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John's missing Wednesday

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Sherlock was perched on the edge of his chair, one foot tapping restlessly. He checked his watch again, confirming what he already knew: Forty minutes since he’d given John the dosed biscuits. A little less than thirty minutes since the good doctor had disappeared up the stairs muttering something about needing to call Mary.

Sherlock knew his calculations couldn’t have been that wrong. Given the properties of the compound, John should have —

He froze at the sound of footsteps descending the staircase from John’s bedroom.

“Finally,” he muttered. He slid back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. He leaned slightly to one side, resting his head against his hand in an effort to look nonchalant. The effort failed spectacularly when his former flatmate finally came into view.

“Oh my god…”

The words escaped Sherlock’s lips before he could call them back. Every nerve ending in his body was tingling as John stepped through the door to the sitting room. In desert camouflage.

He’d almost forgotten about them.

John had left a handful of boxes behind when he’d moved out of 221B and simply hadn’t ever bothered to come and fetch them. Sherlock had done a little snooping upon his return to learn what of Dr. Watson’s old life was not needed urgently as he embarked upon the new. Apparently the remains of this particular old uniform didn’t make the first cut for the suburbs.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry as he surveyed the sand-coloured t-shirt and camo trousers, both of which hugged John’s body — now posed just inside the door at parade rest — in a most flattering manner. The t-shirt was a bit snug across the shoulders; John was not a large man, but he was still quite fit. His arms and shoulders were really quite remarkable for a man of his age and newly domesticated lifestyle. Clearly he had been maintaining his exercise regime in Sherlock’s absence.

The trousers were snug on John’s hips and Sherlock could not help but wonder how well they conformed to the curve of his firm buttocks. Sherlock allowed his gaze to drift down to the heavy boots he had fantasized about when…well, when. And that beret…

“Corporal!” John snapped.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He’d expected diminished lucidity along with suggestibility and disorientation, but he hadn’t expected fully formed delusions.

“Sir?” Sherlock tried.

“What are you doing out and about at this time of night?”

Sherlock glanced around the room at the sunshine, considering. “Sir?”

“Get to your rack. Now.”

Sherlock stared into the slightly glazed eyes, biting his lip. There were several ways the situation could progress, of course, but only one that would provide him with the needed data. He opted, as he usually did, for the least prudent course of action.

“Get stuffed. Sir.”

The muscle in John’s jaw twitched and his mouth tightened into a sharp line.

Sherlock slid back into the chair, listening as John filled his lungs with air in preparation for …


Sherlock jumped, his heart racing and certain other parts of his anatomy likewise stimulated. Damn.

Sherlock ran his tongue over his lips as John approached, looking decidedly dangerous. John did not stop moving until they were toe to toe. He focussed his drug-addled squint up into Sherlock’s face.

“What. Did. You. Say?”

“I s-said,” Sherlock stammered, attempting to contain the slight frisson of anticipation at the exchange. “Get. Stuffed.”

He’d dropped his voice to his lowest register and put on the snottiest tone he could manage.

John began to huff as he drew himself up to his full height. “Right. That’s it.”

“That’s what?” Sherlock taunted. “Night in the brig? Long march tomorrow? You don’t scare me.”

John pressed one finger into the centre of Sherlock’s chest. His voice was deep, rough and painfully restrained.

“You want to be very careful, corporal,” John growled. “I am not a man to be trifled with.”

Sherlock could feel his blood inconveniently abandoning his brain for regions of his body he had always paid considerably less attention to. John…John pulling rank…

“Oh, I think you are,” Sherlock replied, realizing even as the words were spoken that they sounded far more flirtatious than he had intended. He pulled back a little, clearing his throat and stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets.

He had not yet put on his suit jacket for the day, but he was otherwise dressed for the visit he had intended to pay to the Yard. Of course, that was before John had turned up, looking very fetching in jeans and the shirt with the blue check that had always reminded Sherlock of his eyes. John was free from the surgery (and from relationship/wedding…things) for the day and looking to be helpful.

Which he was.

John had happily wolfed down four of the biscuits Sherlock had just dosed. They were filled with the drug cocktail that almost certainly had resulted in Lestrade’s current homicide case, from two nights previous. The signatures in their only suspect’s blood had been a bit muddled (and the pathologist had been inclined to ignore them given the man’s history of dabbling in performance-enhancing drugs) but it seemed the most likely option: Aggressive and then uncharacteristically violent behaviour (witnessed by a host of his fellow body building enthusiasts at the gym only minutes before the crime) coupled with complete amnesia of the night’s events. Still, Sherlock needed to be able to prove that the man had been deliberately dosed with a combination of steroids and methamphetamines, laced with a hallucinogen.

