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Standstill

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Standstill

 

John was angry. Scratch that, John was furious. Sherlock watched him carefully from across the taxi, noting how John’s usual easy demeanor was now perfectly still and dangerously calm. He had that slight smile stretched across his thin lips that might have been pleasant if it wasn’t for the hard edge of steel in his eyes. Sherlock had seen the expression before on more occasions than should probably be considered safe, and yet he’d never had it immediately directed towards himself.

“John,” Sherlock said cautiously, watching as John’s jaw clenched, the smile slipping into even more deadly territory, “I’m sure you’re aware—”

“Don’t,” John clipped out, his voice harsh and hard. Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut immediately, a rush of something dark and unexpected coiling through the pit of his stomach. John finally turned to face Sherlock, the cheap leather seat of the cab seeming eons wide, and Sherlock felt his breath catch at the murderous expression in John’s gaze. He wasn’t even furious, he was bloody livid, and Sherlock felt a curl of real fear spike through his system, epinephrine and norepinephrine releasing into his bloodstream and making his heart pound beneath his ribs. Sherlock shivered involuntarily before he shook off the ridiculous feeling. As though John would do anything to actually harm him. The thought was preposterous.

John turned sharply towards the window, his left hand clenched so tightly around his knee, his knuckles strained white. Sherlock wanted to reach forward and stroke along John’s blunt fingers; feel the way the tendons stood out against his skin, the way the blood rushed to the surface as he eased his hold and his capillaries began to refill. An entirely different shiver chased its way up Sherlock’s spine and he turned his own glare out the window, his defenses rising to the challenge.

“If it’s any consolation,” Sherlock stated, going for aloof boredom, but missing slightly as his voice strained, “I believe you inflicted far more damage than anyone could ever have expected.”

John snorted, but there was no amusement in it. He sounded tired and resigned and oddly let down in a way Sherlock hadn’t heard before. Sherlock watched his reflection in the glass as John’s shoulders gradually eased, all the anger and tension melting away and leaving behind a resounding… disappointment. It left an uncomfortable kind of ache in Sherlock’s chest and he swallowed back all of his vitriolic spite in favor of echoing silence.

The cab stopped abruptly, and Sherlock was startled to realize he hadn’t even noticed when they’d gotten to Westminster. John stiffened again and leaned forward to pay the driver, the concussion of air as he swung the door open seeming to shatter Sherlock’s ear drums.

Sherlock followed slowly, unsure for once of what John was going to do when he got upstairs. The righteous indignation was fading into something that felt suspiciously like contrition, and Sherlock’s mind recoiled at the thought. He’d never answered to anyone, and yet he found himself wanting John’s approval more than anything else in his life. Crime scenes were so much better with John there, his softly murmured praise encouraging Sherlock to delve deeper, find more detail, solve the crimes faster. He wanted to impress John, to have his full attention in a way he’d never felt before. On the other hand, having John angry at him—truly angry, not just the familiar exasperation— was distinctly uncomfortable and Sherlock felt a shock of mild trepidation forming in the pit of his stomach.

He walked slowly up the stairs, making sure to keep his steps even and measured, giving away nothing as he ascended into the sitting room. John was standing at the window, hands on his hips and staring at seemingly nothing. The entire line of his spine was rigid with tension, his posture closed off and defensive. Sherlock took of his coat, hanging it deliberately on the peg farthest from John’s, and moved into the sitting room, dropping into his armchair with a dramatic flop.

John shook his head mutely, a rigid little smile stretching his thin lips, though there was little humor in it. Sherlock watched as he rubbed a steady palm over his face, finally turning to face Sherlock, his eyes tight and quietly furious. Sherlock deliberately relaxed his pose, going for casual indifference and knowing he was missing the mark by about a mile.

The silence strained and cracked between them, cramped and disconcerting. Sherlock felt it expanding in his brain; mute agitation eating up all of his usual buzzing activity until all he could focus on was John’s anger, his quiet intensity. It was disturbing and uncomfortable, and he finally cleared his throat just to break the overwhelmingly awkward silence.

“John, I fail to see what has you so upset,” he started with overt formality. “I had the situation perfectly under control.” John just bristled and stepped closer, his face darkening into something ugly and hard.

“‘Under control.’ Really,” John hissed, his entire demeanor radiating threat and hurt. “They had you up against a wall, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffed. Honestly, the fight hadn’t been much more than a few thrown punches and threatening glances. Admittedly, if John hadn’t rounded the corner of the alley when he had, it might have escalated into something much more messy, but Sherlock knew his limits, and those idiots hadn’t stood a chance.

“You are completely insufferable, you know that?” John ground out, his fingers clenched into a tight fist. “All it would take is one case, just one misstep and I’d lose you forever.”

That was not at all what Sherlock had expected. He felt the ground shift beneath his feet as John’s words sank in. He wasn’t angry about the case, or even about being threatened by four hardened brutes intent on extracting revenge. John was angry because Sherlock had been thrown against a brick wall and threatened. Fascinating.

“Why do you care, John?” Sherlock asked, honestly curious and still a little defensive. “Why do you always care what people think of me? Why does it bother you?”

“It just—” John cut himself off, lips thinning into a straight, stubborn line for a brief second before visibly shook himself out of it. He sighed deeply, and the tension around his eyes seemed to ease a little, flowing into something that looked uncomfortably like despair. “I just care, Sherlock. About you, about the case. Your reputation is part of you, so when people attack your name, they’re basically attacking you.” John pinned him with a fierce, despairing glare. “And I’ve already lost you once. I’m not doing it again.”

Sherlock felt the words trickle through his brain like syrup. Even after all these years, John still hadn’t truly forgiven him. It hurt in a way he wasn’t expecting, and he felt all the air rush out of his lungs in one shaky exhale.

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Sherlock asked softly, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

“Let it go?” John demanded, anger tinging his words with a deep, sonorous accusation. “You still don’t get it, do you.” It wasn’t a question, so Sherlock didn’t bother to respond. He watched John pace back and forth with increasing agitation, his entire being completely focused on the sick curiosity of what John would do next. The life Sherlock led was never safe, and part of that is what lured John in from the very first case, but for the first time in their partnership, Sherlock was honestly afraid he’d pushed too far.

John stopped abruptly, turning to face Sherlock with incredulity etched all along his weathered face. “You think I’m going to leave,” he said flatly, and Sherlock didn’t bother to deny it. He knew this day would come eventually, but he’d hoped he would have a little more time. Sherlock felt his heart give a pathetic sort of twinge and wondered vaguely when his body had gotten so invested.

“It would be the logical thing to do,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice steady and detached as normal, but he could hear the hurt undertone and hoped John would be an idiot as usual and ignore it. Of course he didn’t.

“Do you want me to leave?” John asked, and his face looked unexpectedly angry again; his eyes hard and demanding, an edge of something dangerous lurking just below the surface.

“I—” Sherlock started, part of his brain screaming that he cut off this line of talk before he said something irrevocably damaging, the other part clamoring for John’s attention as it always had. Of course he didn’t want John to leave. The thought was utterly absurd. Sherlock needed John. Two years away, and eighteen months of “marital bliss” had proved that.

“No, John,” Sherlock said quietly, casting his eyes to the floor and refusing to blush. “Of course I don’t.”

The very air between them seemed to vibrate, tension crackling around all the words left unspoken between them for years. Sherlock held his breath, unable to deduce what John was going to do. He still looked angry, but there was something else—something dark and oddly vulnerable—lingering just behind his gaze.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” John said and lunged forward, pulling Sherlock out of the chair with alarming strength.

John growled and tugged at Sherlock’s neck, bending his head down and pressing a rough kiss against his lips. Sherlock was so shocked that he forgot to breathe for a moment, his mind whiting out around the cacophony of new sensations zinging up his spine. John’s lips were hard and demanding, his entire stance defensive and domineering, and Sherlock felt himself spiral dangerously into uncharted territory. They weren’t like this, not once, and Sherlock’s brain tried to wrap itself around the cloud of pheromones leaking out of his bloodstream as John pushed his teeth open with his tongue and licked into Sherlock’s mouth with clear purpose.

Sherlock gasped, and then immediately regretted it as John pulled back, his breath harsh and ragged. John had a look on his face that clearly spoke of surprise at his own daring. He appeared to be thinking, and that was never a good sign.

