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Surrender

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It's not the first time it had happened. No, it wasn't the first time that Sherlock's attraction to John hit him like a ton of bricks dropped out of the sky.

But even so, it never ceases to amaze Sherlock when it happens to that particular degree. Of course, he's always attracted to John. He has been ever since the day their eyes locked in the lab at Bart's. He'd known instantaneously in that moment that he was attracted to John, in the way that he could be attracted to certain men in a sexual (boring) way (and granted, those instances were certainly few and far between)--but there was nothing inherently special about that initial attraction.

But less than 24 hours later, John Watson locked eyes with Sherlock in the sitting room of the flat that just moments ago became theirs and uttered the phrase, "Oh God, yes," and Sherlock was gone. The thrill that ran up his spine in that moment wasn't sparked by the case (though certainly, that added to the excitement), but from that moment forward, John became the be all and end all of Sherlock's sexual desires.

But fast forward 7 years (186 cases, 32 near-death experiences, 1 faked death, 2 temporary exiles, 1 wedding [not theirs], 1 baby [arguably theirs], and 1 mended relationship) later, and Sherlock's knees nearly go out from under him when John walks into their sitting room in military dress.

Luckily his knees don't actually go out from under him, on account of the fact he's currently mid-way through giving Rosie her evening bottle, and she probably would not take kindly to being interrupted and dropped on the floor by a crumpling consulting detective. But Sherlock's throat closes up and his heart skips a beat (an arrhythmia at his age? Unlikely, but certainly feels plausible in the moment) and he feels simultaneously hot and cold all at once and he's tongue-tied and and drowning in lustful endorphins. How is it possible, he thinks, after all this time, John can still reduce him to this?

John looks up from adjusting his jacket cuff. He cocks his head. "Problem?"

Sherlock opens his mouth and tries to speak. He knows he should probably say something, but at this moment the only phrase his lizard brain is supplying is "Fuck me," which he's pretty sure isn't what John wants to hear when he has to be out the door in 5 minutes. Plus, it bothers John when Sherlock talks dirty with Rosie in the room, despite Sherlock's patient explanations of her current cognitive abilities. ("I just don't want the word cock to be part of her initial vocabulary, Sherlock. Surely you understand that's a bit not good." Sherlock would just roll his eyes and sigh.)

"I...no. Fine. It's all fine. You look...nice."

"Cheers." John smiles at him nonchalantly and turns to grab his coat.

"You sure you don't want to come along? Last chance. Mrs. Hudson did say she'd take Rosie..."

No, Sherlock did not want to come along. They'd actually talked about it openly for once, as was now their habit in these heady days of their rekindled relationship. Before, everything between them had been unspoken--both when they were together before the Fall, and after, when Sherlock returned but still couldn't find the words to say to John what he needed to say.

But that post-mortem message from Mary had changed everything: "I know you two. I know what you could become." So they owed it to her. To do it right, for once in their lives.

So when John had received the invitation to the formal...commemorative...somethingorother (Sherlock had maybe admittedly tuned out while John was explaining what exactly it was) and invited Sherlock to go as his date, Sherlock had flatly declined. As was his habit, John attempted to cajole him into going. But this time, Sherlock finally explained why he truly didn't wish to partake.

"John, I'm not declining because I'm being difficult, or because I don't want you to have a good time, or because I'm jealous of your friends or your past. I'm declining because social interactions in large groups of strangers are difficult...difficult for...for me." He'd avoided John's eyes as he said this. It somehow felt too intimate and too elusive all at once.

"The way...the way that I am, see, it's...it's not easy to turn off. You know that. And most of the time, when I don't give two shits about the people I'm around, I don't bother to turn it off. If they get offended, it's their problem. But John, when it's...when it's people you care about...I do try. I do try to turn it off. But it's hard, and it's unsettling, and I spent the whole time terrified that I'm going to say or do something that will give away that it's all a sham, and I'm scared I'll upset you or make things difficult for you or that you'll be ashamed of me and I hate that. I hate it. I know I pretend not to care, but I don't like it when you're upset with me. Not when it's about your friends. That's why...that's why I never go out with you for your birthday. Or meet any of your colleagues from the surgery. I just can't...it's too...it's too much." He'd said all of this in one rushing breath, and when he finally had the courage to look back at John, relief swept through him.