He hadn’t set out to make John his guinea pig. He rarely did. Mostly, it just sort of happened.

Sherlock tried to ignore his increased heart rate as he watched John’s body, taut with rage, and flexing fists. “You’re a little dog with a big bark,” he sneered. “You’re not even a real soldier! You’re just a glorified medi —”

The breath was slammed from Sherlock’s body as John pitched into him and attempted to drag him to the carpet. Sherlock had calculated for this option and hadn’t actually intended to fight back, but his training was instinctive now. He blocked the first hit and twisted to prevent John from getting hold of his arm.

John grunted in frustration and reframed his attack. Sherlock stumbled as John went for his feet, but managed to stay up. They slid into his chair, shoving it back until it came to rest up against the fireplace. With another shift and a dodged right cross, John’s chair was tipped backwards as they rolled over it, each grasping the other’s clothing close to the throat.

The lamp was sent flying and a cup that had been left lying about shattered up against the wall.

Sherlock did not attack John, but rather focused on resisting. He feinted and ducked and released himself from every hold, making every effort to frustrate his opponent. And it was working.

It took mere seconds for John to abandon a professional effort at a take down in favour of fighting techniques that were considerably dirtier. But that was not unexpected.

What was unexpected was the unmatched exhilaration Sherlock felt with John’s body wrapped around or shoved up against his own. The deep, gnawing hunger that was growing in his belly at John’s panted breath on his face; John’s sweat dripping onto his skin. The urge to clasp John to him and press his mouth to the side of John’s neck was almost overwhelming.

Sherlock gasped as he landed on the floor on his bottom, shocked out of his very distracting reverie by the blow to his cheekbone. He stared up in shock — not that John had punched him in the face (John had done it before), but that he’d been caught unawares due to his own inability to ignore his traitorous body’s response to the very charged situation.

John hovered over him, fists still clenched. He was grinning, a little trickle of blood coming from the side of his lip where Sherlock had managed to clip him.

“You done yet?”

Sherlock considered this, and the man before him, brushing the blood from his cheek.

Where was the unchecked violence?

If his theory and the combination of drugs were correct, John should be trying to kill him by now. Not standing over him with that unbelievably attractive smile, chest heaving…

He tore his eyes from his subject (and the current means of his addled reasoning) and sighed with disappointment. Clearly he’d missed something. Or chosen the wrong combination of drugs. Or underestimated the amount of testosterone in the cocktail — that would account for John’s ability to restrain himself. He’d assumed the suspect’s previous drug use would have impacted the drug’s effects, but he had thought…well, it made no difference now.

It galled him to think he might have to postpone his planned gloating text to Lestrade, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d have to try again, preferably on someone else. For now, he’d have to figure out how to bring John down before sending him home.

Sherlock started to push himself to his feet, considering the words he would use to bring John out of this state, particularly given his own compromised thinking. Captain Watson was the only sexual fantasy he had ever allowed himself to entertain. Now, it was all he had left of…well, it was something his body seemed to want. At least in lieu of John back at home on Baker Street.

Still, if his aborted experiment would not produce useful results, he would have to put an end to it. No matter how appealing he found it personally.

Unfortunately, as so often happened, there was a variable he had not accounted for.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you enjoyed this,” John continued, sounding more than a little intrigued.

Sherlock froze where he was, unbalanced on his knees. Oh. God.

He looked up at John, unable to conceal the raw need that spiralled out of control at the implication of the words. John still looked drug-addled; it was unlikely he would be able to make rational judgments, but — Sherlock couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of John taking him, taking control of him, holding him down.

Ordering him to come.

“God, just look at you. On your knees with that pretty, impertinent mouth hanging open — exactly as though you expect me to put something in it.”

Sherlock released a ragged breath, attempting to lick his lips.

“You know, it doesn’t have to be this way,” John said, his voice still arousingly gruff. “I told you to get to your rack, but I didn’t say you had to go there alone.”

The noise Sherlock made could probably be called a whimper, if it could be called anything at all. The last barrier separating him from the tsunami of his “transport” crumbled instantly.

He wasn’t sure how he got to his feet, but he managed an enthusiastic nod (he didn’t trust himself to speak). The next thing he knew, John’s shoulder was hitting him in the gut as the captain bent double before him and slung him handily over one shoulder.

