“Sherlock,” John said afterwards, when they were lying side by side, damp and sated, gazing up at the pressed tin lozenges decorating the ceiling. Well, John was gazing up at the pattern. Sherlock was probably calculating the number of lozenges per square yard and determining which metal smith’s shop had made the ceiling rose. “Why do you call me ‘Doctor’ when you…reach completion?”
“Do I?” Sherlock turned slightly and fixed him with a clear grey eye. “I hadn’t noticed. I call you ‘Doctor’ at other times, as well, dear boy.”
John frowned. Sherlock noticed everything, even in the grip of passion. Why was he being disingenuous? “Yes, but invariably, when you are in extremis, that is what you shout.”
Sherlock frowned. “I take issue with the notion that I ‘shout’, my dear Watson. I may be a little…forceful…at those times, but I like to think I retain some modicum of self control.”
John levered up on one elbow and grinned down at Sherlock who lay there, hands folded on his stomach over the sheet, looking ever so slightly annoyed.
“By all means delude yourself on that subject my friend, but you will not distract me from the matter at hand.”
“Really, John, this is not a case,” protested Sherlock, now looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“Indeed it is, Sherlock, and I am determined to get to the bottom of it, if you’ll pardon the execrable pun.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Just because you like making free with my arse, John–"
John snorted and rolled onto Sherlock, straddling his hips. He grasped Sherlock’s wrists and pinned them to the pillow on either side of his head. “Which you love me doing, so don’t dare deny it. But why call me ‘Doctor’, unless…” Sherlock was flushing, colour flooding his pale cheeks and spreading down the long, slender neck. “Why, my dear boy,” murmured Watson, voice low, as he licked the angle of Sherlock’s jaw and nuzzled at his ear. “I do believe that you are embarrassed. Surely it is nothing to be ashamed of?”
Sherlock looked away, his mouth working uncertainly. “I…you must believe me, this is not why I, not what I wanted when I…”
“Hmmm?” John slid down a little and bit along Sherlock’s shoulder. “Not why you wanted what?”
“Why I…started this. Wanted you…Took you in to lodge with me. It was not merely because you were a–"
“Doctor?” enquired John, “is that it? You are aroused by my status as a medical man?”
“I. Yes,” Sherlock admitted. He looked every which way, not meeting John’s gaze. “I was sickly as a youth and had a very attractive nurse at a vulnerable stage in my development.”
John stilled and leaned forwards, his arms still trapping Sherlock’s. “Would we be lovers, were I not a doctor? Would you have wanted me at all?” His kept his face outwardly calm, but Sherlock would be able to feel how his hands shook minutely where they pinned Sherlock’s wrists.
“John, yes, of course. It is you I want, not some mere fantasy of a doctor. I admit that my…unusual inclinations in this respect do add a frisson to our lovemaking, but it is you I am with, you I want.”
John straightened, staring down at Sherlock. He released his hold on Sherlock’s wrists. Sherlock left his hands curled limp on the pillow beside his head as though offering up his will to John’s in supplication. John frowned. “I suppose it is not so very different from me having certain things that I find arousing. Your marvellous brain and your usual composure – I do enjoy laying them both to waste in the throes of passion. And yes, you do shout.”
Sherlock lowered his voice and his lashes. “It is hard to remain calm when I am being laid waste by a…professional. By an expert in the body.”
John cocked his head, considering. “What do you imagine? When we are together, or at other times?”
“I –" Sherlock’s voice broke and he closed his eyes briefly, then gazed up at John again. “I…sometimes I imagine you…cleansing me.” His ears went pink.
“An enema?” John said thoughtfully. “Yes, we could do that. Not now, but another time when we have not already depleted ourselves.” He raised up slightly, grinning, and peered down between his legs. “Although, I detect a certain response to this conversation. Pray, do continue. What else have you envisaged?”
Sherlock bit his lip. “At times I imagine that I am consulting you for an examination.”
“Ah. And this would include a rectal examination?”
Sherlock flushed again. “Yes. In my fantasy you are cool and professional and I am quite desperate not to embarrass myself, but in the end I cannot help myself.”
John slid back a little more and drew down the sheet. He pressed Sherlock’s legs up and out, splaying him open. “Just relax, Mr Holmes, and this will go more easily. I must examine you now, internally.” He slid a finger into Holmes’ arse, still slick and open from their prior bout. John curled his finger and rotated it, stroking the surface of Sherlock’s prostate as though checking it for irregularities. Sherlock gasped and his hips jerked. “Hmmm. Please relax Mr Holmes. I must make a thorough examination internally to determine the source of your tension.” Sherlock’s cock curved up above his belly, rigid and trembling. John continued to massage his prostate, adding a second finger, then a third. “Very good, Mr Holmes, I think we’re getting to the source of the tension now, is that feeling any better?”
Sherlock made an incoherent noise, thighs quivering helplessly. His neck was arched back, the pale curve of his throat making John want to bite him, but that fell somewhat beyond the bounds of normal medical behaviour. Well, so did finger-fucking a patient, naked and gasping in his own bed of course, but the scene had certain rules. They could work up to biting.
“Mr Holmes?” asked John, deliberately forcing Sherlock to acknowledge him. “There is a new technique we could try, which is popular on the continent. I gather it is particularly effective in reducing tension but I will need permission to touch your member.”
“Unnh!” managed Sherlock. “Gnngh!”
“What was that, Mr Holmes?” John twisted his fingers inside Sherlock. “Do speak up.”
“I…please Doctor, please, yes, I…please…” Sherlock faded off once more into choked moans. He panted, arms flung wide, his hands fisting the sheets as he bucked on John’s fingers. John bent and took Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. He felt Sherlock’s balls draw up, felt his cock thicken and had barely time for one strong suck before Sherlock was coming hard, shouting out “Doctor!” as he did.
John knee-walked up his body, pulling Sherlock up and propping him on the pillows. He straddled Sherlock’s shoulders and stroked his cheek, opening his mouth and feeding him his cock. Sherlock sucked avidly, hands coming up to cradle John’s arse and urge him deeper. John stared down, glazed, at his cock sliding in and out of the Great Detective’s mouth. Sherlock looked utterly debauched. His hair was wet and spiky with sweat, his cheeks hectic with colour, mouth red and swollen, stretched wide around John’s cock, cheeks hollowed. His eyes were closed and he was moaning. I did that, thought John, and came.
“I foresee a need for further consultations,” said John, much later when he could breathe again. They were back side by side, lying limp and exhausted in the ruins of the bed. “I very much doubt that we have reached the source of your tension in just one examination.”
Sherlock rolled a sardonic eye at him. “No, indeed, Doctor. Luckily it is a chronic problem and likely to prove most resistant to even the most expert ministrations.”
“Excellent,” said John. “I do enjoy a challenge.”
- the end