John's face was soft and open, and his eyes were wide and understanding. He'd taken Sherlock's hand and kissed his palm. "Thank you for telling me that."

Sherlock had smiled back. "But if it's really important to you--really important--like, Case Above a Seven important, I'll go."

John shook his head. "This one's not all that important, Sherlock. It's just the first time I'll be seeing my Army mates since...since we got back together. And because I never really told them about us before, I wanted to...well, to let them know. About us. But I can do that without you there."

Sherlock inclined his head. "You're going to tell them?"

"I am. They're not a bunch of pigheaded, machismo homophobes, you know. They're actually pretty decent blokes. And you and Rosie are the most important things in my life right now. So it's bound to come up."

Sherlock purses his lips, secretly pleased. "I'm...I'm glad you're telling them. But...if it's all the same to you, I'd still rather stay home."

John had leaned forward and kissed him. "Of course. I let you know next time it's above a Seven."

So two weeks later, John heads out the door without him, and Sherlock is left alone in the sitting room, feeding a wriggling baby, while his lizard brain attempts to process his visceral reaction to Captain John Watson in his dress uniform.

The event was only scheduled to last for four hours. All Sherlock had to do was finish feeding Rosie, put her down, perhaps tidy up the flat a bit (maybe take care of that mold experiment he'd left fermenting in the kitchen that John had threatened to set fire to), and then John would be home. Still in that uniform. And then Sherlock could make all the demands for a vigorous fucking that he wanted to, and John was sure to oblige.

But alas, it was not to be. As if sensing his desperation, Rosie flat-out refuses to be put down. She screams inconsolably to the point she spits up her entire dinner, necessitating the changing of the sheets in her crib, her onesie, and Sherlock's shirt as well. He makes a new bottle which she refuses to eat and bats animatedly out of his hands, wailing as though her life depends on it.

At one point, Mrs. Hudson pops in.

"Having a fuss?"

"Mrs. Hudson. Thank God you're here. I think she's broken."

Mrs. Hudson takes one look at her. "No, not broken, dear. Just fussy. She'll be fine, just let her cry it out."

"But I have been letting her cry it out! For two hours! How much more crying can she possibly need to do?"

"She's a baby, dear. Hard to say."

"But it's completely illogical," he hisses, pulling at his hair. "She has everything an organism needs to survive! What biological incentive could she possibly have to cry?"

"Well, who knows what's going on inside that funny little head of hers?" Mrs. Hudson shrugs and turns to walk down the stairs.

"Wait! Where are you going? Aren't you going to help me?"

"Oh, sorry dear, dinner plans."

"But...but..."

"Goodnight!"

Sherlock is left stammering in her absence.

Finally, two more hours of constant lullaby-singing and rocking later, he manages to get Rosie into her crib for the night. Exhausted, he staggers down the stairs to the bedroom and falls face-down into bed, still fully dressed.

He vaguely registers John arriving home sometime after that, smelling faintly of whiskey and whistling to himself as he changes out of his uniform and into his pajamas. Yet the blazing flames of arousal Sherlock had felt earlier in the evening when confronted with the uniform had been thoroughly extinguished by the reality of caring for a wailing child for four hours, and the idea of sex seems so remote it's almost foreign. Resigned, he rolls over and falls back asleep.

The uniform lingers vaguely in the back of his mind. But the next day, a new case picks up, and the game is on. His lizard brain retreats back to its cave.

Which is why, nine days and one arrested Bulgarian smuggler later, Sherlock is absolutely gobsmacked when he arrives back at the flat after giving his statement at the Yard to find John standing in their sitting room wearing a pair of camouflage fatigues, a white undershirt, boots, and--breathtakingly--his dog tags. Sherlock stops dead in his tracks.

"Welcome home, soldier."

Sherlock cocks his head cautiously to the side. "John?"

"Not today. Today you'll be referring to me as 'Captain.' Is that clear?"

"Yes...Captain." Sherlock is slightly torn. John in the fatigues is undeniably sexy, something straight out of his fantasies, his toned shoulders and broad chest on display, his stance confident and gaze leveling. But...John calling him "soldier"? That felt...odd. But if this was something John was into, by God, he'd give it a try.

"Good. Remove your coat."

Sherlock complies.

"Kneel."