“Oh, god, oh, god. Please...” Sherlock groaned, flopping helplessly against John’s back as they made their way to Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Save it,” John grunted. “Begging comes later.”

They stepped inside the clean but somewhat untidy room and John paused.

He tsked and surprised Sherlock with one hard smack on his upended arse. “Hardly inspection-ready, is it?”

“Well, no, but…”

Sherlock yelped at another hard application of John’s palm to his wool-covered bottom.

“No, what?”

“No…s-sir,” Sherlock stammered, now feeling decidedly shaky.

This was uncertain territory; a place he had never been with John or anyone else. Oh, he’d given in to desire and masturbated when necessary — when he’d been unable to derail his subconscious need for the fantasy of giving in to his body’s baser nature and someone else’s command. But now?

Now he was pliant with desire. The need to see and taste and touch all of John’s body made his throat ache and his fingers curl in anticipation. God, how he wanted him. His John. HIS John. His captain.

“More like it,” John said brusquely.

John didn’t bother with the bedroom door. He stopped beside the bed and let Sherlock slide to his feet. Sherlock landed awkwardly and shifted to right himself.

John sat on the edge of the bed; booted feet still planted on the floorboards, and leaned back onto his elbows. “Go on, then.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“Show me what’s hiding under that uniform.”

The mention of the “uniform” pricked Sherlock’s perhaps underutilized conscience. When he didn’t move to obey the order immediately, John started to sit up.

“Did I stutter?”

Shaking fingers were applied to straining shirt buttons. Sherlock refused to meet John’s eyes, afraid he might blush at the scrutiny.

“Slow down,” John instructed. “I want to enjoy every minute of this.”

Sherlock did as he was told, slipping each disk through fabric and then tugging the sides of the shirt a little further apart. Inch by inch, his skin was bared. He thumbed the edges of the fine fabric and then slid his hands down to tug the shirt free of his trousers. Sherlock pulled the fabric wide — it was nothing John hadn’t actually seen before, but not like this. Never like this.

Sherlock took a deep breath and ran his fingertips back up over the definition of his abdominal muscles. They were lean and firm and surprisingly pleasant to the touch. He felt a bit weak-kneed as he wondered what John’s chest would feel like.

He visualized — all of it, right down to the scar — as he brushed through the light dusting of his own dark chest hair. Finally, he rubbed both thumbs over the tightening buds of his nipples. He risked looking up at John through his lashes and was rewarded with a view of John slack-jawed and palming his cock through his trousers.

Sherlock undid the button at each cuff and slowly, deliberately, eased his shirt down over his arms.

There was a hum of approval from the bed.

“Go on,” John growled.

Sherlock toed off his shoes and set them aside, followed by his socks. Next, he reached for the closure on his bespoke trousers. When he’d dispensed with the fastenings, he eased the fabric down over his hips.

He’d not bothered with pants that morning. More accurately, he’d forgotten to take his things to the full-service laundrette on Monday. And Mrs. Hudson hadn’t returned from her sister’s.

John cleared his throat. “Do you always go commando or did you forget to do the washing?”

Sherlock shrugged. Laundry had always been John’s department.

“Well, we may have to add failing to keep your kit to your list of indiscre — ”

John stopped abruptly on a gasp as Sherlock, now completely divested of his clothes, presented his back. He’d turned to drape his trousers over the chair behind the door. It was a calculated move — he’d caught John staring once or twice before, so was quite certain his bottom would be a distraction.

Footsteps approached rapidly from behind and suddenly Sherlock found himself being crowded face first into the wall.

“Fuck — just…fuck!” John’s hand closed over Sherlock’s arse, squeezing and kneading the firm flesh. “Look at you! My god!”

“Do I meet with your approval…sir?” Sherlock said, his voice teasing.

John mouthed over Sherlock’s shoulder blade, grinding into the side of Sherlock’s upper thigh as he continued fondling Sherlock’s bum. “Don’t think for one minute that this lets you off the hook,” he rasped.

Sherlock was far too invested in the feeling of John’s hands on his skin to care. He moaned and pressed his own burgeoning erection into the wall.

“No,” John said hoarsely. “No. Discipline first.” He withdrew and backed away, leaving enough space for Sherlock to turn once more. “Come here.”

Sherlock shivered a little, but immediately complied. He swallowed hard as he tried to work out what John’s punishment might entail.

