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Birthday Sex

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They ended up staying two extra nights in the posh hotel in Dublin, ostensibly recovering from the harrowing escapade, but John knew what they were really doing. They were letting themselves have this time for just the two of them to be together. He knew that it was a gift, that Sherlock was giving him the gift of his undivided attention for what stretched into two long, lovely days and two even longer nights. They spent most of the time in bed, exploring one another’s bodies, for John, he felt like he had been awakened to a part of himself that had been dormant for so long it was almost as if it hadn’t existed. He’d always known he wasn’t gay, but he wasn’t exactly straight either. Sherlock took the lead, showing him what their bodies could do together, letting John be the one to explore, the one to experiment. The talked a little, about past cases, about Sherlock’s latest research projects, and they talked about their past relationships. Sherlock obviously had sexual experience with men, and John, lying in his lover’s arms, found the courage to ask for more details. There had been a handful of—relationships—Sherlock said the word sourly as if it did not quite fit. Some had gone better than others, but he’d learned from each one that he wasn’t made for the type of give and take that tended to make up a normal, healthy partnership. Until John.

Their last night in Dublin, he cradled John in his lap and spoke throatily into his hair. “From the first you have been my partner. Even I, who have understood little about love, knew what we had between us. But I didn’t expect, couldn’t think—I don’t deserve—“ He couldn’t finish the thought.

“Stop.” John turned to face him. Sherlock’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I’ve always loved you, Sherlock. It just took me a while to work it all out. And we’re still partners. Nothing has changed.”

“But you want—all this?” Sherlock waved a hand around, reminding John that they were naked and sharing a bed.

“I bloody well do,” John said. “There’s no going back from this, and I don’t want to. Do you want—all this?”

They held each other’s gaze, light eyes meeting dark. “Yes. God yes.” And then they kissed.

 

Eventually, Mycroft’s pleas for them to return to London to wrap up the terrorist case and John’s schedule at the surgery compelled them to board a train home. John was vaguely nervous about returning to life at Baker Street as Sherlock’s, well, everything. The interlude in Dublin had seemed magical, set apart. What if Sherlock grew bored with him or he got fed up with noxious experiments? What if Sherlock went out on a case and didn’t come back? His dreams had been peaceful the last few nights, but that didn’t mean he was secure in the knowledge of Sherlock’s safety. Now that he knew how deep their connection ran, he was even more ill prepared to lose the man sitting across the train carriage from him.

Sherlock seemed unconcerned about anything, propriety included, as he turned out to be surprisingly affectionate in public, touching John’s thigh to point something out to him, whispering into his ear, pressing kisses to the side of his neck.

John was alternately surprised and aroused. He couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed. He’d been through too much in his life to be overly concerned about what the world thought of him at this point. So he gave in to Sherlock’s teasing touches and led him laughing to the ridiculously small train bathroom where they spent a few frantic minutes getting each other off.

“There’s something to be said for train travel,” John said, as they settled back into their seats as they neared the city.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, slightly out of breath and with an adorable light pink flush on his cheeks.

“We’ll be home soon,” John said.  The observation was obvious in the extreme, but Sherlock picked up on the underlying anxiety in his words.

“Yes, Baker Street awaits. I’m sure your inbox is full of cases that will need our urgent attention.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s going to be fine, John. We’re going to be fine.”

John was surprised at the certainty with which Sherlock said those words. How could he know?

But he nodded, and fished out his phone when it buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen and let out a gruff laugh.

“What?” Sherlock’s gaze was sharp upon him.

“A text from Harry. Happy birthday little brother. I’d forgotten. It’s my birthday today.”

“Oh that,” Sherlock said dismissively. John glared at him. “I hadn’t.”

“No?”

“No. In fact, I have something to give you. But I can’t give it to you until we get back to the flat.”

John felt absurdly pleased, even though the Sherlock wasn’t known for his gift-giving savvy.

“What is it?” he asked, just to be playful.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Sherlock said. He leaned over and began to whisper. The hum of Sherlock’s melodious baritone filled John’s ear and his words sent a bolt of lust through him.