Sherlock approaches him and kneels at John's feet, cautiously. He looks up, awaiting further instructions. This isn't so far off-base from things they'd experimented with in the past; now's usually the time John will order Sherlock to suck him off. But instead:

"10 push-ups. Now."

"...I..."

"Did I stutter."

John's tone is utterly arresting. He's using his Captain Voice, the one that makes Sherlock go weak all over, and he can't resist him, not now.

Meekly, Sherlock drops forward and proceeds with the push-ups. As he completes the last one, John shoves his boot in front of his face.

"Now, lick."

Sherlock pauses. This isn't what he wants. He's turned on by John in the uniform, by John in fatigues, by John's Captain voice, all of it, but this...this feels wrong, it isn't what he likes, it's taking that and twisting it all up and it's not right, it's not right...

"John, stop."

The boot immediately recedes and John's arms are around his shoulders pulling him up into a sitting position. John is crouching in front of him, eyes wide and inquiring.

"Are you alright?"

"I...yes? But that's not....I don't...I don't like that."

John swears quietly under his breath, then pulls Sherlock up to stand. He's blushing, clearly flustered.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I should have...shit. I should have asked. But...I saw how you reacted to my uniform the other night, and I thought...I thought it might be a kink you'd want to explore?"

"It is! It is!" Sherlock's desperate to convey what he wants, but he can't find the words, his head's all jumbled up in a combination of arousal and embarrassment and he wishes he could just melt into the floor. "I just..."

John lets out a long, slow breath. "Okay. I think we...I think we should actually talk about this. I'm going to go change out of these clothes. Why don't you put the kettle on and make yourself some toast. And we'll get this sorted."

Sherlock nods, relieved.

John's been doing research about this element of their relationship. Sherlock can tell. Ever since they fell back into the pattern of exploring this dynamic between them, John has suddenly become quite knowledgable about the ins and outs of power dynamics, and Sherlock's no fool. He knows John must be doing the research on his work computer (hopefully he's being smart enough to use the wireless network, Sherlock hopes, for his own sake), because Sherlock's efforts to review John's search history on his laptop at home had turned up nothing.

Sherlock supposes he could do his own research as well, but he knows he'd be consumed by it. With something like this, he could tell he'd fall into one of his internet wormholes and become obsessed for days, analyzing data and viewpoints and various bodies of research. But he doesn't want to do that: for this particular thing, he wants John to lead. He simply wants to sit back and let John take the wheel and steer. And luckily, John seems happy to oblige.

Sherlock busies himself with toast and tea in the kitchen, then meets John back in the sitting room. John is in his chair, dressed in his civilian clothes again (thankfully), but his posture is still slightly stiff. Sherlock hands him a mug of tea, then sits down in his own chair opposite John.

There's a beat.

Finally, John speaks.

"Okay, so...military kink? Was I totally off-base there? Were my deductions wrong?"

"Not completely wrong, no."

"But I missed something?"

Sherlock smiles. "There's always something."

John returns his smile. "Okay. So: What we tried back there isn't what you want. Can you tell me...what you do want?"

Sherlock stares into his tea, then takes a long sip. The silence feels deafening.

"I like your uniform. And I...I...Sometimes I feel like..." He starts jiggling his left leg absent-mindedly, and wrings his hands around his mug of tea.

It's all too much. Sherlock is still pretty wound up from the adrenaline high of the case. He'd been craving a cigarette his entire way home from the Yard and had been glad that John was waiting for him with an acceptable substitute (sex), but now he's without both and John is asking him to think and talk and explain himself--

"Alright, let's pause." John's voice is level and soothing. "Instead of telling me what you want, how about you tell me what you didn't like about what we just tried?"

There. That's easier. Some of those websites John's been reading must not be total rubbish after all.

"I didn't like...I don't want to be humiliated."

"Ah. So the whole 'drill sergeant' thing I was going for back there was probably a bit not good."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. Not good." But he fells compelled to elaborate. "I don't mind it when you boss me around a bit when we're...when we're having sex after a case. You ordering me to suck you off or fuck myself on your cock is fine." John's blushing, but Sherlock doesn't allow himself to get sidetracked. "I like it when you're a bit rough with me then--physically. Pulling my hair, holding me down, tying me up, that's...fine, that's all fine."

"Okay." John is trying to keep his voice steady, but Sherlock detects the undertone of heat in it. "So if we do some of that--what we've been doing up until this point--just, with my uniform on...that's something you'd like?"