John took two steps back and reached for his belt buckle.

“So,” John started. “Insubordination. Wandering about after lights out. Quarters in disarray. Failure to keep your kit.” John shook his head as he loosed the leather belt from its loops and slid it free. “You’ve been a very bad boy, haven’t you corporal?”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock watched the belt as he approached. This particular development was unforeseen and yet…not entirely unwelcome.

“But how do I punish you, hmm?” John waited until Sherlock had stopped immediately in front of him, right beside the bed. He let the end of the belt drag on the floor beside him. “I don’t think very much frightens you, does it?”

Sherlock continued to stare at the potential instrument of correction clasped in John’s hand. Almost immediately, he began to imagine the sound the leather would make against his bare flesh. He could visualize the marks; how the red welts would look on his pale skin. His cock twitched and a few beads of pre-come appeared at the tip.

“I knew it,” John breathed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded.

John sighed — a rich, satisfied noise. “Well, then. I guess we’d better get started. Open your eyes.”

Sherlock gazed at his friend, his John, for the first time allowing his deep and abiding affection and desire for the man to be reflected in his expression without restraint. It was probable John wouldn’t remember all (or, hopefully, any) of it. In all likelihood, John would return to Mary, blissfully unaware that Sherlock had been harbouring inappropriate fantasies about him since the day they met. Not remembering a moment of this day to be troubled by his infidelity, or his departure from the strictly heterosexual.

It was more than a bit not good. Of course it was. But Sherlock had never claimed to be a good man.

“I think you’re a bit of a fraud,” John said almost gently.


“I think,” John started. “That this turns you on almost more than you can bear.” He stroked a thumb over one cheekbone. “But I don’t think you’ve ever done anything about it.” John considered this. “Anything at all? I don’t suppose — have you never…?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. He wanted to answer, to deny, to scoff at the very notion that Sherlock Holmes was as virginal as had been suggested. He couldn’t find the words. He closed his eyes again, deliciously mortified.

“Well,” John said, his voice suddenly very quiet. “Well, that’s okay. You’re going to be my first, too. Not my first…you know — not exactly. But this is the first time I’ve…” John let this trail off, glancing down at the belt in his hand.

Sherlock allowed this to rattle inside his mind. He’d never been bothered by John’s denials about being gay. He’d always assumed that John fell somewhere else along the sexuality spectrum — he was certain there had been at least one same-sex encounter during John’s army years. Clearly, though, John had been keeping more than one secret.

“God, you are gorgeous.”

Sherlock’s mouth watered at the praise, ridiculous thought it might be.

“You need a word; something to tell me if you need to stop.”

Sherlock shook his head. He wouldn’t stop this now. Not for anything.

“Yes,” John repeated, flicking the tip of the leather belt against the floor.

“Redbeard,” Sherlock said swiftly, eyeing the belt once more.

John nodded. “On your belly, bent over the edge of the bed.”

Sherlock moved swiftly, heart pounding. He settled his abdomen on the duvet, ensuring that his own aching cock could achieve some friction against the mattress if he needed it. There was a moment of silence, and then he heard John rifling through his bureau. He dared not look.

At length, the bed creaked as John leaned in behind him. Sherlock bit his lip as John’s crotch connected with his bared arse. John pressed into the contact with a slight roll of his hips then grabbed both of Sherlock’s arms and bent them behind his back. Holding them together, he bound them with the last set of handcuffs Sherlock had boosted from Lestrade.

“I was thinking I might find a tie. Or some braces,” John said into his ear. “Do I want to know why you keep handcuffs with your socks?”

Sherlock shook his head.

John snorted. “Contraband. I could add another stroke — ”

“No!” Sherlock cried.

Warm hands dragged over Sherlock’s buttocks once more. “Shhhhh. I’ll be fair, I promise. But you need to be taught a lesson, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip.

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gasped as probing fingers slipped between his arse cheeks. John explored, teasing over but not quite touching Sherlock’s entrance.

“Good answer.”

John’s fingers withdrew and Sherlock jolted at the snap of leather against itself (John must have folded the belt in half). He whimpered at the cool touch as John allowed it to slide over the small of his back, gently tracing the crest of his bum.

“Shhhh,” John admonished. “Don’t want to wake anyone.”

The first stroke came as a surprise. Sherlock arched off the bed as the leather slapped against his bare bottom. It was not as hard as John could strike him, he knew, but neither was it merely for show. There would be marks. Marks that John made.

John’s marks.