“No,” Sherlock choked and dragged John in again, swallowing John’s bark of incredulous laughter and curling his tongue behind John’s teeth. John’s mouth was softer this time, sweet and gentle in a way that left Sherlock’s chest aching with new data. John was absolutely decadent, and Sherlock moaned against his tongue as John steered him backwards into the sitting room. Sherlock’s calves hit the edge of the sofa and he tumbled backwards, his center of gravity knocked off balance by John’s unpredictability. John’s gaze followed him down, his eyes dark and predatory, and Sherlock felt a shudder of pure want slide like warm honey down his spine.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, and his voice sounded deeper, more sensual, and completely foreign in his own ears. John’s lips stretched into a wicked grin as he sank one knee gently into the cushion between Sherlock’s spread thighs, the control and dominance practically radiating off of him in waves. A pathetic sort of choking noise threatened to spill forth from Sherlock’s throat, but he forced it back.

“Don’t,” John said, leaning forward and ghosting his lips across Sherlock’s jaw. “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

Sherlock gasped and shuddered, leaning back instinctively and feeling his head tilt of its own volition. John smiled into his skin, a deep, throaty growl rumbling up through his chest as Sherlock sank into sensation. He could feel his neurons short circuiting, every single nerve seeming to light up as John leaned in further, his solid, warm chest pushing gently against Sherlock’s ribs.  John’s lips skimmed up Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock actually whined, his voice thready and ruined as his body tried to catch up with the vibrations coursing through his veins. He’d never felt like this; this overwhelming, churning need taking him entirely by surprise.

“Is this—” John began, his voice seeming to falter for the first time, hesitation and uncertainty stalling him out for a moment. “Is this alright?”

Sherlock nearly laughed at the absurdity of the question, his mind a little on the harsh side of hysterical as it finally caught up to his body’s reactions. He almost put a stop to everything, almost allowed the voice in the back of his head—the one that sounded suspiciously like Mycroft—to remind him that this wasn’t who he was meant to be. Sherlock Holmes was not a weak, shivering mess, practically begging to be kissed like a common tart. He almost opened his mouth and allowed the scathing remarks to cut John down, but he paused at the way John was watching him: imploring and understanding and entirely trusting. John Watson was exceptional, and something behind Sherlock’s ribs shook loose for the first time since he could remember.

Christ, John,” Sherlock said instead, wrapping one long-fingered hand around the back of John’s neck and pulling him back in. “Don’t stop.”

John groaned and fell forward, one hand braced on the back of the sofa, the other sliding up to tangle in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock moaned into the kiss, every single defense crumbling apart as John’s tongue brushed across his own, demanding and enticing and utterly sinful. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s back, feeling the muscles bunch and flex beneath his palms as John moaned against his tongue.

“God, your fucking mouth,” John murmured, teeth scraping along Sherlock’s swollen bottom lip. He pulled back a little, and Sherlock felt his body taking over; pushing forward and chasing John’s lips without his control. John chuckled into the kiss, and Sherlock felt the laughter bubble through him, his mind spinning around each new sensation and cataloguing every reaction for later inspection.

John finally leaned back entirely, groaning softly as Sherlock’s lips fell to his clavicle instead, tasting and nibbling, testing the resistance of warm skin stretched over bone. Sherlock felt John’s fingers tighten in the back of his hair, John’s gasp of arousal shooting straight to his groin, and Sherlock heard himself moan. It seemed deafeningly loud in the still room and Sherlock pulled back abruptly with a blush of humiliation. He hadn’t meant to sound quite so desperate, and he tried to quell the rising tide of panic as John simply gazed at him, something calculating and dark in his eyes.

“Come here,” John muttered, shifting himself backwards and standing, extending his hand for Sherlock to grasp onto. Sherlock eyed John’s upturned palm warily, indecision and yearning warring through his mind. John stood there patiently, a soft smile tugging the edge of his lips.

Sherlock weighed his options: in one scenario, he could scoff and they’d both laugh it off as adrenaline and madness brought on by heightened emotions and the dangers of a particularly harrowing post-case crash. Things could go on as normal, neither of the acknowledging this budding attraction until it shriveled on its own and retreated, leaving both of them unsatisfied and unsettled. Or he could give in, just this once, and have everything he’d ever wanted: John, finally his, with no barriers and no filters between them. He could allow himself to fall, knowing John would be tumbling right along with him.

It was worth the risk. It was always worth everything if John was there at the end of it all.

Sherlock took John’s hand.

John’s smile was beatific, his entire face shifting into unadulterated joy for a brief moment before he was yanking Sherlock to his feet, claiming his mouth in a kiss full of so much desire, Sherlock felt it all the way down to his toes. Sherlock groaned and wrapped himself around John, pushing his tongue against John’s in complete supplication. Wherever John wanted to take this, Sherlock would follow without a backwards glance.

John growled and slid his mouth down Sherlock’s jaw, teeth nipping playfully along Sherlock’s carotid artery before pausing to suck at his collarbone. Sherlock gasped, arousal pooling warm and thick in his abdomen. He felt his groin tighten, blood curling through his penis and causing the tissue to harden. Sherlock pulled back, blinking down at his trousers in shock. He hadn’t had an erection in years, not since university when one disastrous mistake had caused him to retreat into himself. The feeling was so startling, he merely gaped. John chuckled, fond and heated, and Sherlock blinked back up at him, aware that his bemusement must be written all over his face.

“Are you alright?” John asked softly, still not letting go of his hold on Sherlock’s biceps.

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock muttered, face flushing again as he gasped for breath. “Just… unexpected.”

“But not bad?” John asked, his voice tentative and hopeful.

Sherlock blinked at him, concentrating on the sensations in his body. He felt his elevated heart rate, could feel his skin prickling with sensitivity, felt the way his breath came heavy and laden with desire. “No,” he said slowly, tasting the word as it rolled through his mouth. “Not bad. Good.”

John smiled slowly and leaned in, brushing his lips along Sherlock’s throat and inhaling deeply, as though he could smell Sherlock’s arousal. The idea was remarkably hot, and Sherlock shuddered into the touch. “Very, very good,” he purred, letting his head fall back in compliance, feeling the way his blood thrummed with heat and need. His cock gave a jerk and he gasped out loud, the sensitive glans brushing along the fine wool of his trousers.

He heard the sharp sound of a zipper, the gentle rustle of clothing and realized John was removing his denims, letting the material slide down his legs before kicking them off and to the side. Sherlock knew he should be startled by this, but all he could feel was want and need, heady and addictive and overpowering in its intensity. He slid his hands down John’s sides, feeling the cotton of his shirt shift and catch along his palms until he encountered the elastic band of John’s pants. He held his hands there, fingertips tracing along the edge of skin and fabric before he moaned and slid his palms over the curve of John’s arse, the muscle tightening and filling his hands with hard resistance.

Sherlock groaned and caught John’s mouth with his, thrusting his tongue into the space between John’s teeth and demanding a kiss. John smirked against his mouth, the sensation curious and charming until John sucked on his tongue and rolled his hips forward. The feeling of John’s hard cock against his own was absolute bliss, and Sherlock’s head fell back with a gasp of pure lust. John’s erection felt huge; hard and hot and throbbing against his own. It was almost too much, and Sherlock teetered on the edge of uncertainty until John yanked him back to his mouth and all he could do was moan and ride it out. John’s thigh wedged itself between Sherlock’s legs and he began to rock in rhythmic little motions that had Sherlock gasping and clutching at John’s shirt with desperation. He didn’t even know he was speaking until John muffled his words with lips and tongue.

John broke away to pant messily into the space between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, his entire body taut with want. Sherlock could feel the fine tremors running just beneath John’s skin, his arousal clearly just as acute as Sherlock’s own. Somehow that thought was oddly calming.

“Can we—” John broke off as Sherlock rolled his hips up, rubbing himself shamelessly against the hard line of John’s thigh. “Fuck, Sherlock. Can we move this to the bedroom?”

Sherlock pulled back and blinked up at John, his thoughts stalling out into white-hot static. He could hear the request over and over, an endless loop of nonsensical words. He finally cleared enough of the fog to acknowledge precisely what it was he wanted.

“Are you asking me, John?” he said slowly, his voice small and utterly unlike his usual velvety baritone.

John gazed at him with a searching look, his eyes seeming to weigh and consider every single tic of Sherlock’s expression before his own finally cleared. He looked suddenly hungry and wild, and Sherlock felt a shiver of desire pass along his ribs.

