Work Header

Mile High Club

Work Text:

“John.” Sherlock nudged John in the ribs, none too gently.

“What?” John's eyelids fluttered as he tried vainly to rouse himself.

“Look at the stars.”

They were on a night flight back to London, comfortably situated at the very back of the first class cabin. Sherlock insisted on taking the window seat, of course, so once the cabin lights were dimmed, John found it to be a rather convenient time to catch up on some sleep.

“Very nice,” he yawned, tilting his head to glance briefly out the window. He turned away and settled himself into the overstuffed leather seat, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders.

Sherlock huffed in irritation. “No, really look.”



His eyes snapped open as Sherlock reached across to place a heavy hand on his thigh. “Christ, Sherlock, I'm trying to get some sleep.”

“Just...indulge me for a moment?”

John sat up, giving Sherlock a curious glance. “All right, love.” He unbuckled his seat belt and half-rose from his seat, leaning across Sherlock to get a good look out the window. “Am I looking for anything in particular?”

“Well, actually...” Sherlock murmured, his voice coming out as a low purr. “...I just wanted you closer.”

John froze as Sherlock leaned in, breath ghosting along his neck, one hand running up his arm, fingers digging into his bicep, the other hand snaking around his waist. “Sherlock-” he began, a warning edge in his voice.

“You didn't check your Twitter account before we boarded, did you? I mentioned you in a conversation.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Regarding?”

“The mile high club,” Sherlock rumbled, pressing his lips against John's throat, his voice so low that John had to suppress a shiver of desire.

“Absolutely not, Sherlock,” he whispered, though it was a half-hearted refusal at best. “And I'm going to get a crick in my neck from being in this position. Let go.”

“Sit in my lap.”

“You can't be serious.”

Their eyes met and John licked his lips nervously, his jeans already half-tented. Sherlock gave him a lopsided grin, biting the edge of his lower lip hopefully.

“Fuck,” John muttered, a delicious sense of danger washing over him at the thought of indulging in this ridiculous plan. His eyes flickered to the aisle. The people across from them appeared to be sound asleep, the heavyset man snoring lightly, an eye mask strapped to his face. The gangly woman he had boarded with was leaning awkwardly against his shoulder, her head occasionally lolling forward as she slept.

Sherlock had leaned in again, his tongue curling around the whorls of John’s ear. “Probably a bit ambitious for this setting. And I didn’t bring any supplies. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun,” he breathed, and the combination of warm breath and damp skin made goosebumps prickle across John’s neck and arms.

“All right,” he moaned, slightly dizzy. God, the effect Sherlock’s voice had on him. It wrapped around him like velvet, tugging at his balls and his heart as insistently as the tide.

Grinning in triumph, Sherlock pushed the button to recline his seat, eyeing John invitingly.

“On one condition, Sherlock,” he murmured, as he shifted over, placing his knees on either side of Sherlock’s hips. “Absolute silence. You can’t make a sound. Understand?”

He saw the pupils of Sherlock’s eyes dilate, heard him suck in a breath. A pause, and then Sherlock nodded, once, a swift jerk of his head.

John sighed. He’d been trying for a safety precaution against them getting discovered, and instead he’d discovered a kink. Fantastic.

Sherlock grabbed the blanket that John had been trying to sleep under and wrapped it around them, then slid his hands up John’s thighs to grasp his hips. His touch sent flutters through John’s belly, and his eyes were incandescent in the half-light of the darkened cabin.

Despite his misgivings about what they were doing, John couldn’t help but feel a wash of affection as he gazed at Sherlock. He still sometimes found it hard to believe that this brilliant and gorgeous man had actually chosen to share his life with him. Smiling, he stroked Sherlock’s cheek lightly, then leaned forward and captured his mouth in a kiss. One hand was braced on the seat back; with the other he traced a line down Sherlock’s neck and into the open V of his shirt, easing the buttons open one by one and sliding his palm down Sherlock’s chest. Then he followed the path his fingers had taken with his mouth, nipping and sucking down Sherlock’s neck to his collarbone.