“Good boy,” John soothed, caressing the abused flesh with his fingers. “You can be such a good boy for me, I know it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock rasped. “I can. I can. So good. So goo — AH!”

The second blow was slightly firmer. The sting made him grit his teeth and brought dampness to his eyes.

“Quiet, now,” John said quietly, repeating the tender touch as with the first strike.

Sherlock moaned into the bed, eyes closed and body entirely focused on the pain in his arse…and the pleasure building in his groin. It was exquisite. If he’d known, if he’d had any idea — well, he’d have been a little less dismissive of Miss Adler’s clientele, for a start.

He bit back a gasp as the third blow fell. He ground his hips into the bed, desperate for some attention to his aching cock.

“Was that nice?” John asked, teasing. “Good. I want you to enjoy this — I don’t mind — but don’t you dare come. Not until I tell you. Is that understood, corporal?”

Sherlock nodded, grunting as the fourth blow fell. And then the fifth.

He lost count; he wasn’t really trying to keep track. The sensations from each sharp sting fed the fire of lust currently threatening to send his conscious mind offline.

He came back to himself at the sound and feel of John littering his back and bottom with kisses, whispering praises into the skin. John unlocked the cuffs and massaged Sherlock's wrists a little.

“You are so beautiful,” John groaned. “So gorgeous. So good. God, I want to fuck you. I need to.”

“Wait!” Sherlock looked up over his shoulder.


“Please,” Sherlock gasped. “Please. I want to taste you first.” His cheeks were wet. He’d drooled a little. He knew how he must look, how he must sound. Clearly John approved.

“God, yes!”

John reached down to help Sherlock up from the bed. They stood face to face for a moment, and John reached up to wipe the tears from one of Sherlock’s cheeks. He cupped Sherlock’s jaw, rubbing with his thumb, and shook his head in wonder.

“You are extraordinary. I have never — ”

Sherlock did not allow that train of thought to proceed. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to hear such words from drugged John. Fantasy John. John who would not remember.

He dipped his head and covered John’s mouth with his own. He parted his lips, greedily asking for the plundering invasion of John’s tongue. John moaned into his mouth, wrapping himself around Sherlock’s naked body. They sucked and drew on each other — meeting, parting and meeting again — with a hunger as though they both had been long starved.

Shaking, Sherlock kissed a trail from John’s mouth over the plane of one craggy cheek and into the greying hairline. “Please,” he whispered.

John hummed into Sherlock’s neck, nibbling at the tender skin. He kissed Sherlock softly once more before pulling back. He took two steps away and returned to parade rest. He looked Sherlock in the eye and gave one firm nod.

It took all of Sherlock’s strength not simply to collapse on the floor. He managed to keep his equilibrium, just, as he sank to his knees and crawled toward his captain.

John watched him approach, but did not move. Finally, Sherlock settled at John’s feet, with his face only centimetres from John’s crotch. Sherlock took a deep breath, fighting the urge to bury his nose there and nuzzle the stale-smelling fabric of John’s old uniform. He looked up and found John watching him, eyes dark.

John moved one hand from behind his back to comb fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He tousled and stroked the curls, winding them around his hand and then releasing them to start again. Sherlock instinctively leaned into the caress, eyes closing with the delicious sensation of John’s hand against his scalp. Just as he was beginning to drift, the fingers tightened painfully. John held fast to a fistful of dark waves and tugged sharply, tilting Sherlock’s head back.

Sherlock watched him without fear, eyes watering once more at the bite of John’s hand in his hair. “Please,” he whispered.

John eased his hold on Sherlock’s curls and allowed him to shift forward.

“Get it out.”

Sherlock sagged with relief that John was not going to make him wait. He lifted fumbling fingers to the buttons and zip of the uniform trousers, hurriedly undoing them. He struggled with John’s snug white briefs for a moment, finally pulling the clothing down enough to free John’s cock.

He sat back on his heels for a moment, fingertips making an appreciative inventory. John’s prick was very thick, with a slight upturn at the end, and lengthening rapidly as Sherlock tentatively stroked him. The foreskin was surprisingly soft and when slid back revealed the deep red crown already glistening with pre-come.

“Hands behind your back,” John rasped.

Sherlock did not hesitate to comply, too far gone to consider the consequences.

John rubbed his thumb appreciatively over Sherlock’s plump bottom lip. “Your mouth — jesus.”

Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed once more.

“Do you want to suck my cock?”