“No,” John said simply, and pulled himself back, hooking a rough hand behind Sherlock’s neck and propelling him forward until they were both standing in the kitchen doorway, panting and breathless with the weight of decision.

He wanted, oh how he wanted. John’s gaze sharpened, and Sherlock saw the exact moment he switched from calculated self-deprecation to barely-controlled hunger. John’s shoulders stiffened, his spine straightened and in one breathless heartbeat he went from good-natured, gentle doctor to perfectly honed, roughened soldier. It sent a shiver of pure need down Sherlock’s spine, and he felt his knees give, sinking to the floor in one fluid movement. He heard John’s sharp intake of breath, and then those sturdy, wide fingers were carding gently through his hair and Sherlock was lost.

He shuddered forward and sank into the feeling, John’s short-clipped fingernails scratching delicately against his scalp, causing tingles to chase all the way down to the base of his spine. Sherlock let loose a throaty moan and gave himself over to sensation, allowing his neck to bend forward, forehead resting gently against John’s firm abdomen. John held him close for a moment, his hands bracketing Sherlock’s jaw as he stroked his thumbs down the sides of Sherlock’s neck; the two of them breathing in tandem as the weight of the moment crashed through Sherlock and left him weak and shaking. He hadn’t expected this: the feeling of freefalling through desire, all of his considerable defenses fading into insignificance in the face of John’s undeniable strength.

He could do this, Sherlock realized. He could allow himself to sink into this—into John—and John would be there to catch him as he fell. He felt John shift, one hand threading into his curls, the other sliding down his jaw to tilt his face up. Sherlock blinked his eyes open and stared up at him through his lashes, balking at the overwhelming hunger fairly radiating off of John in waves.

“What is it you want, Sherlock?” John asked softly, his thumb catching along the distinct arch of Sherlock’s top lip. Sherlock found himself unable to answer, his vocabulary drying up as his body took control. John’s fingers were soothing in his hair, tethering him to reality as his transport warred with his mind. What did he want? It was too difficult a question to answer, and yet so incredibly simple: he wanted John. He wanted this; John taking charge and letting Sherlock’s mind shatter itself into stillness for once. He wanted John over him and around him, overwhelming his senses and finally shutting of Sherlock’s magnificent brain. He wanted to cede control entirely, to feel what would happen if John was given free reign of his body. He wanted to know John inside and out, and he wanted John to be the only one who would do the same for him. He wanted intimacy and desire and submission and ownership and he wanted John to be the one to make those things happen.

“You,” Sherlock croaked out, his voice shot and cracked. “I want you, John. Just you.”

John’s face darkened into something distinctly predatory, and his grin was nearly toxic with filthy intent. “I can work with that,” John murmured, his voice darker and huskier than Sherlock had ever heard it before.

Sherlock couldn’t help the groan that forced its way up his throat as he finally allowed himself to fall. He buried his face in the crease of John’s groin and inhaled the intoxicating scent of him: testosterone and musk and wonderful, glorious heat. John’s breath caught above him, and Sherlock whimpered at the sound, his senses overloaded with the sheer taste of him. He opened his mouth and breathed John in: salty and musky and dark beneath the damp cotton of his pants. He hadn’t realized his hands had come up until he felt John’s skin jump beneath his palms, slick already with anticipatory perspiration and hot with blood as it rushed to the surface.

Sherlock groaned again and rubbed his face into the fabric, allowing his open mouth to drag across the hard ridge of John’s cock beneath his pants. John twitched and his fingers tightened in Sherlock’s hair, forcing his face closer for one beautiful moment before he seemed to realize what he was doing and he abruptly let go. Sherlock whimpered and shook his head, tongue snaking out to taste the cotton, rough and damp and teasing against his taste buds. He grasped wildly in the air until he found one of John’s hands, bringing it back up to his head and leaning into the touch. John huffed an incredulous sound, but he gently added pressure until he was grinding Sherlock’s face against his groin, his cock jumping and pulsing every time Sherlock mouthed greedily at the head.

“Christ, your mouth,” John grunted and forcibly pulled Sherlock away. Sherlock felt his own body responding; his own cock throbbing in sympathy and rubbing uncomfortably against the zip of his trousers. He felt out of control, lost without the grounding weight of John’s fingers in his hair. Sherlock took a deep breath and blinked up at John, uncomfortably aware of how ridiculously debauched he must look. John was staring down at him with something dark and feral behind his eyes: a deep, possessive longing chipping away at his usual stoicism. Sherlock felt heat flare all the way down his spine and he couldn’t help the agonized gasp that tumbled from his lips.  

“Go on,” John said softly, and Sherlock realized he’d been staring, unmoving at the tantalizing bulge in John’s pants for an unacceptably long period of time. Sherlock reached forward and eased his thumbs beneath the elastic band, feeling the slight dampness to the cotton as he slowly peeled them down and off, all of his attention fixed on the way his pale fingers contrasted sharply with the dark grey material. He was avoiding the inevitable, prolonging the glorious anticipation until he thought he might shatter from the tension. He took a deep breath and finally looked up.

Christ, it was better than anything Sherlock could have imagined. John’s cock was simply massive: long and thick with a wide, flared base, his foreskin taut and pulled back to reveal the shiny purple glans. Sherlock’s mouth filled inexplicably with saliva at the sight of it. He made a tiny, involuntary noise in the back of his throat and felt the flush of embarrassed arousal creep up his neck. He dared a glance up and found John staring at him with his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide and dark as he drank in Sherlock’s shocking submission. The discomfort eased a little and Sherlock felt himself breathe again.

All the little pieces of information and avoided evidence were snapping into place: the way John walked as though he’d just come off a day’s worth of riding horses for a living, the gentle humility that made him so overwhelmingly endearing, the air of confidence, yet slight self-deprecation in every interaction they’d ever shared. Sherlock knew his mind had been gathering data since the first time they’d met, and his many repeated fantasies had all pointed in this direction, but to actually see the conclusive proof was startlingly arousing. Sherlock felt his own cock throb again and he swallowed down his moan of appreciation, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips even as he tried to not actively drool into his own lap.

“Christ, just look at you,” John breathed, reaching forward to rub his thumb across the slick edge of Sherlock’s lower lip. “You actually want this, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and the answer would have been obvious anyway, so Sherlock simply shivered and leaned forward, ghosting his lips across the heavy skin of John’s bollocks. John groaned and his fingers were back in Sherlock’s hair, guiding his head forward until he could feel the heat from John’s skin across the delicate flesh of his lips. He smelled absolutely delicious and Sherlock felt something inside him snap.

Sherlock leaned forward the remaining distance and finally slid his tongue along the base of John’s cock, feeling the skin twitch and tighten as his own moan of ecstasy reverberated through his chest. John tasted positively magnificent: salty and earthy and so deliciously male. Sherlock hummed and closed his lips around one heavy testicle, drawing the shape of it into his mouth and etching every millimeter of wrinkled skin, every ridge of warm flesh into his memory forever. John’s breath was coming in harsh, quick pants above him, but Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to care about anything except the taste and smell and feeling of John’s skin against his tongue, the way the flesh moved and fluttered of its own volition, John’s cock visibly jumping in his peripheral vision.

Sherlock reached forward and gripped at John’s hips, unable to keep his hands off the wide expanse of warm flesh as he gently eased his mouth from one testicle to the other, weighing the difference against his tongue and feeling every single molecule vibrate with tension. John’s voice sounded broken and harsh, his words meaningless in Sherlock’s ears as his whole brain seemed to thrum with sensation. He finally slipped his mouth up, breath dancing across the wet skin of John’s scrotum and causing the sparse hair there to quiver, the sight far more arousing than it had any right. Sherlock’s eyes wandered up to the magnificent specimen of male sexuality before him and he felt his heart stutter at the idea that he was being allowed to touch, to taste; that John was not only willing to give him permission, but actively arching into Sherlock’s gaze as though he’d been wanting this nearly as long as Sherlock had himself.

He took a deep breath and let his tongue slip forward over the impossibly soft skin of John’s shaft. God, it was incredible: hot and smooth and so wonderfully large. Sherlock traced the thick vein up the underside of John’s cock all the way to his foreskin, finally, finally wrapping his lips around the glans and allowing his eyes to fall closed with a low moan of unadulterated pleasure. His tongue circled the head, pausing to rub firmly against the frenulum and feeling the first burst of pre-come fall across his palette like and offering.

