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“What was your earliest adolescent sexual fantasy?”

John pauses mid-way through coaxing Rosie to lift her spoon to her open mouth. They’re gathered around the kitchen table, John encouraging Rosie to consume her breakfast of creamed cereal while attempting to get some toast into his own mouth, Sherlock reading the paper and summarily ignoring the tea and toast in front of him.

“Sherlock. We talked about this.”

“Our sexual fantasies? No, we haven’t, I’m fairly certain I would have stored that information on my hard drive somewhere, and I’ve perused it all recently. The data isn’t here. So we haven’t talked about it.”

“No, I mean, about the words we use in front of Rosie. She’s verbal now, you can’t just go around saying… that.”

“Please, John, as prodigiously as her vocabulary is developing, I’m fairly certain she’s not going to scandalise everyone at daycare by uttering the phrase ‘adolescent sexual fantasy’ in front of her peers.”


Their heads pivot in Rosie’s direction simultaneously.

There’s a beat of silence.

Rosie beams back at both of them, thrilled to have their undivided attention. “Se-xool!”

Sherlock snorts, then loses it altogether, his chuckles turning into spasms of outright laughter before John can even shoot him a dirty look.

Rosie, delighted in this reaction, doubles down on her efforts. “Sexool! Sexool!”

Sherlock is laughing so hard he’s crying.

John is ready to throttle him. “Oh my GOD, Sherlock. I told you! Look what you’ve done!”

Sherlock can barely reply, gasping out the words between helpless giggles. “Oh, she’s brilliant, John, it’s brilliant…”

“For fuck’s sake--”

“Language, John,” Sherlock titters. “She’s very impressionable…” He dissolves back into near-hysterics before he can finish his sentence.

Cheeks hot with indignation, John rises and pulls Rosie from her high chair, settling her onto his hip and wiping her face off before removing her bib. “Alright, that’s quite enough from both of you. I’m going to be late to drop her off as-is.”

Rosie, sensing the fun was ending, looks crestfallen. “Sexool?”

“Okay, honey, how about we practice our ABC’s instead? A, A, A, A, B, B, B, B…..” John sings her the song all the way to daycare, praying to whatever deity exists that it will somehow overwrite the newest vocabulary word imprinted in her rapidly-developing brain.

<19 September 11:56> I’m not going to let this slide, you know.

<12:03> Sorry, what?

<12:03> Your fantasies.
<12:04> For some reason you refuse to discuss them.
<12:04> But I think it could lead to some very mutually enjoyable results.

<12:05> And what makes you say that?
<12:05> The rousing success of our one attempt at Star Wars role-play?

John can’t help but shake his head woefully at the memory. He’s on his lunch break, downing a sandwich on a park bench and trying (and failing) not to get sucked into Sherlock’s shameless attention grab.

<12:06> Oh, please, it wasn’t like it was a tragedy.
<12:06> I’d be willing to try again.
<12:06> I’d read the Wikipedia right before, just in case, promise.

<12:07> Absolutely not.
<12:07> I’m still traumatised.
<12:08> It was on telly the other night and I still couldn’t stomach it.
<12:08> You’ve ruined it for me forever.
<12:08> It was one of my greatest worldly pleasures, and now you’ve gone and spoiled it.

He’s being dramatic, he knows, but there’s no way to quantify their previous attempt as anything other than an unmitigated failure.

A few months back, he and Sherlock had been working a case that required them to attend a masquerade ball in disguise. Sherlock had volunteered to take care of the costumes, insisting that the society event called for more than slapping together whatever they could find in their respective wardrobes.

He’d returned from what John could be certain was some ridiculously upscale costume boutique with two black bags, but refused to reveal their contents to John. John had simply shrugged and let it slide, making the rookie mistake of trusting Sherlock’s judgement in the matter.

He thought he’d understood the reason for the secrecy when, an hour prior to the start of the ball, Sherlock had revealed their costumes to John: Captain Hook and Smee.

John was irate. It had taken all of his willpower not to murder Sherlock in cold blood then and there. He’d nearly refused to go, until Sherlock reminded him of the mortal peril he’d be in if he were forced to attend the ball unaccompanied, without John (and his firearm) as backup.

John had begrudgingly agreed. Sherlock promised to make it up to him later.

John had given him the silent treatment for the entirety of the event.

They’d returned to the flat at a little after 1 o’clock in the morning, Sherlock having procured a recording of the perp’s confession through some rather ingenious social engineering, and he’d sent the audio file to Lestrade along with the address of the perp’s bolthole. The case was officially out of their hands.

John was still not speaking to him, so mortified by Sherlock’s costume choice that he refused to even entertain the idea of their usual post-case celebratory sex. He’d shucked his outfit the moment they walked in the door and resolutely thrown on his most offensively patterned pair of flannel pyjamas in protest.

But then Sherlock had disappeared into their bedroom and shut the door. John assumed he was pouting about the denied sex.

Twenty minutes later, though, John’s stewing was interrupted by Sherlock’s voice echoing down the hallway.

“John, can you come here a moment?”

John refused to respond, mutinously refilling his mug with another cup of tea.


John settled himself into his chair and resolutely picked up the newspaper, committed to ignoring Sherlock’s demands.

“...John? Please, I know you’re angry, but I did say I’d make it up to you.”

John attempted to focus his attention on a Letter to the Editor about… about something.

“John? I’m sorry. I am. We don’t have to have sex. But even if you don’t want sex, I still need your help. I’m in a bit of a… compromising position. Please.”

John gritted his teeth.


Issuing an irritated huff, John got to his feet and stalked down the hallway, flinging open the bedroom door with considerably more force than strictly necessary.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

Because the source of Sherlock’s predicament suddenly became abundantly clear; he had handcuffed himself to the headboard.

Not only that, but he was wearing a Slave Leia costume.

A very, very convincing costume.

John’s brain went entirely offline.

He’d confessed his Leia crush to Sherlock a few weeks ago, after the two of them had marathoned the original trilogy. He couldn’t believe Sherlock had remembered-- not just remembered, but had decided to indulge him.

The Smee Incident seemed suddenly shockingly forgivable.

Slowly, John circled the bed, taking in the full spectacle before him. Sherlock arched enticingly, inviting John to look his fill, a coy expression on his face.

John stopped at the foot of the bed and licked his lips predatorily.

Sherlock strained theatrically against his handcuffs. Staring John straight in the eye, he opened his mouth.

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

...John’s escalating arousal faltered momentarily.

Sherlock stared up at him expectantly, spreading his legs ever so slightly, clearly under the impression that his seduction techniques were on point.

John furrowed his brow. “You, uh… I’m… you know I’m not Obi-Wan in this scenario, right?”

Sherlock looked momentarily caught off-guard, but quickly self-corrected. “Of course. Of course I know you’re not Obi-Wan. I just… thought I’d add some dialogue. For realism.”

“Sure. But, you know… Leia wouldn’t have sex with Obi-Wan. That would be weird.”

“Right. I won’t say that again.” Then he’d bitten his lip and blinked up at John coquettishly, and in no time flat, John’s brain (and cock) were back in the game.

And oh, what a game it had been. John delighted in the way Sherlock’s flat planes and sharp angles looked in the skimpy top and sheer skirt. It should have been strange, perhaps, to fulfill such a feminine fantasy with such a masculine form, but instead, it was agonisingly kinky and overwhelmingly arousing-- just like everything about Sherlock, in John’s opinion. It somehow took John’s adolescent fantasy and flipped it wholly on its head in the most deliciously enticing way, and in no time, John was on top of Sherlock’s restrained form, grinding their cocks together with vocal enthusiasm as he feasted on Sherlock’s exposed neck.

All too soon, John had to pull back, worried that it would be over far too quickly if they carried on much further. And he needed to fuck Sherlock, to be inside him while he was like this, all tied up and dolled up and his all his for the taking…

He reached for the nightstand to grab the lube.

“No need. I’m ready for you.”

John stared down at Sherlock quizzically. Sherlock simply parted his legs further and tipped his pelvis up in response, then raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

John lifted the front panel of the skirt and reached between Sherlock’s legs to find his plug in place, his rim already slick with lube.

“Oh my God, Sherlock…” He’d pulled out the plug and plunged his cock inside and began thrusting into that perfect, tight heat without a moment’s hesitation.

Sherlock arched and cried out beneath him, his gorgeous pecs straining against the flimsy fabric of his top as he pulled his thighs back to his chest, letting John sink into him even deeper.

“Oh, fuck, you’re so tight. Struggle for me a little, yeah?”

Sherlock grinned up at him, and then gamely began to pull against the handcuffs, tipping his head back to moan theatrically as John began to plunder him roughly. “Oh! Oh!”

John grinned salaciously, increasing the ferocity of his strokes, delighting in the way Sherlock looked straining helplessly against the relentless cuffs.

“Oh, Luke, yes!”

It was as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. John froze in place, balls-deep in Sherlock’s exquisite arse, feeling somehow deeply, personally scaldalised.

“What did you just say?”

Sherlock batted his eyelashes seductively up at him, still apparently under the impression that he was doing a bang-up job playing his role. “Oh, Luke, you’re so big! Fuck me, fuck me harder!”

“Oh my GOD, Sherlock! Luke is her brother!”

Sherlock paused in his elaborate vocalisations to cock his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. “He’s her… what?”

“Were you even watching the film?”

“I… My attention may have occasionally wandered.”

“But you said you loved it!”

“I did! I mean, I loved how enthusiastic you were about the film. It was adorable, really, John, you were like a giddy teenager, it was quite endearing.”

“I just… I can’t even with this right now.” He started to pull out, but Sherlock locked his legs around him resolutely, holding him in place.

“Please, John, I can do this. You like the outfit, yeah?”

John sighed and closed his eyes, willing himself to be patient. “Yes, the outfit is great. But the… I mean, her brother, Sherlock.”

“Let’s just forget all that. Come on, I can do this! Just tell me who you’re supposed to be! I’m a master of disguise, I can do this, come on, let me do this for you…” He sounded so pathetic that John, against his better judgement (and, perhaps, slightly swayed by the demands of his cock, which was still seated resolutely in Sherlock’s admittedly fantastic arse), acquiesced.

“I’m Han Solo. You’re Leia Organa. I’ve just rescued you from imprisonment, and you’ve decided to repay me with a tryst in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon.”

“Right, got it. Carry on, then.”

John resumed thrusting, and was delighted to find that before too long, he was able to push Sherlock’s previous heresies out of his mind, replacing them with the breathy sighs and gutteral moans he was currently issuing.

John sat back slightly and grabbed Sherlock behind the knees, pressing his legs further apart, pistoning into him and pummelling his prostate. Sherlock wailed and strained against his handcuffs, his bowing back causing the gold bikini top to bulge enticingly around his pert pecs.

John’s brain began to surrender to the fantasy. He was Han Solo, smuggler and swashbuckler, hero of the Rebellion, enjoying the bounty of his escapades in the form of the feisty and proud Leia, now reduced to this most primal state as he pleasured his grateful bounty senseless with his enviable manhood--

“Oh! Oh Hans, yes! YES! There! Fuck me, Hans, there! Yes! YES!”

John had tried to ignore it. He really did. He willed himself to focus on the fantasy in his mind and on Sherlock’s body before him, the skimpy costume no match for their voracious fucking.

“Hans! Oh, Hans, please! More! Hans, please!”

John couldn’t take it anymore. His erection had begun to flag and it had started to feel quite rude to not dignify Sherlock’s vocalisations with a response, but honestly…

“Oh, forget it.” He pulled out and reached for the key to the handcuffs, which was resting on the nightstand. He unlocked a sputtering Sherlock, who looked completely scandalised by John’s abrupt tap out.

“What now?” Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position (looking adorably disheveled), glaring daggers at John, who was rapidly retreating to the bathroom to take a cold shower.

John paused in the doorway of the bathroom and threw one last withering glance over his shoulder.

“It’s HAN, not Hans.” And he’d slammed the door behind him.

John is jolted back to the present by the sensation of his mobile buzzing in his hand.

<12:09> It’s not my fault you had to choose a fantasy with some insanely convoluted plot points.
<12:09> Most people just settle for “naughty doctor” or “rugby captain,” you know.
<12:10> Something that doesn’t require 6 feature-length films to explain the backstory.

<12:10> ...Rugby Captain?

<12:11> Okay, fine, maybe that was one of mine, whatever.
<12:11> I’m not pointing fingers here.

<12:12> I’m going to need some clarification. Are you the Rugby Captain in this fantasy of yours?

<12:13> Of course I’M not the bloody Rugby Captain, John, we’re talking about fantasy, not a hallucinogenic fever dream.

<12:14> I’m obviously the newspaper reporter getting special coverage of the match.

John nearly snorts some of his tuna salad out his nose, picturing Sherlock in some ill-conceived “intrepid reporter” disguise.

<12:15> Clearly. Silly of me to have asked.
<12:15> Anyway, I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to pick up the dry cleaning before I head back to work.

<12:16> Are you certain you don’t need to stop by the flat instead?
<12:16> I could make it worth your while.

<12:16> You are a bad man, Sherlock Holmes.
<12:17> But no, I’ve got to be back in 13 minutes.
<12:17> And DON’T EVEN SAY IT. I know that’s nowhere near our record.
<12:17> But save it for tonight, yeah?
<12:19> Sherlock?

<12:24> Sorry, was having a wank.

<12:25> For Christ’s sake.

<12:25> Don’t worry, I was thinking about you.

<12:28> Consider me flattered.
<12:29> See you tonight.

John makes good on his word. That night, after Rosie’s asleep and dinner’s been made and consumed and the dishes are dried and everything is in its place, John takes Sherlock to bed.

And it’s lovely. It’s absolutely lovely. Between Rosie and work and running the household, they hadn’t had time for penetrative intercourse since the last time they’d unwound, which was nearly three weeks ago.

Every time they go through a draught (well, if one could call it that, considering that they do get each other off with hands and mouths and even just frottage multiple times a week regardless), John convinces himself that it’s not a tragedy. He tells himself that Sherlock’s gorgeous lips and clever tongue and nimble fingers are completely sufficient to keep him satisfied, and bemoaning the fact that he simply hasn’t been able to put his cock inside his arse would be greedy and entirely unwarranted.

Sherlock, on the other hand, has absolutely no qualms about his desires. Any time they go more than 10 days without penetrative intercourse, he has a tendency to grow testy and terse. Though he willingly participates in their fast and frenzied one-offs by hand or mouth, he always seems a bit wistful in the aftermath. He never complains outright-- he seems to understand that the draughts are usually caused by the ever-increasing demands on their time by Rosie, as well as their seemingly relentless work loads-- but he certainly doesn’t pretend to be happy about it. Sherlock Holmes likes to be fucked, and he has no intentions of feigning otherwise.

So tonight they have some absolutely fantastic, incredibly well-earned sex. They keep it strictly vanilla, with plenty of foreplay and saccharine utterings of their devoted affections between passionate kisses and gentle caresses. John preps Sherlock slowly, indulgently, and by the time he’s sliding into his slick, tight channel, they’re both absolutely gagging for it.

They keep it missionary-style, eyes locked, fingers entwined, breath intermingling as John sets a steady, decadent pace. Sherlock is entirely receptive, sighing contentedly, eyelids fluttering every time John presses up against that most sensitive spot inside of him.

Sherlock’s orgasm seems to take him by surprise. John had simply been switching up his angle a bit and in the process trapped Sherlock’s weeping cock between their pelvises, providing direct friction to it for the first time that night, and suddenly Sherlock was arching off the bed, squeezing John’s hands tightly in his own as he spurted come between their heated bodies, his mouth a fixed “O” of surprise as his eyes locked into John’s, clouded with pleasure.

“Oh, Sherlock, yes. Gorgeous. Oh my God, you’re so beautiful.” John continues to thrust gently against Sherlock’s prostate as he rides out the aftershocks before finally melting bonelessly into the bed.

Sherlock grins blearily up at him, and John leans down to capture his lips in a searing kiss.

John picks up the pace of his thrusts and adjusts his angle once more, careful to avoid Sherlock’s now-sensitive prostate. Keeping Sherlock’s fingers locked in his own, he peppers Sherlock’s face with kisses as he continues to indulge in the sensation of his lax body beneath him.

Finally, he senses himself nearing the edge. He pulls back to hover over Sherlock, taking in the beatific look of sated pleasure on his face. He sometimes still can’t believe he gets to have this.

And with that thought, he comes, pressing himself as deep into Sherlock as he can as Sherlock issues a long, low moan, closing his eyes in apparent ecstasy as John fills him.

Afterward, they lay panting side-by-side in the dark. John had cleaned them both up as best he could with one of the wet wipes they keep stored in the nightstand, but it had been unseasonably warm that week, and the air in the bedroom feels too cloyingly hot for cuddling in the afterglow. So they simply lay, sated and spent, staring up at the ceiling, riding out the high.

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?” Sherlock’s deep baritone voice slices through the darkness unexpectedly.

John is confused. “Talk about what?”

“Your fantasies. You’re usually so open about your desires, but for some reason, not with this. You’re a fairly sexual being for a man your age, you indulge in sexual activity often, both with me and on your own. Your porn consumption is on-par for the average British man in your age bracket. And yet you don’t want to talk about it.”

John shifts uncomfortably, turning onto his side to face Sherlock. The dim glow of the streetlight in the alley reflects back at him in Sherlock’s eyes, fixed resolutely on John’s face.

John sighs. “I guess… it’s… private, you know?”

Sherlock blinks at him, formulating a response. “Do you… fantasize about things that you don’t want me to know about? Are you embarrassed by your desires? Do you think I would judge you? Because I wouldn’t, John, I would never.”

“No, I know that, Sherlock. It’s just…” He trails off non-committally. He doesn’t really want to have this conversation. Not here, not now. (And if he’s quite honest, preferably not ever.)

Sherlock remains silent, clearly intent on waiting him out.

John steels himself, and continues.

“My… my sexuality. You know that… it’s a difficult thing for me, yeah?”

Sherlock nods. He and John have actually talked about this, since their reconciliation in the wake of Mary’s passing. John had made sure of it; he wanted to make sure that this time around, things would be different, that they would have no secrets from one another, and that there would be no confusion or miscommunication between them. They owed Mary at least that much, in the light of her ultimate sacrifice.

So he’d explained to Sherlock that, despite the sexual nature of their relationship, John still identified as primarily straight. He had never been attracted to a man before he met Sherlock, and even after he and Sherlock started sleeping together years ago, it hadn’t opened some previously-sealed floodgate of sexual desire, resulting in John becoming attracted to men for the first time ever. Instead, he remained steadfastly attracted to women, with the one blinding, glaring exception of Sherlock.

Which obviously made things quite complicated, now that he and Sherlock were in a committed, monogamous relationship. John still grappled constantly to categorize his sexual identity and orientation-- he loved Sherlock, he was attracted to him, and he unabashedly adored each and every sexual activity that they engaged in together, as evidenced by their extremely healthy and varied sex life.

But outside of Sherlock, John remained exclusively attracted to women. When he was masturbating and fantasized about being with anyone who wasn’t Sherlock (which he still did-- after all, he was only human), his partner was always female. When he watched porn, it was exclusively straight, with big-breasted women, curvy and feminine-- everything that Sherlock was decidedly not.

As a result, all of his fantasies that didn’t involve Sherlock involved… well, women.

And John has no idea how to tell him this without making him feel like shit.

“So… you’re still… the only man I think about sexually. You understand that?”

Sherlock nods again, but he remains resolutely mute.

“So the thing is, my fantasies… they involve women. And I don’t want you to feel like…” The words seem to rush out of him all at once, like a floodgate opening. “IdontwantyoutofeellikeIwishyouwereawoman.”

There’s a long pause. “Sorry?”

John takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I don’t want you to feel like I wish you were a woman.”

Sherlock lets out something akin to a derisive snort. “Please, John. Do you really think so little of my deductive capabilities? Let me just state for the record that your reaction when you’re sucking my cock is all the evidence I need that you’re just fine with my gender as-is. Not to mention the look on your face when you fuck my arse and watch my cock come all over your chest, or the way your eyes light up every time you’re jacking us both off with your hand. I couldn’t care less what genitals you fantasize about, as long as the ones you’re getting down and dirty with are mine.”

John feels a hot flush of arousal bloom in his cheeks, despite having come only minutes before. Christ, the effect Sherlock can have on him…

“Oh. Okay. I’m… I’m glad you understand.”

“So let me ask you, John: The night we had a session and I wore lingerie. Did you enjoy that?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“And it wasn’t because you were fantasizing that I was a woman, it was because you like the way that my body looks in feminine clothing?”

“Well… now that you mention it, yes. That, exactly.” He’s somewhat stunned at Sherlock’s ability to put such a fine point on it.

“And the Star Wars role-play. Despite my obliviousness to what you seem to have deemed several crucial plot points, did you enjoy fucking me while I was wearing that outfit?”

“God, yes.”

“Because you were pretending that I was a woman? Or because you liked the way that my maleness twisted your old fantasy into something new and exciting?”

Well, holy shit. For all of his feigned cluelessness about relationships, sometimes Sherlock could say things that completely blindsided John with his concise assessment of the situation at-hand, and this is precisely one such moment.

“I… wow. Okay, the second one.”

“And so as long as that’s the case, I have no issue enacting some of your fantasies, John. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve dressed in feminine clothing recreationally in the past, and I find it wholly unobjectionable in everyday situations, and rather erotic in sexual ones. Should you wish to explore that dynamic further, I’d be amenable.”

“I…” John swallows loudly. “Alright, then.”

“Alright, then.”

There’s an agonizingly long pause.

“So are you going to tell me one of your fantasies?”

“You want to start this now? Sherlock, we just had sex, I’m done for tonight…”

“Please, John, you’re the one always emphasizing pre-negotiation when we try something new. So now’s your chance. Tell me what you want.”

“I… I don’t know.” It’s not a lie, really. John’s brain is spinning a whirling dervish of fantasies, all mixed up and jumbled together, a pornographic jigsaw puzzle of dark desires.

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. “Fine, let’s start slowly. Remember this morning? I asked you what your earliest adolescent fantasy was. Was it the Leia thing?”

John bites his lip, recalling. “No, not exactly. My earliest fantasy was… maybe a year before that. Around the time I was eleven.”


John laughs. “Young, I know. Blame it on my childhood friend Will-- he’s the one I split that bottle of brandy with and threw it all up in my mum’s potted plants when we were barely out of primary school.”

Sherlock barks out a laugh. “Yes, I remember.” John had told him that story years ago, the weekend they’d spent together in Cornwall, back when their sexual relationship was still fresh and covert and confusing. That night in bed was one of the first times they’d shared stories of their pasts, and John remembers it with a warm fondness.

“Well, Will was a terrible influence, obviously. He somehow shoplifted a few dirty magazines and brought them all to school one day. He let me keep one, so I brought it home and stashed it under my mattress.”

“...And?” There’s an aura of anticipation in Sherlock’s voice, and John grins despite himself.

“Ugh, this is awkward, Sherlock. Because looking back, it’s really terrible, you know? It’s… I mean, it’s regressive and misogynistic and it in no way reflects my views on--”

“For Christ’s sake, John, this isn’t a deposition. You needn’t justify the root of your sexual desires.”

John can still feel himself blushing furiously. “I know. God, I know, but it’s still so wrong, and for it to have imprinted in my brain like that…”

“Jesus, John, what was it? I bet whatever I’m imagining here is ten times worse that what it actually was.”

“Ugh, fine. They’d done a themed issue like it was a Good Housekeeping magazine, but it was all… sexual.”

“...You’re going to have to explain.”

“Like, it was just these incredibly regressive vignettes from the ‘50s, with the little housewife waiting with a drink in hand for her husband to come home, then blowing him while he watched a match on telly. Serving him dinner in a skimpy little apron then getting fucked over the table. That sort of thing.”

“I see. And that made an impression on you?”

“God, yes. I mean, I’m sure a part of it was that was the only real pornography I had easy access to for years, you know? The funny thing is, the bit I remember the most were the woman’s lips. She had this brilliant red matte lipstick, and to this day, I can’t see a woman wearing bright red lips and not think about it.”

“Well that must have made our first encounter with Irene Adler very confusing indeed.”

“Oh, shut up.” That encounter had been confusing for a myriad of reasons-- The Woman’s lip colour being the least of it.

Sherlock sighs contentedly into the darkness and rolls over.

“...Wait, that’s it?” John is a bit indignant.

“Why, was there more to the fantasy?”

“I mean, aren’t you going to share one of yours? What was your earliest sexual fantasy?”

Sherlock huffs and stretches out languidly, stealing more of the sheets from John’s side of the bed than wholly necessary. “Mine were a bit more vague, I think. I knew I liked boys very early on, but the details of gay sex were considerably more difficult to suss out in a pre-internet era. I do recall in secondary school being in a production of Hamlet and very much wanting to rub against the actor portraying Polonius, in a nebulous sort of way. I couldn’t help but think that his penis might feel very nice next to mine.”

John permits himself a chuckle, and despite the heat, he pulls Sherlock into his arms and plants a kiss into his unruly mop of curls. “Well, that is an incredibly wild and salacious imagination you had there, Mr. Holmes. You were a right pervert, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock is laughing now, too. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to enact that one with me.”

John pretends to be scandalised. “And why not? I happen to think that my penis would feel very nice next to yours.”

“Be that as it may, Elizabethan garb doesn’t really do it for me these days.”

“Oh no?”

“Mmm-mmm. I’m entirely partial to Victorian, myself.”