Sherlock nods.

John clears his throat. He clearly has another question, but he's fidgeting now, too--they're both clearly fighting arousal, struggling to stay on task.

"And during the times that I'm wearing the uniform...do you...want to call me Captain?"

"Yes." The word rushes out of Sherlock's mouth before he even has a chance to contemplate his response. He can't count the number of times John's had him on his hands and knees moaning incoherently, or tied to the headboard begging helplessly, and Sherlock's bitten back the urge to call him Captain for fear John would be blindsided by it and stop fucking him. It was too great a risk, and he was too distracted during sex to properly deduce the odds. What if John didn't want that? Sherlock holds his breath.

An even deeper flush spreads across John's cheekbones. "Good. Okay. I'd...I think I'd like that too."

Sherlock grins at him like a fool.

"So in those situations...what should I call you?" John inquires. Sherlock stares at him quizzically. "I mean, in the scenario that I'm being, um, Captain...who are you? Are you my subordinate? Do you want...do you want me to call you dirty names?"

"No! No, I...I want you to. I want to be. I want. I..." Why must this be so difficult? Sherlock slams his mug down on the table and threads his fingers into his hair, pulling tightly at the strands. He squeezes his eyes shut. The thought of John calling him terrible names upsets him, it reminds him of Seb (unacceptable), that would be horrible, that would be--

"Hey, hey, none of that." John's crouched in front of him, holding him gently by the wrists, pulling his hands away from his hair. "We don't have to do any of that."

"Alright. I. The thing is...I don't want us to be play-acting at being other people. I still want us to be us. I want me to be me and you to be you, just...the version of you that pulls rank. Like that one time at the military base at Baskerville."

"Oh, you liked that did you?" John winks roguishly at him.

"Would have thought I made that obvious, considering how we celebrated wrapping up that case." They'd had a marathon sex session in their room at the Cross Keys Inn, which resulted in the breaking of one of the pathetically flimsy twin beds they'd be relegated to for lack of a double.

"Well, there were a lot of factors in play at that point. We'd just started having sex a few weeks earlier. I figured you were still celebrating the end of your dry spell."

"Dry spell? Who says I had a dry spell?" Sherlock spits back in mock offense.

"Oh, no one, just another of my brilliant deductions."

Sherlock lets out a good-natured harumph, and John returns to his chair.

Sherlock's feeling calmer now, though still a bit overheated--is it warm in here? He shakes the thought away.

John picks up his tea again. "Alright. Is there anything else you'd like to bring up? As long as we're doing this."

There isn't, really. Not really. Well, there was the one thing, the one thing that had lingered in his mind ever since that first case they'd solved together, that one thing that never failed to get Sherlock hot and bothered, but... would that be too much? A bridge too far?

John raises his eyebrows expectantly.

What the hell.

"Your gun."

John's expression changes instantaneously. Sherlock sees the tightness around his eyes, notes the way he leans back slightly, sees the way his knuckles whiten around his cup.

"My gun."

"Yes. I...I like it when you use your gun. It could be unloaded, of course," he rushes to amend.

John is quiet for a long time. Sherlock hears the rumble of a lorry driving past outside the window of the flat. It seems completely surreal that there's a whole world revolving outside, and they're in here doing... this. Sherlock tries not to panic.

Finally, John speaks. When he does, it's with a slow, deliberate air.

"I think that's a hard limit for me."

"Hard limit?"

"It means an absolute no."

Sherlock feels like he's been dipped in ice water. He's embarrassed, he's pushed John too far, John will surely not want to do any of this with him now.

"Oh. Alright. Okay. That's fine. All fine." He moves to stand. He needs to walk away.

"Wait--give me a chance to explain."

Sherlock pauses. John presses his lips together. He gazes into his mug, and thoughtfully swills his tea. Finally, he begins to speak.

"I like what we've been doing, Sherlock. I liked it years ago, back before you went away, and I like what it's become now. I like that it's not what we do all the time, but I like that it's our...unique way of unwinding after a case. It makes me feel close to you. It makes me trust you. It makes me feel good that you trust me to do that with you."

Sherlock nods cautiously.

John soldiers on. "I like being rough with you. I do. It turns me on when you struggle, and it turns me on even more when you submit. That dynamic between us is something I've never experienced before. And I love it."