“Jesus,” John groaned above him, and Sherlock was startled to realize he’d almost completely forgotten there was a man attached to the cock in his mouth. He huffed out a distressed noise and slid forward, taking as much of John’s massive prick into his mouth as he could. He felt the head hit the back of his throat and dislodged one of his hands to wrap around the base, groaning as he realized he was barely halfway down John’s length. Sherlock’s whole body clenched at the realization and he felt his own cock pulse, a drop of thick pre-come seeping into the front of his trousers and no doubt staining the fabric incriminatingly. He found he didn’t particularly care.

“Sherlock,” John growled, his fingers tightening to just this side of painful. Sherlock shivered again and brought his other hand down to adjust himself, moaning around his mouthful at the pleasure coursing through his veins. He felt strung out and needy; a pulsing, aching throb shooting through his abdomen at the thought of John’s beautiful cock inside him--filling him and claiming him and ruining him for anyone else.

Sherlock swallowed once and slid his mouth up again to tease at the foreskin, rolling the taut flesh back with his lips before tonguing greedily at the slit. John cursed again and thrust his hips forward, forcing his cock back into Sherlock’s throat with a muffled growl. Sherlock moaned and let his jaw relax, giving John the room to fuck his mouth freely. He felt the thick mixture of saliva and pre-come dribbling out the sides of his mouth and running down his chin, knowing he must look like a desperate, needy mess, but somehow the thought just made him all the harder. He rubbed his palm across the front of his trousers, feeling his own penis twitch and throb every time John’s cock slid over the back of his tongue. Sherlock lost himself in the rhythm, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard every time John pulled back, and swallowing around the head with each snap of John’s hips.

“Fucking Christ,” John gasped and pulled himself back entirely. Sherlock sincerely hoped the high-pitched whine that echoed through the room hadn’t come from him, but he was too achingly hard to care much. Sherlock blinked his eyes open, bringing one shaking hand up to his mouth to wipe at the slick mess dripping down his chin. John’s dark eyes tracked the movement, and Sherlock felt caught in the crossbeam of John’s scrutiny, his cheeks heating as he registered what he must look like: flushed and debauched, his trousers straining to contain the obvious bulge of his cock, even as the fabric grew damper with every passing second.

“Jesus, you’re fucking gorgeous,” John breathed and physically hauled Sherlock to his feet, tugging and manhandling him until Sherlock was shoved roughly against the wall. Sherlock felt his shoulder blades scrape across the plaster, the momentary flare of pain barely registering as John pushed himself forward and took a kiss, licking into Sherlock’s mouth with unquestionable authority. Sherlock moaned and clutched at the back of John’s shirt, his fingers feeling numb and useless as John pressed one sturdy thigh between his legs and pushed.

Sherlock felt a shock of pleasure shoot all the way down his spine, his head falling back with a sickening thud against the wall, even as a throaty, desperate moan tore itself loose from his chest. John growled and moved his mouth down, licking at Sherlock’s pulse beneath the delicate skin of his throat before sinking his teeth into the skin and shoving his hips forward. Sherlock’s knees trembled violently and he would have lost the battle with gravity if John hadn’t been holding him solid against the supporting wall. His head was swimming with sensation, all of his considerable focus drawn forward and buzzing with the feeling of John against him, rocking in urgent thrusts against his hips and making his whole body tremble with desire. Sherlock arched into the contact, dragging his cock against John’s hip bone and feeling as though his entire body was on fire.

John’s clever hands raked down the curve of his spine, dragging along his iliac crest and urging him to tilt his hips even farther forward. Sherlock felt John’s fingers move over the button on his trousers, felt the pressure ease as John lowered the zip, felt his cock give an almighty jerk as John’s fingers came into contact with Sherlock’s bare skin. John’s hum of approval was sharp and satisfying, and he tugged at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, pulling his hips obscenely forward and shoving at the fabric. Sherlock scrambled to comply, twisting his body until he felt his trousers slide down his legs, pooling at his feet with a soft thud as the mobile in his pocket collided with the floorboards.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, every nerve tingling as John finally stepped forward again and slid his warm skin along Sherlock’s own naked abdomen, their twin groans of pleasure rumbling through the sitting room and seeming to shake the very foundations of the house. John’s fingers slid up Sherlock’s back, rucking his still-buttoned shirt up around his armpits until he could lean forward and close his lips around Sherlock’s right nipple.

It felt like a jolt of pure electricity. Sherlock gasped and arched backwards, hands scrambling wildly across John’s broad shoulders until he closed his fists around two luxuriously hard biceps. He could feel John grinning around his skin, could feel the way John’s muscles jumped and flexed beneath his palms, and suddenly the fact that there was any clothing between them at all felt ridiculously absurd.

“John,” Sherlock panted, tugging ineffectually at the hem of John’s shirt. His limbs seemed suddenly uncooperative: gangly and uncoordinated as they had been in his youth. John sucked Sherlock’s nipple between his teeth and bit down, the sharp spike of pain running through Sherlock’s spine like a bolt of lightning. He sobbed out a muffled cry and tried again to regain control of his dangerously spiralling mind, but it was useless. John pulled back with one last lick, his expression predatory and triumphant, tugging his own shirt up over his head unceremoniously before reaching forward and practically ripping Sherlock’s buttons apart.

“God, I want you,” John growled, tossing Sherlock’s shirt aside and closing his hands roughly around Sherlock’s hipbones. Sherlock felt gravity shift as John tugged him forward and up, his strong hands sliding beneath to cup Sherlock’s arse as he hoisted him bodily off the ground.

“Oh god, John,” Sherlock whined, twining his long legs around John’s hips and clinging on for dear life. He’d never felt this way before; this out of control, this shameful, this submissive, and the idea grated against his willpower like sandpaper. Yet, he knew he could trust John; could let himself shatter, because John would always, always be there to pick up the pieces. The notion threatened to overpower the glorious sensations rippling through his very skin like silk, but he viciously held his thoughts back. Tonight wasn’t about thinking, it was about feeling, and Sherlock intended to let himself drown in as much sensation as he could before reality jerked him back into himself. He could have his deserved break down in the morning; tonight was about letting go.

“That’s it,” John murmured into the side of his neck, lips and teeth dragging across pale skin and causing Sherlock to nearly shake apart with anticipation. “Let me do this. Give this to me. Let me in.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, and felt the last of his reservations evaporate into incendiary bliss, “John, yes.”

John growled; a rasping, joyful sound that rumbled up through Sherlock’s entire body and curled somewhere deep behind his solar plexus. John heaved him up, easily hefting his weight as he ground him against the wall. It seemed to Sherlock as though a dam had broken somewhere between them; all the passion and sexual tension that had been building steadily for years spilling forth with a rush like thunder. John yanked him forward, his bare cock rubbing teasingly across Sherlock’s perineum with every shivery push of his hips. Sherlock couldn’t hold himself back anymore. John was like oxygen, and Sherlock attached his mouth to John’s lips and breathed him in, gasping and shaking and unravelling at the seams.

“We need,” John mumbled, his words slurred by the press of Sherlock’s skin, by the drag of Sherlock’s fingers through his hair. “Oh Christ, we need a bed.”

“Ugh, bed,” Sherlock gasped, squeezing his thighs around John’s hips and trying to grind himself as close as he could; trying fuse himself to John so they could never be parted. “Beds are boring.”

John’s sharp bark of laughter was gorgeous and feral, and Sherlock suddenly felt the ground shift again as John heaved him up and locked his arms around Sherlock’s lower back, swinging him around and planting him squarely on the middle of the kitchen table. Sherlock heard the sound of glass shattering, of metal clanging as it was forcibly shoved to the floor, but it was all muffled over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. John laid him across the table, pushing him up and over until his back was flat against the worn surface and his arse was hanging slightly over the edge. Sherlock could feel his shoulder blades scraping across the wood, could feel the pain as the uneven spots dug incessantly into his skin, but he couldn’t be bothered to care at the moment; not with John staring down at him as though he was lust personified, like John was starving and Sherlock was the most delicious feast in the world. One of Sherlock’s feet was still tangled in his trousers, the fabric hanging off his ankle like an absurd flag, waving and swinging as John lifted his legs and forced himself into the space between.