“Oh, right, you and Mr. Jude Law and your Wilde fixation, it’s all coming back to me…”

“It’s not a fixation, John, I merely mentioned in passing that Jude was the only celebrity allowed in my Mind Palace as a result of his excellent performance in that film.”

“Well, alright then. Be that as it may, perhaps sometime we should watch the film together so that I can appreciate it, too.”


“Mmm-hmm. You can help explain to me all the things that you and Jude were getting up to in your Mind Palace.”

“Mmmm. Alright then.” Sherlock’s voice has gone low and slightly husky.

John’s cock twitches in response.

And for God’s sake, it’s past midnight, they should be exhausted, and yet the next thing John knows he’s back on top of Sherlock, sinking into his tight heat once more, and they’re slipping away into the blurry boundary between reality and fantasy, lost in each other’s arms.

Chapter Text

The last two weeks had been complete and utter madness. One of the doctors at the surgery had to leave town for a family emergency, so John signed up to cover her shifts, working five days a week instead of his usual three, including the swing shift. As a result, Sherlock stepped up to take on the lion’s share of the childcare, but kept getting called into the Yard at inopportune times, showing up not once but twice with Rosie in tow after being unable to find a last-minute sitter (much to the bemused delight of the officers there).

It was a difficult, messy tangle of the professional and the domestic, the kind that leaves both John and Sherlock at their wit’s end, tempers short, sleep-deprived and snarky. By the time the absent doctor returned to her post and John’s hours returned to normal, John feels as if they’ve all been through the wringer.

At least it’s Friday; it’s his first day off the swing shift in two weeks, and he feels almost unnaturally cheerful as he squeezes onto the Tube amidst the hoard of evening commuters. Most evenings he’d walk, but it had been threatening to rain, and he’s keen to just get home and spend some quality time with Rosie (and then perhaps quality time of a very different variety with Sherlock to show his gratitude for performing his domestic duties with aplomb).

The moment he disembarks, his mobile chirps.

<17:32> You watching the match tonight? Was thinking of heading over to Allsop Arms.

John gives a reluctant sigh, a twinge of remorse in his chest. With everything going on, he’d barely been following the league this season, and he’s fallen hopelessly out of touch with the sports crowd at the Yard.


<17:33> Sorry, headed home for some quality family time.
<17:33> Work’s just gotten back to normal, I think Sherlock will kill me if I try and ditch him alone with Rosie for the night again.

<17:34> Oh, even I got wind of that!
<17:34> Heard he had to bring her in on Tuesday while he was working a case for us.
<17:35> Apparently turned his back for two seconds while he was reviewing the autopsy and caught her playing with a bone saw!
<17:35> Classic!

<17:35> He WHAT

<17:36> Nothing.
<17:36> You definitely didn’t hear that story from me.

<17:36> Jesus Christ. How is this my life?

<17:37> Sounds like you do need a pint. Text me sometime next week and we’ll meet up?

<17:37> Sure thing.

<17:38> Enjoy your family time!

John pockets his mobile, still shaking his head, and makes his way through the front door. He trudges up the stairs and enters the sitting room, and stops dead in his tracks.

Because Sherlock is emerging from the kitchen, a chilled gin and tonic in his hand, an expression of smug anticipation on his face.

And he’s wearing…

He’s wearing…

God, John can’t even process it.

John’s not sure how long he stands there in the doorframe, mouth hanging open like a cartoon caricature, but he’s fairly certain he’d be mortified if he knew. All he registers is the way Sherlock is blinking at him, a coy smile playing at the corners of his lips, reveling in his reaction.

Finally, Sherlock breaks the silence.

“Welcome home, John.”

John finally closes his mouth and swallow. It sounds unnaturally loud in his own ears.

“Rosie?” He manages to croak.

“With Mrs. H for tonight. I wanted you all to myself.” And with that, he walks across the room.

No, that’s not it. Walks isn’t the right word. What Sherlock does is something else entirely, some sort of sexualised stride bordering on a strut that rivets John’s attention to his impossibly long legs.

He comes to a stop inches away from John, and peers at him inquisitively. “Like what you see?”

John can’t respond. All his blood has rushed south faster than he can account for, and his brain feels oxygen-deprived and stupid. He simply nods dumbly.

Sherlock gives him a placating smile and hands him the gin and tonic. “Have a drink, John. And let me take your coat.” And with that, he’s helping John shrug out of his jacket (and not a moment too soon, John feels so warm he’s about to combust), then he takes John’s bag as well and hangs them both by the door, a look of demure disinterest on his face. Then he turns to face John once again and opens his mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips just so that the roaring in John’s ears goes up another decibel.

“Why don’t you have a seat in your chair, John? The match is about to start. I’ll put it on for you.”

John’s not entirely sure how he manages to stagger across the room and collapse into his chair, but he does-- perhaps it was a reaction somehow akin to the way accident bystanders could single-handedly lift a car when under duress; the situations feel somehow equally dire in this moment.

Sherlock makes to turn on the TV, but John somehow manages to formulate a coherent thought and vocalize it, much to his own shock.


Sherlock cocks his head at John expectantly.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart. Let me look at you. Just let me look at you.”

Sherlock breaks into a dazzling smile, and stands back for John to drink his fill.

He’s wearing the same garments from the case at the club a few months back. He’d confessed to John that he’d owned them for a long time, and John was somewhat perplexed as to why Sherlock had never offered to wear them before; Sherlock had quickly clarified that he’d never really worn them in a sexual context before the conclusion of that case (when he and John had had a session while he was in them). John had felt remarkably privileged to have been the one to break them in.

Because they are, in a word, magnificent.

When they’d worked the case at the club, Sherlock had worn an undoubtedly ridiculously expensive dress during the sting. It wasn’t until they were in the cab on the ride home that John had discovered what he had on underneath the elegantly-tailored folds of fabric.

But tonight, he’s forsaken the dress altogether, and gotten straight to the point.

John’s gaze starts with his feet. He’s wearing black heels that fit him perfectly; not the campy platforms that John associates with drag queens, but sophisticated, chic-looking pumps that elevate his already lofty frame another three inches or so. The incline does wonders for his well-toned calves, which are encased in stockings made of real silk, the contrast of his flexing muscles highlighted by the slight shimmer of the fabric.

From there, John’s eyes make their way up miles and miles of delectable leg, muscular yet graceful, to Sherlock’s thighs. And it’s there that his heartbeat increases what feels like threefold.

Because the stockings are trimmed in an ornately geometrically-patterned lace, and are held up with delicate clasps attached to a matching garter belt. The bold black lines of the garters pop against Sherlock’s milky thighs, framing a pair of exquisite matching black panties.

It’s a feast the likes of which John is fairly certain his eyes will never get their fill.

And then… and then, because impossibly, somehow there’s more, there’s the corset. Or was it a bustier? Sherlock had corrected him the last time John had brought it up, but hell, he wasn’t exactly an expert on women’s apparel, and he frankly couldn’t give a rat’s arse what the damn thing was called. All he cared about is the way that Sherlock looked in it.

The corset-bustier-thingie was black as well, and detailed with the same geometric lace pattern as the stockings and garter belt. The panels in front alternated between opaque black silk and transparent lace accents, allowing for tantalising glimpses of the pale flesh underneath. The lines of the seams cinched in at the waist, giving Sherlock’s masculine frame an undeniably hourglass appearance. The chest was ever so lightly padded, not to the point that it gave the appearance of breasts, but simply boosting and accentuating Sherlock’s muscular pecs, which were rising and falling steadily beneath the delicate fabric. An intricate lace accent trimmed the top, and John lustily recalls defiling that particular strip of lace with gusto the last time Sherlock wore this.

… Had Sherlock taken it all to the dry cleaner?

John shakes the ridiculous thought from his mind. However Sherlock had managed to salvage the ensemble from the rigors of their last session, he thanks his lucky stars that he did, because this is well worth whatever mortification he may experience the next time he has to pop by to drop off the dry cleaning.

Finally, he gives a slow nod. “Alright, sweetheart. That’ll do.”

Sherlock gives a nonchalant shrug and makes his way over to the television, which he bends over to flick on, one hip cocked to the side.

And Christ, the sight of his arse in those panties, the way just the bottoms of those perfect pale globes peek out from the border of the shiny silk, bisected by the the garter resting atop them…

John can’t help himself. He leans forward and grabs two generous handfuls and gives them a firm squeeze.

Sherlock initially starts, clearly not expecting John to be so proactive, but immediately relaxes into his touch. He places both hands firmly atop the television and lowers his head, succumbing to John’s ministrations with a low moan.

John grins lecherously and scoots forward to sit at the very edge of his chair. He massages Sherlock’s buttocks with gusto, simply delighting in the delicious sensation of the fleshy mounds in his hands. Sherlock’s arse has long been the subject of John’s strongest fetishistic desires, and seeing it wrapped up like this is doing things to his brain he wasn’t sure were possible.

John’s not certain how long he could have continued like that, simply ogling Sherlock’s behind as he kneaded it, but altogether too soon, Sherlock is righting himself and stepping out of John’s grasp. John lets out an indignant huff, but Sherlock simply turns to smile innocently at him.

“Enough of that, now, John. I have a roast in the oven that needs basting. You just sit back and relax and enjoy the match, and I’ll take care of everything else, alright?” John nods mutely, melting back into his chair, his cock twitching desperately in his trousers. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back to refresh your drink.”

And with a wink, he strides off towards the kitchen where, John notes with befuddlement, there does indeed appear to be a roast in the oven.

Sherlock doesn’t cook often, but that doesn’t mean he can’t. The first time he’d cooked for John (a few weeks after they’d moved in together), John had been completely floored when Sherlock dished out an absolutely stunning ratatouille one Wednesday night, apropos of nothing. He’d vocalized his amazement to a nonchalant Sherlock, who’d simply shrugged and said, “It’s just chemistry.”

“Yeah, maybe, but then why don’t you cook more often? This is brilliant!”

Sherlock had peered down at the food skeptically. “Is it? I don’t know much about flavours and textures, it’s just fuel for my transport. I just follow the instructions like a chemistry experiment and, well…”

“Well, experiment all you want, I’m on board,” John had muttered around a mouthful of stew.

He’d hoped the encouragement would lead to an increased in passion for cooking for Sherlock, but alas, it seemed that for the most part, Sherlock couldn’t be arsed. He seemed just as content eating dry toast as he was an elaborate ratatouille, and as a result only made the effort once every few weeks.

Still, John can’t help but take in the delicious smells wafting out of the kitchen with an air of abject appreciation.

He tries to turn his attention to the match on the telly. Really, he does. But how he’s supposed to concentrate on the events on screen when Sherlock is in the kitchen dressed like that, bent over the oven to baste the roast, arse in the air like some pornographic pinup straight out of John’s adolescent fantasy, he has no idea.

After what seems like an eternity, Sherlock shuts the oven door and makes his way back to the sitting room, bottle of gin in hand.

“Let me refresh that for you, John.” He plucks John’s glass out of his hand (he doesn’t even remember picking it up, let alone drinking it), and refills it with a generous pour before handing it back to him.

“Thanks.” John blinks up at Sherlock, who by now is standing so close that John could reach out and run his hands all over that delectable silk, perhaps bend him over right here over the chair and--

Sherlock drops gracefully to his knees.

John’s fairly certain he blacks out.

The next thing he knows, he’s still just staring down stupidly at Sherlock, who has reached forward and made quick work of John’s belt and flies, freeing his achingly hard cock to stroke it with his nimble fingers. He’s smiling up at John demurely, his lips plush and perfect and---

Oh, God.

John had been so distracted by the whole outfit that he’d failed to take in what he’s fairly certain is the most notable part of Sherlock’s transformation.

Back when they’d worked the case at the club, Sherlock hadn’t worn makeup. Or maybe he had, John was rubbish at noticing these things, but if he’d put any on, it had been subtle enough that John failed to take note.

But tonight, he’s done something quite different.

His hair is just a bit more styled than usual, his ringlets more carefully manicured, and John notes that the sides are pinned back to give the mound of curls more height. His eyes are hooded with a smokey shadow, deep and alluring, and framed with lashes thickened with mascara.

And then there are his lips.

God help him.

Sherlock is wearing a brilliantly red matte lipstick straight from the pages of John’s fantasy.

John nearly comes on the spot.

Sherlock simply continues his ministrations on John’s cock, running his tongue around his lips absent-mindedly as he works him over.

“Oh my God, Sherlock. Please.”

“Please what, John?”

“Suck me. Oh God, please suck me, need your lips on me, sweetheart, please.”

“Mmm. Like this?” Sherlock leans forward and places a gentle, moist kiss to the very tip of John’s cock.

“Oh my God.” John has to reach forward and grip his cock at the base and squeeze to stop himself from coming then and there. He slams his eyes shut and takes a few deep breaths through his nose, resolutely ignoring the chuckles emanating from Sherlock’s direction.

At long last, he opens his eyes again. Sherlock is still knelt before him, an expression of polite amusement on his face.

“Want me to keep going?”

“God, I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m not going to last long, and I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Hmmm. Why don’t you go ahead and come, John? You’re so worked up, so stressed out from this week, you’ll feel better afterwards. And then I’ll feed you up, and then you can fuck me as many times as you want, however and wherever you want, until I can’t walk anymore and all my pretty things are ruined. How does that sound?”

“Jesus Christ. Suck me, now.”

And with that, Sherlock leans forward to latch his scarlet lips around the head of John’s throbbing prick before sinking down until John hits the back of his throat.

As blow jobs go, this is one for the books. Sherlock is absolutely obscene about it, drooling and gagging around John’s length as he takes it as deep as he can before pulling off to run a series of wet kisses down to his balls, which he takes into his mouth and suckles one by one. Then he licks a long stripe from the base to the tip before pulling John into his mouth and plunging down yet again.

John is beyond riveted. The scene before him is so much better than he could have dreamed, so much more erotic than even his filthiest fantasy, the lipstick smudging across Sherlock’s supple mouth as he works his magic on John’s cock. He wants to throw his head back, scrunch his eyes shut, and shout to the heavens, but that means he would miss this, and so help him God, he is not going to miss a moment of this pornographic tableau.

All too soon, John can feel his balls constricting in preparation for release.

He knows what he wants, but he’s not quite sure how to ask for it. He reaches up and gently threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, willing him to understand.

Sherlock pulls off for a moment, panting through saliva-wet lips. “Do you want to fuck my face, John?”

“Yes, please.” John’s voice is gravelly with desire.

“Go ahead.” Sherlock parts his lips and takes John between them, flicking his tongue across his slit in the way he knows drives John absolutely wild.

John doesn’t need to be told twice. He tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hair to hold him in place and begins to piston up into his willing mouth.

Sherlock takes it like a champion. He barely even gags as John plunders him, and he somehow manages to continue to run his tongue along the sensitive vein on the underside of John’s cock, multiplying the sensations tenfold. He blinks up at John through teary eyes, his mascara ever so slightly smudged.

John comes. He empties himself down Sherlock’s throat almost brutally, locking him into place as he chases his pleasure, yanking his hair in a way he knows Sherlock finds just this side of painful. Sherlock whimpers and moans around his length, and John lets out an echoing moan as a dribble of come leaks from the corner of his ruby lips.

Finally, John is completely spent. He releases Sherlock, who sits back on his heels, coughing slightly, looking beautifully disheveled. Slowly, Sherlock rises to his feet.

“You enjoy the rest of your drink, now. Dinner will be ready, soon. I’m just going to go freshen up a bit.”

John hesitates. He wants to say something, wants to ask, but what if Sherlock isn’t into it? Finally, he pushes the thought from his mind; now’s not the time to be coy about his desires. “Um, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock pauses mid-way to the hall, and looks back over his shoulder.

“Could you, um… not? Uh, freshen up, I mean.”

A flash of understanding passes across Sherlock’s face. “Oh! Alright. I can… I can stay like this.” He swipes self-consciously at the smeared lipstick on his face, removing the worst of it from where it had spread to his chin, but leaving the borders deliciously blurred from their encounter.

John grins. “Good. I like… seeing you a little messy. After taking me.”

Sherlock nods and gives John a conspiratorial smile. “Alright, John. Now really, sit back and enjoy the match and finish your drink. I’ll have dinner out soon.”

John zips himself back into his pants and enthusiastically complies.

Well, for the most part. He can’t help but glance out into the kitchen every few minutes to take in the glory of Sherlock’s form.

Sherlock is hard now. He’d clearly been slightly aroused from the moment John had gotten home, but following the blow job, he’s tenting his panties obscenely, clearly getting off on the dynamics of their exchange. Seeing him in that state is doing wonders for John’s brain (not to mention his refractory period), so by the time John is summoned to the kitchen table to eat, he feels almost ready for another round.

But Sherlock is having none of it. John attempts to get handsy with him as he dishes up the roast, and he bats away John’s advances coquettishly.

“Honestly, John, I’ve been slaving away over a hot stove the entire afternoon, I’m not letting this go to waste.”

John runs his hand up the back of Sherlock’s leg to rest on his buttock as he leans over to fetch some salad and deposit it on John’s plate. “Sweetheart, only piece of meat I’m interested in tonight is you.”

Sherlock spins gracefully out of his grasp and takes a seat in the chair across from John’s, rolling his eyes. “Your puns are atrocious, not to mention objectifying. I’m truly offended.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Can I make it up to you?” John waggles his eyebrows flirtatiously.

“Yes. By clearing your damn plate.” And with that, Sherlock tucks in.

John decides he has no choice but to follow suit, and frankly, three mouthfuls in, he has no regrets. Despite his near-certainty that Sherlock had never cooked a roast before in his life, the meat is absolute perfection; tender, well-seasoned, and mouth-wateringly savory. It’s enough to distract him (albeit momentarily) from his still-simmering state of arousal.

“So how was your day at the office, John?”

John looks up from his plate to meet Sherlock’s eyes, and he can’t help but start to giggle. Sherlock looks momentarily confused, but upon seeing the look in John’s eyes, he quickly joins him in escalating laughter, too.

This happens, sometimes, when they’re trying something new. Sometimes the absurdity of the situation simply strikes one of them out of nowhere, and before they can control it, they’re both over the edge, giggling helplessly at the beautiful preposterousness that sometimes their life can be.

And this is one such moment. They’re sitting at the kitchen table eating a glorious roast, John in his work clothes and Sherlock in lingerie, having a go at small talk as though they make a habit of it. It’s ludacris, all of it, in its headiest and most glorious form.

John adores it.

The rest of the meal is consumed between bouts of sporadic laughter. Eventually, they’ve gotten themselves (mostly) back under control. John dabs his mouth with his napkin and proceeds to mop up the last of his gravy with a dinner roll before sitting back in his chair and sighing.

“Now that was amazing.” He shakes his head at Sherlock, who has consumed about three bites of meat and half a roll and is currently pushing his potatoes around his plate absently whilst eyeing John from beneath long lashes. “You aren’t having any more?”

“Mmm, not particularly hungry. For this, anyway.” Sherlock licks his lips.

And just like that, the veil falls over them once more. The cheeky, self-aware sense of humour is gone, smothered by a renewed layer of desire.

John’s cock immediately regains interest in the proceedings.

Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet (how he manages to look so gorgeously nonchalant in three inch heels is beyond John completely) and stacks their plates, making his way around the table as he collects the cutlery and discarded napkins.

Suddenly, John reaches out and places a hand on his waist. Sherlock immediately stills.

“Are these new?” John runs his hand along a satin bow that ties the panties together at Sherlock’s hip. He’s fairly certain the bow hadn’t been there the last time Sherlock had worn them; though it’s a small detail, the air of femininity about it sends a fresh surge of arousal pulsing through him.

“Yes.” Sherlock cocks his hip coquettishly to the side, inviting John to thread his fingers beneath the soft satin of the bow. “You see, with the other pair of panties, there was no way to properly remove them without taking off my belt and stockings first. With these, you can simply untie them, and everything else… stays on.”

“Oh my God.” Before John can process what he’s doing, he’s on his feet, pushing Sherlock forward and bending him over the table, barely giving him time to throw out his arms to prevent himself from unceremoniously face-planting into the dirty plates. Luckily, his reflexes are fast, and he catches himself just in time, palms splayed and elbows locked, head bowed forward as he heaves in an unsteady breath.

Then he arches his back, presenting his arse for John.

“Fuck.” All the blood has rushed from John’s head to his cock, and he’s overwhelmed with the urge to be inside Sherlock as quickly as humanly possible. He’s torn between removing the panties to feast his eyes on the sight before him, and stepping away to procure the emergency stash of lube they keep hidden behind the olive oil (after it became fairly evident that trysts in the kitchen were quite high up on both of their lists of favourites).

He can’t resist. He grabs the tails of the silk ribbons perched on Sherlock’s hips and pulls them in tandem, and the panties drop to the floor.

The sight that greets him takes his breath away.

Sherlock is wearing his plug. It’s seated inside him, stretching him, his rim glistening with lube, ready for John’s use.

He’d been wearing it all night.


John barely registers pulling out the plug and pushing himself inside, but the next thing he knows, he’s rogering Sherlock so hard and fast over the table that the dinner plates have rattled dangerously close to the edge with the intensity of their fucking. Sherlock is helplessly clawing for purchase, knocking over a half-full water glass in the process as their knives and forks tumble noisily to the floor. They’re both shouting, Sherlock moaning in his sultry baritone, punctuated by John’s staccato grunts as he maintains his ruthless pace.

It’s over all too soon. The sight of Sherlock’s lithe form encased in all that glorious silk and lace, the straps of the garters perched perfectly upon his round buttocks as John disappears over and over into the tight heat between them, is simply too much.

John grabs Sherlock’s arsecheeks, squeezes them mercilessly, pulls them apart, opening him wide, and comes.

Sherlock throws his head back and makes a vaguely animalistic sound as John empties himself inside him. He’s shaking with the effort of holding himself up off the table and taking the vigorous fucking that John is dishing out, but John just leans forward to cup his face in his hand and turns his head to the side, capturing his gorgeously messy red mouth in a searing kiss.

As soon as John has finished, he hauls Sherlock up into a standing position. Though he’s done coming, John is still hard enough to remain inside him, but he knows he has to act fast. He wraps one arm around Sherlock and threads his hand beneath the top of the bustier, his fingers finding their target with practiced ease; Sherlock’s budding nipple. He begins to pinch and twist it ruthlessly.

His other hand he wraps around Sherlock’s cock, and begins to stroke.

Sherlock lets out a wail, melting back into John’s arms, twisting his neck to kiss John once more, deep and filthy, more tongue and teeth than lips.

It’s only seconds before Sherlock comes.

John feels it, more than anything. Sherlock’s mouth goes lax and then it’s nothing but their heated breath intermingling between them, followed by the telltale pulse of Sherlock’s cock in his hand. John works him diligently through it, until Sherlock’s cries have been reduced to whimpers and he’s slumping dangerously backwards, a bit unsteady in his heels.

John tips him lightly forward once more, and Sherlock catches himself on the edge of the table, gasping like he’s just run a sprint. John turns to grab the plug from where he’d hastily deposited it on the counter, then pulls out his cock and slips the plug quickly inside, allowing as little of his release to escape as possible. Sherlock twitches and quivers before him, head lolling forward, releasing a breathy whine.

Then John kneels behind him and slowly, reverently picks up the panties. And ties them back into place.

By the time he’s finished, he feels as though he’s nearly come back to himself. The heat and intensity of their encounter dissolves gradually, replaced by a quiet companionship that John has learned to adore nearly as much as their vigorous passion. He kisses his way up Sherlock’s spine, and stops only after he’s reached his top vertebrae. Then he spins Sherlock around and pulls him in to kiss his decadently lipstick-smeared mouth.

And Sherlock is perfect in moments like this; the beautiful post-coital stillness smoothing the lines that too often cloud his face. He is pliant and lovely and just the slightest bit love-drunk, and God, it makes John want to devour him. But instead he simply kisses him once more and steps back, allowing Sherlock to pull himself back to his full height, his movements imbibed with a startling grace completely incongruent with the shivering wreck he’d been mere moments before. He gives John a dopey, slightly dazed smile.

John beams back at him.

Then makes the terrible mistake of letting his gaze drop to the kitchen table.

It’s… well, it’s a disaster, to put it mildly. During the course of their frantic coupling, they somehow managed to overturn the salad bowl, upend the erlenmeyer flask Sherlock had elected to use as a makeshift gravy boat (they were two men not well-regarded for their domestic tendencies, it could hardly be expected of them to have a full set of dishware on hand), spilled not one but two glasses of water (the contents of which were dripping resolutely onto the kitchen floor), and to top it all off… well, Sherlock had ejaculated on the lot of it.

“Christ.” It takes all of John’s willpower not to pinch the bridge of his nose, imagining the headache that this was going to be to clean up.

Sherlock turns around to survey the damage, canting one hip out and crossing his arms beneath his (admittedly distracting) chest, cocking his head appraisingly to one side.

“We could just set the lot of it on fire and get a new table tomorrow.”

“Sherlock, no. You can’t just incinerate everything you come across that you don’t want to be bothered with. We discussed this that time you set half my jumpers on fire instead of taking them to the cleaners, like I asked.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be dense, John. I didn’t set your jumpers on fire to avoid running an errand, I set them on fire because they were an affront to my aesthetic sensibilities and I couldn’t put up with them a moment longer. They were an insult to your generally pleasing exterior.”

“They were my WARDROBE, Sherlock.”

“Yes, well, tomato, tomahto.” He shrugs and resumes glowering at the table’s contents.

John sighs and reaches forward to pick up the plates.

