, the way your arse moves..." Sherlock's answering chuckle was low, low enough John could feel it tingling in the pit of his own belly, sparking and slow up his spine. Then Sherlock pulled away, his mouth leaving John's skin, cold dry air where a moment before there was hot, humid sweetness. John groaned at the loss until he felt Sherlock's hands grabbing at John's belt, unfastening it and opening his flies with quick efficiency.
When Sherlock said "Lift," John did, letting Sherlock haul his jeans and pants down to his knees. His cock swayed from under his shirttails, hard and just barely starting to leak. With a dirty, hot-eyed smile, Sherlock leaned down and pushed John's shirt up and out of the way. He grabbed John by the hips and dragged his tongue lightly over the single drop of moisture at the tip of John's cock.
"Oh, fuck. Sherlock, that's—"
"Shh," Sherlock said, his breath washing over John. He raised one hand and pressed a finger to John's mouth. John opened his mouth and pulled the tip of Sherlock's finger in and started to suck. He was rewarded by a soft gasp, then Sherlock gave over the idea of teasing and wrapped his lips around the swollen head of John's cock and started to suck at the same speed.
John closed his eyes and rolled his tongue over Sherlock's finger, feeling the same movement mirrored on his cock. He sucked a little harder, and so did Sherlock. He slowed down. Again, so did Sherlock. It was getting difficult to get enough air through his nose, the way his heart was beating in his chest.
He tried to think of exactly what he wanted, and how to replicate that on Sherlock's finger. It was odd, really, because he was so used to Sherlock surprising him—this was a surprise in an entirely different way. He curled his tongue slowly around the finger in his mouth, just barely sucking at it. Not only did he feel the same dragging sweetness over his cock, but he felt Sherlock's sharp gasp. John smiled.
He reached up and took Sherlock's hand in both of his, cradling it gently. Then John set about trying to drive Sherlock mad. He lapped at the base of Sherlock's finger, aware that Sherlock was still following his lead, but also feeling the tremor run through the hand in his mouth. John sucked greedily, stroking Sherlock's finger with his tongue, thinking of each and every thing he could do to Sherlock's cock that turned Sherlock into a writhing, begging mess.
Sherlock moaned softly against John's cock, that low rumble shooting sparks through John's gut. He felt one of Sherlock's hands leave his hip, then heard the unmistakable sound of a lowering zip, the slick sound of flesh against flesh as Sherlock moaned again, not as softly this time. John started working his mouth up and down Sherlock's finger, bobbing on it in a slow and steady rhythm. Whether or not Sherlock followed was irrelevant, he just wanted to make Sherlock lose his fucking mind, right there on the floor of his trailer.
John closed his eyes and pictured the sweet, nearly feminine sway of Sherlock's arse as he'd walked across the soundstage, and the contrast of that and the unmistakably masculine groans around his cock set off an explosion of light behind his eyes, not of orgasm, but of arousal so sharp it was painful, blinding. He gasped, and his mouth left Sherlock's skin. He squeezed Sherlock's hand hard, opening his eyes and looking down to find Sherlock staring back at him, the soft pink heart shape of his lips stretched decadently around the wet length of John's cock.
"Oh fu-fuck," John said, his heart beating so hard it felt as if it might burst up and out of his skull. He could feel his entire body tensing, centered around the pit of his belly, tightening from the middle out. He whimpered, knowing that when the release hit, it would shake him right down to the foundations. Words poured out of him, a soft desperate string of sound, variations on "oh god" and "don't stop", and other, less-coherent syllables. He couldn't look away, not even when Sherlock closed his eyes and focused all of his considerable attention on John's cock.
Sherlock came first, a soft grunt and a softer patter of semen striking the cabinet below. John could see every twitch, every spasm that shivered through Sherlock's body, and a moment or two later the world went blindingly white and there was nothing at all that John could feel, nothing except the overwhelming push of wave after wave of utter bliss. He was floating, disconnected from everything else, unaware of anything else.
When he finally opened his eyes, he was leaning against a wall and Sherlock was standing and dressed again, with his arms around John's waist and amusement flashing in his eyes. "Are you all right?"
It took a moment for John to understand the words. "F-fine. I'm fine."
"You seemed to go away there for a minute," Sherlock said, wearing his best smug bastard grin.
"Come here," John managed, then pulled Sherlock in for a long, deep kiss that should have left no doubt that John was very much right there.
"You're saying I should wear high heels more often then," Sherlock said, once John let him go.
Before John could answer, there was a sharp rapping at the trailer door. "Sherlock? We need you back on set."
"I'm... not sure my heart could take that," John said, nudging Sherlock back so he could hop down off the counter. He looked at Sherlock with a critical eye and said, "The makeup girl is going to kill you."
"I was due for a touch up anyway," Sherlock said, then he smirked. "It was mostly lipstick anyway. It rubs off so easily."
"It—" John laughed and took a second look at himself before tucking into his jeans and refastening everything. "So it does. You'd think I'd know by now."
"You'd probably better wash your face and neck too," Sherlock said, heading for the door. "I'll see you back on the set."
"Wouldn't miss it for anything," John said, grinning. Once Sherlock had gone, John watched him walking away from the trailer's windows, each swaying step making him smile.