Sherlock felt his entire body thrumming with adrenaline and oxytocin, the slight pain of the biro digging into his shoulder forgotten as John ran blunt fingers up his thighs, pulling and spreading them apart until he could crouch in between, his face even with Sherlock’s most intimate of areas. Sherlock felt the rush of embarrassed arousal, could feel his entire chest flushing with splotchy pink as blood rushed to the surface of his skin, capillaries filling and providing conclusive proof of his body’s reaction. John hummed somewhere below him; a low, achingly tender sound, and then Sherlock felt warm wetness spread across his inner thigh. John’s tongue traced up his femoral artery, licking and sucking and Sherlock felt himself shaking with the effort of keeping himself spread open.  He kicked wildly until the tangle of cloth around his ankle finally dislodged itself, soaring across the kitchen and landing somewhere in the hall with an ominous thud. John chuckled into his skin, the vibrations running straight through Sherlock’s bloodstream and causing his vision to sway dangerously.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, one long arm reaching over his head to cling to the edge of the table, the other snaking down to slide beneath his own knee, pulling his leg up and out and giving John more room to get to where Sherlock so desperately wanted. He made the mistake of looking down and saw his own cock jerk, a drop of pearly pre-come rolling a lazy pattern over the head to pool just below his navel. John was watching him with a distinctly hungry expression that bordered on famished, and Sherlock arched into it; John’s very scrutiny like a physical caress. He felt rough fingers trail up the insides of his thighs, John’s hands pushing gently and spreading him even more, exposing him so shamelessly as he writhed against the table, desperate for even the slightest contact.

“Jesus, John. Please,” Sherlock whined, so far beyond dignity it was nearly laughable.

“Please what?” John whispered, his breath ghosting tantalizingly across the heated skin of Sherlock’s scrotum.

Please,” Sherlock ground out, his voice sounding subsonic to his own ears. “Touch me.”

John hummed again and then he was finally there, hot lips and slick tongue snaking into the crease of Sherlock’s groin, licking a broad stripe from Sherlock’s perineum right up over his testicles and to the base of his cock. Sherlock shouted out loud, the noise harsh and honest and completely involuntary. His entire body throbbed with sensation, electric currents seeming to spark through his blood as John brushed his lips up the side of Sherlock’s shaft, finally meeting the head with a gentle kiss that would have been heartbreakingly sweet had Sherlock not felt like he was shattering apart with tension.

John smirked and lowered his mouth, closing his perfect lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock and pulling, and it was finally too much. With one great heave of pressure, Sherlock started to come. His whole body contracted, pleasure so sharp it felt like pain searing up through his limbs, leaving his fingers and toes tingling in the aftermath. He felt his body clench, every muscle coiling and releasing with each rhythmic pulse of ejaculate. John made a surprised noise and swallowed him down, milking his cock for every drop until Sherlock shoved him away, over sensitive and completely mortified.

Sherlock threw an arm up over his eyes, humiliation burning hot and acidic through his gut. Here he was: finally able to touch John, to have him in this basest of primal ways, and Sherlock shot off like a fourth former at his first coed. He felt the sting of horrifying tears begin to choke up the back of his throat, his entire chest feeling constricted and tight. He didn’t even register the soft hands on his legs, lowering his feet to swing freely in the air until John’s fingers were prying his arm away. Sherlock caught soft navy eyes and a quiet smile before he squeezed his own eyes shut hard. He didn’t need pity, and he certainly didn’t want it from John of all people.

“Sherlock, hey,” John was saying, his voice placatory and quiet and so completely and utterly wrong. Sherlock shrunk backwards against the table, trying to pull his shoulders in to retreat in the only way available to him, but John’s chest was keeping him still, his torso weighed down by John’s sturdy frame. John’s thumb was sweeping gently across Sherlock’s cheekbone, trying to coax him to relax, and Sherlock hated it. He jerked away, abhorring the fact that John thought he needed to be coddled like an inexperienced teenager.

“I apologize,” Sherlock ground out in as steady a voice as he could muster. He tried to gather the scattered threads of his infamous control, but they seemed to have gotten lost somewhere along the way. He could feel the hard shell of protection he always held so closely around him begin to reform, bruised pride and battered sense creeping forward to reclaim him.

“Sherlock,” John said, firmer this time. “Stop it. It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Sherlock countered, wondering why he was bothering to argue. He’d get up and wash himself off and bury this whole humiliating experience so deeply in his subconscious he would never have to think of it again. He’d fucked up and now it was over and John was probably going to leave him and—

“Sherlock,” John snapped, and the tone was so demanding, Sherlock finally reacted. He opened his eyes in a fierce glare, but John wasn’t looking disappointed or upset. In fact, he was looking rather grimly pleased with himself. Sherlock blinked up at him in incredulous confusion.

“It’s fine,” John said again, and he actually looked sincere. Sherlock felt some of the tension ease out of his shoulders in spite of himself. Perhaps things weren’t as entirely hopeless as he thought. “It’s more than fine,” John continued, a queer little smile tilting the side of his lips up. “It’s wildly flattering, actually.”

“John...” Sherlock trailed off, his mind grasping for some sense in this improbable conversation.

“And if you think I’m done with you, Sherlock Holmes,” John murmured darkly, barely brushing his lips up the side of Sherlock’s neck, “You’re sorely mistaken.”

Sherlock shivered, renewed arousal pooling warm and steady in the pit of his stomach. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving a thick smear of endorphins in its wake, and Sherlock felt his body heave as John leaned in and brushed his mouth over the corner of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Watching you come apart like that was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” John whispered into his skin, and Sherlock felt the words sink into his mind, ringing and clear and so very, wonderfully John.

“Was it,” Sherlock breathed, his body starting to heat again despite his recent release. He felt John smile into the space just beneath his ear, and the movement was so gorgeously simple Sherlock felt his heart clench.

“Yeah,” John murmured, rolling his hips forward and dragging the wet end of his very hard cock along the lower curve of Sherlock’s arse. “You taste incredible.”

That was it. It was too much. Sherlock arched into John’s body, rubbing himself shamelessly against the acres of warm skin, still sensitive, but desperate for more. John growled again and mashed his lips against Sherlock’s, shoving his tongue in and demanding reciprocation. Sherlock could taste himself, salty and bitter and intertwined so irrevocably with John’s own flavor, and it was positively wonderful. He licked into John’s mouth, chasing the flavor and groaning as John slid his hands down Sherlock’s sides; all the way down to his useless legs, which he hoisted back up around his waist until Sherlock locked his ankles together and pulled John against him.

“I want to fuck you,” John said through clenched teeth, the obscenity shooting through Sherlock like a harpoon to the gut. His body clenched in anticipation, a spark of pure lust starting at the base of his spine and radiating outwards. Sherlock felt his cock twitch, though it was still much too soon to get fully hard again.

Yes,” Sherlock hissed, wanting nothing more than to be split open, invaded, owned in the basest of ways. John’s enormous cock would likely tear him apart, but Sherlock wanted the pain, he wanted the stretch and the burn and radiant feeling of fullness. He arched his hips up, tightening his legs until he could feel John’s prick throbbing hot and thick against his inner thigh.

“Do you think you can take it?” John murmured, his voice low and gravelly and everything Sherlock ever wanted to hear for the rest of his days and more. The heady anticipation was back, mixed with a curious sense of jittery nerves, but Sherlock wanted this more than anything, so he took a deep breath and nodded.

John, evidently, was not fooled. “We don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable. It’s been problematic before…” John trailed off, the absurd embarrassment clear in his voice. Sherlock struggled for a moment before he finally got the leverage to flip himself over, shoving violently at John’s shoulders until he backed up a pace and Sherlock could scoot forward off the end of the table, turning abruptly and pressing his impossibly hot chest to the cool wood. He arched his back and presented his arse as best he could, so beyond caring how ridiculous he must appear and grinning with self-satisfaction at the low, guttural groan from John at his movements.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John breathed, and Sherlock felt the warmth from John’s palms as he ghosted his hands over the lush curve of Sherlock’s arse. “You’re a bloody menace, you know that?”