“No, I’ll get it.” Sherlock nudges him gently out of the way and scoops up the sullied dishware and cutlery from the floor before carefully tossing their napkins onto the spreading pool of spilled water.

John’s pretty sure he’s misheard him, the events transpiring completely at odds with every previous interaction they’ve had in the history of their relationship. “Sorry, what?”

“I’ll clean this up and get dessert ready. You go relax.”

“Um… I mean, Sherlock, this has been lovely, but you really don’t need to do this yourself. This has all been… it’s been above and beyond what I expected when I told you about my fantasy. It’s been incredible, and I admire your… commitment to the bit, I really do. But I’m not going to make you clean this up on your own.”

Sherlock simply shakes his head and resolutely stacks the glasses before turning to deposit it all in the sink. “No. I want to do this. It’s… I’m liking it.” He’s avoiding John’s gaze.


It’s the first time John has realised that there may be an element of power dynamics at play, here. That maybe the enactment of this fantasy isn’t just about him, after all.

He shifts uncertainly on his feet, not quite sure how to guide the conversation from here. He takes a deep breath, and licks his lips.

“Are you saying… you’re enjoying doing things for me? In a… um, in a submissive capacity?”

He hates having to put such a point on it, but he knows if there are power dynamics factoring into this equation, as the dominant partner, he needs to be aware of it.

Sherlock plugs the drain in the sink and begins to fill it with hot water to soak the dishes, absently drizzling a bit of dish soap into the basin before turning back around with a roll of paper towels in hand to tackle the worst of the gravy spill.

It’s another beat before he answers. “Yes. I think so. So far. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about it, whether taking on this role in the fantasy you described would have any effect on me, but I believe it does. A positive one. I’m… enjoying servicing you right now.”

John nods slowly. “Okay. Do you… um, do you want this to be a session? For me to give you more commands? For me to.... Uh, dominate you more, tie you up a bit or… something?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, thank you, this is plenty for me. Unless that’s something you’re in the mood for tonight?” He bins the gravy-soaked paper towel and returns to the sink to fetch a sponge before resolutely scrubbing at the surface of the table.

“Um, no, this is… this is fine, this is perfect.”

Sherlock finally glances up at him and gives him a quick smile. “Good. Now go on, the newspaper isn’t going to read itself.”

John gives him a lopsided smile. And he can’t help but give his arse a light pinch before he retreats to the sitting room to recline on the sofa, catching up on the day’s news in blissful, indulgent peace.

It takes Sherlock a while to get the kitchen back in order. John is distantly aware of the sound of clattering plates being placed in the dishrack, of the sink being drained, of the pots and pans being placed back in the cupboards. It feels strangely surreal to hear the sounds of these familiar domestic activities from afar, as John is traditionally the only one who partakes in them in their household. He sighs and stretches luxuriously. He could get quite used to this.

An indeterminate amount of time later, John hears Sherlock’s footsteps re-enter the living room. His heels make a sharp, punctuated sound against the wooden floorboards, and John lowers the newspaper immediately.

To one of the most erotic sights he’s ever seen.

Sherlock is standing across the room, still all trimmed in his satin and lace. Only now, he’s holding a plate laden with an almost offensively large slice of Victoria sponge; John’s absolute favourite dessert of all time. And he’s staring at John as though he’s something to eat.

“Holy shit.” John pulls himself to a sitting position and all but throws the newspaper to the side, his undivided attention now riveted towards the pornographic fantasy stalking lazily towards him.

Sherlock makes his way around the coffee table and pushes it casually to the side with the bottom of his immaculate pump. He comes to stand in front of John, so close they’re nearly touching, and grins down at him triumphantly. “Ready for dessert?”

“Hell yes.” John doesn’t even try to be coy about it. His brain has gone blissfully blank, void of anything besides getting his hands on the bounty before him. He reaches out to grab Sherlock by the hips and pull him forward. Sherlock snickers but comes willingly, straddling John on the sofa before leaning in to kiss him, holding the plate of cake aloft to the side.

John pulls away, curiosity getting the better of him, and turns to inspect the cake. Though he knows Sherlock can cook (under duress), he’s never known him to bake before, and he’s fairly certain their kitchen isn’t equipped with half of the utensils required to conjure such a feat.

“Did you make that?” The wedge of cake is, in a word, glorious. The pillowy sponge is laden with jam and thickened cream, and despite himself, John finds his mouth watering helplessly, despite having a lap full of lingerie-clad consulting detective bent to his every whim.

Sherlock sits back incredulously. “Would you believe me if I said I did?”

The corners of his eyes are wrinkled with laughter, which John promptly returns. “Um,no. Absolutely not.”

Sherlock sighs in defeat. “Fine. I may have mentioned to Mrs. Hudson that I was cooking you a big elaborate meal as some sort of grand gesture of apology.”

John is befuddled. “Apology? For what?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I didn’t have to specify. You know how she hates it when we fight, and she finds it so very endearing when I make an effort to please you. I merely had to vaguely mention that I was absolutely at a complete loss when it came to dessert, knowing that this was your favourite and I was so very worried I was going to bollocks it up. She offered to make one for me before the sentence was even out of my mouth.”

“Oh my GOD, Sherlock. You are a bad man, you know that?” He moves his hands from Sherlock’s hips to his pert buttocks, which he pinches playfully.

Sherlock lets out a deep moan and proceeds to undulate his hips, dragging his hardening cock against John’s groin. “I doubt you’ll be complaining once you taste it.”

John heaves in an unsteady breath. “Oh yeah?”

Sherlock blinks down at him coyly, his hips circling in decadent, sinful movements. “Mmmhmm. Would you like to try a bite?”

“Oh God, yes.”

“Good. Get your cock out.”

John doesn’t bother to question Sherlock’s plan here. All he knows is that he wants the cake, but he also wants the glorious friction in his lap to continue, and he’s willing to do whatever the hell Sherlock has in mind to make that happen.

He manages to fumble his flies open in record time, and Sherlock gamely raises himself up just enough for John to push his own trousers and pants midway down his thighs, his rapidly-hardening cock springing earnestly free. Then Sherlock lowers himself back down, and John’s head falls back with a groan as his own hardness is met with Sherlock’s silk-clad one. The friction is exquisite. His breath stutters in his throat.

Sherlock leans in for another delectable kiss, then sits up and places the plate of cake on the sofa cushion beside them. Then he tears off a piece and lifts it to John’s mouth. “Open.”

John does, and before he can process it, Sherlock is placing the cake on his eager tongue. He closes his lips around Sherlock’s fingers and laps at them, the moist cake dissolving in his mouth as he does so. Sherlock moans and pulls his fingers free.

It’s a messy business. Of all the things to eat with one’s fingers, a well-endowed Victoria sponge is surely near the bottom of the list in terms of efficiency. Sherlock’s fingers are already dripping with jam and cream as he withdraws them from John’s mouth, and John momentarily frantically wonders if they should pause and grab some napkins.

But he needn’t have worried. Without ceasing his grinding motions against John’s cock, Sherlock slowly raises his fingers to his own mouth and begins to lick them clean.

“Oh Jesus.” John’s hands seem to fly of their own accord from where they’d been resting on Sherlock’s buttocks, up his waist, and come to rest on his chest, where he massages Sherlock’s lightly-padded pecs, fondling them reverently, delighting in the way that the black lace looks as it bunches beneath his fingers. Sherlock moans his approval, undulating his hips with increasing fervour.

Then he reaches back to the cake. He plucks out a large chunk of strawberry from the filling, dripping with cream, and raises it to his chest. He traces it up his sternum until it comes to rest in the divot between his clavicles. Then he withdraws his fingers, and meets John’s eyes.

John doesn’t need to be asked twice. He surges forward, licking his way enthusiastically up Sherlock’s chest, tonging at the trail of cream and slick juice until his mouth comes to rest on the berry, which he sucks eagerly into his mouth. All the while he kneads and thumbs at Sherlock’s breasts (and hell, he knows they’re not really breasts, but everything is growing blurry in the heady eroticism of the moment, and his brain has no interest in distinguishing the supple mounds beneath his hands as flesh or fabric or foam. It’s just… good. It’s all so goddamn good).

When John has finally finished licking his fill, he sits back to take in the beauty of the gorgeous creature on top of him. Sherlock looks incredible, his muscles rippling as he gyrates himself against John, grinding their cocks together and making the satin of his bustier rustle with each movement. He grins down at John before offering his berry-wet fingers to him, which John enthusiastically brings into his mouth to suckle clean. John can feel Sherlock’s cock pulse against his.

Then Sherlock is plucking off another bite of cake and holding it to John’s lips. John takes it in, and Sherlock swoops down to kiss him ruthlessly, tongue plundering his mouth to steal a taste of the cream before withdrawing, giggling, as the cream drips out of the corner of John’s mouth and onto the front of his jumper. John swears around his mouthful of cake.

“Come on, sit up.” Sherlock pulls John upright momentarily, just long enough to pull his jumper and vest up over his head. “Much better.” And then he’s pressing John back into the sofa and reaching for another berry, which he traces up John’s chest to the crook of his neck, whereupon he leans forward to follow the trail with lips and teeth and tongue, moaning enthusiastically all the while before pausing to suck a mark where the berry had once been.

It’s all a bit blurry after that. John vaguely registers them feeding each other bite after bite of cake, lapping up the drips of cream and jam from exposed skin and elegant silk alike, giggling and moaning and sighing in equal measure as Sherlock continues to move on top of him. All he knows is that by the time Sherlock is sucking the last bite filthily from the palm of his hand, he’s fairly certain he’s going to spontaneously combust if he has to wait a moment longer.

Sherlock sits back and licks his lips triumphantly, but before he has time to gloat, John has grabbed him by the buttocks and rolled them both off the couch onto the floor, Sherlock landing square on his back, John assuming his position on top of him.

“Ohhhh.” Sherlock moans and throws his head back. John would have to be blind not to notice the way Sherlock loves it when he manhandles him a bit, and true to form, Sherlock all but turns to putty beneath him at John’s display of brute force.

John grins down at him. It’s all he can do before his fingers are fumbling at the delicate lace bows and he’s pulling the panties away once more, revealing Sherlock’s plug still seated within him. John pulls out the plug and thrusts his cock inside.

Sherlock is beautifully slick and wet, lubricated with John’s come from their previous encounter. The familiar slick sensation sends waves of arousal down John’s spine as he begins to move, slowly at first, until he’s firmly seated inside, Sherlock gorgeously open and pliant before him.

And then, John stills. He meets Sherlock’s eyes and gives them a moment to just breathe, to just be. They’re both agonizingly turned on from the extended foreplay, but John doesn’t want to rush this; Sherlock is giving him something so incredible, bringing one of his oldest fantasies to life in such a marvelous and vibrant fashion, that John doesn’t want to waste it on a quick fuck on the sitting room floor.

Sherlock seems to implicitly understand. He smiles demurely up at John, then spreads his legs further, bringing his thighs to his chest, rubbing the elegant silk of his stockings against the sides of John’s bare torso, and lets out a contented sigh.

John sits back slightly on his heels, and brings his hands to the the backs of Sherlock’s knees. He pushes them out and apart, feasting his eyes on the way that the garters shift and pull at the lace, juxtaposed with Sherlock’s milky skin. He turns his head and trails a series of long, slow kisses from Sherlock’s knee to his ankle, before repeating the process on the other side. The silk of the stockings feels impossibly cool and smooth beneath his lips, and he can feel his cock eagerly twitching in Sherlock’s channel as he allows himself to delight in the sensation. It’s so beyond anything he’d ever dared dream.

Finally, he pulls back, and begins to move.

He tries to remember all the advice Sherlock had ever given him about how to record an event for permanent storage in one’s mind palace (or, as John fondly called it, his mind shack). He attempts to practice the type of deliberate mindfulness that Sherlock always describes, the acute attention to every sensation, in an effort to not forget a moment of it.

He registers sight first, of course. The beauty of Sherlock’s form before him. His face, relaxed and open, his cheeks tinged pink with arousal, his lips red with the remnants of lipstick and berries. The way his chest heaves beneath the constraints of the bustier, his breasts rising and falling enticingly, gloriously feminine against the masculine backdrop of his frame. His legs, long and lithe, splayed to the sides under John’s commanding grip, the shimmering silk of the stockings nearly glowing in the dim lamplight. The clasps of the garters, so overwhelmingly delicate, connected to the strip of gorgeously intricate lace encircling Sherlock’s impossibly small waist. And finally, the way Sherlock’s cock looks, red and throbbing against his pelvis, while further below, his voluptious arsecheeks are parted over and over again as John’s length plunders that precious place between them, opening to permit him entry in this most intimate way.

And the sound. The sound of Sherlock’s breath, deep and steady, punctuated by each thrust of John’s cock inside him. The sound of John’s own breath, ragged and laboured, saturated with arousal, more gasps than breaths. And the sound of where they’re joined, wet and slick, the sound of skin on skin undeniably pornographic in the silence of the room.

And the taste. The taste of berries and sugar and sweet cream and sweat and the clawing, clenching taste of desire welling in the back of his throat, desperate and needy.

And the smell. The unmistakable scent of sex, thick and pungent and heady, filling the air with evidence of their passion. But beyond that, there were other scents, too; of the roast consumed in the kitchen, of the wood polish Mrs. H had used on their floors last Thursday, of dust and old books and Sherlock’s eucalyptus shampoo and violin rosin and baby powder and something unquantifiably, undeniably home that leaves John all but trembling in its wake.

And finally, it’s touch. Just touch, hot and fast and so goddamn perfect. Sherlock arches as John picks up his pace, tilting his pelvis to allow John to penetrate him deeper still. His hands clench desperately where they’re resting beside his head, and John forgoes his grip on Sherlock’s legs to intertwine their fingers, leaning over him, kissing him as he plunders him, willing to understand just what this moment means to him. Sherlock grips his hands, and kisses back.

John comes.

He moans and shudders through it, breaking their kiss, breathing hotly into Sherlock’s mouth as he empties himself inside him. He rides the aftershocks in brittle bursts, certain each is the last until he’s surging forward yet again, pumping ever so slightly more into the man beneath him, gasping in surprise that he still has anything left. It feels like ages until he’s finally done, collapsing heavily onto Sherlock’s form with a ragged sigh, dizzy and drunk with sated lust. He dimly registers Sherlock pressing a damp kiss against his temple. He buries his face in Sherlock’s neck, and breathes.

He doesn’t allow himself to rest a moment longer than necessary. The second he feels capable, he pulls himself up and withdraws from Sherlock, who issues a breathy gasp at the loss inside him. John grins rakishly down at him as he replaces his cock with his fingers before kissing a long, slow trail from Sherlock’s sternum down to his weeping cock. Then John swallows him to the root.

He fellates Sherlock with every ounce of enthusiasm his spent body has left. He makes it wet and decadently messy as he continues to press three fingers resolutely into Sherlock, prodding his prostate earnestly while pressing against his perineum with his thumb, providing him dual stimulation from without as well as within.

In no time, Sherlock is wailing and flooding John’s mouth with come, his slick channel clenching down on John’s fingers as he spends himself completely. John works him through it until he has nothing left, then licks his quivering member clean as his body trembles with aftershocks.

Finally, John sits upright once more. Sherlock looks predictably wrecked, a filthy display of ravagement splayed out on the sitting room floor, utterly defiled and breathtakingly beautiful in his debauched undergarments, leaking copiously as John pulls his fingers out from inside him.

John can’t help but grin. And then sigh.


For a moment he thinks Sherlock may protest, and he’ll have to spend the rest of the evening cajoling him into cleaning himself up before collapsing into bed.

But instead:

“Oh, God, yes.”

John helps an unsteady Sherlock to his feet. They’re both still a bit winded, but they’re too covered in lube and sweat and come and remnants of berry and cream to pause for a breather. They stumble down the hallway and into the shower together, pausing only momentarily to shuck their ruined clothes (and John is pleased to note that he has slightly more luck helping Sherlock out of his boustier this time than he had the last; he may just get the hang of the damn thing yet). They sway together under the hot water, trading lazy kisses and the bar of soap, quiet giggles punctuating contented sighs.

At long last, they collapse into bed, and John flicks off the light before pulling Sherlock close to him. Sherlock’s breathing is slow and steady. He’s tired. He’ll stay in bed and sleep tonight.

John holds him and cards his fingers through his hair absently as Sherlock hums contentedly, turning his head to press a kiss against John’s pec before going heavy and pliant beneath his hands.

John feels somehow compelled to speak. It’s easier to say things now, to hurl the words out into the darkness instead of saying them face-to-face, Sherlock’s relentless gaze permeating his every twitch and tell. It’s safer to say things to the darkness, in moments such as these.

“Thank you. For tonight. For all of it. It was… it was unbelievable, Sherlock. It was perfect.”

Sherlock sighs and nuzzles up closer. He’s rarely one for emotional soliloquies, but he’s learned to put up with John’s declarations of sentiment with a degree of dignity.

“I’m glad. But for the record, I’m not keen to make a habit of it. This was a… one-time thing. You understand?”

John hesitates before pressing for clarification. It’s an awkward question, sure, but again-- easier to ask it to the darkness than in the harsh light of day. “Um, which… which part? The lingerie, or the… domestic bit? Or, uh, both?”

“The domestic bit. It was enjoyable enough to catalogue your reactions, and as I mentioned, I did find the submission portion arousing to a certain extent, but overall, it’s quite… contrary to my nature, the chores. I don’t think I’d get off on regularly servicing you in that particular capacity. I just… wanted to make that clear, in case you were considering it for a future session.”

It’s such a thoughtful and eloquent analysis of the evening’s events that John feels momentarily taken aback. Usually he’s the one who has to lead all of their conversations about power dynamics; sussing out what works and what doesn’t in their particular relationship. The fact that Sherlock has taken the initiative to make his own desires known is an enormous step in the right direction, and John feels his chest swell with pride.

He presses a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head and gives him a light squeeze. “Duly noted. I really… I really appreciate you telling me that.” He pauses, the hint of a smile pulling at the edges of his lips. “Particularly because I was about to tell you about a very long list of fantasies I’d been holding back on. You doing the laundry, in lingerie. You picking up Rosie’s toys, in lingerie. You cleaning the refrigerator, in lingerie. You hoovering, in lingerie. You doing the shopping, in lingerie--”

“Oh, shut up.” Sherlock swats at his chest playfully. “I’d’ve known you were lying.”

“Yes, downside of bedding the world’s only consulting detective, I suppose,” John concurs mournfully. “That said… chores aside, how did you feel about the… um, clothes?”

“Mmm.” The deep rumble of Sherlock’s baritone echoes through to John’s chest, and he feels his heart rate increase in response. “Now, that part I rather enjoyed.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmm hmm. I like dressing up for you. The way you look at me, it’s quite… quite something.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It’s quite something for me, too. Though we may have to find a separate dry cleaner to take your garments to for cleaning. I don’t think I can face Mr. Halwood if we bring your things into his shop covered in cake and come.”

Sherlock gives an exasperated sigh. “Modesty is so boring, John. Halwood’s is so convenient, it’s just down the street.”

“Precisely. I’d like to be able to continue to show my face there on a regular basis, without the entire staff knowing what we get up to in our spare time.”

“Fine. Then I’m putting you in charge of getting my things cleaned. And don’t you even dare think of taking them to some downscale hole in the wall. They’re bespoke, you know.”

“Yes, so you’ve told me. But, um, what if… would you be amenable if… if I… bought you some things?”

Sherlock stills in the dark. “...What sort of things?”

John can feel the colour rising to his cheeks. “Um, maybe just… maybe just a few more pairs of panties? Just for… just for special occasions, of course. And I wouldn’t buy you anything more elaborate than that, I know you hate ill-fitting clothing and God knows I wouldn’t be able to figure out your size, and you’re always telling me I’m choosing the wrong colours…” He’s babbling, he knows that, but his brain feels like a runaway train, flying down the newly-laid tracks of a very different type of fantasy than he’s ever had before.

Sherlock giggles, a warm, comforting sound that soothes John’s fears. “Yes, John. Some panties would be fine. Just for special occasions.”

“Okay. Good. Fine.” John’s heart is still galloping in his chest, and he feels a hot burst of adrenaline at the thought. God, in moments like this, he wonders how the hell they found each other, two halves of a whole, their desires so perfectly aligned. If John were a religious man, he’d consider it nothing short of a miracle.

As it stands, he simply considers himself the luckiest bastard on earth.

Chapter Text

The rugby captain was everything that Sherlock was not. Conventionally handsome and athletic, popular and easygoing. He had a roguish smile, broad and open, that he shared generously with everyone-- his teammates, his opponents, and perhaps most infuriatingly, a fair number of the female bystanders who had gathered to watch the match. Despite this fact, Sherlock can’t help but imagine the way those muscular thighs would feel locked between his own, the way that magnificent arse would feel flexing in his eager palms, the way those gorgeous hands would look stroking his--

“Which one’s yours?”

Sherlock is rudely snapped out of his revery by a voice startlingly close to his left shoulder. He’d posted up at the far end of the bleachers, where it was easiest for him to hoist Rosie in and out of her pram as often as she demanded, since she’d resoundly refused to have any sort of interest in the goings-on on the pitch and was instead primarily devoting her attention to throwing her stuffed octopus as far as her pudgy arms could muster, before giggling hysterically and demanding Sherlock aid her in retrieving it. Sherlock had initially been riveted by this little game of her own design (which synapses in her brain were connecting that made the flinging and fetching of the object so enticing? Which recently-developed motor functions were refined by the repetitive movement? Which verbal skills were employed to communicate her demands for assistance? It was fascinating stuff, the lot of it…), but that had only lasted for about the first half hour. Now he was practically bored out of his mind, and frankly, the action on the pitch wasn’t doing much to distract him either. He was beginning to sorely regret letting John convince him to come, regardless of how delectable John’s arse looked in those damned shorts.

“I, um, sorry?” He’s still a bit off-kilter from being so suddenly imposed upon, and he spins around to see the source of his annoyance.

And his breath catches in his throat.

His first thought, nonsensically, is, ‘Alice?’

But no, of course it’s not Alice. Alice had been dead for over twenty years now, and though she remains resolutely in the shadows of Sherlock’s Mind Palace, she occasionally surfaces to make her presence known.

And this is one such moment.

The girl behind him is not Alice, but she does bear a striking resemblance. She has long, dark hair that falls nearly to her waist, a ski-jump nose dotted with freckles, and wide, inquisitive hazel eyes. She’s wearing a sweater dress and boots (practical for the weather), a fraying denim jacket (with traces of baby food on the sleeve), a purple knit hat (so like the once Alice had, it’s no wonder he’d been startled), and has an eyebrow piercing, nose ring, and lip ring. She’s cradling a sleeping child of about 6 months in a sling across her chest. She looks impossibly young to have a child.

She nods her head passively towards the field. “The lads. Which one is yours? Mine’s Danny. He’s the tight-head prop in the green shirt.” Sherlock directs his attention towards a young man with sandy-coloured hair loping his way across the backfield, shouting something unintelligible to the man next to him. He has a prosthetic leg, which from the looks of his gait is still quite new. He favours his other leg considerably.

He glances back to see that the girl is still staring at him expectantly, and he realises he’s yet to give an answer.

“Oh! Um. The one… in the light blue over there. He’s, uh, the… flanker, I think?” Sherlock had admittedly deleted most of John’s rugby talk from his hard drive immediately after processing it.

“Oooh, the captain? Well done, you.” She gives him a cheeky wink, and Sherlock can’t help but smile back. He still sometimes forgets how much more open-minded society has become, compared to the atmosphere in which he grew up. He initially couldn’t believe John had even invited him to come watch him play, assuming he’d want to keep their relationship away from the inevitable jeers and slurs of teammates and opponents alike. But instead he’d simply rolled his eyes and reminded Sherlock that they were living in a brave new world, in which rugby captains could have male partners and not be beaten senseless in the locker room afterwards.

Sherlock had remained skeptical, but John had been relentless.

“Come on, Sherlock. It’s a rec league for vets. Everyone’s on the same side. No one is going to take issue with you being there, I swear.”

“I don’t care if they take issue with me, John, it’s you I’m concerned about. You’re their captain, won’t it make them feel… weird, knowing that you’re…” (He still doesn’t say gay. Because John is not gay, he’s Sherlock-sexual, and Sherlock has long since acknowledged that the reality of their relationship has little to no bearing on John’s sexual identity, and for the most part, he’s made his peace with it.)

John had pursed his lips and taken a deep breath. “Look, I was skeptical when Dr. Richards recommended that I join the league. I didn’t see how being with other vets was going to impact my life, since I felt like for the most part, my… my PTSD was under control.”

Sherlock had nodded hesitantly. John wasn’t wrong; his PTSD wasn’t a huge issue for them anymore, but it did still rear its ugly head occasionally, and Sherlock was begrudgingly forced to admit that John having other vet friends to discuss it with had improved his disposition about it considerably.

“But it has helped, Sherlock, surely you’ve noticed that. And I think it may be helpful for you, too, to meet some other military spouses whose partners have similar… similar issues. They’re a really great support network, you know.”

“John, as delightful as I’m sure they are, I’m failing to see how I’ll have anything in common with a bunch of housewives whose lives revolve around their husbands’ careers.”

That had been the last straw. There was a flame in John’s eye, and Sherlock knew he’d crossed a line. “You know, Sherlock, you might just be surprised. Most of them have endured heavier shit than the two of us, and all things considered, I think that’s really saying something. So you might want to show some goddamned respect.”

Sherlock had backpedaled as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. I’ll think about it, alright?”