Sherlock took a breath that was almost an audible groan. “Shh,” John whispered, placing his fingers over Sherlock’s lips, unable to stop himself from tracing their perfect cupids-bow outline. Sherlock lapped at John’s fingers, drew them into his mouth and sucked lightly on them, at the same time as he was undoing John’s jeans.

And then it was John’s turn to stifle a moan, as Sherlock drew his cock out and wrapped his long, clever fingers around it. He gave it a few slow, smooth strokes, the same way his tongue was stroking over John’s fingers. John shuddered with want, panting against Sherlock’s neck. He pulled his fingers out of Sherlock’s mouth and reached down to palm the erection he could feel threatening to burst out of Sherlock’s chinos.

Sherlock arched his back, his eyes glazed over, jaw clamping shut on a moan, both hands reaching up to clench hard at John’s hips. John managed to one-handedly undo Sherlock’s trouser button, slide his zipper down, and then work both trousers and pants down Sherlock’s hips enough to free his cock. Bracing himself on both arms, he started a slow undulation of his hips that brought their shafts into direct contact, sliding against each other in a maddening, wonderful friction.

They were both half-dressed, and it was warm under the blanket, so before long they were both damp and sweaty. Their cocks glistened with sweat and pre-come, intensifying the sensations as they rubbed against each other. Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lower lip, stifling the noises he usually made. He slid his hands down inside John’s jeans, inside his pants, gripping his arse, trying to make him speed up.

Not a chance of that, John thought, grinning to himself. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek in one hand and kissed him lightly, then brushed his thumb over the indentations Sherlock’s teeth had left in his bottom lip. He followed that up with a more thorough kiss, plundering Sherlock’s lush, gorgeous mouth with the same slow intensity he brought to his frotting.

It hadn’t taken John very long to figure out that, for all his disparaging comments about transport, Sherlock was an amazingly sensual person, responsive and perceptive in equal measure. John had benefitted tremendously from that on many occasions, and he loved moments like this, moments when he could return the favor and unravel Sherlock with his mouth and his hands and his cock.

Sherlock rocked his hips upwards, frantically seeking stimulation. John could tell he was close, and he felt his own release coming, coiling heavy and insistent at the base of his spine. He reached down, between their bodies, and wrapped his hand around the both of them and started stroking, hard and fast, twisting his wrist a little when he reached the top, which he knew drove Sherlock mad. Sherlock flung one hand up to brace himself on the bulkhead above them, the other clutching at the front of John’s shirt. Moments later John felt him shudder, then pulse in his hand, his involuntary wail muffled by John’s mouth on his. And then John was following mere seconds later, gasping as a wave of pleasure rolled up his spine and he spiraled into a white-out of bliss.

As his senses returned, John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to suck air into his lungs quietly. He could feel Sherlock’s chest heaving underneath him, his heart pounding.

“Did you call—” a voice said, and then a shocked gasp. John’s head snapped up to see a flight attendant standing in the aisle next to their seats, her mouth a shocked “O”, her eyebrows nearly climbing into her hairline. He looked at Sherlock, who was looking up, and followed his gaze to where his hand was braced against the bottom of the overhead compartment.

Right over the flight attendant call button, now illuminated.

“Um,” John said, clearing his throat. The flight attendant shook her head and stepped back behind the curtain that veiled first class from coach, revealing that the gangly woman across the way had woken up during the commotion. She was scowling at them, and John felt his cheeks burning in response. Underneath him, Sherlock started to shake.

“Don't you dare laugh,” John whispered, glaring at him. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“Of course not.”


“I'm sorry!” Sherlock protested, his voice loud in the quiet cabin.

“Shhh,” the gangly woman hissed.

Sherlock met John's eyes, and they both burst into a fit of giggles.

“My hand...” John gasped, squirming.

“Don't wipe off on me!” Sherlock's head fell back against the seat as John slowly swiped his hand across his stomach. “Thanks, John. Really.”

“You're welcome, love.” The embarrassment he felt at being caught out couldn’t hold a candle to the warm tenderness he felt in his heart when he looked at Sherlock. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips and then tucked himself back into his pants. He zipped up his jeans with some difficulty before sliding off Sherlock's lap and collapsing back into his own seat. “Here, you can have the blanket.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock muttered, wrapping the fleece close as he tried to adjust his clothing discreetly. “Really should have thought ahead about the mess.”