Sherlock nodded helplessly, lips parting in anticipation. He felt the smooth, blunt tip of John’s member bump damply against his face.

“Say it,” John prompted, rubbing pre-come over Sherlock’s mouth and chin.

“Yes…yes, sir!”

“Very good, corporal,” John sighed. “Show me what an eager little cocksucker you are.”

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose as John pushed himself in, stretching Sherlock’s lips wide. John was neither gentle nor slow, not waiting for Sherlock to adjust before sliding his cock right to the back of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock struggled to suppress his gag reflex as John reached his throat. He sucked air in through his nose again and tried to relax. He swallowed reflexively, which earned a moan from the man above him.

“Good lad. Oh, fuck, yeah. Like that.”

The tight fingers had returned to Sherlock’s hair, holding him in place as John withdrew and slid home. Sherlock was salivating around the fat prick as it skimmed over his tongue. He suckled as best he could, but it did not take long for John to take control completely.

“Gonna fuck your smart mouth,” John grunted, hips snapping forward.

Sherlock choked, and started to release his hands to reach for John’s thighs.

“Don’t,” John warned, retreating enough so Sherlock could breath around the considerable girth in his mouth. John gave Sherlock a moment, briefly resting with his cock against the inside of Sherlock’s cheek.

John sighed, “You feel so good. Knew you would.”

He pushed forward once more. Sherlock took the opportunity to work his tongue over John’s hard, velvety length. John’s hips stuttered.

“Oh, god!” John withdrew and thrust in once more; Sherlock relished the slick, juicy noise created by the movement. John quickly eased himself into an easy rhythm, both of them enjoying the languid pace and moist friction.

Sherlock sat perfectly still and allowed John to use his mouth. John’s pattern was generous: thrusting several times to delve as deeply as possible and then pulling back, just long enough for Sherlock to get his breath, before beginning again. Sherlock wallowed in the heat that coursed through him at being so helpless — held in place by John’s fingers tight in his hair — and yet having so much power. John’s breathing was ragged, his fingers clenching and releasing in Sherlock’s hair.

John moaned, long and loud. “Christ, I am too…gonna come if I keep…”

Nearly dizzy with want, Sherlock made a sound of disappointment as John finally withdrew. He looked up at John, mouth still open, silently pleading to be allowed more. The lovely tang and salt on his tongue, the musky smell of John in his nostrils.

John gazed down at him and stroked his hair. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said softly.

Sherlock nodded weakly, waiting for John to help him up. On his feet once more, Sherlock leaned in hopefully. John obliged with a chuckle. He kissed Sherlock roughly, one hand behind his head to draw him down while the other tweaked sharply at Sherlock’s nipples.

“OW!” Sherlock yelped.

John raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No! Please. I’m sorry. Sir.” The words tumbled loose as Sherlock edged closer to John in supplication. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Shhhh,” John soothed. “S’okay.” He kissed Sherlock’s open mouth. “Do you know how I want you?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly and turned to drape himself back over the edge of the bed. He spread his thighs, inviting John to stand between them, and rutted against the mattress.

He was surprised by the sensation of John sliding hands down his thighs and dropping slowly to his knees. Sherlock groaned in expectation. He had never, but he’d heard about it, of course.

John rained kisses over the reddened surface of Sherlock’s abused bottom. He licked and sucked at the firm mounds. “So beautiful. All mine. Marked for me. My good boy.” He rambled as he pushed at Sherlock’s arse cheeks.

Sherlock started at the feel of John’s breath against the very warmest part of him.

“Easy, corporal. I’m just going to take a little taste…”

Sherlock howled as John’s hot mouth descended, tongue flicking relentlessly over Sherlock’s twitching hole and eager lips sucking at the puckered flesh.

“OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!” He clung to the bed, desperate now to avoid blowing his load before John had given him leave. He pushed his throbbing prick into the bed hard, holding there in frustrated desire as John plundered his crack.

Warm saliva dripped from between his cheeks and down over the tops of his thighs.

“Captain, oh my captain!”

John gave a huff of approval as the tip of his tongue breached the tight ring of Sherlock’s anus.

Sherlock began to unravel. He was moaning and muttering nonsense, rational mind hopelessly debilitated by John’s talented mouth. At length, he felt cool air on his slippery wet hole as John pulled away.

“Lube,” John growled, sounding as desperate as Sherlock felt.

“Nightstand,” Sherlock croaked. He had no energy nor thought to explain why he kept it. Masturbation must be self-evident.