Sherlock smirked and felt some of his confidence coming back. He felt oddly powerful, even as he bent forward further, spreading his arms wide to grip the edges of the table with his fingers, scattering the remaining test tubes and petri dishes unceremoniously to the ground. John groaned and closed his hands around Sherlock’s hips, tilting him even more and causing him to rock up onto his toes. Sherlock pressed his sweaty face to the blessedly cool table and allowed his eyes to fall closed. John was breathing hard behind him, and Sherlock could practically hear the gears turning in his head, deciding what exactly he was going to do now that he had Sherlock prone and spread out for him like a veritable feast.

Sherlock heard the floor creak as John shifted his weight, heard the distinct press of footsteps on the linoleum and he felt momentarily abandoned. Surely John wouldn’t just leave him like this; bent over and sweaty and practically begging to be fucked?  Sherlock heard the click of the bathroom light and then the clear sound of drawer contents shifting and then absolute silence.

“Relax,” John said, and he was suddenly back, the heat of his skin seeping all the way up Sherlock’s spine. He let loose a breath that had been caught in his chest and felt his body give over to pleasure as John breathed a hot stripe across his lower back. Sherlock saw movement out of the corner of his eye and watched as John carefully placed a tube of medical grade lubricant onto the table next to Sherlock’s hip. The sight was unbearably arousing, and Sherlock felt the groan rumble up through his chest and into the table. His cock jumped again, and he felt the rush of blood begin to coil warmly in his groin.

“Jesus, look at you,” John breathed, and it was more than appreciation; it was reverence. John’s fingers were soft and gentle as he finally brushed the pads of them across Sherlock’s searing flesh. The tenderness of the touch sent a jolt of near panic up Sherlock’s spine as he tried to regain control of himself. He’d never been taken like this: completely trusting and utterly given over. John’s palms smoothed up his thighs, brushing against the grain of the sparse hair that littered the skin there. Sherlock shivered and couldn’t help the soft moan that spilled up over his tongue and past his teeth. He could barely breathe for the anticipation and he wanted to demand that John move, that he do something, anything.

The floor shifted again and Sherlock heard a muffled thump and suddenly John’s thumbs were there, prying apart his buttocks and breathing hot air across his twitching anus. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and tried not to tremble, but it was impossible. He could practically taste the pheromones zinging through the air, and then John’s mouth was covering his hole, brushing and licking and Sherlock cried out, completely unable to stop himself. John’s tongue wriggled and flicked, every movement seeming to send sparks of color and electricity through Sherlock’s blood. It felt like every nerve ending was on fire as John’s tongue scraped across the wrinkled skin of Sherlock’s hole, the muscle pulsing and opening beneath John’s masterful mouth.

Sherlock tried to concentrate, tried to even his heaving breath, because this felt dangerously like hyperventilation and he really didn’t want to lose consciousness, not now that John was moaning and gasping behind him; hot puffs of ragged breath rushing across Sherlock’s skin and causing a wave of gooseflesh to rise in its wake. Sherlock heard the telltale click of the bottle and then one of John’s beautifully thick fingers was nudging up beside his tongue, slipping in with barely any resistance and Sherlock was startled to discover that he was actually shouting out loud. He clamped his lips shut tight against the noise, his cries reduced to muffled hums of unmitigated pleasure as John’s mouth descended to his perineum, strong tongue rubbing along the skin there until he sucked one of Sherlock’s balls into his mouth and pulled.

Sherlock was still overly sensitive, every single nerve still tingling from his earlier orgasm, but he felt his stomach lurch, arousal and desire flooding through his blood and leaving his pulse racing and his head spinning. It was deliriously overwhelming, and Sherlock let himself give in to it: the feeling of John’s mouth on his skin, the achingly glorious stretch of John’s finger in his arse, the heady, delicious arousal building and bursting over him as he felt his cock jump with renewed interest. John groaned into him and the vibrations ran straight through to Sherlock’s spine, thrumming up his nervous system and into the very core of his brain. He knew he was shouting again, was vaguely aware that his fingers were cramping as they gripped the edges of the table so hard his knuckles strained white, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

John let his testicle fall from his lips and licked a filthy stripe back up to Sherlock’s hole, pulling his finger out and replacing it with his tongue again as he upended the bottle of lube and slicked two more fingers. Sherlock’s neck was starting to cramp, contorted and stretched as it was so he could see, but he wouldn’t give up this position for the world. John’s eyes were closed in apparent bliss and what little of his face Sherlock could see from this vantage point was flushed and wet with saliva and sweat. It was rough and dirty and everything Sherlock had ever wanted. His cock began to stir in earnest, blood filling erectile tissue and plumping out the flesh again. It was too much too soon, and Sherlock writhed against the table in pleasurable agony.

“John,” he wailed, grinding his arse back against John’s face, feeling John’s cheekbones rub against the inside of his crack. It was dirty and wrong and so incredibly marvelous, and he felt John’s low chuckle as it huffed out over his slick skin. John finally pulled back and glanced up at him, his face red and shining, eyes feral and dark. Sherlock breath rushed out of him in a sob, his whole body tense again and aching to be filled. John’s answering grin was sharp and predatory, and he stood to lean over Sherlock, his breath hot and damp against the shell of Sherlock’s ear.

“Eyes front, soldier,” John breathed, and Sherlock felt an actual shudder pulse down each and every one of his vertebrae. He felt like he would shatter apart, but he dutifully tucked his head back down to the table, his sweaty forehead resting gently against the worn surface.

“That’s it,” John whispered, his lips catching on the edge of Sherlock’s ear just as he pushed one slick finger back into his swollen hole. “Open for me. Let me in.”

Sherlock shivered and tried to relax, focusing on the feeling of John’s incredible finger inching deeper and deeper into him. Every single nerve seemed to be suddenly hard-wired to the skin there; his body opening and pulsing, gripping John’s finger and squeezing in rhythm with his racing pulse.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” John groaned, pulling his finger back and adding another. Sherlock felt the heat of the stretch, not quite painful, but not exactly comfortable either. It had been ages since he’d had anything more than his own fingers inside of him, and John’s hands were decidedly thicker than his own. John’s breath was coming in harsh pants now, the heat rolling off of him hot enough to burn. Sherlock shivered again and dropped his spine, glorying in the stretch of three fingers as John tried to prepare him for his massive cock. Just the thought of John’s amazingly huge prick sent a jolt of arousal up through his abdomen. Sherlock felt his own cock jump, almost fully hard again, and the very absurdity of it made Sherlock huff a soft laugh into the scratched wood.

“What’s funny, gorgeous?” John asked, his fingers spreading apart and making Sherlock’s insides quiver even as he thankfully avoided his still over sensitive prostate.

“The average refractory period of the mid-thirties male is approximately thirty four minutes…” Sherlock trailed off with a gasp as John twisted his wrist.

“Stop thinking,” John admonished, running his lips down the side of Sherlock’s neck to bite at the back of his shoulder. Sherlock writhed and arched into the contact, every stuttering slip of his hips sending jolts of pleasure up through his abdomen. John’s wicked fingers curled and spread, working Sherlock’s tight anus into compliance even as heat coiled tighter and tighter through his muscles. Sherlock felt like he was unravelling, part of him wanting to split himself open wide so John could take him freely, another part practically begging for John’s teeth to sink into his skin and mark him as his own. Heady arousal warred with intense yearning and he nearly shook the table apart as he thrashed.

John smirked into his skin, curling his fingers once more and brushing just barely against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock felt it all the way through his bones: a jolt like a firecracker, the metallic tang of electricity and energy where he’d accidentally bitten side of his tongue. He cried out, hips rocking and thrusting against nothing as his body screamed in sweet, sweet agony.

“Your refractory period seems to be doing just fine,” John purred, his voice flowing over Sherlock’s skin like heavy satin. John slid his other hand down over Sherlock’s chest, plucking a taut nipple on the way before closing gently around Sherlock’s renewed, sticky erection. Sherlock hissed and bucked his hips, still overly sensitized, but his body was fighting back. The persistent ache of arousal that had been barely satisfied roared up through him like an inferno; an itch that demanded to be scratched.

“John—!” Sherlock cried, torn between thrusting himself through the tight ring of John’s fist and pushing desperately back against the fingers invading him and taking him apart so spectacularly. He felt his control completely shatter, leaving behind a gasping, pleading mess of a man in the throes of a serious sexual break down. Sherlock sobbed out John’s name, gripping the edges of the table so hard he felt his fingertips start to tingle.