Sherlock nods again.

"But...to me, there's a big difference between holding you down for a bit of a struggle in some handcuffs, and role-playing a non-consensual encounter with you at gunpoint."

Sherlock feels like his brain has screeched to a halt.

"Wait! No! That's not...that's not what I meant!"

John now looks completely flummoxed. "Then what did you mean?"

"I just meant...I meant you could have your gun. With you. Not even in your hands. Maybe just somewhere nearby. Just as a...reminder. Of how I feel about you when you use it."

"Oh!" John's brow furrows, and he pauses to think. "I suppose? It'd have to be unloaded, of course--"

"Of course."

"--but...yes. I could try and work that in."

"Alright then."

"Alright then."

They exchange smiles. They're shy smiles, a little awkward, but Sherlock's too overcome with relief to care.

John puts down his tea on the table.

"Well. I think we're a little too off-track to get into this today, but how about I join you in the shower? Relieve some of that tension of yours? You're still wound up from the case, I can tell."

Sherlock's slightly disappointed, but acquiesces. John makes it up to him with a perfectly pleasant (if vanilla) round of intercrural sex in the shower.

Of course, the next two weeks are some of their busiest ever. Three cases come in simultaneously the next day, each intriguing in its own right, and Sherlock devotes himself single-mindedly to the Work. He's vaguely aware of his attraction to John at sporadic intervals (pressed together as they hide in the broom closet of a corrupt MP's country estate, knees brushing against one another under the table at Ottolenghi during a stakeout, the feeling of John's chest against his back as he leans over him to review evidence), but the attraction is fleeting, as it always is during a case. It's business as usual.

Sherlock eats little and sleeps less. John frets and flusters and falls asleep at inopportune times. Sherlock smokes. John complains.

By the time they've wrapped up the third case, they're both at their wits' end. John insists Sherlock give their statement at the Yard while he returns to Baker Street to check on Rosie, who'd been staying with Mrs. Hudson on and off for the duration of the cases. Sherlock begrudgingly agrees, sits through Lestrade's abhorrently boring questioning, then finds himself practically vibrating out of his skin on the cab ride home.

He's not sure when the last time was he ate. He vaguely recalls John handing him some sort of biscuit after snatching a cigarette out of his hand on...Tuesday? Wednesday? What day was it? He's too disorientated to care anymore.

He arrives back at Baker Street and shoves a wad of cash at the driver, then trudges up the stairs. Flinging the door open, he stops dead in his tracks.

John is standing in the sitting room, in his full dress uniform.

All the breath leaves Sherlock's body.

"Welcome home, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinks, willing his brain to reboot. Strangely, he can only formulate one coherent thought. "Where's Rosie?"

"It's Friday. It's Molly's day to take her."

"Right. Right." Sherlock tries to remember how to breathe. John's gaze is leveling him, making him weak in the knees. It takes every once of willpower he has to not just drop down on the spot.

John takes a step forward.

"Are you coming inside?"

"Yes...Captain."

The word hangs in the air, and it feels like an electrical current has lit the room. John's shoulders set, and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. Sherlock's pants are beginning to feel uncomfortably tight.

"Remove your coat." Sherlock does so with such haste his left arm gets caught in the sleeve, and for a moment he flails awkwardly before righting himself, breathing more heavily than the situation should warrant.

John is smiling at him. He's seated himself in his chair, legs spread slightly, erection tenting the front of his slacks.

"Come here and kneel down."

Sherlock stands in front of him and drops to his knees, relief spreading through his body, warm and comforting. God, this is going to be incredible. John looks amazing, something right out of Sherlock's fantasies, his uniform bringing out the color in his eyes, which are boring into Sherlock--

"Suck me off."

Sherlock scrambles to undo John's belt and part his fly, freeing his erection as hastily as possible. His mouth is watering obscenely. He cannot thing of anything in the entire world that he would rather do.

"Hands behind your back. I want them to stay there unless I say otherwise. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

He says Captain in a low growl, pornographic and laced with intent. John's eyes are fixed on his mouth. He wets his lips and leans forward, smirking, and swallows John down to the root.

John's hands fly to his hair immediately, and Sherlock smiles in gratification. Usually it takes him a few sucks at least to get John desperate enough to grab him, but it appears he's already there. Sherlock closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of John's fingers threading through his follicles, tightening, controlling the pace.