John’s hands had been clenching and unclenching, and Sherlock could tell he was debating turning on his heel and heading out the door for one of the lengthy walks he’d take whenever the two of them would have a row. But instead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Sherlock could practically hear him counting backwards from ten.

“Alright. Just think about it. The next practice is Sunday afternoon. It would mean a lot to me if you could come.”

John had started seeing a therapist again about four months ago. Though they were both understandably wary after his last disastrous foray into treatment, John had compiled a list of suggested professionals that Sherlock had thoroughly vetted.

When John had initially sent him the list, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that each and every doctor on it specialized in issues of sexual identity and orientation. He’d brought it up to John later that night, secure between the sheets after a rather acrobatic round of passionate sex, and John had summarily reassured him that he wasn’t questioning their relationship. He was simply questioning how to healthily proceed with building a life around it by contextualising his own identity.

So Sherlock had assumed that after starting treatment, John would want to have lots of important Talks about their Feelings and Emotions and Plans For The Future, but thus far, the only tangible changes had been that he had joined a newly-formed touch rugby league for injured veterans, and he now held Sherlock’s hand in public when they accompanied Rosie to the park together. It was all endlessly confusing.

Sherlock shakes himself back into the moment. The girl is still staring at him expectantly, and he quickly rewinds and replays their conversation in his mind, attempting to pick up the narrative thread he’d left dangling.

“Um, yes, he’s… great. He’s great.” His answer sounds lame and stilted, but Sherlock’s never been much for small talk, particularly with strangers.

The girl seems undeterred. “Well, Jack seems to have taken quite a shine to your daughter.” She gestures towards a young raven-haired boy, perhaps three or so, who had joined Rosie in her quest to launch the octopus as far as possible before chasing after it, giggling hysterically. Rosie claps enthusiastically as Jack tosses it into the air, trotting after it with resolute intent.

Sherlock smiles despite himself. “Is he yours, too?”

“Mmmm hmmm. Jack just turned three last week, and this here is Harry.” She bounces the baby resting against her chest, peering down at him with immeasurable fondness. “Six months.”

Sherlock knows that most people would comment on her children at this point, blather in pointless platitudes about their pudgy cheeks or identical angelic curls, but he has no reason to appease this girl; he keeps his response short and succinct. “Jack has very well-developed motor skills for a child his age.” He watches as Jack launches the stuffed octopus once more to a location beneath the bleachers, then skillfully navigates his way past the metal braces to retrieve it. He can hardly wait until Rosie is that mobile; it will improve the quality of their adventures considerably.

The girl laughs. “Yeah, it’s pretty amazing. How old is your daughter?”

“A little over two.”

“Oooh, any sign of the terrible twos?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not yet, but she’s doing a pretty good job of keeping us on our toes, regardless. Her name’s Rosie,” he adds as an afterthought, since it seems like something that people would include in a conversation such as this one.

“Well, enjoy it while it lasts,” the girl says with a grin, before reaching up to tuck a long strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re an artist?”

She blinks at him, and cocks her head. “Sorry?”

“Your fingernails. You’ve got multicoloured residue beneath them. Oil pastel, it seems, based on the way it’s also adhered to your nail bed. And you have a callus on your right middle finger, from where you rest your paintbrush. You work in multiple mediums, then.”

She breaks into a bemused smile, and Sherlock internally breathes a sigh of relief. He’s never quite sure how people will react when he tries his deductions out on them, and he’s found it to be a rather telling test of character.

“I, um, yeah. I am. Well, I try to be. It’s hard with two kids this young and Danny out of work, you know?” Sherlock nods. “But I get a lot done at night. I don’t sleep much, but I’m productive.” She laughs in a self-deprecating way.

Sherlock feels a throb of familiarity in his chest. She reminds him so much of Alice, the way he and Alice had both been, she with her art and him with his science, brooding and sleepless and clinging to their respective passions with everything they had.

He offers her his most practiced and reassuring smile. “I don’t sleep much, either.”

She shrugs. “Sleep is boring.”

Her answer catches him so off-guard that before he can even calculate it, he’s giving her a real, sincere smile, not the guarded one he reserves for interactions such as these.

The moment is broken by the arrival of Danny, who ambles up with a lopsided grin on his face, gazed fixed adoringly on Jack, who’s currently engaging Rosie in a game that involves yanking tufts of grass from the sidelines and placing them in her hair.

“There’s my boy!” He scoops up Jack and beams down at him, shifting slightly under the added weight to take the strain off his prosthetic. “And who’s your new friend?”

“This is Rosie,” chimes in the girl. “And her dad, um… sorry, I don’t think I caught your name!”

“Sherlock.” He offers a hand to Danny, who takes it with a firm shake.

“Oh, Sherlock! You’re John Watson’s… um. Person.” He seems momentarily flummoxed, and Sherlock elects to throw him a lifeline, instead of his usual reaction of watching him squirm.


“Partner, right. And I see you’ve met my wife, Jenny?”

“Not formally, no. Jenny, a pleasure.” He offers his hand and she shakes it, her eyes full of warmth. Sherlock feels unexpectedly drawn to her, despite his usual wariness towards outsiders.

She rises, holding Harry to her chest, and clambers off the bleachers onto the grass. “Well, Sherlock, it was lovely to meet you. See you here next week?”

Sherlock nods automatically, despite himself. “I’ll be here.”

Jenny flashes him one last smile and Danny offers him an awkward wave before they make their way off towards the park entrance.

Sherlock scans the pitch for John, who appears to be engaged in a rather heated conversation with two of his teammates. He initially things it might be an argument, but upon a quick analysis of John’s body language (shoulders back, weight evenly distributed, hands open and relaxed, and though he’s too far away to tell for sure, Sherlock has a feeling he’s smiling), he instead concludes that they’re simply discussing strategy or some other such trivial nonsense.

Sighing, Sherlock makes his way off the bleachers and scoops up Rosie, plopping her into her pram and placing her octopus next to her. She summarily ignores it and cries out indignantly, reaching towards the grass, which she’s evidently decided is a far superior toy. The next ten minutes are spent attempting to placate her, so by the time John FINALLY concludes his conversation and deigns to grace them with his presence, Sherlock is more than ready to go home.

He almost regrets going to the match. Almost. It wasn’t that he’d had a bad time, per se, it was more that a majority of it had been quite tedious, and keeping Rosie occupied had been too consuming for him to indulge in any rugby-related erotic fantasies. Meeting Jenny had been a pleasant enough turn-up, but Sherlock wasn’t much for friendship, and by the time they arrive back at the flat, he’s working up the courage to break it to John that he’s not planning to make attending his matches a habit.

But John, apparently sensing Sherlock’s intentions, refuses to let him get a word in edgewise. Instead, he implores Sherlock to put Rosie down for her nap while he showers off the grime of the game, and then he’s disappeared down the hallway, leaving Sherlock blinking indignantly in his wake.

Fifteen minutes later, though, Sherlock has changed his tune entirely.

After putting Rosie down, Sherlock had just made his way back downstairs, intent on starting a new experiment in the kitchen, when John had summoned him from the bedroom. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he trudged down the hallway and flung open the bedroom door.

Only to be jumped by a very randy, very naked John Watson.

It’s clear that John is eager to reward Sherlock for his participation that afternoon. He’s usually adamant that they not engage in penetrative sex during Rosie’s naps (it takes a while to get Sherlock properly prepped, and all too often they’re rudely interrupted by Rosie’s cries on the baby monitor before they’ve even gotten to the main event, making hand jobs or blow jobs a much better bet in those particular circumstances). But much to Sherlock’s delight, this afternoon John expresses no such qualms. He strips Sherlock out of his clothes with practiced precision, and in no time at all, he’s got three fingers inside of him, dripping with lube, as he sucks and licks at Sherlock’s twitching cock with vocal enthusiasm.

Sherlock is in heaven. John has a tendency to be a bit of a spoilsport about any type of afternoon delight (always prattling on that he should be doing the cleaning or the shopping or the laundry or other such trivial nonsense), so the opportunity to have him like this, naked and golden in the late afternoon sun, prodding Sherlock’s prostate as he tongues at Sherlock’s slit, grinning up at him devilishly, has Sherlock lust-drunk and begging.

After what feels like an eternity, John kisses his way up Sherlock’s heaving chest before plundering his mouth, all the while continuing to scissor his fingers inside of him. Sherlock whines and arches in desperation, and at long last, John pulls back, smiling beatifically down at him.

He rolls Sherlock onto his side and grabs him behind the knee of his top leg, pressing his thigh back to pull him open completely. Then John shuffles forward on his knees and guides his cock gently inside.

This position is marvelous. John can penetrate Sherlock incredibly deeply at this angle (certainly more deeply than when they do it missionary-style), but unlike when he simply takes him from behind, their current arrangement allows them to maintain eye contact. John takes full advantage, alternating between heated gazes and desperate kisses, observing Sherlock’s every gasp and whimper with reverent delight. Sherlock finds himself unable to do anything but lose himself in John’s eyes, the feeling of John’s cock inside of him, hitting all the right places, incapacitating him completely. He moans and reaches back to pull his own arsecheek aside, urging John to penetrate him more deeply still. John sinks further in with an appreciative sigh, his eyelashes fluttering in ecstasy.

“Mmmm, Sherlock. Are you close?”

Sherlock nods blearily, the sound of his own heartbeat nearly deafening in his ears.

“Me, too. Touch yourself, yeah?”

Sherlock simply nods again and then wraps his hand around his own cock, which has begun to leak copiously.

He strokes himself steadily, deliberately, swiping his thumb across the crown of his cock just the way that makes his balls tighten and his breath stutter. John’s eyes are riveted to where Sherlock is touching himself, the evidence of the pleasure John is providing him exposed for his perusal. John’s thrusts accelerate ever so slightly, and he leans down to capture Sherlock’s lips in a sloppy kiss.

John sits up just in time to pull Sherlock’s leg back and open just ever so slightly more, penetrating him just a little bit further, and that’s all it takes. Sherlock grunts and stiffens as John strikes his prostate directly once, twice, three times, and then he’s spilling helplessly onto the bedsheets, his hand keeping up a steady rhythm as his cock pulses out his pleasure.

Somewhat startlingly, John comes at the same time. The feeling of his twitching prick expelling its release deep inside Sherlock only serves to spurn Sherlock on, and he tightens his grip on his own cock and strokes himself even faster, riding out the tail end of his orgasm, reveling in the way his channel clenches down on John’s length, milking more come from him as they both gasp and moan in surprise at their perfectly-coordinated release.

Finally, they’re both spent. John withdraws and collapses next to him, panting heavily. Sherlock wipes his hand next to the puddle already forming on the sheets and rolls onto his back, legs splayed, delighting in the sensation of John’s come, slick and warm, between his cheeks and leaking from his hole. It’s absolutely delicious.

John takes a deep breath. Sherlock knows he’s about to make some vague exclamation of contentment (“Brilliant!” “Amazing!” “Fantastic!”), but before he can vocalize his satisfaction, Rosie’s telltale wail sounds from the baby monitor.

So instead, John just swears quietly, rolls over to plant a wet kiss on a sated Sherlock’s open lips, and shuffles to the door to grab his dressing gown before making his way down the hall, shouting out a request to Sherlock to put the sheets in the laundry before the sound of his footsteps on the stairs to the nursery overtakes the timbre of his voice.

Sherlock sighs and stretches, delighting in his post-orgasmic glow.

Perhaps becoming a rugby fan wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

And so, one week later, Sherlock finds himself begrudgingly making his way to the park with Rosie, her pram, three baggies of assorted snacks, two stuffed animals (her favourite, the octopus, and strangely, a stuffed duck from Mrs. Turner that she’d shown absolutely no interest in prior to this afternoon, whereupon she’d randomly decided it was imperative to have it with her at all times and cried inconsolably when Sherlock attempted to convince her to leave it back at the flat), and an umbrella. The sky outside was low and grey and it had been threatening rain all day, but John insisted perkily that they’d be playing “Rain or shine!” as he’d practically skipped out the door of the flat an hour beforehand, water bottle and duffel bag in hand.

Sherlock settles himself back on the corner of the bleachers and plops Rosie onto the grass before handing her a handful of cereal to consume (or, more likely, mash up and rub in her hair, but hell, he wasn’t going to be picky), then scans the pitch for John.

And there he is, a goddamn vision in his brilliantly casual athletic shorts and faded ARMY t-shirt, hair whipping in the wind and a grin on his face as he participates in what Sherlock hastily concludes is some sort of passing drill. He focuses on the fascinating way that John’s calves flex and contract as he pivots gracefully around a series of cones, conjuring up a pleasant comparison to their appearance when Sherlock is fellating John in the shower and he lets himself get worked up, John rising up on his toes to give himself better leverage to push his cock further down Sherlock’s throat as he nears climax. It’s interesting, really, the way that particular muscle group--

“Hello there, stranger.” Sherlock is once again wrenched from his fantasy by Jenny’s now-familiar voice, and he turns to see her waving enthusiastically as she makes her way over to the bleachers, Jack in tow and a diaper bag slung across her shoulder, and Harry strapped resolutely across her chest. “Mind if I join you?”

Sherlock manages a shrug, though he’s secretly quite pleased that she’s here. Though she’d interrupted his rather salacious train of thought for a second time, he has no illusions that he’d have been able to daydream much longer anyway; Rosie had a way of putting a quick stop to all that under any circumstances. So he’s hardly bothered as Jenny unfurls a plaid blanket on the grass and sets Jack on it before dumping out a bag full of plastic blocks, which Rosie gravitates towards like a moth to flame. In no time, the two children are engrossed with the colorful shapes, and Jenny has settled next to Sherlock on the bleachers, bouncing Harry absently as she offers a brief summary of her day.

“I honestly didn’t think we’d make it today. Jack’s skipped his nap for the third day in a row, and as of this morning, Harry was absolutely refusing to eat for no apparent reason whatsoever. If it’d been up to me, I’d’ve locked myself in the bedroom and cried for an hour or two, but then Danny would have been late for practice, and so,” she throws up her hands in exasperation, “here we are.” Her voice is tight and laced with weary exasperation.

Sherlock feels a pang of sympathy. He usually finds he has little in common with other parents. All the strangers he and John have met at the playground ever seemed to want to talk about is milestones and Primary schools and and how gifted their progeny surely were (they were not, but John had explicitly forbade Sherlock from saying so), and Sherlock found it all relentlessly tedious. They were lying, all of them-- it was painfully obvious from the lines around their eyes to the wrinkles on their clothes to the way their voices pitched up at the end of each sentence, it was all just an elaborate facade, a melancholy piece of play-acting at being ‘just fine,’ when in reality, they were all tired and frustrated and deeply paranoid that they were somehow failing their children simply by not being enough. Sherlock found the whole charade deeply troublesome, a concern which he’d voiced openly to John, who’d informed Sherlock that he was heretofore excused from socialization with strangers at the playground (though Sherlock suspected that his pardon was not an act of benevolence but instead one of self-preservation, after Sherlock unceremoniously informed the third set of parents that no, their child was not on-track to test out of Year 1).

Sherlock gives Jenny a once-over; she has deep purple circles under her eyes (clearly sleep-deprived), her brow is slightly furrowed (indicative of mild pain), and she lets out an absent-minded sniffle. “Not only that, but I’m congested and completely exhausted. I think I’m getting a cold.”

Sherlock cocks his head appraisingly. “Do you drink Waitrose-brand coffee?”

She blinks at him, eyes wide and startled, clearly more than a bit confused. “Um… yes?”

“Did you buy a new bag this week?”


Sherlock nods, his hypothesis confirmed. “You bought the decaf by mistake.”


“Fatigue, headache, even mild congestion. All common symptoms of caffeine withdrawl. You check every box.”

She shakes her head, bewildered. “But I got the same kind I always do.”

“In the blue bag?”

“That’s the one.”

“They changed up the branding at the turn of the fiscal year. The blue bag’s decaf now. You need to get the green one.”

She stares at him a moment longer, then throws back her head and laughs, an honest, brassy sound that elicits an involuntary smile from Sherlock. “Okay, genius. How could you possibly have known that?”

“Your symptoms were textbook. It hardly takes a genius.”

“But I somehow doubt you knew the information about the labels off the top of your head, unless you’re some sort of marketing executive…” She squints at him appraisingly. “Which, no offense, I don’t really peg you for. So really, what’s your secret?”

Sherlock smiles sheepishly. “John did the same thing earlier this week. Took me three days to figure it out, embarrassingly.”

She laughs again. “Why is that embarrassing? I’m impressed you figured it out at all, I’d just chalked it up to exhaustion!”

“Well, I’m a detective by trade. Noticing these things is… well, it’s my job. So three days was not my best work, to put it mildly.”

She’s intrigued now, her body language indicates that much. And before Sherlock knows it, they’ve launched into a conversation about his latest case.

Jenny is delightfully perceptive. She doesn’t ask any of the dull, mundane questions that less intellectually endowed people usually do; she’s polite but inquisitive, engaged and curious, and he’s tickled to find that she’s not repulsed when he summarises the results of his latest decomposition study for her.

“Wait wait wait,” she gasps out between giggles as he’s disclosing his findings. “The decomposition was delayed because the body was encased in a barrel of curry powder?”

“Precisely. The high concentration of linalool aided in the preservation; it’s a naturally-occurring turpene alcohol, you see--”

“Found in most flowers and spice plants.”

He stops and blinks, momentarily confounded by her contribution. She simply grins slyly back at him.

“I read a lot of biology books back in the day. When I was young, I used to want to be an illustrator for biology textbooks.”

He’s intrigued. “What did you become instead?”

She shrugs. “This. I met Danny just before he enlisted. We got married right before he left on his second tour. I was pregnant with Jack at the time. Then Danny got injured and when he was discharged, it was a full-time job, between the baby and his rehabilitation. I’d just started temping when I got pregnant with Harry. I’m planning to go back to work soon; Danny’s pension isn’t exactly enough to support the four of us.”

Sherlock’s brain rattles and whirs. He’s not quite sure what to say; he doesn’t want to come off as patronising, yet he can’t seem to conjure a thought that doesn’t come off as with a whiff of condescending superiourity. He’s still grasping at straws when he feels the first drops of rain fall.

“Oh, hell no.” Jenny’s on her feet in an instant, navigating off the bleachers with as much grace as she can muster while still holding Harry to her chest. “I told Danny there was no way I was sticking around if it starts to rain. The last thing I need is two drenched kids and a waterlogged diaper bag.”

Sherlock joins her without hesitation, helping her scoop up the blocks and fold the blanket back into her bag. The clouds haven’t opened up yet, but there’s little doubt that they’re living on borrowed time.

“Hey, would you… um, do you want to go grab a coffee? A properly-caffeinated one? There’s a cafe near here that’s good with kids. You and Rosie shouldn’t be out in this, either.”

As much as Sherlock would like to stay and appreciate the spectacle of a soaking-wet John Watson engaging in strenuous physical activity, he objectively acknowledges that it’s probably for the best that he gets Rosie inside before the deluge.

He accepts Jenny’s offer with a smile.

John is apparently delighted with the prospect of Sherlock making a new friend. Sherlock had initially felt a bit guilty as they abandoned the playing fields to seek shelter in the cafe and wondered if John would think this meant Sherlock was skipping out on his ‘supportive partner’ duties, but John’s almost embarrassingly optimistically encouraging when he responds to Sherlock’s text notifying him of his and Jenny’s whereabouts. By the time the storm passes and Sherlock heads back to the flat, John is waiting for him there, showered and dry and wearing nothing but a dressing gown, a twinkle in his eye.

John wastes no time putting Rosie down for her nap, and it quickly becomes delightfully apparent that he has every intention of making a post-match shag something of a tradition, a turn-up that Sherlock finds quite agreeable indeed. They don’t make it further than the sitting room sofa, John procuring a bottle of lube from the emergency stash they keep hidden in the sofa cushions, and before Sherlock knows what hit him, he’s stark naked and John is three fingers deep inside him, nipping at his bottom lip as Sherlock straddles him, rubbing their cocks together with an air of desperation, their moans camouflaged by the sound of another patch of rain passing through, spattering the windows in a steady drone.

All too soon, John pulls away and gazes up at Sherlock, his eyes hungry and intent. His lips are gloriously swollen from their heated kisses, and Sherlock whimpers as he sits back onto John’s fingers, willing him to press deeper inside him still.

“Christ, you feel so good, Sherlock. Do you feel ready?”

“Mmm, yes, John, I’ve been ready for ages.”

“Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me. Excuse me for wanting to spoil you a bit for once, Jesus…”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“That’s more like it.” John withdraws his fingers and Sherlock gasps at the loss, feeling obscenely open in the cool air of the sitting room. “Turn around and ride me, yeah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s brain feels muzzy but he complies, standing to face away from John before straddling John’s legs and lowering himself slowly down. John uses one hand to part Sherlock’s cheeks and the other to guide his own cock inside Sherlock’s eager hole, and Sherlock’s whole body shudders as he grips John’s thighs to control his descent. By the time his arsecheeks come into contact with John’s thighs, they’re both trembling with desire, fighting to keep themselves under control.

“Mmmm, fuck yes,” John murmurs, guiding Sherlock to recline so that his back is flush with John’s chest. John wraps his arms protectively around him and suckles wetly at the side of Sherlock’s neck, his cock simply pulsing gently inside him as Sherlock’s body adjusts to the intrusion.

At long last, John begins to grind up into him, not even thrusting, really, just soft, steady tilts of his pelvis, angling his cock to prod ever so gently against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock gasps at the sensation and his own cock pulses out a bead of precome, which John runs his fingers lightly through before turning his attention to Sherlock’s nipples.

At first he simply traces Sherlock’s areolas with feather-light touches of his fingertips. Somewhat surprisingly, the sensation of his nipples hardening seems to cause Sherlock’s channel to constrict in sympathy, and they both gasp as he clenches around John’s cock.

“Oh, that’s… that’s lovely.” John circles his hips ever so slightly before pinching Sherlock’s nipples with brisk efficiency, and they both gasp as Sherlock’s arse pulses in response. “You feel that, Sherlock? Stimulation of your nipples seems to make your arse tighten.”

“Y-yes, John. Fascinating.”

“Mmm-hmm. I think this merits a bit more experimentation.”

And experiment he does. For an unidentifiable length of time (Sherlock is so deliriously blissed out he can’t bring himself to quantify it), John entertains himself by providing Sherlock’s nipples with varying forms of stimulation, and then narrating the effect it seems to have on the tightness of his hole. Sherlock is fairly certain that he’d find the entire experiment endlessly fascinating if he were in a more coherent state of mind, but as it stands, he’s so lost in his own arousal that he barely knows up from down.

“...Oh, and if I add just a bit of moisture before I twist them, just like this, you see--” (John licks his fingers and gives Sherlock’s nipples a hard twist; Sherlock emits an undignified grunt as his cock expels a thick stream of precome onto his abs), “your hole flutters a bit throughout the duration of the pressure, but deep inside, just around the head of my cock. You feel that? Here, let me do it again…” (Sherlock wails, but does note with a mild sense of bewilderment that John is right--he’ll need to interview John once this is over to catalogue these results).

Finally, Sherlock can’t take it anymore. “P-please, John. Please.”

“Please what?”

“I need to… I’m going to come.”

“Mmm, alright.” John removes his fingers from Sherlock’s nipples, and Sherlock sucks in a breath as the cool air of the sitting room comes into contact with the inflamed nubs. John’s hands come to rest on Sherlock’s hips, which he begins to raise and lower. Sherlock’s head drops back to rest even more heavily against John’s shoulder. “How does this feel?”

“Good, John.”

“Think you can keep doing that while I touch your nipples?”

Sherlock nods blearily, performing several very fuzzy mental calculations. He brings his hands to rest beside John’s hips on the sofa cushion, then he braces his arms and plants his feet firmly on the ground. With as much resolve as he can muster in his current state, he begins to raise and lower his pelvis, impaling himself over and over on the length of John’s cock.

John lets out an appreciate sigh before mercifully returning his attentions to Sherlock’s nipples.

It’s exquisite. Sherlock fucks himself with heady abandon, his head dropping heavily back against John’s shoulder, mouth agape as he attempts to suck in enough air to service his galloping heart. He’s distantly aware of the sensation of his own cock, thick with arousal, slapping wetly against his own abdomen as he raises and lowers himself with increasing desperation, but it’s only an afterthought compared to the blazing heat of John’s fingernails digging into the tender flesh of his nipples, lighting up his nerve endings like searing hot flames.

“Yeah, yeah… little faster… yes, Sherlock, brilliant, amazing, oh my God, YES, Christ, brilliant, you’re so good, you’re so good…” Impossibly, more prickles of heat erupt along Sherlock’s spine, John’s words hitting him every place his hands and cock and body cannot.

Suddenly, John’s hands fly from Sherlock’s nipples to his hips, and the next thing Sherlock knows, John’s locking him in place and coming, his cock pulsing out thick waves of wet heat into Sherlock’s channel as he moans wetly into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

The instant he finishes, he doesn’t withdraw. Instead, one hand returns to Sherlock’s right nipple, which he re-commences twisting and plucking with enthusiastic vigor. His left hand flies to Sherlock’s cock, which he begins to jerk with practiced efficiency.

It’s mere seconds before Sherlock is coming, clenching down onto John’s softening cock as he rides out wave after wave of pleasure, striping his own chest and abdomen with streaks of come as John mutters obscene proclamations of admiration into his ear as Sherlock falls entirely, irrevocably to pieces in his arms.