“I’ve wanted to give this to you for a very long time, pressed against the door to the flat. I’ve imagined it so many times, pushing you against the door, framing you with my body, holding your hands to your sides as I kiss you senseless. Then releasing you so I can free your hot, heavy cock from your trousers, and sliding down the length of your body until I’m on my knees.” John sucked in a harsh breath at that. In all their exploration, they hadn’t done what Sherlock seemed about to describe yet, and he wanted it so badly. Sherlock continued to speak, soft and low and wicked. “I’m on my knees and I can see how hard you are, but I know I can make you harder. I open my mouth and wrap it around the tip of your cock.” John couldn’t help the moan that that particular mental image provoked in him, nor could he prevent the rather noticeable bulge of his rock hard erection. Sherlock gave him no mercy, as he kept up the sensual assault on his brain. “And I start to suck, slowly, taking more and more of your delicious cock in my mouth, until you’re filling my mouth up, and the head of your cock is against my throat and all the wet heat of my mouth is around you. And I move my head, sucking and licking you until you’re fucking my mouth, and I’m taking your cock deeper and deeper as you thrust into me. I want you to fuck my mouth with your cock and when you can’t take it anymore, I want you to come deep in my throat and keep your cock there so I have to swallow every beautiful drop of come.” He paused and John took a shuddering breath.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he breathed.

“Would that make a satisfactory birthday present?” Sherlock asked, his voice a bit more gravely than usual, but back to its normally crisp tone.

“Um, yeah, that’ll do,” John said, adjusting himself as surreptitiously as possible. “When does this blasted train get in anyway?”

Sherlock glanced at his watch and said, “We’ll be arriving at the station in approximately nine minutes. We’ll be home in an hour.”

“An hour. Okay.”

“Think you’ll make it that long?” Sherlock asked with mock concern.

“You bastard. It’ll be your fault if I don’t.”

 

They made it in fifty four minutes, both of them leaping out of the cab, throwing money at the driver and hauling their bags through the front door with record speed. Sherlock fell upon John, feasting on his mouth, until John had to push him away to get a few words out. “What about Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock sniffed the air. “She’s been baking, probably for her latest married suitor. Her light’s out. She’s not here.”

“Brilliant.” They came together again, bags forgotten as they grappled up the stairs, stopping only to shed their outer layers. Sherlock made good on his promise, pressing John against the door to the flat, grinding his taller body against John’s shorter one, so John could feel the other man’s arousal against his own. John’s entire body felt alive, felt in tune with Sherlock’s as he breathed him in, allowed himself to be be manhandled against the door, groaning with anticipation when the first phase of the gift was enacted, Sherlock holding his hands to the side as he kissed him thoroughly, almost ruthlessly, until John felt that he was so hard he might explode if Sherlock didn’t touch him soon.

The detective did as promised, releasing his arms, unbuckling his belt and loosening his trousers enough to pull John’s throbbing cock free. Then he sank to his knees and John watched as Sherlock opened his decadent angel’s mouth and took the tip of John’s erection into it. He moaned at the sheer erotic pleasure of seeing his friend, his partner, his love on his knees and giving him the ultimate gift of sensual bliss.

It was hard to stay upright, so intense were the sensations. Sherlock sucking him, alternately between tender pulls and forceful sucking, using his hands to play with John’s balls, using his fingers to tease the flesh behind them. John was aware of little else but the acute need to come and the fact that Sherlock wasn’t allowing him to, yet. He knew he was making noises, keening noises of need and pleasure, and when the onslaught of sensation started becoming too much, he began to beg. “Sherlock, I need…please,” and Sherlock obliged, increasing pressure, making the inevitable happen gratifyingly quickly, pushing John over the edge, with his cock bucking as he came, feeling the jets streaming into the back of Sherlock’s throat, and the overwhelmingly erotic sensation of Sherlock’s throat convulse as he swallowed around John’s straining cock.

He distantly heard Sherlock’s answering moan as John finally pulled his softening erection free from Sherlock’s suction grip. He felt completely emptied out, in the best way possible, clean and new and amazingly pleasured by his partner in all things. He zipped himself up on autopilot, not really able to speak, as Sherlock got to his feet and pressed another long, openmouthed kiss to John’s lips.

“What about you?” He managed to say.

“Not to worry. My birthday gift to you, remember? Though I’ve wanted to do it for so long, and it was just as incredible as I imagined, you’ve already reciprocated as far as I’m concerned.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we’ve got another round of birthday sex in us later,” John said. “Should we get the bags?”

“Later. I need tea,” Sherlock grunted, as he placed the key in the lock.

Sherlock strode into the flat, but John bumped into him when his partner stopped right in his tracks. “What—?”

“It seems I’m not the only one who remembered your birthday, John,” Sherlock said sardonically, and he stepped aside.

John found himself staring into the slack jawed faces of Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan. Mycroft Holmes stood off the side, a smirk playing around his lips. Mrs. Hudson had a knowing smile on her face, as she held out a cake that was festooned with, “Happy Birthday John,” in script.

“Surprise!”