Sherlock feels like he's floating. There's nothing but this now, nothing but the feeling of John in his mouth and John's hands in his hair and the way John's sighs sound from above him. Sherlock wants it to be good, he wants to make it so good for John, wants him to crave this, wants John to use him over and over...

Suddenly, John is pulling Sherlock off of him, and Sherlock gasps at the loss. He opens his eyes and blinks up at John uncomprehendingly.

"You're doing such a good job, Sherlock. Such a good job, I couldn't help but think you might be able to help me out with something else I need."

With that, he reaches beside his chair and picks up a small case. He opens it and pulls out his gun.

Sherlock is struck dumb. His brain is offline entirely, his mouth is dry, and all the blood in his body has rushed south and he is completely, entirely incapacitated.

John looks down at him, smiling knowingly--there's no way he could mistake the gobsmacked expression on Sherlock's face for anything other than intense arousal.. "You see, I'm afraid I've been neglecting to clean my gun as regularly as I should. I thought you could help me make that right."

Nonchalantly, he pulls a cleaning cloth from the case and begins to polish the weapon with long, slow strokes. Sherlock trembles. The sight of John handling his firearm whilst wearing his uniform too much, surely Sherlock is about to combust on the spot.

He wills himself to speak. "I...yes. I can. I can help. What. Did you...have in mind, Captain?"

John grins lazily at him. "Well, as we always used to say in the Army, the best polish is a bit of spit."

Sherlock gasps audibly.

John pauses, and Sherlock sees hesitation flicker across his face. He assesses that John's worried he's gone too far.

"Okay?" John asks hesitantly.

Sherlock can't respond fast enough. He feels like he's about to burst into flames with the sheer heat of his arousal and the urgent need to convey to John that this is exactly--exactly-- what he needs. "Yes! Yes, God, yes, please, please John--Captain-- yes, God, I--"

"Shhhh, okay. Okay, Sherlock. Easy, now. Deep breath."

Sherlock forces himself to slow down and breathe steadily.

John tosses aside the cleaning cloth and lowers the gun to his lap, beside his erection, pointing it at Sherlock.

"Lick it."

Sherlock leans forward and slowly licks the length of the barrel, the feeling of John's erection pressing against his cheek as he does so sending shivers down his spine. He licks again, the sensation of the metal cool and enticing beneath his tongue, a sharp juxtaposition to the pulsing heat of John's cock.

"Beautiful. Now lick me, too."

Sherlock switches his attention over to John's erection, licking from base to tip, then back down again. He repeats until John gently taps the gun against his cheek. He switches his attention back over to the gun.

Sherlock is gone. The arousal coursing through him is so strong he feels as though the entire universe has collapsed down into this infinitesimal moment, and it's too much and not enough and oh God the things John does to him. He is everywhere and nowhere and he cannot imagine how he ever spent one day without John Watson in his life. The thought makes him whimper.

John catches him by the chin and tilts his face up so they're making eye contact. Slowly, gently, he pulls Sherlock's jaw down to part his lips, and then gently eases the muzzle of the gun into his mouth.

"Okay?" John's eyes are earnest and kind. Sherlock nods and leans forward, taking the muzzle deep into his mouth down to the barrel and sucking, fellating the gun with renewed enthusiasm.

"Jesus Christ," John murmurs above him, and Sherlock grins internally, pleased with himself. The way he feels in this moment--John is feeling it, too. This experience is mutual. He is in this withJohn. He takes the gun deeper.

"Now suck me." John pulls Sherlock off the gun and presses his cock into his mouth, and Sherlock takes him down all the way, until he feels John hit the back of his throat, and swallows enthusiastically.

"God, just like that. Keep doing that."

Sherlock bobs up and down a few times, then switches back over to the gun, then back over to John's cock. He mind is hazy and disorientated with lust, and he loses himself in the loop of power and pleasure, surrendering to the sensation. He can't decide which feels better in his mouth; the harsh, cool metal of the firearm or the warm flesh of John's cock. He's glad he doesn't have to choose.

He's not sure how long he carries on for. He's vaguely aware that his breathing has become labored and he's making a high, whining noise in the back of his throat. His mouth is obscenely full of saliva, and he feels some of it escaping and making its way down his chin. He can't be arsed to care about any of it. It's too good, so damn good...