Afterwards, they lie curled up together on the sofa beneath the tartan throw, having made a hasty attempt at wiping themselves down with Sherlock’s discarded shirt. By some miracle, Rosie hasn’t risen from her nap (though she had been up twice the night before, Sherlock notes, so perhaps she’ll stay down for a while yet), so they simply bask in the peaceful calm of post-coital bliss, listening to the rain pound against the windows as the storm worsens outside.

Sherlock feels sated and spent, but he’s too wired from the coffee with Jenny to doze off. A part of their conversation from that afternoon rewinds and replays in his mind; he’d catalogued it away with a note to ask John about it, and now seems like as good a time as any.


“Hmm?” John’s voice is low, and Sherlock smiles at the way the tone makes his chest rumble beneath where Sherlock’s cheek is resting.

“Why don’t you drive?”

John stiffens. Sherlock immediately realises that perhaps he hadn't fully quantified exactly how personal this question might be; when Jenny talked about it, she did it so matter-of-factly that it hadn’t exactly occurred to Sherlock that just asking about it, apropos of nothing, might be a bit not good.

When John finally responds, his tone is flat and measured; he’s clearly taking care to keep himself in check. “Why do you ask?” He doesn’t sound angry, per se, but he’s certainly not comfortable, and Sherlock props himself up on his elbow to meet John’s eyes. His gaze is steady and levelling and not entirely readable.

“Um, I just…” He suddenly finds himself a bit at a loss for words. “... was wondering. Is all.”

John can tell he’s lying. His brow furrows and the corners of his lips turn down, but he still doesn’t seem angry. He lifts his hand to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, twisting a ringlet absently before he finally speaks. “So after… after more than half a decade of knowing me, you just randomly decided that this very Sunday afternoon would be a good time to ask me why I don’t drive?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Is it… a bad time?”

“No, it’s not, but if we’re having this conversation, I need you to be honest with me about what started it.”

Sherlock presses his lips together, but decides that there’s no harm in disclosure. “Jenny said Danny doesn’t drive anymore because he was piloting the vehicle when it hit the IED that cost him his leg. And I got to thinking, all those times on cases, you always deferred to me to drive, said it made more sense since I had all the maps memorized, but I later noticed that even… even with Mary, she usually drove. I’ve seen you behind the wheel once, maybe twice, and those times it was in an extenuating circumstance, lots of adrenaline involved, and… and I just wondered. If there was a reason. And if there were, I thought maybe… maybe I should know.”

John is quiet for a long time. Long enough that Sherlock wonders if maybe he’s not going to respond at all, maybe he’s just going to extricate himself from Sherlock’s embrace and throw on some clothes and stalk outside into the rain, muttering something about needing some air.

But instead, he just lays there quietly, fingers gently coming through Sherlock’s hair, eyes unfocused and distant. Finally, he lets out a chuckle, closing his eyes and shaking his head, as if coming back to reality from a temporary excursion to a faraway time and place.

“Is something funny?” Sherlock’s a bit lost in all this.

“No, not funny.” When John opens his eyes, they’re warm and calm, and his gaze meets Sherlock’s unreproachfully. “I just… I mean, I specifically requested that you come to my matches in the hopes that you’d be able to make a connection with the spouses there, because Dr. Richards suggested that connecting with the spouses may be as beneficial to you as it was for me to connect with the other vets on the squad. And now you’ve gone and done that, just as I asked you to, and you’re starting a conversation about a topic we’ve always avoided before, and that’s exactly what Dr. Richards wanted us to get from this, and yet I’m… I’m…”

“Look, John, if you don’t want to talk about it--”

“No, Sherlock, I do. I mean, I don’t want to, but I realise that maybe I need to. We’ve been good about opening up to each other with a lot of stuff, this time around. And with… with the PTSD, you’re so good to me about it. You’re patient and responsive, and God, the last time I got worked up and you suggested that session, Christ, that was amazing…”

A few months ago, John had gone through a period in which the loud construction noises from Mrs. Turner’s flat had triggered him multiple days in a row. Sherlock, eventually at a loss, had come up with a plan that involved John arriving home to find Sherlock on his knees, belts in hand, begging to be dominated. The results had been quite… quite positive, if he did say so himself.

“So… yeah. Yeah, I do want to talk about this. Now is fine.”

Sherlock nods slowly and leans into John’s caresse. John licks his lips.

“I was driving when my convoy hit an IED. It wasn’t my vehicle that got hit, it was the one in front of mine. We all got out to help, and that’s when we were ambushed. It was a setup, and I was shot by a sniper from about 100 metres out. The rest… the rest of it is a bit jumbled, but… but no, you’re right, I don’t much like to drive anymore. It makes me feel on edge. And it’s a funny thing, really; when Mary and I lived in Watford and had a car, some days I would walk out the door and climb in and I’d be halfway to work before I even remembered that I should be feeling strange. Other days I’d get to the car and couldn’t face it at all. So I settled for cycling. Or the bus.”

Sherlock nods slowly. John smiles up at him.

“So… that’s that.”

Sherlock shifts and presses a kiss against John’s palm. It’s strange, even after all they’ve been through, it’s the first time John’s ever talked about the war. Sherlock finds this new knowledge strangely comforting; although he’d deduced the gist of it (sniper’s bullet, obvious from the caliber and angle of the shot, followed by a ravaging infection that left behind a mottled web of scar tissue in its wake), to hear it from John somehow made it seem less daunting.

John cups Sherlock’s jaw in his hand and guides him down for a kiss, slow and sensual. For a while it’s just a steady slide of lips and tongues and the intoxicating sensation of their nude forms pressed together, but eventually John pulls away.



“Thank you. For… for coming to the match. For… for giving Jenny a chance. I know you don’t take to new people easily, and I just wanted to say… it means a lot.”

“Well, don’t get too used to it. I have a strict quota of one new friend per half decade. Billy pretty much had the position on lock, but I reckon Jenny may give him a run for his money. Regardless, when the invites go out for holiday drinks, there will only be room for one.”

John chuckles and cuffs at him good-naturedly before pulling Sherlock back in for another kiss. Sherlock is contemplating proposing a second round when, inevitably, the sound of Rosie’s babble echoes down the stairwell, ushering in a withering sigh from John, who moves to sit up.

“No, let me get her.” Sherlock pries himself from John’s arms and makes his way down the hallway to find his dressing gown. “You strained your left hamstring during the match, I noticed you favouring your right leg when I got home. You should get some heat on it, or it’s only going to get worse,” he calls out over his shoulder.

Sherlock grows to enjoy their Sunday afternoon tradition. John trots out the door headed to warm-ups, eyes bright and grinning from ear to ear, then Sherlock follows an hour later with Rosie in tow, just in time for the match. He and Jenny sit and talk and watch the kids play (and occasionally there’s a pause long enough for Sherlock to capture some delightful images of John in action on the pitch to peruse in his Mind Palace later), then he and John return home and then John showers and fucks Sherlock’s brains out while Rosie naps, and then they order takeout for dinner and watch crap telly and go to bed. Though he’s not much for routine, Sherlock can’t help but appreciate this newly-established regimin (not to mention the fact he’s developed a near-Pavlovian response to John in workout gear; one Tuesday evening John randomly emerged from the bedroom wearing athletic shorts after a long day at the surgery, and Sherlock had no choice but to suck him off then and there in the hallway, greedily gripping John’s muscular glutes to guide his cock as far down Sherlock’s throat as he could take it).

And strangely, his acquaintanceship with Jenny blossoms to a friendship with unprecedented ease. She’s clever and witty and just a bit too sarcastic for polite company, which Sherlock profoundly appreciates. And she understands things about the way he and John work that most other people simply don’t.

She invites Sherlock to go to the Infinity Rooms exhibit with her at the Victoria Miro. “Danny won’t want to go, he’s not much for fluctuating crowds in small spaces. I thought maybe you’d want to join me instead?”

Sherlock notes that John has the exact same trigger.

She organises an outing for the four of them (she refuses to call it a double date) to go see some dull-looking action movie at the cinema. Sherlock can’t for the LIFE of him figure out why she’s so completely adamant that they attend the film in the first place on that particular day at that particular time (it had gotten terrible reviews, and none of them were huge cinema buffs), and it’s not until they’re en route to the cinema that Sherlock puts it all together; it’s Bonfire Night, and Jenny’s scheduled them to be at the cinema for the duration of the fireworks show. The theatre is blissfully soundproofed, and Sherlock is profoundly grateful that Jenny had been thoughtful enough to navigate the situation with such grace.

Her consideration for Danny’s needs is thoughtful without being condescending, vigilant without being overbearing.

Sherlock takes mental notes.

It’s an idle Wednesday evening and Sherlock is just finishing up a new experiment comparing several various hemostatic agents when John blusters through the door, grinning from ear to ear. He makes his way into the kitchen, plops Rosie into her high chair, and ruffles Sherlock’s curls affectionately. “Hello, gorgeous.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Sherlock is politely skeptical; usually when John has this much spring in his step, he’s either come up with some hair-brained idea for fun family bonding, or stumbled across a particularly valuable mail-in coupon from the Tesco-- the odds are 50/50.

“I just got a call from the manager of our rugby league. You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

“You’ve been drafted to go pro. You’re now officially the oldest rugby player in the English professional league.”


“Oh! They’ve decided to form a professional geriatric league instead, and you’ll be the head of it. I believe congratulations are in order.”

John rolls his eyes and turns to grab a beer out of the fridge, cracking it open and taking a swig as he swaggers over to pull up a chair at the table.

“Ha, ha. Kidding aside, though, you’re not that far off base. They’re putting on a big charity match, and the members of our league have been invited to play alongside a few participating pros at Twickenham Stoop!”

Sherlock blinks absently.

John sighs and shakes his head. “It’s a big, fancy pro stadium.”

“Oh.” Sherlock takes another moment to process this information. He’s not quite sure why John would be excited to play rugby at a stadium instead of the usual park at St. John’s Wood; would it really alter the quality of the game that much?

But then he remembers: sentiment. John has always adored rugby, and now he’s getting a chance to play alongside professionals at a (presumably) famous venue. Sherlock adjust his expression accordingly.

“Oh! That’s excellent, John. Excellent.” He offers his biggest smile.

John shakes his head, smirking a little. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Sherlock drops the act and glowers at him. “Of course I do: sentiment. Obvious. And while I may not understand why you’re happy, I’m happy that you’re happy. That’s about the best I can offer, alright?”

John rises to his feet and walks over to press a soft kiss against his lips. “I know, Sherlock. Thank you. I do appreciate it.”

Sherlock responds with a huff, but then John kisses him again, and the next thing he knows, all sensations of annoyance have been replaced by a warm tingling feeling that--

“Adda! Din! Din!” Rosie’s voice is jarring in the silence of the kitchen.

John pulls away with a sigh and makes his way over to the cupboards to start putting together Rosie’s dinner.

“You know, Sherlock, I’d’ve thought the news of me playing in a proper stadium would have been of a bit more interest to you.”

Sherlock is skeptical. “And why might that be?” He turns his attention back to his notebook, where he’s entering the last of the data from his experiment.

“Well, I do recall you saying something about a particular fantasy of yours involving a rugby captain. I thought perhaps this would add a new degree of verisimilitude to that particular fantasy.”

Sherlock pauses in his data entry to chew the eraser of his pencil absently. Perhaps this would add an interesting dynamic… but--

“I was thinking we could leave Rosie with Mrs. H. for the night of the match,” John continues. “Maybe get a hotel room.”


Sherlock’s mind warps into hyperdrive, conjuring a thousand salacious scenarios of the types of things he and John could get up to following the match.

When he re-emerges from his Mind Palace, he’s not quite certain how long he’s been spaced out, blinking down blindly at the pages of his notebook, but he’s fairly certain it’s been long enough for John to have noticed.

“I, um. Yes. Yes, John, I think that’s… that’s an excellent idea.”

John tosses him an innocent glance over his shoulder. “Mmm. Good.”

“Good…. Now, when did you say the match was, again?”

The next three weeks are interminable. Sherlock is convinced that John has intentionally taken on the role of provocative seductor with heretofore unprecedented gusto, parading about the flat in his workout gear on random days of the week (“Honestly, Sherlock, I’m on my way to practice! I told you we’ve added weeknight sessions in preparation for the charity match, didn’t you hear me?” No, Sherlock had not heard him, over the volumes his athletic shorts and clingy t-shirts were speaking), hitting the gym before work in the mornings (had John’s triceps always looked like that? He’s fairly certain they had not), and, perhaps most infuriatingly, fraternizing with a widening circle of people who casually called him Captain.

The first time it happens, it’s after practice on a Sunday, and Sherlock and John are bidding Jenny and Danny farewell as they bundle Rosie into her pram. Danny has Jack in one arm and the other slung casually around Jenny’s shoulder as they turn to make their way out of the park. “See you soon, Sherlock. Later, Cap!”

And Sherlock had frozen in place.

“Cap?” he hissed under his breath to John, who seemed entirely unaffected by the exchange.

“Well, yeah. Some of the lads on the squad call me Cap. Short for Captain, you know.”

Sherlock’s blood threatens to boil. “I know bloody well what Cap stands for, John, I’m not an imbecile. But why do they call you that?”

John looks lost. “Because… I’m the captain of the squad? And… that was my rank in the Army? It’s hardly a leap, here, Sherlock…”

Sherlock is beyond seething, but he keeps it to himself. He simply makes sure that during their post-match shag, John is properly reminded that Sherlock, too, enjoys using his rank, in a very different and immeasurably superior capacity.

By the time the night of the charity match comes around, Sherlock is so high strung with anticipation that Jenny actually mocks him for it. They’d agreed to meet before the match for a drink (Jenny having procured a sitter as well, so she’d been adamant that they make a proper evening of it), and Sherlock shifts eagerly from foot to food as they nurse their pints at the bar.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, I’ve never seen you take so much as a passing interest in the game, and now you’re acting like we’re about to attend the bloody World Cup. Calm down, will you?”

“Sorry, I’m just… um, nervous.” Though he doesn’t always take social cues gracefully, he’s fairly certain admitting that he’s simply anxious for John to roger him senseless during an extended role-play session at a nearby hotel post-match probably firmly fell into the not good category.

Jenny laughs. “Nervous? Why? It’s just a charity match, it’s not like there’s any real competition.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “I know. It’s just… it’s important to John.”

Jenny looks positively chuffed. “Ohhhhh, Sherlock Holmes, that’s sweet! You act all cold and uncaring, but deep down, you want to see your man happy. I knew it!”

Sherlock pretends to smile shyly. Meanwhile, his brain provides him with a delightfully distracting fantasy involving several unorthodox uses for John’s cleat laces.

The match is, as far as Sherlock can tell, a success. There’s a fair turnout (including Greg, Molly, and a few other Yarders that Sherlock hadn’t seen in awhile but that he knows John occasionally meets up with to drink and to watch sports at the pub), plenty of media coverage, and it’s ultimately revealed that the match and its sponsorships raised well over £30,000 for the Help for Heroes project, a handsome sum for the organization and its members.

But all that matters to Sherlock is John.

Because John is magnificent. Whether he’s in motion on the field, muscles coiled and eyes determined in the face of competition, or laughing effortlessly on the sidelines, his head thrown back and eyes wrinkled and fond, handsome and at ease, he is perfect tonight. He is everything -- everything -- Sherlock has ever wanted. It leaves him breathless in a startling, unnerving sort of way. He feels… is it proud? He’s always proud to have John at his side, of course, but he realises that most of the time, John is disguised by his unassuming, innocent facade, easily overlooked. But tonight he is electric, he is dazzling, he has let down his walls and let the world see the true John Watson, brilliant and pure and so goddamn sexy that Sherlock is consistently relieved for the coverage his Belstaff provides, lest the less-than-savory source for his interest in the proceedings on the pitch be revealed.

At long last, the match concludes, they endure a seeming eternity of photo ops and interviews, and finally all gather in a pub down the street for a celebratory pint.

John’s teammates are loud and rambunctious. John introduces Sherlock to a few more of them (including one or two professional players-- Sherlock can tell by the way John puffs up his chest ever so slightly as he’s introducing them that he’s practically giddy with excitement, but attempting to play it cool), and Sherlock does his best to behave himself-- honestly, he does. But in rowdy situations such as this one, being on his best behaviour is synonymous with him being silent, and he can feel himself mentally retreating inward as the cloying, oppressive heat and stench of the pub threaten to overwhelm him. There are too many people here, their faces are too close and they’re too friendly, especially towards John, they’re all drawn to him, leaning in towards him, touching him in ways that make Sherlock recoil in sympathetic horror.

John, of course, is completely unaffected. He looks totally at ease, relaxed and in his element, the hero of the hour. Sherlock feels increasingly wretched by the minute, a dark, splotchy blemish on John’s golden aura, an unwanted interloper on the evening’s boisterous joy. He glances to the next table over, where a group of the spouses (aside from Jenny, he’d never bothered to learn their names) are taking lemon drop shots and squealing girlishly. Sherlock’s stomach churns. He’s never felt so out of place. It’s hateful, all of it…

A voice in his ear brings him out of his mental spiral. “Hey, you. Fancy some air?” It’s Jenny, and she’s smiling at him with a empathetic look in her eye. “I’m gasping in here. Come on.”

He follows her out of the pub and into the brisk night air. She fishes in her pocket for a packet of cigarettes (she smokes? She used to. Gave it up two--no, three years ago, reserves a pack for special occasions, of which tonight is apparently one) and offers one to Sherlock. He considers momentarily, but then remembers John hates it when he tastes like an ashtray, so he politely declines. She lights up and they lean back against the rough brick of the pub’s facade, reveling in the blissful quiet of the street.

“Well, tonight’s turning out to be a shitshow,” she says with a shrug. “Guess it’s bound to happen, these rugby lads do like to go hard.”

Sherlock makes a non-committal noise and scuffs at a pebble on the ground with the toe of his shoe. He can’t think of anything to say.

“Hey.” She gives him a gentle nudge with her shoulder. “He loves you, you know? He’s a good man, and he’s crazy about you.”

Sherlock gives a snort and shakes his head. There’s no way she could know that. She doesn’t know John. She doesn’t even know him, and how awkward and off-putting he is, and how terrible he is in social situations, and how he embarrasses John in front of his friends and colleagues and most of the time he doesn’t mean to do it, but he’s always been rubbish around people, and--

“Danny says he talks about you constantly. At first I think that Danny was really surprised that John was so… open with the squad. About being gay, you know.”

Not gay, Sherlock wants to say, but he holds his tongue.

“But I think that his openness was a good thing, for everyone. Before, I think Danny was… pretty… um, on the fence about gay men serving. But after meeting John, he’s changed his position entirely. It’s been a brilliant thing to witness, you know, that change in him. John’s really made a difference for him. And… you’ve made a difference for me.”

Sherlock is so startled, he can’t help but blink and look up to meet her eyes. They’re warm and earnest, searching his for a response.

“Before, I didn’t… I don’t really fit into the role of a good military wife, you know? I tried, I did, but… that lifestyle just isn’t for me. I always felt like the odd woman out. And then you came along, and finally, I wasn’t the strangest one there.”

Sherlock barks out a laugh despite himself, and Jenny grins in return. “What I mean is… I haven’t met many people out there as honest as you are. Parenthood is hard. And being a military spouse is hard. And sometimes one or both are shit, and before, I always felt ashamed for thinking it, let alone saying it. But… well, you let me be myself. And that’s made a difference.”

He bites his lip. He’s struggling to find the words to say what he wants to say, to convey to her what it’s meant to him to have someone to talk to about John’s PTSD for the first time ever, to feel like he wasn’t alone in helping John battle the demons that continued to plague him, despite long stretches of respite. To feel like he had an ally in all of this, for whatever it was worth.

“I… you… for me, as well.”

For a moment she just pauses, head cocked, and then the next thing he knows, she’s laughing, not in a cruel, judgemental way, but in that honest, endearing way of hers that makes Sherlock feel undeniably fond of her.

“Why, I think that’s the most heartfelt speech I’ve ever heard. You’re quite the orator, you know that, Sherlock Holmes? A regular Churchill.”

“Oh, shut up.”

They’re both still giggling uncontrollably when John emerges from the pub, looking rather red and shiny, eyes glassy and bright.

“Oy, there you are! Was beginning to think you’d run off together and left me once and for all.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

“Oh, if I should be so lucky as to snag this man of yours…” Jenny wraps her arm through his and gives Sherlock a playful nudge, which he indulgently returns.

“Come back inside, won’t you? We’re doing speeches!”

Sherlock cannot think of anything he’d like to do less, but the earnest look on John’s face tugs at his heart in a most annoying fashion, and the next thing he knows, he’s posted up at the bar nursing a whiskey, Jenny at his side, listening to what appears to be a never ending stream of bland platitudes and sentimental drivel uttered by increasingly knackered members of the squad. Sherlock devotes his attention to re-memorizing the ever-changing patterns of grey on the left side of John’s hair, and wills himself to be patient.

After what he can summarily scientifically conclude is a literal eternity, the pub is emptying out, and John is finally ready to leave. He’s two sheets to the wind, Sherlock can tell; rosy-cheeked and giggling, his gait unsteady and his words slightly slurred. Sherlock is actually a bit tipsy himself; after being dragged back inside, he and Jenny had resolutely worked their way through three whiskeys apiece, and he can tell by the way she pulls him in for a firm hug upon their departure that her inhibitions are lowered as well. He feels warm and calm and strangely doesn’t mind the embrace.

“I’ll see you at the next match, yeah?” Her eyes search his for affirmation.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She breaks into a wide grin, and gives him a wink as John grabs him by the arm and resolutely leads him outside.

And then Sherlock remembers what he’s really here for.

They stagger their way to the hotel arm-in-arm, pausing only briefly at the corner to kiss (and grope and frot, and Christ, they need to get to their room fast or Sherlock is going to go to his knees right here and now and get them both arrested), and from there it’s a sweaty tangle of limbs and garments and clumsy fumblings and finally (finally!) they’re in the bed and John is gloriously naked and propped up on the pillows, splayed before Sherlock like a feast, and Sherlock is hovering over him, drunk with the possibilities as much as the whiskey, head spinning and heart pounding, frantic and horney and desperate.

“What do you want, John?”

John blinks blearily up at him. “Wh’d’you want?”

“Anything. Everything. Captain.”

John’s face breaks into a roguish grin, and he surges up to capture Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. He tastes of lager and whiskey and-- Christ, is that tequila? Sherlock had seen a few of the lads taking shots, but he knew John didn’t usually partake, yet the evidence doesn’t lie…

“Have at it, then.” John collapses dazedly back into the pillows. He seems a bit too far gone to be much use in all this, but hell, Sherlock can work with what he’s got, here.

He bends to suck at the crook of John’s neck, at just the place that drives him wild, and John arches and gasps beneath him as he worries the soft flesh between his teeth. Then he uses his tongue and lips to blaze a trail from John’s shoulder to his sternum, then begins to slowly, agonizingly kiss a path due south.

Between each impassioned kiss, he begins to speak, his voice low and sultry, just the way he knows John likes.

“O captain, my captain…” (He kisses the firm hardness of John’s breastbone), “Our fearful trip is done…” (His lips find purchase in the soft, concave space between John’s heaving ribs), “The ship has weather’d every rack…” (He licks along John’s abs, newly toned and firmed by his dedicated training), “The prize we sought is won…” (He nips over to John’s protruding hip bone before licking a teasing stripe up the crease of his groin, taking in the familiar scent that is so achingly, maddeningly John). “The port is near--”

A snore interrupts him from his devoted ministrations, and he sits bolt upright, disbelief dousing him in a sobering deluge.

John was asleep.

Not just asleep, but snoring resolutely, his half-hard cock rapidly losing interest in the proceedings as he surrendered entirely to what Sherlock quickly surmises is exhaustion and extreme intoxication.

Well, shit.

Sherlock is irate. He’d endured all of this rugby nonsense for the explicit purpose of being fucked senseless by a proper rugby captain, the stereotypical epitome of masculine prowess, hopped up on testosterone and adrenaline, looking to claim and conquer and show Sherlock exactly who was in charge, and Sherlock was… Sherlock was…

Well, Sherlock was quite dizzy, now that he thought about it. The room is spinning slightly, the edges of his vision blurred, and now that he thinks about it, he’s not completely hard himself. Perhaps John has the right idea here; perhaps they should just take a quick nap to sober up a bit, get their bearings…

Yes, a quick nap would be good, then Sherlock will go get them a glass of water and then they’ll be good to go…

He’ll just lie down and close his eyes for a moment, just until the spinning stops, just until…

The next thing he knows, he’s blinking his eyes open to find the room filled with the pale glow of an early dawn. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, and when he finally does, he’s utterly mortified; he and John are both naked, but they’re sprawled out awkwardly on top of the the covers, reeking of stale alcohol and sweat. Sherlock’s mouth feels cottony and his head is pounding, and John is snoring quietly, a string of drool trailing from the corner of his mouth.

Christ. If only their criminal adversaries could see them now.

Mustering all of his lackluster strength, Sherlock manages to stagger his way to their overnight bag, from which he procures the bottle of paracetamol and makes way unsteadily to the bathroom, resolutely avoiding his own reflection in the mirror as he fills a glass and downs two of the pills. He turns the taps in the shower and steps under the spray, the steam clearing his head nearly as quickly as the medicine.