“Really should have,” John yawned, leaning back in his seat with a smug look on his face.

* * *

The rest of the flight continued without incident, and with a remarkable lack of service on the part of the flight attendants, as well. When they debarked at the gate in London, a rotund security officer with a large handlebar mustache blocked their way before they could continue out into the terminal.

“Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?”

“Uh, yeah,” John said, trying to push past.

“Dear God,” Sherlock muttered, eyeing the mustache. John tried not to laugh.

“You're going to have to come with me,” the officer said, side-stepping to intercept John. The gangly woman and her companion shoved their way past just then, and she took the opportunity to throw one more scowl over her shoulder before stalking away.

“That won't be necessary.” A sonorous voice cut above the general hubbub, and the security officer turned to face Mycroft Holmes. To an unexperienced eye, he looked calm and collected, but to Sherlock and John, he was clearly irritated.

“And who are you?” the officer snapped, his mustache bristling.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard,” Mycroft drawled, flashing a badge briefly, earning a withering look from Sherlock.

“Scotland Yard?” the officer scoffed. “What's that to do with-”

“These men are known fugitives. Would you care to explain to your supervisor why you interfered with a top priority investigation?”

“But,” the officer sputtered. “They- On the plane-”

“That is quite enough,” Mycroft snapped. “I will take it from here.” He produced two pairs of handcuffs from somewhere in the recesses of his overcoat, handing one pair to the guard with a pointed look. “These are for Dr. Watson. Do make sure they are extra tight.”

“Oh, is that really necessary, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his voice dripping acid.

The officer glanced in confusion between the two brothers. “I thought you said-”

“This is my brother,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft Holmes. I can't imagine how he got past security.”

“I am not this man's brother,” Mycroft snapped, stabbing the floor between the toes of his shoes with the point of his umbrella. “I can't imagine how we could possibly be related. Not in the least.” He paused to collect himself. “Now, I strongly suggest you resume your normal duties before I am forced to report your habit of siphoning liquor from the storage room at Wetherspoon's.”

The officer stared at Mycroft, eyes wide in terror, mustache drooping. “Sir, yes, sir. Erm, what are my orders?”

“Resume your normal duties,” Mycroft repeated, the words clipped and precise. “And I will personally assure your supervisor that these men have been taken into custody.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer stammered. He half-saluted then stopped himself, smoothing his mustache instead. He gave John a bewildered look and handed Sherlock the handcuffs, awkwardly bobbing his head before scurrying off.

In the tense silence that followed, Sherlock dangled the handcuffs in front of Mycroft's face. “Can we have this pair, Mycroft? For later?”

Mycroft pressed a hand to his eyes. “I should have let you rot in bureaucratic hell.”

“I think he meant to say thank you,” John said soothingly. “But, seriously, can we keep the handcuffs?”

Sherlock burst into raucous laughter, John following suit.

Mycroft frowned fiercely. “Shall I cancel my request to drop the charges that have been brought against you as a result of your most recent escapade?”

Sexcapade,” Sherlock corrected, prompting another fit of laughter from John.

“Back to the security office it is, then,” Mycroft snarled.

“No, no,” John gasped, raising a hand. “No need to go out of your way, Mycroft. You've already done enough.”

“I could have talked my way out of it, anyway,” Sherlock protested. “Surely there are more important matters that require your attention? Or are you training for legwork?”

“Legwork!” John chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh, that's too good.”

“Sentiment,” Mycroft sighed, speaking to no one in particular. “That's the problem. Too much sentiment. Rest assured, I won't make that mistake again.”

Sherlock grinned and John rolled his eyes, clapping Mycroft on the back. “Seriously, Mycroft. Thank you. But I can't even tell you how much more embarrassing it is to be rescued than to sit through the rigmarole at airport security.”

“You'll have to take a cab home,” Mycroft said stiffly, giving John the barest hint of a fond glance before glaring at Sherlock and walking away, his umbrella swinging in time with his stride.