“Think you’re ready?” John growled, running his teeth along the edge of Sherlock’s sharp shoulder blade. Sherlock could feel John’s cock pressing insistently against the back of his thigh; the thick, rigid length of it blood-hot and soaking wet already. He experimentally pushed against it and felt it jump, John’s sharp breath and hissed exhale the only warning Sherlock had before John was slowly extracting his fingers. Sherlock whined at the loss, feeling absurdly bereft for the few seconds it took for John to pull a condom out of god knows where and apply it.

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder and nearly choked on his own overactive saliva. John was staring at him with the look of a starving lion: all predatory eyes and possessive ferocity and calculated, precise movements. He grinned at Sherlock with a sharp edge of danger and Sherlock felt his entire body give one solid heave of want.

“John,” Sherlock panted, his own voice shot and cracked. John’s gaze narrowed and he stalked forward, the enormous, thick length of him straining forward like a beacon. He kicked Sherlock’s legs apart and stepped between them, the position already beginning to strain Sherlock’s muscles, but affording John the freedom to move without their obvious height difference. Sherlock pressed his sweaty face into the tabletop again, closing his eyes and allowing his body to simply feel.

John rested the very tip of his cock against Sherlock’s loosened hole and paused, both of them breathing in tandem for one solid heartbeat before he pressed forward, inch by delicious inch sinking into Sherlock’s tight heat. Sherlock moaned; a throaty, involuntary sound that seemed to come from his very soul as he felt the marvelous stretch. Even with three fingers of preparation, Sherlock still felt like he was being torn apart; the wrenching ache skating the edge of pain and pleasure. John paused and held there for a moment, his breath coming in tight, even gasps.

“OK?” he asked quietly, though his voice was strained.

Sherlock quivered on the edge of indecision. He wanted nothing more than to tell John to just fuck him already and be done with it, but he was still too tight, John’s massive cock infinitely larger than anything Sherlock had ever imagined. He took a deep breath and deliberately slowed his pulse, calming his racing blood into something resembling normality.

“Give me a minute,” Sherlock whispered, arching his back and revelling in the stretch as his overly tight muscles relaxed marginally. John sucked in a breath, but didn’t move a muscle as Sherlock wriggled a little on his cock, his body adjusting to the intrusion slower than he would have liked, but he could feel himself opening, his body craving more even as his pulse began to race again. He twisted his hips a little more and felt John’s cock brush against his prostate.

“Oh god,” Sherlock moaned, his body automatically pressing back, unconsciously thrusting himself further down John’s cock.

“Christ,” John grunted, his hands tightening almost painfully on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock smirked shakily and deliberately clenched down, rocking forward a little to aim John’s prick against his prostate again. The result was a muffled curse from behind and suddenly John’s hips jerked, sending him forward a few more inches.

Sherlock groaned and went pliant, his entire body pulsing and throbbing with his racing heartbeat. John slowly pushed forward until with a glorious bump, his thighs rested against Sherlock’s flanks. They both took a shuddering breath and paused again. Sherlock felt positively full to bursting and he squirmed a little at the unfamiliar sensations. It didn’t hurt so much as feel vaguely uncomfortable, as though his body was fighting the intrusion. Sherlock took a deep breath and rocked a little, allowing his body to adjust to the feeling, his muscles loosening with every passing second.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, his voice strained and tight, “Please stop moving.”  

Sherlock groaned and tried to keep still, but it was a losing battle. He flexed his arms, attempting to dissipate some of the tingles from his too-tight hold on the table. Finally, after what seemed like an age, John straightened and began to pull back, the delicious drag of his cock against Sherlock’s anus making him gasp.

“Sweet Christ, John,” Sherlock murmured, every cell in his body clamping down as John rolled his hips and pressed back in; the thick, dragging slide of it causing Sherlock’s toes to curl against the hard flooring. The slight discomfort was melding seamlessly into incendiary bliss and Sherlock felt his pulse quicken again, his minorly flagging erection jerking back into tumescence from one breathless heartbeat to the next. John kept the slow pace, pulling back with aching tenderness before pushing in just as smoothly. After a few minutes, Sherlock’s body had fully adjusted and he wanted more.

“Please John,” Sherlock nearly sobbed, his voice dark and husky and more desperate than he’d ever heard it. It would have been embarrassing if he could think past the driving need that began to lick up his spine; every gentle push driving him slowly mad. “I’m not going to break.”

John huffed out a small chuckle and snapped his hips a little harder, still fully in control of the glacial pace, but giving a little at Sherlock’s obvious frustration. The burn was fully gone now, replaced by a wonderful feeling of opening, Sherlock’s muscles flexing and stretching with each deep push of John’s cock. Something shifted and Sherlock could actually feel John’s prick harden further, his stance broadening before he took a firm grip on Sherlock’s hips and shoved.

Sherlock felt it all the way up his spine: a melting, burning sense of friction as John’s thrusts became marginally faster, his body finally taking over from his meticulously careful brain. Sherlock didn’t want careful, he wanted abandonment. He intentionally clamped down again, seeming to feel every bump and ridge of John’s gorgeous cock up through his stretched hole. John grunted and snapped his hips forward hard enough to rock Sherlock up onto his toes.

Sherlock felt his body give, felt his head fall back, felt the completely involuntary groan as it rumbled up through his own throat, low and needy and sonorous as it echoed through the kitchen. John huffed again and leaned forward, one hand splayed across Sherlock’s lower back, the other dragging up his spine to tangle in the back of his curls.

“Think you can take it harder?” John growled, his fingers tightening perfectly. Sherlock could do nothing but nod, his phenomenal vocabulary stalling out at John’s overt display of dominance. John licked at the back of Sherlock’s neck, his teeth grazing across the top of his spine until he suddenly bit down, thrusting home with so much force, Sherlock heard the table scrape a few inches across the floor.

That was it. With a filthy groan, Sherlock felt himself spasm, his entire body shaking and pulsing with acute arousal. “God, John,” Sherlock whined, bracing his arms across the table, his fingers curling around the edges again to cling on for dear life. John thrust into him harder, faster, every single push punctuated with a huff of hot breath against Sherlock’s neck. John’s fingers tightened once more in his hair, teetering on the edge of too much, and he reared back, pulling Sherlock with him, his spine curving obscenely backwards into John’s brutal thrusts.  

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” John growled, and Sherlock felt himself flush ridiculously at the praise. John’s touch was covetous, wanting and possessive, and every synapse of Sherlock’s brain seemed to suddenly hone in on the overwhelming pleasure shooting through his veins. He could feel himself spiraling, muscles coiling tighter and tighter and he realized he was dangerously close to coming a second time.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, sticky palms sliding against the wood, long fingers scrambling for purchase as John rocked roughly into him. Sherlock could feel the edge of the table digging into the tops of his thighs, felt it as every thrust sent his bollocks slapping into the wood. He moaned and bowed back again, spine twisting and contorting in pleasure as John’s gigantic prick slammed into him again and again. Sherlock felt completely undone: his hole gaping and obscene, muscles clenching around the thick intrusion of John’s penis inside him, claiming him and stretching him and it was nearly enough.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John growled, digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise and thrusting faster. “That’s it. Take it. Take it.

“John, please,” Sherlock moaned, wanting to reach down and palm himself, but afraid to let go of his hold on the table lest John’s thrusts sent him crashing into it. John seemed to understand, because he relinquished his bruising hold on Sherlock’s hip to snake around his abdomen, still-slick fingers wrapping tightly around Sherlock’s cock and pulling and it was suddenly too much.

Sherlock felt himself shatter, his entire body clenching down and breaking apart as heat seared up his spine, his cock throbbing as come shot out over John’s knuckles, the table and the floor. Sherlock felt lightheaded and dizzy, his chest constricted and heaving as he tried to suck in breath through a mouth that no longer worked; it was stuck on an endless loop of John’s name, over and over and breathless with gasping, aching pleasure.

John fucked him through it, hips slamming into Sherlock’s arse even as Sherlock went pliant and boneless beneath him. John’s strong hands guided him down to rest across the table, shockingly tender fingers smoothing down his spine and bending him forward. Sherlock tried to help, resting his sweaty forehead against his crossed arms and attempting to regulate his breathing. He felt wrung out and ruined, but he concentrated enough to tighten down around John’s cock, earning a muffled curse from the man panting behind him.

