Sherlock’s eyes flew open at the sound of a key scraping into the lock of the front door. The sound was louder than usual, the turn abrupt. The hinges squealed, but there was no slam. So, whoever was at the door threw the door open but caught it before it could hit the wall. Aggravated but not angry.
The door closed, and a grunt traveled up the steps. Clearly male. Mycroft or John, then. Most likely, it was Mycroft. John wasn’t due home for hours now, but Sherlock held out hope for the stairs. The footfalls were heavy, slow. If Mycroft were upset, he would have rocketed up those stair--or, at least do the closest approximation Mycroft could do with that giant umbrella continually thrust up his arse.
Sherlock chuckled at the thought as observations of the gait filtered through. It was heavier than usual for John. He must have his bag. So, he came home early from his trip. He’d almost made the whole length of the trip, so something must have happened this morning to make him decide to come home. Therefore, Sherlock was likely to be dealing with an angry John, but one who was relieved to be home.
That was Sherlock’s favorite type of John.
With a smirk, he rushed to get his dressing gown off his shoulders, stripping his t-shirt before pulling the gown back on and settling against the sofa pillows, his toes peeking above the armrest. Shoving the shirt under the sofa, he cocked his head. Eleventh step. He wouldn’t have time to get his nipples hard before John could catch him.
John huffed, dropping his bag just inside the door. “Remind me again why I agreed to a five-day camping trip?”
Sherlock blinked. John… John had…
“Sherlock? You all right, love?”
“Your face,” was all Sherlock could get to come out of his mouth.
John scratched his jaw, the hair on his face sweeping back and forth under his fingers. It was just long enough that it probably felt soft, like velvet. “Yeah. Not much opportunity to shave. I’m just taking a shower now.”
No, that wouldn’t do.
Sherlock leapt from the sofa, grabbing John’s shoulders before he could get away. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what his final objective was. He just knew that he couldn’t let John shave this off. The moustache was horrible, truly awful, but this…
Sherlock dipped down, rubbing his cheek against John’s. It was soft, the nap of it raising goosebumps on the back of Sherlock’s neck, but it wasn’t as soft as he’d expected. It was better. If Sherlock kept it up, his skin would flush. The hair would leave behind an irritation that would heat his skin for hours, maybe days if he played his cards just right. He could press his fingers to it and remember. He could look in the mirror and see John all over his face and neck. God, he wanted his whole body to be red with beard burn. He wanted his very clothes to be a constant reminder.
Sherlock groaned, pressing John’s beard to his neck.
John’s tongue darted out to probe at Sherlock’s clavicular notch. “I thought you preferred your doctors clean shaven.”
Sherlock dropped his head back, letting John explore his neck with tongue and teeth. “I was wrong.”
John chuckled, hot breath against Sherlock’s skin spreading heat down to his toes. “Sherlock Holmes admitting he was wrong? I’d better make note of the date and time. This is a momentous occasion.”
John pulled away, and Sherlock swayed at the loss, furrowing his brows at John’s gleeful face. John’s tongue pressed out between his lips before slowly dragging its way back into his mouth, drawing Sherlock in with it.
“Make me,” John gruffed.
With a groan, Sherlock gripped the back of John’s neck and crashed their mouths together. The beard rubbed against his chin and upper lip, turning them raw bit by bit, but Sherlock was impatient. He wanted his skin red and tender, and he didn’t want to wait for it. He wanted it now. He needed it now. He wanted those kisses to hurt, to light his senses on fire.
So, he pressed their faces closer together, driving John up against the wall until escape was impossible. John thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, his kisses hard and relentless, just the way Sherlock wanted them, and he found himself mewling, whining into John’s mouth as his body acted of its own volition.
He never thought he’d feel this way before John, but he loved these moments when his brain would shut off, when he’d exist completely in his body, enjoying sensations instead of analyzing them. No one had been able to overwhelm him with pleasurable sensory input until John. Even the way John smelled lit sparks under Sherlock’s skin. And now, five days without a proper bathe, he smelled primal. He looked primal. He felt primal. He even sounded primal, growling into Sherlock’s mouth as he spun the pair of them.
Sherlock’s feet tumbled, jumbling in John’s, and he flailed backwards, landing on his back, half on and half off the sofa. His pyjama bottoms caught on his heels, forcing them down his hips until they caught on his frankly desperate erection. His dressing gown was a tangle around his torso, pulling tight against his panting chest, and he tore at it.