By the time he emerges from the bathroom, he feels almost human again. John is dead asleep, and Sherlock can’t blame him; the clock on the nightstand reads 6:06, and Sherlock can hardly blame John for indulging in a bit of a lie-in in his current state. Sherlock is rarely so lucky; his lack of need for sleep generally negates his ability to dawdle in bed much past sunrise under most conditions (with the distinct exceptions of the morning after cases, or the morning after coitus, which, Sherlock saltily recalls, distinctly did not occur last night). He paws through their bag and comes up with a clean shirt and a pair of trousers, and he quickly dresses as quietly as possible before slipping out the door and through the hotel lobby to the city streets below.

It’s been a long time since he’s been in this part of town, and he spends over two hours re-familiarising himself with the streets. He ventures as far south as the river, then follows its progress east, updating the maps in his Mind Palace as he cross-references them with his smartphone. It’s tedious work, but it passes the time, and he’s eager to feel productive after such a self-indulgent night.

At long last, it’s nearing what John considers a “reasonable hour,” and Sherlock serendipitously happens across a bakery that advertises “The Best Sausage Roll In The World!” His transport dutifully notifies him that he is a bit peckish, so he pops in and nabs a few pastries before turning his route back north to the hotel.

He returns to the room expecting to find John still dead to the world, so he’s caught entirely off-guard when the door swings open to reveal a freshly-showered John Watson clad in nothing but a hotel robe posted up in a chair by the window, flipping absently through the newspaper. He wants to say something sarcastic about last night (or maybe smart? Or sweet? He’s perplexingly flummoxed by his warring desires to punish John for passing out on him last night, and wanting to see if there’s a chance John will make it up to him).

Luckily, John seems all too willing to take the reigns. He tosses the newspaper casually aside and in three strides he’s traversed the room, pulling Sherlock into a heated kiss, his body warm and fragrant from the shower, the familiar scent of his shampoo and soap filling Sherlock’s nostrils as his arms wrap resolutely around him. John’s lips are plush but persistent as they move against Sherlock’s, swiftly escalating the kiss from one of fondness to one filled with intention.

Gasping, Sherlock pulls away, his head reeling from the unexpected escalation. His cock is already hardening, but he’s still wrapping his head around the abrupt change of pace.

John gazes up at him with immeasurable fondness. “Sorry about last night, love. I got a bit… carried away with the lads, and I would very much like to make it up to you, if you’d allow me.”

Sherlock blinks down at him, his brain scrambling to process John’s proposition.

“But we… the room. Check-out.”

“I’ve called the front desk and got us a late check-out.”

“I… brought sausage rolls.” He holds up the grease-stained bag in his hand, and John smiles amusedly at it.

“That was incredibly thoughtful of you, love. But if you’d be amenable, maybe we just put these aside”-- he takes the bag from Sherlock’s hand and deposits it on the nightstand-- “...and circle back to that later.” He turns back to face Sherlock and licks his lips, and Sherlock could swear he feels his own heart skip a beat.

“But they’ll… be cold.”

John rolls his eyes, and in one fluid movement, he drops his hotel robe to the ground. “If you’re so set on a sausage roll,” (he gestures towards what Sherlock suddenly registers is his incredibly prominent erection,) “might I interest you in mine?”

Sherlock can’t help it. He bursts into a fit of giggles, which John immediately returns. “Oh my God, John. That was awful. Truly terrible.”

“Well, you were practically begging for it.” Undeterred, John pulls him in for a searing kiss, and the sensation of his hardened length rubbing against Sherlock’s thigh erases any last inklings of hesitation in Sherlock’s mind. He supposes last night’s transgression was perhaps not so unforgivable; perhaps he ought to let John at least try and make it up to him…

He all but melts into John’s embrace, and the next thing he knows, John is pushing him down to his knees, whispering out a plea, his voice gravelly with desire. “Will you suck me, love? Please, woke up hard dreaming about those lips of yours, please, let me have your mouth…” His hands tangle in Sherlock’s hair as he guides him down before pulling him forward, the tip of his cock pressing eagerly against Sherlock’s parted lips.

For a split second, Sherlock considers protesting. After all, wasn’t John supposed to be apologizing to him?

But the moment he flicks his eyes upward, the words die in on his tongue.

Because Jesus Christ. Over the past few weeks he’d registered small changes in John’s body; the slight broadening of his shoulders from the extra hours at the gym, the gradual slimming of his waist in response to the healthy diet he’d (rather unfairly) imposed on the entire family as a part of his training, the flattening of his (already fairly taut) abs as a result of all the extra hours on the pitch, but now, from this particular angle in this particular light, Sherlock is able to take in the entire spectacle as he never had before.

Because John is ripped.

His biceps and triceps have swollen and defined, flexing as he wraps his fingers resolutely in Sherlock’s curls to guide his head where he wants it to go. His pecs (which Sherlock has always adored; his chest is more muscular than most men his age, and Sherlock loves running his hands over it as John fucks him) have become impossibly more pert and firm, his nipples peaking tantalizingly from his current state of arousal.

And his abs.

There is…

There is…

There is a line there that Sherlock can say with absolute certainty has never been there before, even half a decade ago when they first began having their encounters, when John (and, admittedly, even he himself) were even fitter than they are today. It starts as an indent next to his hipbones and then plunges in a deep V to his groin, framing his abs in a most glorious fashion and serving as a delightful frame to his twitching erection.

It’s the most erotic thing Sherlock has ever seen.

His mouth fills with saliva, and suddenly, having John’s cock in his mouth sounds like the most brilliant idea in the world.

He makes no impartial efforts. He sucks John down in one steady slide, deepthroating him without any of his usual teasing foreplay. He hears John grunt in shock as the tip of his cock hits the back of Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock begins to swallow around his length enthusiastically, his eyes tearing up with the effort. John’s fingers tighten in his hair and he utters a strangled shout, which makes Sherlock internally smirk (while externally, he redoubles his efforts and wills his gag reflex to remain at bay).

He holds himself there as long as he possibly can, breathing through his nose to the best of his abilities as he works his mouth and throat around John’s throbbing length as John mutters and curses above him. Finally, he can’t take anymore and pulls off with a wet pop, immediately descending to take one of John’s balls into his mouth where he proceeds to lick and suck on it while using his hand to work over John’s now-soaking shaft.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, oh my God, yes…” John’s hands are rotating frantically from Sherlock’s hair to his neck to his shoulders and then back up, restless and demanding as Sherlock works him over. Sherlock gazes up to revel in the beauty of John’s form above him, his muscles pulled taut as he stares down at Sherlock with single-minded devotion.

Sherlock cuts no corners. He alternates suckling John’s balls into his mouth as he thumbs the tip of his cock in quick, teasing strokes, delighting in the way that John’s abs quiver just so every time he pauses in his ministrations to deliver a decadent lick from root to tip. In no time, his tongue is salty with the taste of John’s precome, and John’s fingers are so firmly entangled in his hair that it’s growing to be just the right side of painful. Sherlock has no idea how long he’s been at it; he simply loses himself in the feedback loop of pleasure as they’re both overcome with bliss.

In what feels like no time and an eternity all at once, John is pulling him to his feet and crushing their lips together desperately, his tongue plundering Sherlock’s mouth as he guides him backwards across the room until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he is suddenly, startlingly horizontal, John pulling his shirt up over his head and unceremoniously tossing it somewhere into the ether behind him. Then John is crouching above him and fumbling with his flies, eyes lust-addled and desperate as he pants hungrily into Sherlock’s mouth.

The sensation of John’s fingers wrapping around his cock is enough to send Sherlock arching off the bed, wailing helplessly as his hands drop to his sides, the sensation so overwhelming that he’s certain his brain will short-circuit. Above him, John lets out an echoing moan as he begins to stroke him, and Sherlock suddenly feels as if he’s about to vibrate out of his own skin. He wants more, he needs more, but when he tries to vocalize this, all that materializes is a pathetic whine.

“Oh, yes, love, you like that? Christ, your cock his so hard and wet already, God. Want to… need to…”

Then John’s throwing a let over to straddle him, lowering his hips until their cocks align before wrapping his hands around their mutual hardness and bringing them together, stroking them gently, the friction of John’s cock against his enough to make Sherlock cry out in desperation.

It’s mere moments before Sherlock can’t resist any longer. His hands fly up to meet John’s, fingers intermingling, Sherlock thumbing gently against their tips as John strokes their shafts. It’s an intricate, coordinated effort, and John grins down at him as they chase their mutual pleasure, stimulating each other and themselves all at once, eyes darting down to take in the erotic sight of their parallel lengths as they move against one another.

Eventually John pushes Sherlock’s hands gently away and then takes both of their shafts in the firm grip of his left and begins to jerk them, fast and hard, before leaning down to capture Sherlock’s lips in a delectable kiss.

It’s a familiar sensation but new all at once; years ago, back before the Fall and the rest of it all, this was one of the most common ways he and John would get each other off. Something about the friction and the angle and the pressure of it made lube unnecessary (back in those days, something about lube made their encounters feel too official, too formal, so they generally made do without), and all too soon, Sherlock remembers why; the exquisite heat between them is so erotic he’s suddenly on the verge of coming, and he has to bodily shove John off of him, gasping helplessly as he struggles to tamp down the urge.

John staggers backwards to his feet, panting, and Sherlock throws his arm over his eyes, uttering a frustrated moan.

“You alright, love?” John’s voice is laced with concern.

Sherlock takes a few deep breaths. “Mmm. Yes. Just… too close, sorry. Too close.”

John chuckles, and Sherlock finally feels in control enough to remove his face from the crook of his elbow, and he blinks his eyes open to find John gazing down endearingly at him. He smiles back, now slightly embarrassed, but John just shrugs and takes it all in stride.

“Alright, we can slow it down a bit. But first, let’s get you out of these trousers. And Christ, you’re still wearing your shoes and socks? How the hell did we get this far with you in shoes and socks…”

John divests him of his clothes with methodical efficiency, narrating to himself all the while; Sherlock knows this is as much for his benefit as it is for John’s; it gives Sherlock a chance to get himself back under control. By the time he’s naked, he feels considerably calmer, and the urge to come has temporarily receded.

“So, love, I’d like to prep you now. Does that sound alright?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Good.” John grins and retreats momentarily to rummage through their suitcase, but he returns quickly with the lube in hand. “Can I suck you while I do this? I don’t have to if you’re too close, but Christ, your cock looks absolutely delicious this morning.”

Sherlock lets out what he feels fairly sure is an embarrassingly high-pitched giggle, but finally manages to formulate a response. “Yes, but, um… maybe just go light? Just the tip?”

“Just the tip it is.”

And with that, Captain John Watson gets down to business. Confusingly, he tosses the lube aside at the outset and focuses on just using his fingers, slick with saliva. It’s a beautiful, burning bloom that lights Sherlock up from the inside out, the sensation increased tenfold by the gentle suckling and tonguing of the head of his cock by John’s clever lips and tongue. John is careful to avoid his prostate (lest Sherlock reach the edge too quickly), and by the time he’s three fingers deep with his thumb massaging Sherlock’s perineum with practiced precision, Sherlock is seeing stars and all but begging for mercy.

Finally, John pulls back with one conclusive swirl of his tongue.

“So I was thinking… “

“Yes, John. Whatever you’re going to say, yes.”

John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Sherlock, we’ve been over this, that’s not how consent works. You have to let me finish my sentence first.”

“Ugh, fine.” Sherlock rolls his eyes exasperatedly, but finds it’s rather difficult to feign annoyance when John still has three fingers twisting determinedly inside his arse.

“So I was thinking… would you like to try 69’ing again?”

Sherlock’s a bit taken aback; they’d only ever tried that position a few times, and none had been what one might categorize as a success; as it turns out, Sherlock had a tendency to rather forget himself when he had John Watson’s lips around his cock, and he’d nearly choked John to death or used far more teeth than wholly acceptable on more than one occasion when he’d gotten carried away. He’d assumed at this point they’d written the position off as a lost cause.

“I… um, yes?”

“Excellent.” John breaks into a dazzling grin as he clambers onto the bed and flops down on his back beside Sherlock. “Up you get.”

“You… you want me on top?” Sherlock can’t hide the surprise in his voice; his position on top had been the primary cause of the choking the last few times around.

“Mmmhmm. Come on now, just be a bit careful, yeah? I trust you.”

“Okay, alright…” Sherlock rolls over, turns around, and awkwardly shifts into position, swinging his leg over so that he’s bracketing John’s head, his pulsing erection inches from his lips.

“Okay, you start, love. Suck me. Be gentle, now.”

Sherlock nods resolutely and bends to take John’s turgid length into his mouth. Slowly, he begins to bob his head, establishing a rhythm with familiar ease, gradually incorporating the use of his tongue in slow, complimentary swirls.

He hears John groan above him, and the next thing he knows, John’s arms are wrapped around his thighs, his hands on Sherlock’s arsecheeks, pulling them apart.

And then John sticks his tongue inside him.

Sherlock nearly chokes himself on John’s cock. He pulls off and gasps, the sensation of John’s tongue in the most sensitive part of him overriding every other sensation he’s currently experiencing. It’s wet and filthy and utterly consuming.

“Oh my God. Oh my God…” His forehead falls to John’s thigh as John redoubles his efforts, licking a broad stripe up his cleft before pausing to suck at his rim, punctuating the action with a series of delicate kitten licks that tease his entrance and make him feel like he’s about to turn inside out. “Nnnnnngh ohmyGOD.”

Back before the Fall, John had never rimmed Sherlock, and for the first few months of their rekindled relationship, the act had been exceedingly rare; he’d done it once or twice during their sessions of unwinding, and maybe once in a blue moon before a particularly rigorous round of intercourse. But Sherlock can’t help but notice that John’s been doing it more and more lately; Sherlock is starting to wonder if perhaps it has anything to do with his acknowledgement of his own sexuality, now that he’s seeing a proper therapist about it--

But he’s quickly forced to file away that train of thought for future inspection, because John has now lowered himself to suck on Sherlock’s balls and lap at his perineum before making his way back up to lavish more attention on his quivering hole.

Sherlock howls, eyes squinting shut as he surrenders to the sensations, but the moment is lost as John’s mouth suddenly disappears, leaving Sherlock whimpering at the loss.

“Love? Glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself down there, but part of this is that you’ve got a job to do, too.”

“Oh! Right! Right!” Of course, how could Sherlock have been so selfish? He resolutely shakes his head clear before reaching down to hold John’s cock upright so that he can sink his plush mouth down the length of it.

Sherlock is fairly certain that when he dies, he will remember this moment as one of his greatest accomplishments. Despite whatever depraved sorcery John is performing on his arse, Sherlock somehow manages to re-establish a steady rhythm on John’s cock, even having the presence of mind to use one of his hands to fondle and squeeze John’s balls as he does so. In no time, they’re both moaning obscenely, the vibrations from John’s mouth making his hole clench eagerly, attempting to pull John’s tongue further inside him.

Suddenly, John pulls back with an exasperated groan. “Christ, Sherlock, this feels incredible but I can’t keep my neck in that position any more to hold up my head. Can you, um, sit up a bit and…. Uh, sit on my face?”

Sherlock pulls off of his cock, a string of drool coating his chin as he messily wipes it away. “I… yes, I think so, but then I can’t keep my mouth on you…”

“Doesn’t matter, use your hand, I’m wet enough.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to be asked twice. He pulls himself up onto his knees and lowers himself backwards until he feels the familiar heat of John’s lips against his hole. Moaning, he reaches forward to take John’s cock in one hand, then uses his other hand to reach behind himself and pull his arsecheek to the side, granting John deeper entrance. John lets out a muffled moan, his hands flying to Sherlock’s hips, pulling him down into position.

It’s only then that it occurs to Sherlock to twist around and look down. His eyes meet John’s.

He nearly comes on the spot. John is staring up at him with a blazing heat so palpable that it makes Sherlock’s whole body flush. The vision of John Watson’s face there, buried between his two spread cheeks as his hidden tongue twists and plunges inside of him, is so erotic that it sears itself into his memory; there will be a WALL of his Mind Palace emblazoned with this image, smoldering there for all eternity, from this moment forward.

And it appears he’s not alone in his reaction. John moans obscenely against his hole and begins to thrust his cock up into Sherlock’s fist. The next thing he knows, John’s free hand has snaked around to stroke Sherlock’s cock, and he cries out, head tipping back, forced to break their gaze as the sensations wash over him like a rising tide.

They carry on like this for what feels like ages. John never provides enough friction in his grip on Sherlock’s cock for Sherlock to come, and while the rimming is exquisite, there’s not enough direct stimulation to push him over the edge. For his part, Sherlock continues to stroke John’s cock in the light, firm pattern that he knows keeps John teetering near the edge without ever pushing him over. They simply coast along the plateau, a low chorus of moans and curses the only indication that either of them is still cognizant.

At long last, John’s lips pull away and he’s heaving a wet sigh, his cock heavy and nearly purple in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock can only close his eyes and moan.

“Christ, sweetheart… want… need to fuck you. Please, need to… need to be inside you now…” John’s voice sounds wet and desperate, and Sherlock’s cock throbs in anticipation. He cannot think of anything he’d like more than to roger himself senseless on John’s gorgeous prick right the hell now.

But he’s past the point he can vocalize any of this. He merely manages a short grunt of affirmation before leaning forward to frantically rummage between the pillows for the lube. After what feels like what is quite possibly the longest, most agonizing quest in history (it doesn’t help that John continues to finger his hole absently as Sherlock tears apart the bed looking for the bottle), Sherlock sits up, a triumphant cry on his lips. He drizzles a generous dose onto his fingers and reaches behind himself to slick up John’s length, then tosses the bottle carelessly to the side. Then he plants his feet on the mattress until he’s in a squat, leans back and locks out his arms on either side of John’s shoulders, and wails at the top of his lungs as he impales himself on John’s length in one forceful stroke. He used to be self-conscious about riding John facing away from him (John has an unimpeded view of Sherlock’s hideously scarred back in this position), but he’d long since learned John was MUCH more interested in watching himself penetrate Sherlock’s arse than looking at the deformed flesh of his back.

“Oh, fuck, oh my God, Sherlock, yes, fuck, gorgeous.” John sounds completely breathless, and Sherlock is somewhat reassured to know he’s not the only one falling to pieces here. With a smug sigh, he begins to raise and lower his pelvis, delighting in the slick slide of John’s rigid cock inside of him.

After so much foreplay, the depth of penetration feels sudden and shocking. The tip of John’s prick is skimming over Sherlock’s prostate with each undulation; not striking it directly (which always brings Sherlock to the brink in record time), but simply pressing against it in soft, urgent strokes. It’s absolute ecstasy, and Sherlock lets his head fall back as he gasps for air, desperate to center himself amidst the rising heat of their coupling. He can feel his cock oozing precome as he raises and lowers himself over and over, and it’s mere moments before John’s hand is reaching around to take him in hand, jerking him in time with Sherlock’s movements.

“FUCK! John, oh God, yes, there, just there, fuck--”

“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck yourself on my cock, yeah, that’s it, that’s it--”

Fuck me, oh God, John, YES--”

“Oh Christ, Sherlock, look at you. Look at you.”

Sherlock heaves in another ragged breath. This position feels incredible, but his arms are starting to shake, and it’s with a distinct sensation of regret that he shifts his weight forward, feet planted firmly, freeing his hands and reallocating a majority of the strain to his thighs. He continues to raise and lower himself as best he can, but John steps up to the plate in the most glorious fashion, commencing a series of powerful thrusts up into Sherlock that all but take his breath away, never ceasing in his ministrations on Sherlock’s cock all the while.

“John. John. John.” It seems to be the only word that Sherlock’s lips will form, and he utters it over and over like a benediction. John answers with a series of bitten-off grunts, grinding into Sherlock’s arse with vocal enthusiasm. Sherlock gasps and reaches down with his now-free hands to begin caressing each of their balls in turn.

“Nnnnnggggghhhh SHERLOCK! Oh Christ, oh don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck, sweetheart, don’t stop, yes, just like that, love, GOD, oh God, oh God…”

They’re both nearing overstimulation, Sherlock can tell. Between John’s hand on his cock, John’s cock in his arse, and his own hand on his balls, Sherlock’s erogenous zones are well and truly covered, and he’s quite aware from the sounds of things behind him that John is thoroughly enjoying the proceedings as well. As such, it’s perhaps for the best when Sherlock’s thighs begin to tremble from the strain, and he melts slowly backwards to recline against John’s chest, drunk on lust, still shaking and sweat-soaked with desire.

“Mmmm, oh sweetheart, that was lovely.” John’s pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses up the length of his neck, pausing only to nibble at his earlobe in just the way that makes Sherlock quiver and twitch. He moans helplessly, and he can hear John chuckling behind him as he rolls Sherlock over in one fluid motion so that Sherlock is now trapped face-down on the mattress, his cock never leaving Sherlock’s arse as he does so. As soon as he has his bearings, John firmly brackets Sherlock’s thighs with his own, forcing them tightly together (Sherlock’s arsecheeks clench gloriously around John’s length), then he plants his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and proceeds to ream him mercilessly.

Being so roughly manhandled and now held firmly in place by John’s delightfully muscular form has Sherlock seeing stars. He sinks his teeth into the duvet and grasps helplessly at John’s wrists, but John remains undeterred; he continues to pummel into Sherlock’s prone form with unwavering gusto, pinning him into place and having his way with him in a manner that makes Sherlock feel intoxicatingly wanton. His head is swimming and he’s completely immobilized, the sensation of John’s cock inside him the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. He yearns to spread his legs, to invite John to fuck him deeper, but John keeps Sherlock’s legs trapped resolutely between his own as he thrusts brutally into him, a long litany of profanity passing his lips as he does so.

After what seems to be an eternity and a split second all at once, John is pulling out, leaving Sherlock whimpering indignantly in his absence.

“Shhh, love, not done with you yet. Want to… want to try something new here, just… hang on…”

There’s the sound of some awkward fumbling, then the snick of the cap being popped off the lube, then John’s legs are moving, pressing Sherlock’s knees apart, forcing him to spread his legs wide as John shuffles forward on his knees before reaching down with one hand to firmly massage Sherlock’s left arsecheek.

“Alright, sweetheart. Can you reach behind yourself and spread yourself for me?” Sherlock blearily complies, gripping his cheeks and pulling them apart, his hole feeling raw and exposed in the cool air of the room. “God, that’s lovely. So gorgeous. You’re so open for me right now, love, can you feel it?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Hold still, now.” The next thing Sherlock knows, John is drizzling a completely unnecessary amount of lube onto his crack and into his hole, pausing briefly to press it in with a finger before pulling out and adding some more. Though not entirely unpleasant, the sensation sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine; the lube feels unnaturally cold, and the act of holding himself open like this as John works it into him is making him feel utterly debauched. He moans, and he can hear John chuckling behind him.

“Good, love, gorgeous. Now, I want you to keep holding yourself open like that while I fuck you, yeah?”

“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock’s brain has gone blissfully quiet, full of white noise, and all he can think of right now is complying.

“Alright. Then I’m going to try something new. I think you’ll like it, but if you don’t, just say ‘stop,’ okay?”


“I need a real answer, Sherlock.”


“Yes, what?”

Sherlock sighs, the fact that he’s currently face-down on the mattress holding his arse open for John’s perusal no reason not to voice is exasperation at John’s non-stop obsession with consent.

“Yes, I’ll stop you if I don’t like what you’re doing. But honestly, John, I hardly think--”

But before he can finishing his sentence, John is thrusting into him once again, the copious amount of lube inside of him making the act obscenely wet, and he cries out at the sensation of being so overfilled.

“Mmmm, God, yes, so wet, so gorgeous. So beautiful, sweetheart.” John establishes a firm, steady pace, and Sherlock wails into the bedsheets as the sounds of obscene squelching begin to fill the room. “Just like that. Beautiful. Hold very still now, love.” And with that, John withdraws nearly all the way, until just the tip of his cock is resting inside Sherlock’s quivering hole.

And then, without warning, John takes his finger and presses just the tip of it in alongside his cock.

Sherlock gasps, the reality of what John is attempting to do crashing over him in sobering waves. He wants this-- yes, of course he wants this, he loves being overstimulated and fucked to the point of pain, and sure, he’s fantasized about this act one or two (or thirty-six) times whilst having a wank, but it had never occurred to him that John would be willing to try it, and yet…

“Alright, love?”

“Nnngh. Yes. Oh, God, yes.”

“Good. Okay, then.” John takes a deep breath and slowly, ever so slowly, presses his finger fully inside, until Sherlock can feel his knuckles pressed against his perineum. “Beautiful. Deep breath now, okay?”

Sherlock nods. Thank God John doesn’t ask him to speak, because he’s fairly certain he couldn’t if he tried. All he can do is lie still, trembling from head to toe, as John slowly, carefully presses his cock in alongside his finger.

When he bottoms out, Sherlock screams. He can’t help it; the sensation of fullness is so overwhelming it’s utterly consuming. He’s stretched further than he ever has been before, and the throbbing of John’s length alongside his finger is sending shock waves up Sherlock’s spine, overwhelming his brain. It’s good, it’s so good, he can’t move, he can’t think--

And just when he thinks he can’t take anymore, John begins to thrust.

His movements are gentle, slow and unhurried, clearly taking every precaution as he pushes Sherlock’s limits. His thumb is massaging Sherlock’s rim, distributing the lube generously around the stretching tissue, gentling him open around the impossible stretch he’s experiencing.

But it’s the feeling inside that’s truly overwhelming. Despite the fact that John’s cock isn’t striking Sherlock’s prostate head-on in the way that usually sends him careening over the edge, the sheer unrelenting pressure against it is making Sherlock feel more turned on then he ever has before. It’s an arousal born of an intense, overwhelming fullness that’s wholly incomprehensible in its nature, and all Sherlock can do is gasp helplessly in its wake, trying to keep his head above the undertow that threatens to drag him down.