Fuck,” John gasped and Sherlock actually felt John thicken further, the heat and press of him intensifying for one dizzying moment before John was coming; gasping Sherlock’s name and pushing forward impossibly deep, stilling his hips as his cock jerked and emptied into the thin layer of latex. Sherlock wished fervently that they could do away with condoms in the future and made a note to get himself tested as soon as his body was back under his own control. He felt decidedly boneless and rubbery at the moment, and he was disturbingly aware that John’s anchoring hold on his hips was the only thing keeping him vertical.

Sherlock was emitting little kittenish groaning noises every time John’s softening prick twitched, his body pulsing and sated, floating on a sea of endorphins and sentiment. John finally seemed to calm down, his hands unclenching from Sherlock’s pelvis to sweep up his sides, finally wrapping around Sherlock’s heaving diaphragm and sinking forward to drape himself across Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock felt his own mouth stretch into a wide smile, his heart seeming to expand as John’s lips brushed delicately across the nape of his slick neck. Sherlock let his head fall to the side, John’s mouth following the curve of his throat to nibble at the corner of his jaw.

“You’re incredible,” John finally breathed, his voice full of that familiar warmth and affection that made something alarming and tender unfurl tentatively behind Sherlock’s solar plexus. Sherlock simply hummed in return, his own voice sounding lazy and sated even to his own ears. They lay there on the table for an indecipherable amount of time until the sweat on Sherlock’s skin began to turn uncomfortably cool.

Finally, with a groan, John heaved himself up, bracing one hand on Sherlock’s lower back and gripping the base of the condom, easing himself out with a slick rush that made Sherlock’s face heat ridiculously. He was vaguely aware of John moving across the kitchen, the soft click of the bathroom light, and the wet smack as the condom hit the bin, but he was too knackered to do more than prop himself up against the poor, abused table. His muscles felt stretched out and deliciously used, and he took the opportunity to roll his spine forward, hearing each vertebra click as it realigned itself.

John returned with a wet flannel and gently wiped him down. Sherlock allowed it, his whole body still buzzing with the post-orgasmic haze of chemicals that made his muscles tremble and his limbs shaky. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and made to stand, startled when his knees wobbled worryingly, and he nearly went pitching to the side, but John caught him around the waist and held him up.

“Jesus,” John laughed, tossing the soiled flannel into the sink and sliding his damp hand up Sherlock’s torso to brace him against the worktop. Sherlock felt the flush of embarrassment rise across his cheekbones, but John was just smiling up at him; smug self-satisfaction and banked heat simmering up through his gaze. Sherlock felt his lips twitch in spite of himself and grinned bashfully towards the floor. He felt giddy and ridiculous, John’s amused huff lost in the press of Sherlock’s lips against his.

John tasted like sweat and sex, his mouth hot and wet and Sherlock couldn’t get enough. Something large and fluttery seemed to be knocking around in his abdomen and he felt the lure of dangerous affection threaten to pull him under. Instead, he snaked his fingers into John’s hair, cradling his skull and giving himself over as John’s tongue swept across his in an achingly sweet slide of familiar sensuality.

“You’re bloody insatiable, you are,” John snickered into his neck. Sherlock felt the shiver of want pool warmly in his gut, but his exhausted body was finally giving up. Sherlock sank back against the worktop, pulling John close and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll never stop wanting you,” Sherlock whispered, half-terrified as the words spilled past his lips without any kind of filter.

John blinked up at him in apparent surprise, and Sherlock began to backpedal immediately. He hadn’t meant to say it, and now John was going to run and it was all ruined and Sherlock couldn’t help it if his brain was mush and his limbs felt like jelly. He could feel the panic begin to take over, sharp prickles of anxiety and self-disgust itching along his skin. He needed to get out, to think, to have some fucking room to breathe

“Hey,” John said quietly, bringing gentle hands up to bracket Sherlock’s face, forcing him to close his eyes against the rising tide of unwelcome emotion, or face John’s gaze head-on. Sherlock was many things, but he wasn’t brave enough for that. “Sherlock,” John said, his voice firmer and tinged with an edge of bemusement. Sherlock tried to jerk his face away, tried to sink back into himself to avoid this humiliating experience altogether, but John just held his face firm. “Sherlock, for fuck’s sake, look at me,” John demanded, and Sherlock felt his breath catch. He winced and cracked his eyes open a fraction.

John was watching him with tender affection, his face open and sweet and Sherlock felt his chest unclench a bit at the sight of it. John wasn’t judging him, nor was he resentful or even mocking. He looked… touched; as though Sherlock had somehow been accidentally brilliant. It was just John, and that was absolutely wonderful.

“I—,” Sherlock started, the words falling from his lips before he could catch them. “John, there’s something ... I should say; I’ve meant to say always and then never have...” He trailed off awkwardly, the words he desperately wanted to say spinning across his tongue and catching just behind his teeth.

A slow, honest smile began spreading across John’s face, dripping down into his chest and radiating out through his skin as though some kind of warm, illuminating force was seeping out of his very pores. John shone brighter than the sun, and how anyone could ever consider him ordinary was entirely beyond Sherlock.

“I love you too, you great, ridiculous idiot,” John huffed and drew him forward into a spine-tingling kiss. “Don’t you ever deliberately put yourself in danger like that again.”

Sherlock jerked back, indignation bristling all along his spine, his professional pride chafing at the idea that John thought him inadequate when it came to the work. “I am perfectly capable of handling myself, John,” Sherlock spat, all of the tender feelings from before snapping back into his hindbrain at the challenge. “If you think I’m going to let you suddenly dictate my life just because I’ve let you fuck me, I believe you’ll find yourself to be highly disappointed.”

“Christ, as if I could,” John laughed, snagging his arm around Sherlock’s neck before he could march away with as much dignity as he muster, naked and still flushed as he was. John tugged a little and Sherlock reluctantly followed his lead, turning back towards John and letting him pull his face down for a gentle kiss.

“You can boss me around all you want out there,” John said, tipping his head towards the open window, “But in here, like this, you belong to me. Is that understood?” Sherlock shivered in spite of himself and nodded, John’s simple words finally giving him the permission to be what he needed. It was uncomplicated perfection, and Sherlock felt something warm and unexpectedly pleasant expanding beneath his ribs.

“Trust me, I have no illusions about what little power I hold over you and your decisions. I have no desire to change you, Sherlock. I love you just as you are.”

Sherlock felt his heart lurch, seeming to stall out momentarily only to skip ahead several beats at a time. He briefly wondered if this is what arrhythmia felt like, but dismissed the idea entirely as John’s fingers slid delicately between his own.

“Now come to bed, love,” John whispered into Sherlock’s throat, trailing soft kisses full of mounting heat and promise up over his Adam’s apple. Sherlock felt himself smile; the warm, genuine, imperfect one that caused his face to crack unevenly.

They picked their way across the kitchen, mindful of the broken glass scattered across the linoleum, John’s infectious grin flashing every time he glanced back over his shoulder. Sherlock felt his stomach clench each time and wondered if this was how he was going to feel for the rest of his life: slightly bemused and wonderfully, achingly grateful to have John’s undivided attention. They fell into Sherlock’s bed, still sweaty and sated, John’s body fitting perfectly around Sherlock’s long torso.

Sherlock was just starting to doze, his exhausted body pulling his blissfully quiet mind into the tides of sleep when John stirred against his chest, fingers brushing across the small dusting of hair there.

“Just promise me you’ll be more careful next time,” John murmured, as though he wasn’t sure if Sherlock was still awake. Sherlock sighed and he felt John tense a little, clearly expecting a harsh rebuttal.

“I promise, John,” Sherlock whispered into his hair, smoothing his fingers up the bumps of John’s spine. He felt John grin against his pectoral and smiled up at the ceiling. Perhaps emotional attachment wouldn’t be as detrimental as he’d originally thought. John pulled him closer and nuzzled his face into Sherlock’s neck, letting out a long, contented sigh. Sherlock felt consciousness fading, lulled into sleep by John’s even breath and the steady, wonderful beat of his heart beneath Sherlock’s palm.

“I promise,” Sherlock whispered again, and closed his eyes.

 

 

 

 

You and me so quietly at a standstill
Fortunately when you kiss me, I will kiss you back
Oh the fact of the matter is that I don’t know what the latter is
You see I’ve always wanted to kiss you but I’ve
Always wanted to run from you
Because I’ve always wanted to miss you and I
I’ve always wanted to come for you

~1000 Things, Jason Mraz