There was a shuffling and the sound of a drawer opening. Sherlock was vibrating with need. His hole was still damp with John’s spit and feeling ever so slightly opened from John’s tongue, but he ached for more. He’d only ever imagined it, and now…

He gasped and tried to stay still as two fingers pushed into his tight passage. He moaned a little at the burn, but began to melt at the thought of what was next.

John’s fingering was efficient, preparing Sherlock carefully but without delay. Two fingers rapidly became three, giving Sherlock little time to prepare himself. He grunted but settled quickly as John made a point of stroking over his prostate.

Sherlock whined and arched his hips toward the lovely sensation.

“There’s my good boy,” John praised. “You like that don’t you. Can you take more?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, writhing now. “Yes…sir…please…oh god, please!”

John’s fingers withdrew and rough twill rubbed up against Sherlock’s bare legs. Booted feet nudged his bare ones out to spread his legs even further and lower his stance. Missing fingers were replaced with the tip of John’s cock. The blunt head rubbed over Sherlock’s quivering hole before pressing in.

It stung, even with preparation. Sherlock was sweating profusely, struggling to keep from crying out. He concentrated on the other sensations: the sound of slick flesh, the smell of John’s after shave, the heat of John’s clothed body against his own, the scrape of sturdy fabric over bare skin.

“Christ, you’re tight. Easy. Nice and slow. That’s it. Can you feel me filling you up?” John continued the comforting patter as he began to rock back and forth where he was.

“Please!” Sherlock tried to push back, intending to impale himself on John’s prick, to end the slow torture and just have John completely inside him.

John held his hips firmly. “Ah, ah, ah. None of that.”

“Oh, god — please!” Sherlock begged. “More. I n-need more.”

John made a pained noise. “It will burn…”

“Sir…” Sherlock was shaking and buried his face in the bed. The depth of his desire — his body’s wanton weakness — was humiliating, but it was his John. Too much would never be enough.

“You…oh, god…I want to…”

Even in his drug-addled state, John warred with his better nature. After a brief hesitation, Sherlock felt warm lips against the back of his neck and knew John was about to give in.

“Fuck — just try and relax,” he growled into Sherlock’s ear.

With one merciless snap of his hips, John drove himself balls deep. Sherlock screamed, or he thought maybe he had. It was too much: too painful, too full, and too hard.

It was glorious.

He didn’t realize he was sobbing until he felt John smoothing gentle hands up and over his back.

“It’s all done now,” John said gently. “All done. I’m right inside you now. Shhhh…we’ll go slow. Easy…”

John spoke evenly, as though to a skittish horse. Sherlock began to settle again, marvelling as his body adjusted to the stretch. He rolled his hips experimentally, delighting in the rub of John’s pubic hair over his bottom, and was rewarded with a groan from John.

“Oh, christ, yeah. Oh, yeah. Just like that…”

Sherlock rolled his hips again, enjoying the subsequent drag of bedclothes over his own erection. John withdrew slightly and slid back in, effortlessly recreating the rhythm he had set in Sherlock’s mouth. He melted into Sherlock’s back with his hands on Sherlock’s narrow hips as he slid out and back, over and over. With every stroke, he pushed a little deeper, a little harder.

“Fuck…you are…so…beautiful,” John grunted, punctuating the movement of his hips.

Shaking with effort of restraining his own orgasm, close as it was, Sherlock cried out as John’s cock stimulated his prostate once more. He released his iron grip on the duvet and scrabbled for John’s hand.

John obliged, allowing Sherlock to lace their fingers together as he drove into Sherlock’s body.

“Need to…” Sherlock gasped. “Need to come…sir…”

John tugged up on Sherlock’s hips and slipped one strong hand underneath him, quickly finding Sherlock’s aching prick. John began to stroke in time with his own thrusts, nuzzling at the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Yeah, oh fuck, that’s it — jesus!”

Sherlock felt the climax uncoiling in the depths of his belly, heat beginning to trace his body down every synapse. He turned his head and was surprised to find John’s face right there.

“Perfect,” John whispered, struggling to capture Sherlock’s lips. “Perfect. So perfect…Sherlock!”

Sherlock came, breathing halted and eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming data flooding his brain. John said his name.

John said his name.

He moaned, feeling John’s release spilling inside him while John’s hand continued to pulse over his cock.

“Oh, jesus!” John ground his hips into Sherlock’s arse, the arm that was bearing his weight now shaking. He eased down, allowing his full weight to press Sherlock into the bed as they both trembled through the aftershocks.