He doesn’t remember starting to come. He becomes aware that he’s ejaculating sometime midway through his release, wetness pulsing out in a slow, steady stream from his turgid cock, trapped between his stomach and the bedsheets below. It’s a strange, consuming thing, and he begins to cry out helplessly as it happens.

It seems to last forever; happening not so much in waves as in an agonizing, endless push, the stream of come escaping him persistent and obscene. He’s distantly aware of John’s reassuring words behind him, gentling him, running his free hand up and down Sherlock’s spine, encouraging him to ride out his pleasure to its fullest extent. He complies, not that he feels he has much of a choice in the matter; his transport has taken over entirely, and by the time he feels his hole fluttering and then dilating as the sensations taper off, he’s fairly certain he’s having an out of body experience.

The next thing he knows, John is rolling him onto his side. His finger is gone but his cock is still inside him, thrusting into him gently as John wraps his arms around Sherlock and pulls him close to his chest. Sherlock, for his part, is slack-jawed and dizzy, barely coherent enough to process the words John is saying.

“Oh my God, love, that was incredible. Christ, look how much you came, God, I’ve never seen anything like that before, Jesus…”

Sherlock just closes his eyes and focuses on breathing.

John continues to fuck him from behind for a while as they lie on their sides, but Sherlock can’t muster the will to participate much; he feels limp and drained and helpless, bleary and discombobulated. He lets John use his body for his pleasure, surrendering himself to John’s desires.

But then John is pulling out of him and rolling him onto his back. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, issuing a huff of surprise, and finds John smiling down at him.

“Shhh, it’s alright, love, I think your body’s done. Can I finish on your face instead?”

Sherlock nods twice and opens his mouth, and John moves to straddle his chest before cradling Sherlock’s head in one hand and holding it up, while jerking his cock frantically with the other.

It’s only a few seconds before John is shooting streaks of come into Sherlock’s mouth and across his cheekbones, grunting animalistically as he makes a mess of him. Sherlock, for his part, opens his mouth as wide as possible, sticking out his tongue to catch as many drops as he can.

As soon as he finishes, John collapses into the bed by Sherlock’s side, chest heaving, a few choice curse words still making their way past his lips as he comes down from his high. Moments later, he pulls Sherlock close, and begins to run his finger through the come on Sherlock’s face before holding it in front of Sherlock’s mouth for him to suck clean.

It’s been a long time since they’ve done this, but Sherlock remembers why he’s always adored it so much. The act of being fed John’s release feels achingly personal and intensely erotic in a way that transcends the normal boundaries of sex, and he eagerly accepts each fingerful with a contented hum until the last of it is gone from his face.

And then there’s nothing but silence, broken only by the staggered gasps between them, unsteady and ragged in the stillness that has descended. The daylight streaming in through the windows gives everything a surreal quality; Sherlock feels wholly disorientated and completely spent, the realisation that it’s barely after 10AM incomprehensible to his floundering brain. He closes his eyes and drifts for a while, waiting for his systems to reboot. John holds him close, not speaking, just being, the two of them curled up against one another, floating on the immaculate high.

Finally, John shifts and pulls himself into a sitting position, groaning quietly. Sherlock blinks his eyes open, the bright beams of sunlight catching and refracting through his lashes as he struggles to come back to reality.

John casts a fond glance in his direction. “Hi there, love.”

Sherlock grins shyly up at him.

“You back?”

Sherlock shrugs.

John rolls his eyes indulgently before turning to kneel beside Sherlock, his expression soft and full of devotion.

“Sweetheart, can I check you over now? I was pretty careful, but I just want to make sure everything’s in order. That was… well, that was a lot.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond right away. He knows that John, ever the doctor, will of course insist on checking Sherlock for tearing (after all, he does this every time they have penetrative intercourse, it’s simply in his nature), but the recollection of how obscenely stretched Sherlock had felt makes him hesitant to let anyone touch him there so soon. Now that the heady rush of endorphins is subsiding, he’s acutely aware that he’s in a considerable amount of pain; not the sharp, searing pain that would indicate something was amiss, but simply the persistent ache that dutifully notifies him he’ll be feeling this for days to come.

“Sherlock, please. You know I have to do this. We need to be safe about these things, if we’re going to push you like that. You understand, yeah?”

Reluctantly, Sherlock nods and rolls over onto his stomach, careful to avoid the (frankly alarmingly large) wet spot next to him.

“Alright, shhh, just hold still, it’ll be over in a moment.”

Sherlock sucks in a breath as John parts his cheeks. His hole feels raw and inflamed, and the contact with the cool air of the room is a stark reminder of the amount of lubricant leaking from him. He gives a soft whine and buries his face in the pillow.

“That’s it, love. Going to touch you now, it’ll be alright, almost done.” And then John’s finger is tracing his rim, and Sherlock is gulping down deep breaths, willing himself to remain pliant and calm instead of recoiling the way he wants to. Then ever so gently, John presses his finger inside and begins to move it slowly in and out, checking for any sign of bleeding.

Sherlock shudders and gasps through the duration of the examination, his nerve endings overstimulated to the point of pain. John does his best to be kind about it, but there could be no avoiding the discomfort of the act, and by the time he’s finished, Sherlock is blinking back tears.

“There we go, it’s over now, we’re done.” He rolls Sherlock over and presses a firm kiss against his lips, brushing his sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “I’m sorry if that was too much. We don’t have to do it again if it was too uncomfortable, but I just thought you might--”


It’s the first word Sherlock has spoken, and John seems summarily startled. “No?”

“No. It wasn’t too uncomfortable. I want that… again.”

A small smile begins to tug at the corner of John’s lips. “... You do?”

“Yes. Maybe not anytime soon, I need to… recover a bit. But yes, I’d like to do it again. It was… Christ, John, it was incredible.”

John is beaming now, staring at Sherlock as though he’s announced Christmas has come early. “Oh! Good! I’m… I’m glad you liked it.”

“I did, John. I really, really did.” And with that, he hooks his arm around the back of John’s neck and pulls him down for a searing kiss, which quickly (and quite unexpectedly) transforms into a rather pleasurable makeout session. They’re both far too spent to go again, but John lets himself be pulled back into bed at Sherlock’s side, and they lie like that, exploring each others’ mouths for what feels like ages, the act intimate and earnest instead of erotic.

At long last they lose steam, resting on their sides facing one another, foreheads touching, breath intermingling, John’s hand steady and unassuming on Sherlock’s waist. The world feels calm and serene.



“I’m glad… I’m glad you joined the squad. I think it’s been… Good. For you. For, um, us.”

“Me, too, sweetheart. I think… I think seeing Dr. Richards is helping a lot, too. I feel… better. More at peace.”

“Good. So I was thinking…”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I may break my strict new friend quota.”

“Is that so?”

“As much as it pains me to admit, I feel like Jenny and Danny might be an excellent addition to the invite list for our holiday party.”

“TWO new friends this year? The horror! You need to stop being such a social butterfly, or we’re going to run out of space to host at our flat!”

“Oh, shut up.” Sherlock swats at his shoulder affectionately, and John grins back at him, clearly pleased as punch by Sherlock’s begrudging admission before pulling him back in to smother him with kisses once more.

And so Sherlock knows that today will be a good day. They’ll eat their pastries and clean up and then take a taxi back to their flat, where Mrs. Hudson and Rosie will greet them with smiles and hugs all around. And then perhaps there will be time to take Rosie to the park, where John will hold Sherlock’s hand and run interference whenever other annoyingly meddlesome couples attempt to make conversation, and Sherlock will dutifully ignore them and focus his undivided attention upon the grand spectacle of Rosie at play, pristine in her perfection. Tonight, John will insist on cooking dinner even though he’s exhausted, and it will be resoundingly mediocre, but Sherlock will eat a few bites anyway, because that’s what people do. They’ll put Rosie to bed after three rounds of books and six lullabies, then they’ll watch some crap telly before collapsing into bed themselves, spent from a long day of doing absolutely nothing of consequence.

Because Sherlock knows that there will also be bad days. Days when John’s PTSD creeps up on him in the most unexpected places, rendering him short-tempered and sullen. Days when Sherlock’s Dark Moods will cloud his vision with brooding doubt, bitter and black and unforgiving. Days when Harry will come by and demand too much, days when Mycroft will drop in and push Sherlock too far, days when Rosie will leave them at their wits’ end. Days when a slur hurled at them by a stranger on the street will leave John distant and cold, days when a cruel name hissed in Sherlock’s direction will make John seethe and stew.

But always, there are more good days than bad ones. And all Sherlock can do is his best to make them count.

Chapter Text

“You can’t possibly have missed that.” John is laughing so hard he’s wheezing, and he’s growing a bit concerned that he may not make it up the stairs of 221B without having to pause for a breather. Behind him, Sherlock huffs in apparent indignation, his footfalls rather heavier than necessary.

“Honesty, John, you act as if it’s my personal responsibility to keep track of the endless parade of mindless autobots featured in the tabloids. I’ve frankly got far better things to do, and space in my Mind Palace has never been at a higher premium.”

“But you… but you asked Victoria Beckham if she was familiar with the work of the Spice Girls.” John can’t help it; he dissolves into another helpless round of giggles and collapses against the doorframe of the flat, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. “Christ, the look on her face, Sherlock…”

Sherlock grits his teeth and pushes past John’s quivering form to unlock the door, shedding his Belstaff and tossing it haphazardly over the sofa. “Look, it’s hardly my fault I have a very limited database of pop artists on my hard drive; it’s all formulaic drivel anyway. I was merely trying to make conversation as a way to mine her for information about the case.”

John struggles to get control of himself, heaving in a deep breath and attempting to regain his composure. But honestly, the exchange had been one of the funniest, most awkward things he’d ever seen, and after all, there’d been no permanent harm-- Sherlock had successfully apprehended the required intel minutes later from a loose-lipped baroness attending the same charity event, and the case had wrapped up quickly from there. On a scale of One to Ten, this particular case had barely registered at a Two, so Sherlock’s mild social faux pas had cost him nothing but his pride. Not only that, but John had already received a delightful series of texts from Lestrade featuring some of the memes the other Yarders had created upon hearing about it, and he can be well assured Sherlock won’t be allowed to live it down anytime soon.

Finally, John’s able to gulp down what amounts to a sufficient amount of air and manages to stagger across the threshold, plopping into his chair and shaking his head. “Still. That’s going on my mental highlights reel.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You have a mental highlights reel?”

John gives him a cavalier shrug. “Obviously.”

Sherlock turns up his nose and marches into the kitchen, retrieving his microscope from the cupboard and placing it on the table with a rather uncharacteristic lack of delicacy. “Doubtful. You’ve not got the capacity to truly master the mindfulness techniques I’ve imparted to you, and your photographic memory is notoriously unreliable at best.” He turns on his heel to collect a tray of slides from inside the fridge (John willfully ignores the fact that they’d not been contained to the second shelf, which he’d reserved for all of Sherlock’s laboratory work) and places them next to his microscope with a clatter.

John sighs and picks up the paper, pretending to leaf through it, but he’s really much more interested in continuing this bit of fun at Sherlock’s expense. After all, John spends most of his life feeling like an absolute imbecile next to the man, and he’s not about to let the rare opportunity to feel superior go to waste, even if it was over something as frivolous as the Spice Girls. “My highlights reel may not be photo accurate, but I’m sure any embellishments my subconscious has created only add to the entertainment value.”

Sherlock flips on his microscope and places a slide beneath the lens before leaning forward and fiddling with the fine adjustment knob. John’s clearly getting under his skin--he can tell even from this distance that Sherlock’s not paying any mind to what he’s pretending to gaze at through the eyepiece. “And what else might be on this highlights reel, may I ask?”

John leans back, a look of feigned nonchalance on his face. “Oh, just bits and bobs. The time you forgot the Earth goes round the sun. The time you asked if I was the King of England. The time you Googled what ‘fisting’ was on a network computer at the Yard.”

“That was FOR A CASE!”

“‘Course it was.”

And that’s the last straw. Sherlock flips off his microscope, pivots around with a far more theatrical flourish than wholly necessary, and stomps down the hall, slamming the door of the bedroom behind him.

John feels bad. Well, not bad, just perhaps a tiny bit guilty, but after all, could anyone really blame him for having a bit of fun? He put up with Sherlock’s derogatory remarks and constant slights on a daily basis-- surely he was entitled to a laugh at his expense on this one singular occasion?

Still. Though John knew perfectly well that he hadn’t been unkind, he knows that Sherlock’s wounded pride had a tendency to send him into a snit. Luckily, he’s had enough experience at this point that he’s not particularly concerned that he’ll be able to rectify the situation.

He looks at his watch and gives Sherlock precisely five minutes to pout undisturbed. Then John rises from his chair and pads down the hall to rap softly on the bedroom door.

“Sherlock? Look, I’m sorry about what I said.”

“Go away, John. I’m busy.”

“Come on, don’t be like that. Open the door, yeah?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

John takes a deep breath. “Please? I shouldn’t have made fun of you. No self-respecting intellectual should know the names of the Spice Girls. In fact, you might say that the fact I knew who Victoria was is more incriminating for me than not knowing her is for you.”

Still no answer.

John pinches the bridge of his nose. What he failed to include in his calculations, he now realises, is that the case had been rather a disappointment as well: Though it had started out promising enough (jewellery heist and a deep-running feud between two warring museum curators), in the end it had come down to a series of miscommunications that resulted in the jewellery’s premature return to the owner’s vault. It had been there all along, hidden in plain sight.

So inevitably there’d been no adrenaline-fueled chase, no desperate fugitives, no clever outmaneuvering of a criminal mastermind. Just some rather banal paperwork and a diplomatic exchange of apologies. John, for his part, had been satisfied enough with the conclusion, but he realises now that Sherlock was undoubtedly smarting from the lack of a ‘proper’ case, and would be back to his usual high-strung, I-need-a-case antics by morning.

John switches tactics.

“You know, Sherlock, I forgot to tell you something very important about my highlights reel.”


“I have a highlights reel for the funny stuff, obviously. The times you make me laugh. But I have other highlights reels, too.”

He hears the creek of mattress springs.

“There’s one in particular I was hoping we could add to tonight. After all, Molly’s got Rosie until tomorrow morning, we haven’t got another case on, it’s just you and me.”

“What sort of highlights reel?” Sherlock’s voice is low and quiet.

“Oh, nothing special. Just a highlights reel of all the most devious, salacious things I love about you.”

“...Like what?”

“Like the way your ridiculously perfect lips look around my cock. The way your eyes glaze over right before you come. The way your hole feels so tight every time I’m inside you, like I’m taking your virginity all over again.”

“...Is that all?”

“Mmm, no, that’s just the basics. There’s more on there, too, dirtier stuff. Like the way you looked covered in my come the first time we tried Japanese bondage. How hard your nipples were that time I got you off on nipple play alone. The way your rim looks when we’re using your plug and I know I’ve put a few loads in you already. The look on your face the time we put those Google results from the Yard to good use--”

And then the door is swinging open and Sherlock’s grabbing John by the front of his jumper, and from there it’s all hands and lips and teeth and skin, and the next thing John knows, he’s railing Sherlock as hard as possible, Sherlock clutching the headboard and screaming like a banshee in that way that makes John’s blood boil, John brutally clutching Sherlock’s shoulders as he takes him from behind.

Sherlock hand flies off the headboard and disappears beneath him to jerk himself frantically. Moments later, he’s clenching and coming, the ripples of his pleasure raising gooseflesh down his spine. John follows not long after, cursing vehemently under his breath as his orgasm slams through him, his body hostage to his most animalistic instincts, thrusting into Sherlock’s wilting form until he has nothing left to give.

And then they’re side by side, sweaty, spent, and glowing, Sherlock grinning that dazed, goofy grin he gets every fucking time they do this, the grin that makes John’s heart feel swollen and sore with overflowing affection.

Finally, John musters up his strength to sit up, ruffling Sherlock’s hair. “Love you.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Good.” He reaches for the nightstand to procure his phone and begins typing into it unceremoniously.

John shakes his head and smiles to himself. Sherlock’s rarely one for romantic declarations, but hell-- they don’t need words when they have this. John feels compelled to say the words slightly more often than Sherlock does, but still, they don’t make a habit of it-- and yet John’s never once felt slighted by it. He understands, in a simple, profound way that makes the words feel unnecessary.

He plods off to the bathroom and rinses himself off with a warm, wet flannel, then gets one for Sherlock and returns to the bedroom to find Sherlock still immersed in his phone.

“Alright, let’s check you over.”

Sherlock shoots him a pointed look from behind the screen. John insists on checking him over for tearing every time they have penetrative intercourse; he’s a doctor, after all, and he’s familiar with the inherent risk of the acts they engage in, especially when they’ve been particularly rough.

That said, his interest in looking Sherlock over post-coitus isn’t entirely professional; the sight of his own come in that most intimate of places is one of John’s strongest fetishes, and he’s long since given up keeping that fact from Sherlock. Luckily, Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind; most of the time, he pretends to be annoyed at the outset, but soon he’s preening under John’s gaze as John fingers his hole and then cleans him up. It’s a beautiful, delicate ritual, perfectly evolved over time, and it’s one that is wholly and uniquely theirs.

Sherlock gamely discards his phone and clambers onto his hands and knees, and John grins as he crawls on to the bed and eagerly parts his cheeks.

“Oh, that’s lovely.” John’s stomach does a funny little somersault as he observes the evidence of his release at Sherlock’s opening. Sherlock makes an noncommittal sound and waggles his hips, and John gives his left arsecheek a gentle slap. “Hold still, you.” John sucks his finger into his mouth to wet it, then reaches down and presses into Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock issues a lovely, breathy sigh, and John’s eyelids flutter as a wave of residual arousal pulses deep in his abdomen.

He moves his finger in and out a few times; not enough to stimulate Sherlock or cause him any pain, but enough to confirm that there is no blood (and, if he’s honest, to feel the slick heat of his own come in Sherlock’s tight channel). Satisfied, he withdraws his finger and wipes Sherlock down with the flannel.

“Well, now that’s out of the way, what do you say we have a proper movie night?”

Sherlock flops onto his stomach and sighs. “Perhaps. Are you going to make us watch something horrifically tedious again? The film last time was absolute rubbish.”

“Sherlock, Taxi Driver is a classic.”

“According to whom?”


“And everyone are idiots.”

John rolls his eyes and saucily gives Sherlock’s arse another swat. “Fine. It’s your pick anyway; we can watch anything you like.”

Sherlock freezes, then turns his head slowly to peer back at John over his shoulder.


Which is how, two hours later, John finds himself sprawled on the couch, empty Chinese carryout containers scattered across the coffee table as Sherlock reclines languidly in his lap, his eyes glued to the television, where Jude Law is delivering a shockingly Sherlockian diatribe.

John had found out about Sherlock’s celebrity crush a few months back, when they’d been having a candid conversation about the acts of topping and bottoming. Sherlock had confessed he’d never had much desire to top, with the minor exception of when he’d seen Jude Law in the film Wilde. John had rather taken the piss out of him for it at the time, but he actually found it quite endearing; the fact that Sherlock had such a predictable celebrity crush tickled him to no end, and John actually found it quite sweet, the way his cheeks flushed every time John flashed a picture of Jude from the tabloids in Sherlock’s direction. Not only that, but he’d given Sherlock a standing offer to watch Wilde with him whenever he liked, just so John could see what the fuss is about.

And now, about an hour into the film, he’s beginning to understand.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock.” John shakes his head, chuckling, and Sherlock throws him a dirty look from where his head is resting on John’s thigh as John’s fingers card softly through his hair.

“What? His performance is brilliant, you must admit.”

“It’s not that. It’s just… surely you must realise, if you fancy buggering Bosie, it basically means you want to bugger a blonde version of yourself. The similarities between the two of you are uncanny.”

Sherlock scowls. “How so?”

“Well, you’re both belligerent, tempestuous, demanding, sexually hedonistic, and not fond of taking ‘no’ for an answer, and that’s just for starters.”

“Oh, please, John, I’m nothing like Bosie.”

John raises an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“For starters, he went to Oxford. You know perfectly well I attended Cambridge.” And with that, he reverts his attention back to the screen.

It’s mid-way through the final act before John interjects again.

“You know, Sherlock, sexual proclivities aside, I’m beginning to see why you like this film so much.”

Sherlock rolls his neck, nuzzling against John’s leg contentedly as he heaves a sated sigh. “Is that so?”

“Yup. Used my powers of deduction on this one.”

“Alright, then, tell me: My sexual proclivities aside, why do I like this film so much?”

“Because it’s basically dressing gown porn.”

Sherlock gives John’s leg an annoyed swat and glares up at him, and John can’t help but burst out laughing. “I mean, come on, when Bosie was wearing that pink silk dressing gown, I could practically feel the arousal radiating off of you. And that black one with the silver embroidery? Christ, if you got that, you’d basically match our wallpaper. Our criminal adversaries could infiltrate our sitting room and you could just… camouflage right in. They’d never suspect a thing, you’d take them entirely by surprise. It’s both glamourous and practical, you can’t disagree with me on that point--”

But Sherlock is sitting up and grabbing the Union Jack pillow and giving John a good-natured whack with it, and then they’re laughing and grappling and before John knows it, he’s back on top of Sherlock, and they’re exchanging tender kisses as the credits roll in the background.

Finally, John pulls away, smiling dotingly down at Sherlock.

“Alright, you. Has the film got you all hot and bothered? Need to go again? I think I’m done for tonight, but I can give you my hands, my mouth...”

Sherlock quirks a smile in return, but shakes his head. “No, ‘malright. Fairly tired, actually. Didn’t sleep much this week, what with the case and all.”

John presses a final peck onto Sherlock’s forehead and gets to his feet before offering his hand to Sherlock to help him do the same. If Sherlock’s actually admitting to fatigue, he must be knackered indeed, and John finally registers the weariness in his own bones; they were both overdue for a good night’s sleep. They go through the practiced motions of brushing their teeth side-by-side in the bathroom mirror (John reflects fondly for a moment on the first time they’d done that-- a mere three weeks after he’d moved in on Baker Street all those years ago. At the time, the act had seemed inexcusably intimate, but he’d chalked it up to Sherlock’s lack of awareness when it came to personal boundaries. But the fact that he gets to have this now-- and that the intimacy is real-- sometimes he truly can’t believe how far they’ve come) and then turn in.

He quickly falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.


Skin. Miles of glorious, tanned skin, salty beneath his tongue, stretched taut over flexing muscles. Sherlock licks his way around the edge of one defined pec and then over to the sternum, beneath which he can detect a racing heartbeat. Up the neck, the skin there so soft, straining against tendons pulled tight in the throes of arousal. Along the jawline, sharp and defined, peppered with soft stubble, and finally, finally to the lips, plush and full and moist. Pale blue eyes meet his, and Sherlock moans as he rolls his hips.

“Fuck, yes.” He wants to let his eyes flutter shut, but he forces them open; he can’t miss a moment of this.

The form beneath him arches, the electric sensation of bare skin on skin causing Sherlock’s hips to stutter, and he grinds helplessly against the turgid cock beneath his own, letting out another moan.

“Mmmm, Sherlock.” Hips rock up to meet his, increasing the friction between them, and legs, long and muscular, wrap around Sherlock’s hips and lock him into place. “Oh, Sherlock. Want you… want you so badly…”

“Nnnngh, yes.” Sherlock’s barely able to form the words he’s so turned on. He leans back in for another kiss, and then he loses himself entirely, panting hotly into the warm mouth below him as he undulates his spine, seeking a gratification that feels just out of reach.

“Oh, Sherlock, please. Fuck me. Fuck me now, I can’t wait any longer.” The words are full of desperation, uttered low and hot into Sherlock’s ear, accompanied by a playful nibble of his earlobe that sends sparks shooting through his overstimulated nervous system.

Sherlock pulls back, his breaths heavy and uneven. He feels hands, strong and warm, making their way from his shoulderblades to his sacrum to his arse, where they clench resolutely, pulling him demandingly forward.

“Yes, yes, fuck yes…” Sherlock drags his fingers down heaving ribs, over jutting hipbone, across the swell of buttock, and then to that hot, dark place lower still. He explores the cleft with gentle haste, his heartbeat deafening in his own ears, until he finds his mark.

“Ohhhhh Sherlock, yes!” He presses inside with two fingers, shocked to find that they slip in easily. The flesh around them is tender and slick-- already prepped for him. His breath catches in his lungs.

“Oh, Jude. Fuck, Jude, you’re so ready for me--”

“Yes, yes, Sherlock, been ready for you, want you, need you inside me, fuck, please…”

Sherlock groans and adds a third finger, the thought of that tight clench around his cock short-circuiting his hard drive completely. “Nnnng, Jude. Oh, yes, going to… going to fuck you… going to make you feel so good…”

Jude licks his lips and parts his legs further, inviting Sherlock’s fingers deeper inside him. Sherlock twists his wrist and crooks his fingers, searching for that perfect spot--

“OH! Oh, Sherlock, oh, OH!”

And there, that’s rather done the trick. “Yes, Jude, yes, yes, nnnngh, perfect, so ready to take my cock…”

Jude’s gaze has gone from imploring to downright feral, and Sherlock leans down to kiss him, deep and dirty, plundering his mouth with his tongue. Jude whimpers against him, and his channel clenches impossibly tighter around Sherlock’s fingers.