John, meanwhile, snatched his shirt off his own torso, flinging it aside before straddling Sherlock’s hips. “Do you have any idea how you look right now?” He dipped, dragging his teeth over Sherlock’s pulse point. “I could eat you alive.”
Sherlock’s back arched, baring his neck and pressing his chest to John’s. “Yes,” he hissed. “Do it.”
John shifted his weight off Sherlock, snaking one hand between them to tug on Sherlock’s pyjamas. Sherlock lifted his hips, and John eased the pyjama bottoms down Sherlock’s thighs, sliding down Sherlock’s body with them.
Once they were free, John grazed his cheek up the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. The hairs buzzed against Sherlock’s skin, leaving him torn between pressing into the touch and spreading his legs, leaving himself completely vulnerable to whatever John had in store for him. When he felt John breath against his scrotum, his body made the decision for him, hooking his knee over the back of the sofa and pressing his groin towards John’s waiting mouth and facial hair.
Sherlock fisted his hands in his hair, desperate at the thought of beard burn on his bollocks, but it was not to be, at least not yet. After a fleeting bit of warmth at the crux of Sherlock’s thighs, John slid his cheek down Sherlock’s other thigh.
“For God’s sake,” Sherlock groaned. “Just do it.”
The buzz of John’s beard began its ascent, far too slowly for Sherlock’s taste. “Never were one for the slow build, were you?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but his words were never able to form cogency as the flat of John’s tongue pressed against Sherlock’s perineum and swept all the way up to his slit. John swallowed Sherlock down, ripping a wrecked moan from Sherlock’s throat. The inside of his mouth was smooth and velvety, hot and glorious, and the hair on his chin brushed Sherlock’s balls on each downstroke.
Sherlock couldn’t help but tip his hips, seeking the brush of crisp hairs against sensitive skin. John’s tongue was frantic on the underside of Sherlock’s cock. He met each of Sherlock’s thrusts with fervor. Sherlock’s impending orgasm built and built, hot tension pulling at his gut, but he didn’t want to come, not until his thighs and groin were chafed bright red.
He whined, pressing his thighs together until each thrust, each bob of John’s head, rubbed his beard hard against the inside of Sherlock’s legs. The burn combined with the growing tightness in his groin were incredible, and he found his voice growing in volume and pitch until it was all he could do to grip the sofa cushions for dear life. He was so close it burned, but he didn’t want to come yet. Coming would mean the end of John’s beard rubbing his groin raw, and he couldn’t give it up. Not now. It had to wait, but John’s mouth was insistent, the feel of his facial hair light sparks in the kindling of Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock sobbed, the intensity of it all overwhelming him, and John pulled of Sherlock’s cock with an obscene slurp.
His legs falling open, Sherlock sobbed again, a sob that choked into a gasp as John’s cheek pressed to Sherlock’s perineum, his hand curling around Sherlock’s wet cock.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said, rubbing his face from Sherlock’s cleft to the base of his cock. “If I had known this would be your reaction, I would have grown a beard years ago.”
Sherlock could only vocalize something incomprehensible.
“You like the way this feels?” John asked with a particularly hard smear of his cheek against Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock grunted in the affirmative, nodding his head vigorously.
John sucked at Sherlock’s inner thigh, biting down as his fist worked over Sherlock’s cock, making Sherlock jerk and groan. “Go on,” John murmured against Sherlock’s skin. “Come for me, love.”
Sherlock’s body broke, the dam bursting as Sherlock hunched in on himself, fluid landing on his chest and stomach as he shook and shouted. Before Sherlock could even take a deep breath, still hazy with the afterglow, John was crawling up his body. John’s hands disappeared between their bodies, but the muscles of his arms and shoulders gave away what he was doing, making Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat.
John found the lowest splash of come against Sherlock’s belly and followed it with his tongue. He worked his way up, laving each spot until only saliva--and streaks of red chafing--remained on Sherlock’s skin. Finally, John’s lips arrived at Sherlock’s neck, pressing briefly against Sherlock’s Adam’s apple before John laid his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulders.
The tip of John’s cock drew a wet line on the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, and Sherlock shivered.
“Fuck,” John grunted as his body started to shudder, and Sherlock grabbed his face, pressing their lips together, swallowing up the sounds of John’s orgasm. He felt hot semen gush against his inner thigh, and he wanted to rub it into his skin, wear it like a badge, but for the moment, he settled with letting John rest against his body.
“I’m glad you came home early,” Sherlock said.
John burst into giggles. “Me too.”