It was some time, Sherlock supposed, before he returned to his senses.

His bottom, still wedged into John’s groin, was stinging from his “discipline.” He also felt the beginnings of a dull ache within — no doubt from his first time being thoroughly rogered. The bed was wet and sticky beneath him and John had become unaccountably heavy against his back.

He shifted one shoulder blade. “Captain?”

There was no response. John was completely still.

“John?” Sherlock tried. He shifted one elbow back to nudge John in the ribs. “Sir?”

There was a long, deep-throated groan and suddenly the dead weight was removed. John rolled to the side, cock releasing from Sherlock’s tight sheath with a sticky “pop,” and flopped onto Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, ensuring that his breathing was even and that there were no other adverse signs as a result of the drug. He waited — to see if John would rouse and shout about the experiment and the shag and the…other thing.

He waited.

And waited.

Sherlock rolled to his back and sat up, wincing a little at his tender bottom. He stood and padded to the bathroom, retrieving a dampened and slightly soapy flannel. He washed John tenderly, trying desperately to avoid dwelling on the smooth flesh of John’s belly where the t-shirt had ridden up, or the springy hair on John’s thighs. Or the feeling of John’s semen leaking from between his own arse cheeks.

Some ten minutes later, Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed in his dressing gown regarding his still-catatonic lover. He had brought John’s clothing down from the spare room and redressed John in it. He put the uniform in with his washing — he would return it to John’s things upstairs once it was clean.

Finally, with a deep sigh of resignation, Sherlock lifted his phone and dialled.

“Mycroft? I require a favour. And your discretion.”


John sat by the hospital bed, hands laced together. He’d been awake nearly 24 hours. He couldn’t sleep if he wanted to.

Out of habit, he glanced back at the machines beeping out the cadence of Sherlock Holmes’ life — the life that had very nearly been…

John shook his head. He could not dwell on it. Could not allow himself to think about how close he had come to losing Sherlock all over again. Losing Sherlock forever. For real.

His chest tightened at the memory of the ambulance trip. He’d cried out to Sherlock more than once, hoping to god the man could still hear him. That he would recognize John’s plea to fight his way back.

John rubbed at his sternum as if to chase the pain away.

He looked over at Sherlock sleeping in the bed beside him. He glanced up at the door, ensuring that they were still alone, and then tentatively placed his hand over Sherlock’s fingers. He squeezed gently.

“Look, Sherlock,” he started. “Look, you need to wake up now. I need you to show them that you are going to be okay. You need to show them that you were not gone too long — ” John’s voice broke.

He dropped his chin and sucked in a ragged breath.

“You need to come back to me. Please. You can’t do this to me twice,” John whispered. “Come on. I know you’re in there. I know you’re itching to go after whoever did this to you. Wake up, now.”

John looked into his best friend’s pale face, waiting for some sort of reaction. A twitch. A fluttering eyelash.

“I…I should tell you something. I wasn’t sure what to make of it — still not sure, to be honest — but I am pretty certain now that I didn’t imagine it.” John cleared his throat. “When Mary went to Manchester on that course, before the wedding, I remember coming over to 221B to see if you needed me for anything. And then…well, it was the strangest thing. That was Wednesday morning, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in my own bed and it was Thursday.” John sighed. “There were a fair few empty cans in the lounge, so I just assumed…”

The morphine pump hummed gently and John stroked the digits in his hand almost absent-mindedly.

“I figured I must have been pretty pissed, because I couldn’t for the life of me remember what we’d got up to on Wednesday. I was too embarrassed to ask you. And then we had the stag night…”

John took a deep breath.

“That night I had what I thought was a bizarre, alcohol-fuelled dream. I was in my uniform and we…” John took another deep breath. “But it wasn’t a dream, was it? When you mentioned my missing Wednesday at the reception, I knew. I knew. Whatever you did to me — I should be furious. God, you utter bastard, to take advantage of me like that. And to…” John cleared his throat once more. “Well, I’ve had a lot to think about.”

John leaned in, grasping Sherlock’s unmoving hand in both of his own. He hovered just above Sherlock’s ear.

“I remember, Sherlock,” he whispered. “So now you have to wake up. I-I have no idea what we’re going to do, but you have to wake up.”

John ghosted his lips experimentally over Sherlock’s warm cheek.

“You have to come back to me. We have a lot to sort out, you and I, so you have to come back to me. Because I remember.”