Just then, he feels a pressure between his legs, and he snaps back to reality. John is pressing his foot against Sherlock's erection, providing just the slightest hint of pressure, but it sends Sherlock spiraling. He pulls back, gasping for air, eyes wide and bewildered as he attempts to process the new sensation.

"Do you want to come like this?" John asks him.

Sherlock nods vigorously. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

"Okay. Get yourself off against my leg. Don't stop sucking. Keep your hands behind your back."

Sherlock spreads his knees more, bracketing John's leg, and leans forward slightly to press his erection against him. He gives an experimental thrust, and he can't help but cry out. It feels incredible, beyond incredible. He hadn't been aware of how achingly hard he was before, but now that it's been brought to his attention, he can barely think of anything else. He thrusts again and cries out once more, looking up and meeting John's eyes.

John is staring down at him in rapt attention, pupils blown wide, lips parted, drinking in the sight of Sherlock before him. The thought of being watchedby John while he's like this--on his knees, thoroughly debauched--Sherlock's brain seems to spark and crackle.

But...there's something he was supposed to be doing, wasn't there? Something besides mindlessly humping John's leg like a dog? But...what was it? He had instructions, John had given him instructions, but they felt so far away...he can't stop himself now, he thrusts over and over, harder each time, desperately seeking relief from the pressure in his groin. He's crying out pathetically, trying to convey to John with just his eyes that he's trying here, but he's lost...

John takes mercy on him and threads his fingers through his hair, and directs Sherlock's mouth back onto his cock. Oh, God, yes, that was it, sucking, he was supposed to be sucking, bringing John pleasure. He doubles down on his ministrations, and John moans above him. John presses the muzzle of the gun against Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock hears the unmistakable sound as he flicks off the safety.

It's over quickly from there. Sherlock thrusts with wild abandon against John's leg, seeking his pleasure, moaning deliriously around John's cock, mind numb with the thrill of the gun against his cheek. It doesn't take long until the friction gets the best of him and he comes for what feels like ages inside his freshly-pressed trousers, rutting frantically against John's leg, chasing the last ghostly remnants of pleasure to the very end.

He doesn't have any time to regain his bearings before John moves. John tosses the gun aside and stands up in one quick motion, and Sherlock drops back to rest on his heels, winded from the intensity of his orgasm. Sherlock feels like he's on the brink of collapse, but John just grabs him roughly by the hair, tilts his face upwards, and then takes his own rigid cock in his hand.

Sherlock is too blissed out to do anything besides watch as John jerks himself off over him, fingers twisting in Sherlock's hair to hold him tightly in place, face upturned a few inches from John's cock. Sherlock at least has the presence of mind to lick his lips and open his mouth the way John likes, and then yes, there, that's it, John's brow furrows and his eyes narrow and his fingers tighten in Sherlock's hair and then John shouts and he's coming all over Sherlock's face with a look of utter bliss.

It's eerily quiet in the aftermath. They're both breathing as though they've run a marathon. Sherlock notes John's face is flushed--he's clearly slightly embarrassed by what they've just done (though Sherlock can't for the life of him figure out why--after all, John's not the one on his knees with come in his pants and all over his face), but there's no tightness at the edges of John's eyes to suggest he has any regret about it.

Finally, Sherlock unfreezes. He licks his lips. The come tastes salty but strangely satisfying.

John's fingers loosen slightly in his hair.

"Lovely. Lovely," John murmurs, almost to himself, gazing down at Sherlock with a look that Sherlock has come to recognize as adoration. John absentmindedly swipes his finger through the streaks of come that landed on Sherlock's cheek, then offers his finger to Sherlock. Sherlock takes it in his mouth and gently sucks. His brain feels mercifully quiet.

John pulls his finger away and steps back to release Sherlock entirely, tucking himself back into his pants. Sherlock feels suddenly unstable and tilts forward, bracing himself with his hands on the floor, attempting to recover his bearings. He's still breathing hard, and it sounds unnaturally loud to him in the surrounding silence.

Finally, John speaks. "I want you to go get cleaned up in the shower. You have 7 minutes to be back out here in the sitting room, naked. Then, you're going to have something to eat. We'll continue after that. Understood?"

Sherlock wills himself to respond. When he does, it sounds breathless and soft. "Yes. Yes, Captain."

"Good."