Sherlock can’t wait a moment longer. He removes his fingers and sits back on his heels, giving himself a few perfunctory strokes as he feasts his eyes on the wanton form below him.

“Oh, fuck, Jude. Jude, Christ--”

Hands. Out of nowhere, hands on his back, running up his spine, and the press of lips against his top vertebrae.


John. Sherlock’s sleep-addled brain jolts and whirrs, the incongruous simultaneous inputs from dream and reality warring for command.

John. Sherlock moans and arches, and Jude’s image fades. Sherlock is suddenly aware that he’s in bed. At home. With John.

And he’s hard as a rock, and humping the mattress in a most undignified fashion.

He swears quietly under his breath and goes to turn onto his side, but suddenly, John’s hands are holding him in place. He’s still peppering kisses across Sherlock’s back, but he’s gripping his shoulders firmly, locking Sherlock face-down on the mattress. Sherlock moans as his cock pulses helplessly, eager for more friction.

“Mmm, were you having a dream, love?” John plants an obscenely wet kiss at the base of Sherlock’s left shoulder.

“Yes, John.” His tongue feels thick in his mouth, his words muted and muzzy.

“So I suspected. It sounded like a very good dream, indeed.”

Sherlock whines and capitulates; he thrusts against the mattress and the pleasure rockets through him. “It was.”

“Want to tell me what it was about?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, panting hotly into the bedsheets. “Nothing special.”

“Nothing special, hmm?” There’s a tone of amusement in John’s voice, and Sherlock gasps as he feels John’s hand work its way beneath him to wrap around his throbbing cock. Christ, that feels so much better than the mattress. “That’s funny, because from the way you were talking, I could have sworn you were about to fuck Jude Law.”

Sherlock moans and John gives his cock a squeeze. His cheeks are now flaming with a toxic combination of embarrassment and arousal. “I was. I was, John, but it was just a dream, it meant nothing, I swear…”

“Mmm.” John releases Sherlock’s cock and grabs him by the hips, pulling him up onto his hands and knees.

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t--”

“No, no, love, shhh. Don’t be sorry, I’m not angry.” More kisses against the scarred flesh of Sherlock’s back. He feels his muscles relaxing under John’s soothing ministrations, but his cock hangs red and throbbing between his legs, and he’s all but desperate for relief. “No, I was just wondering if perhaps I could join you.”

There’s a peculiar sort of white-out in Sherlock’s brain as he struggles to comprehend what John is offering. He comes up empty-handed. “John?”

“What I mean is…” John’s voice is low as he runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides, then down to his arsecheeks, “I think you should go ahead and fuck him. But I’d very much like to watch, or perhaps join in, if you’d be amenable.”

Sherlock swallows, his brain still dazedly attempting to discern fantasy from reality. He has no idea what exactly John has in mind, but he’s so horny he finds he doesn’t much care. “God, yes, John, you can… you can join in.”

“Mmmm, good.” Even though John’s behind him, Sherlock can practically see the predatory look on his face. “Now, where were you before I so rudely interrupted?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, and his brain helpfully conjures up the last image of Jude, splayed out before him, legs spread, inviting him inside. “I was… I was about to…”

“Oh, yes, that’s right, you were about to put your cock in him. Well, get back to it, then, don’t let me stop you.”

Sherlock pauses, his thoughts clouded with arousal. The line between dream and waking is growing blurry, and Jude’s form is growing clearer by the minute, manifesting boldly in his imagination. Jude tilts his hips back and reaches his hand forward to take Sherlock’s, and begins to pull him forward imploringly.

Sherlock goes willingly. He brackets Jude’s head with his hands and leans down to kiss him, slower this time, with more tenderness than before. Jude whines into his mouth, and Sherlock can’t help but smile. Slowly, he reaches down to steady his cock, then lines himself up and pushes inside.

Jude gasps and arches, emitting an ecstatic shout and Sherlock slides home. He’s tight-- Christ, he’s tight and wet and perfect around Sherlock’s cock, and his eyes are full of desire as he stares up at Sherlock. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock, yes!”

“Oh, God, Jude.” Sherlock’s voice sounds low and gravelly even in his own ears, and he steadies himself before giving his hips a tentative pump. “Ohhhhh…” Jude’s head rocks back and forth on the pillow as he loses himself in pleasure. Sherlock grins, and pumps again.

John’s voice from behind him is almost startling, he’d been so lost in the moment. “Oh, that’s beautiful. How does he feel, love?”

Sherlock struggles to regain his composure. “Fuck. Tight. Hot.”

“Yeah? He feels good on your cock?”

“Mmmm, yes John.”

Beneath him, Jude arches and preens. “Come on, Sherlock, don’t stop. Want-- want you to make me feel good.”

Sherlock emits a bitten-off grunt and resumes his thrusts. “Like… like this?”

Jude grins and reaches up to grip the headboard, steadying himself against Sherlock’s enthusiastic efforts. “Fuck, yeah. That’s it, fuck that’s good--”

“Oh!” Sherlock establishes a steady rhythm, bowing his head to rest against Jude’s heaving chest as he seeks to deepen his angle. Jude spreads his legs further, and Sherlock sinks even further inside with a satisfied sigh. He lifts his head and plants a heady kiss on Jude’s plush lips. This is exquisite.

And then-- hands. Hands on his own buttocks, spreading them, and the next thing he knows, the familiar sensation of John’s tongue lapping eagerly into his crack.

He lets out a cry of surprise that comes out more animal than human, and his his hips halt mid-snap as his body processes this new source of pleasure. Beneath him, Jude lets out a wanton moan.

“Nnngh! Oh! Oh fuck, fuck!” Sherlock feels paralyzed with arousal, the dual sensations of Jude’s tight channel around his cock and John’s tongue prodding into his hole altogether too much to process.

“Sherlock, you alright?” Jude blinks up at him imploringly, and struggles to form words. Finding none, he settles for a tight nod.

Perplexed, Jude lifts his head from the pillow and cranes his neck, and an expression of understanding crosses his face. “Oh, fuck. Is he rimming you?”

Sherlock nods again, feeling a bit frantic.

Jude grins. “Fuck, that’s hot as hell. I can feel him making you harder inside me, Christ.”

Sherlock moans again, and from behind him, John echoes his sentiment before plunging his tongue deep into Sherlock’s opening.

Sherlock finally manages to resume thrusting, but his motions are feeble and restrained, impaired by his desire to keep John’s tongue inside him at all cost. Jude doesn’t seem to mind; he strokes himself lazily as Sherlock grinds gently into him, not pushing towards climax, simply enjoying the feeling of being inside him.

All too soon, as suddenly as it had appeared, John’s mouth is gone, and Sherlock lets out a pathetic whimper.

“Now, now, none of that.” John’s tone is light and conversational, and Sherlock can’t for the life of him figure out how he’s being so goddamn casual about all of this; Sherlock feels about ready to combust on the spot. “Come on, Sherlock, show our guest a good time. Don’t be selfish, I’ll make sure you get yours.”

“Nnngh, yes, John.” Something about complying with John’s instructions makes Sherlock feel significantly calmer. He returns his full attention to Jude, sitting back slightly to grab him behind the knees, forcing his legs open wider before plundering him with all the strength he can muster.

Jude wails and resumes gripping the headboard, arching his back enticingly. Sherlock takes the hint and bends down to take one pert nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking at it before sinking his teeth into the pebbled flesh, earning a shout from the man beneath him. He gives the same treatment to the other nipple, delighting in the way gooseflesh ripples across Jude’s ripped torso as he pleasures him.

And then John’s hand is back, this time probing into Sherlock’s cleft, fingers slick with lube. They find their intended target, and John presses into Sherlock without ceremony.

Sherlock grits his teeth and lets out an undignified yelp, but this time, he doesn’t lose his rhythm. He gyrates himself back and forth between Jude’s hole and John’s fingers, taking in the marvelously divergent types of pleasure produced by each one.

He raises his head to gaze into Jude’s eyes, which are clouded with lust. There’s the lightest sheen of sweat peppering his brow, and his lips are swollen and moist from their shared kisses. He looks utterly delicious like this.

“Sherlock?” Sherlock blinks rapidly, processing John’s voice from behind him. “Is it alright if I fuck you now? Or do you just want to come while I watch?”

Sherlock has no idea. Everything feels so goddamn good right now, his transport is on hyperdrive, and he’s rapidly realising he’s becoming incapable of forming a coherent thought.

He stares down at Jude imploringly, and luckily, Jude seems to understand. He nods. “Yeah. Let him fuck you while you’re inside me like this. Want to feel him make you come.”

Sherlock groans, throwing his head back at the thought. “Gah, yes, John, please. Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

He releases his grip on Jude’s legs and plants his hands firmly on either side of Jude’s head, pulling out halfway and raising his hips to allow John access. The tip of his cock is still throbbing hotly in Jude’s channel, but he’s stopped thrusting for now, content to let John take the wheel.

Jude shoots him a sly grin before relinquishing his grip on the headboard. His hands travel to Sherlock’s arse, where he grips his cheeks firmly before pulling them apart, opening him wide for John.

Sherlock and John moan in tandem, and then John’s fingers disappear, quickly replaced by the blunt, eager head of his cock. He slides in in one smooth stroke, bottoming out with a garbled shout, and Sherlock gasps and rocks forward with the sensation, sheathing himself once more in the man beneath him, his lips seeking Jude’s with renewed desperation as he adjusts to the stretch.

They stay like that for a while, Sherlock and Jude kissing passionately as John grinds slow, steady circles inside Sherlock, rubbing his back soothingly as he processes the new sensation.

Finally, John pulls out a bit, giving Sherlock some space to move. Taking the hint, he begins to oscillate his hips, pressing forward into Jude them back to impale himself on John. The men on either side of moan, and Sherlock quickly picks up the pace to establish a new rhythm, pleasuring his lover beneath him and his partner behind him in equal measure.

This is… unlike anything he’s ever felt before. The act of fucking while being fucked is so staggeringly arousing, Sherlock’s shocked and frankly a bit disappointed in himself that he hadn’t thought about it before. All his sexual neurosis, which in the past have reared their ugly heads whenever he’s tried to top, are now kept properly at bay with John’s helpful intervention. Sherlock doesn’t have to worry about whether he’ll fail to pleasure Jude; John will make sure he performs well. John will make sure Sherlock enjoys himself. John will make certain that they all get their pleasure.

Sherlock sighs, and melts into the moment.

From behind him, a strained moan rings out, and Sherlock redoubles his efforts, rocking his hips back and forth with renewed vigor. Jude cries out as his cock emits a thick stream of precome; Sherlock’s hitting his prostate head-on now, and he can tell that Jude is getting close. The realisation is dizzying.

Suddenly, John’s hands appear on his hips, slowing him, steadying him, pulling him back from the brink. Sherlock and Jude let out simultaneous whimpers of disappointment, and John issues a smug chuckle in return. Gently, he reaches down and takes Sherlock by the wrists, guiding his hands from their position beside Jude’s head to place them on the headboard instead. Jude apparently takes the hint, wrapping his fingers resolutely around the slats of the headboard, bracing himself for the impending onslaught.

And from there, it is magic. John pulls out slightly then pushes in, hard, thrusting Sherlock’s hips forward with the force. Jude’s breath hitches as Sherlock impales him, and Sherlock cries out from the heady sensation of John’s cock striking his prostate directly. John moans in approval, then repeats the action, setting up a steady, deliberate rhythm.

It’s transcendent. John is fucking Jude through Sherlock, and Sherlock relinquishes his body to becoming a conduit of pleasure. For once, he’s neither source nor recipient, he’s merely a means, and the sensation of utter surrender is breathtaking in its complexity. His body is being used in a way he’s never thought to before, and it’s stunning, it’s gorgeous, it’s maddening and fulfilling and overwhelming all at once.

Jude’s arms are flexing with the effort of holding himself in place, and Sherlock tightens his own grip on the headboard. John’s fucking into him in earnest now, and Sherlock’s cock is sliding in and out of Jude none too delicately with the force of his exertions.

Jude throws his head back and wails. “FUCK, Sherlock! Oh, God, Sherlock, Sherlock, oh! Oh, Sherlock…”

Behind him, John begins to echo the sentiment. “Nnnngh, Sherlock… Sherlock, yes, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…”

Sherlock preens, the glow of the attention being lavished upon him lighting up every fibre of his being. To be the source of such pleasure, such devotion, it’s a heady high, and he feels almost drunk with it.

“Fuck, Sherlock, you’re perfect, brilliant…”

“Amazing, fantastic, oh, Sherlock, Sherlock…”

“So tight, so gorgeous, Sherlock…”

“Beautiful, yes, yes, YES, THERE, oh Christ, oh Sherlock…”


Sherlock comes, slamming into Jude with all of his remaining strength, emptying himself in hot, consuming waves. He’s vaguely aware that he’s gone completely silent, rigid in the throes of ecstasy, his vision whiting out, the only sensation he’s capable processing is the tight clench of Jude’s channel and the piercing blue of his eyes as he takes everything Sherlock can give him.

He’s still pressing into Jude, riding out the last pulses of his orgasm, when he feels John’s grip on his hips tighten, followed by the familiar spreading warmth of John’s release deep inside him. John’s issuing low, satisfied moans from somewhere behind him, but everything’s gone a bit hazy, and he gasps helplessly for breath as he waits for his systems to reboot.

When he finally blinks his eyes open, his gaze falls upon the mussed pillowcase and soiled sheets below him. John’s delicately relinquishing his grip on Sherlock’s cock, wiping the excess lube from his palm unceremoniously onto the covers before gingerly withdrawing his prick from Sherlock’s fluttering hole, Sherlock hissing at the loss.

“Gah.” He drops down onto his forearms, unable to support himself any longer. The intensity of his orgasm and the utter brilliance of whatever mindfuck that had just been has left him feeling profoundly shaken.

“Alright, love?”

“Fuck, yes, John. Jesus. That was… fuck.” Sherlock’s not usually one for vulgar language (at least, he prefers his dirty talk a bit more highbrow, with copious call-outs to various body parts and specific acts, not so much banal generic terms), but everything about this has overwhelmed him completely.

“Shhh, okay, alright, no need to inflate my ego any further. Hold still, going to check you over.” John’s warm fingers find his hole and sink in easily, and Sherlock moans. He knows how much John adores this part, and he delights in being able to satisfy him.

“Fuck, nice and messy. I can feel my load from earlier tonight is still in there, too.” He moves his fingers in and out experimentally.

“Yes, John.”

“Goddamn, that’s gorgeous.” John withdraws his fingers just as his ministrations were on the cusp of becoming cloying, and Sherlock collapses gratefully onto the bed, rolling onto his back to avoid the sizeable wet spot next to him.

John follows, curling onto his side and drawing Sherlock close to him. Sherlock is near certain his bones have turned to liquid, and his brain feels like it’s still not quite discerning reality from fiction. John’s lips find his, and they kiss, slow and lazy, lost in each other.

At long last, John’s lips leave Sherlock’s and trail a path across his cheekbone, then down to his ear. When he speaks, his voice is a dangerously low rumble.

“Mmmm, Sherlock, I’ve just noticed something.”

Sherlock sighs. Surely John’s not going to attempt to engage him in some treacly post-coital banter?

“And what’s that?”

“I’m afraid we’ve been a bit rude.”

“How so?” Sherlock can’t really be arsed to care either way. He’s long since given up on keeping quiet for Mrs. Hudson’s sake, and any other manners that John’s going to attempt to foist on him at this point are going to be a lost cause -- surely John knows that.

“Well, I’m afraid we’ve both had lovely orgasms, but it seems our guest is a bit… unsatisfied.”

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, and he blinks rapidly as he turns his eyes to meet John’s, shining warmly in the moonlight. “...John?”

John’s voice is a low whisper. “Up to you, Sherlock. Do you want to keep going?”

“Keep… going?” His brain seems to stutter and halt, the edges growing fuzzy once more.

John presses a soft kiss to the spot on his neck below his ear that always drives Sherlock mad. “If you want, you could… get him off with your hands. Your mouth. I’ll watch. Or… or you can go further.”

Sherlock swallows, the reality of what John is suggestion slicing through the haze in his brain with feral certainty.

“I want…”

“Yes, love?”

“I want him to fuck me.” The rush of arousal that courses through him as he utters those words licks flames across his skin, and he arches and spreads his legs at the mere thought.

John props himself up on his elbow, then turns away briefly to fumble in the drawer of the nightstand. When he turns back, his expression is dark and serious.

“Then you’d better ask him, Sherlock. Ask him nicely if he’ll fuck you.”

Sherlock turns his head to the other side. Jude’s head is cradled in the pillow beside his, his expression soft. But his eyes and hungry, and a glance southward confirms that he is indeed still erect, and lazily stroking his cock as he licks his lips.

“Do you want that, Sherlock?” Jude’s tone is deliberate. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Sherlock nods helplessly. “Please, Jude. Fuck me, please. I’m ready for you.”

Jude leans forward and kisses him, deep and dirty and full of promise, the inklings of a grin tugging his lips back. “Hell yes,” he mutters against Sherlock’s mouth as he pulls himself to his knees before crawling between Sherlock’s parted legs.

John’s pulled himself up into a sitting position as well, and he’s watching this turn of events with a rapt expression on his face. Jude reaches out and takes him by the hand, then pulls him to kneel at Sherlock’s side. John goes willingly, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Want to watch me prep him?”

John nods, and Jude beams back at him before reaching down and sliding two fingers into Sherlock’s already-slick channel.

Sherlock grunts through gritted teeth and twists his hands helplessly into the sheets. John takes note and reaches down to grasp his hand, intertwining their fingers. Sherlock can feel himself relax, earning a pleased nod from Jude.

“Christ, he’s open and messy already. You’ve done a good job with him tonight.” John and Jude lock eyes, and before he can process it, they’ve leaned in and begun to kiss.

Sherlock has fantasized about this before. Of course he has. But the sight of the two of them, like this, together, is so staggeringly gorgeous he can barely breathe. As it stands, he barely registers it when Jude slips a third finger inside of him. He’s so aroused that his cock is already beginning to stand to attention, despite the fact he feels like he came mere moments ago.

Finally, John and Jude break apart (a bit breathlessly), and quickly turn to direct their attention towards Sherlock. He moans and spreads his legs wantonly, ready for whatever they’ll give him.

“Fuck, Sherlock, you’re so gorgeous.” John’s tone is so full of affection that Sherlock feels he can barely breath beneath the weight of it, and they share a familiar smile. He reclines beside Sherlock once more, releasing his hold on his hand and bringing his fingers to his mouth to wet them before taking one of Sherlock’s nipples between them and pinching tightly.

Sherlock swoons. Jude raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Christ, he’s sensitive.”

John grins down at Sherlock. “One of the most amazing sensations in the world is the way your arse clenches when I stimulate your nipples. I think we ought to let our guest experience that first-hand. Let’s give him a little demonstration.”

Sherlock nods helplessly, and John kisses him sweetly. As their lips meet, Jude’s fingers disappear, and are quickly replaced by his throbbing cock.

He feels… different. Not better, not worse, just different, and Sherlock huffs into John’s mouth as he adjusts to this new stretch. His hole already feels a bit heated from overuse, but he finds he’s desperate to keep going, to see how far he can push himself tonight.

John pulls back to meet Sherlock’s eyes imploringly, and Sherlock gives him a resolute nod. With that, John begins to torture his nipples. He tweaks them and plucks them and twists them, sometimes bending over and lowering his teeth to nibble them, and before long, Sherlock feels as though his entire chest is on fire.

Above them, Jude is offering a colourful commentary of the proceedings. “Oh--oh FUCK, yes, whatever you just did, do that again, right there, yeah, CHRIST, he clenches up like a fucking vice when you do that, oh my God, oh my GOD, so tight, so TIGHT, so perfect on my cock, Jesus…”

All too soon, John’s pulling back, detaching his teeth from Sherlock’s abused nub, wiping his lips with a cocky smile on his face. “Well, love.” He glances down at Sherlock’s cock, long since risen to full-mast. “I think you’re ready.” And with that, he pulls Sherlock up to wrap one arm around his shoulders. With the other, he takes his hand, and gives Sherlock a small smile.

Sherlock melts into John’s arms completely before locking eyes with Jude. “Yes. I’m ready. Fuck me. Christ, please fuck me.”

And Jude does. He’s tentative about it at first; it’s clear he understands that he’s treading on hallowed ground here, and John’s gaze is nothing but appraising and protective as he watches Jude work his cock into his prone lover.

Sherlock spreads his legs wide and clutches John’s hand, gazing up at Jude’s beatific form as he thrusts into him. Sherlock thinks he should probably be feeling overwhelmed, self-conscious, overstimulated, inundated with too much data, but instead, he feels totally, completely at peace. John is here, holding him, guiding him, watching as Sherlock is pleasured on his behalf.

Sherlock fears nothing when John has him like this.

Jude moans, circling his hips and running his hands up Sherlock’s chest to take a squeeze of his nipples himself. Sherlock gasps in pleasure and his cock pulses out a bead of precome.

“God, Sherlock, you’re so beautiful.” John’s voice is low and steady, and Sherlock can do nothing but whimper in its wake. “Harder, now, I think.”

“Nnnngh, yes! Harder, Jude, please.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jude complies readily, his hands locking around Sherlock’s waist to hold him in place as he begins to pummel him in earnest.

He’s being fucked properly now, and it’s a dizzying, disorienting sensation, having John beside him and Jude above him as he lets himself be had like this. Jude is a vision, all muscle and sinew and raw, feral heat, he’s everything that Sherlock ever imagined he’d be and more, sultry and domineering and utterly divine. His cock feels like heaven, applying just the right amount of pressure to Sherlock’s prostate, keeping him teetering on the edge between begging for it to stop and begging for more.

And John. John is perfection, as always. As much as Sherlock wants to lose himself entirely under Jude’s command, he can’t help but tear his eyes away at regular intervals to take in the sight of John gazing down at him, an expression of tender devotion mixed with untamed arousal written across his face. He watches the place where Jude is fucking into Sherlock with staggering intensity, but then his expression softens every time he looks away to meet Sherlock’s eyes, smiling down encouragingly at him.

“How does it feel, love? Does he feel good?”

“Nnngh, yes, good, so good, John…”

“Don’t tell me, tell him.”

“Oh, GOD! Jude, yes! YES! You feel so… you feel so… nnnnngh, FUCK!”

Jude grins devilishly down at him and speeds up his pace. Soon, a new expression sweeps across his face, one of ecstasy combined with a bit of desperation.

Jude’s words sound tight in his throat. “John! John, I’m close. I’m close. Can I… may I…” Jude’s eyes are wide and earnest, and the muscles in his arms pull taught as he snaps his hips ever faster.

“John! John, he’s going to… he’s going to come.” Sherlock blinks up at John helplessly, and John runs his fingers tenderly through Sherlock’s matted curls, brushing them back from his forehead.

“Alright, love. Do you want him to come inside you?”

Sherlock scrunches his eyes shut. This scenario is bringing forth some deeply repressed urges, but now is not the time to back down-- who knows when he’ll have the chance again. “Yes. John, I want you to… I want you to give him permission. To come inside me.”

John’s eyes widen fractionally, then he gives a solemn nod. “Alright. Yes. Yes, he can come inside you.”

“AUGH!” The moment the words are out of John’s mouth, Jude leans forward with a shout, grips the headboard, and pistons into Sherlock for all he’s worth. Sherlock howls and bows and grabs onto John’s hand for dear life.

And then Jude is coming, filling him up, warm and filthy and utterly debauching, the third load Sherlock’s taken that evening. Sherlock is coming too, his cock spurting untouched, his whole body quaking in the consuming heat of it all, his only anchor John’s hand, clenched resolutely in his own as he screams and wails and surrenders completely.

When he comes to, John is pulling the vibrator as gently as he can from Sherlock’s tender hole. Sherlock’s whole body is still shaking, his abdomen slick with his own come, his chest heaving as he struggles to provide air to his deprived brain. John wipes the vibrator off with a tissue he procures from the nightstand and abandons it unceremoniously on the floor, then turns to curl around Sherlock, pulling him close and peppering his sweat-soaked face with kisses.

“You with me, Sherlock?”

“John.” Sherlock can’t hid the quiver in his voice. “Oh, God, John.”

John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls fondly. “Was that alright?”

Sherlock can’t formulate the words to describe what it was. It was more than alright, it was so much more than alright… Finally, he settles on, “Oh, God, yes.”

John giggles and shakes his head, then sits up and disappears to the bathroom. Sherlock hears the familiar sound of him running the tap, and moments later, he reappears with a warm, wet flannel in his hand.

He wipes down Sherlock’s abdomen, then turns to flick on the bedside lamp. “Alright, need to check you over for real this time-- couldn’t really see in the dark, before.”

Sherlock plasters a faux-scandalised look across his face. “You mean… that was just for show?”

John shrugs helplessly. “Sadly, yes. What can I say, my powers of deception are, quite frankly, without parallel.”

Sherlock giggles and spreads his legs, and John clambers onto the bed to kneel between them. He fingers Sherlock’s hole briefly and then wipes him down before tossing the flannel in the hamper and collapsing back against the pillows.

“Jesus. That was… unexpected.” John looks a bit flummoxed, but not unhappy, and Sherlock’s quite pleased to note that John doesn’t seem to be sliding into any sort of sexual identity crisis over what’s just transpired.

“That was marvelous.” Sherlock beams up at him, and John grins back.


Every. Goddamn. Time.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you liked it.”



“I love you.”

John’s lip quirks into a smirk.

“Good.” And with that, he flicks off the light.