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Sherlock can't take his eyes off of him. Tiny, blonde, boyish - not even his type, really. Usually his attention is caught by dark hooded eyes and skinny jeans, a leather jacket draped over wiry shoulders, a cigarette dangling from full pouting lips. Solitary and sulking is generally the base criteria for identifying a potentially good shag. He's self aware enough to realise his tastes in men run toward the narcissistic, and he’s fine with it, fine with fucking pretty dark haired boys with daddy issues. 

There's enough leather clad emo boys in this club, he could have his pick. However, at the moment, he's supposed to be looking for his mark, a weasley little East London drug dealer who's wanted in a triple homicide, and also happens to frequent this club. He's supposed to be on a stakeout. Lestrade even paid him for this one - under the table, of course.

Two hours in, pressed up against a vaguely slimy wall and nursing his third gin and tonic, there's still no sign of the mark. No one at all to divert Sherlock's attention from this beautiful lithe blonde creature weaving his way through the mass of bodies with his shot tray resting against his bare chest. He moves differently from everyone else here. The rest of the crowd moves as one, bodies blending together, all wiggling hips and waving arms, a single indistinguishable hoard. 

This one, though, has a presence. He has stature, if not height. He looks every single person in the eye, even when their exploring fingers are wiggling against his hipbones, hands unabashedly cupping his taut arse as he slips away to move onto the next group. Fit, but not overly muscled, his body looks solid in a way that reminds Sherlock of a spring loaded pistol - carefully contained energy ready to unleash itself at the slightest application of pressure. 

He’s compact, not powerfully built - slim but sturdy. His shoulders are square and broad, curving up into a strong thick neck. His back muscles ripple as he walks, shoulder blades smooth and beautifully shaped, underneath them a gently inward curve at his waist, that invitingly lickable back ending in two perfect dimples at the base of his spine. He's wearing black combat boots and there's a tattoo on his right bicep that's definitely military, though he's too far away to make out the details.

Sherlock absolutely can't stop watching him.

He's never been so distracted on a case before. Such distractions are frivolous, pointless - a monumental waste of intellectual and physical energy. When he’s not working, sex is a pleasurable necessity. Sherlock's taken home plenty of gorgeous young bodies, all long dark hair tangled in their eyelashes and eager wet kisses - sometimes he's even gone back for seconds before his usual terse dismissal of them from his flat - but The Work always takes precedence over the simplistic needs of the flesh.

Soldier Boy has disappeared into the crowd. Damn. Well, he is quite short, probably only 165cm without the added height of the combat boots. I could pick him up. I could fuck him that way, up against a wall with his legs wrapped around me. A wolfish grin spreads slow across his face at the thought as he shifts and slithers a few feet along the wall. He sips his drink and cranes his neck around the two guys who're snogging practically in his lap, trying to catch another glimpse.

There he is again, blonde head bobbing in a sea of arms reaching for shots and tucking £5 notes in the waist of his tiny gold shorts. Sherlock almost breathes a sigh of relief. This feeling is completely foreign, this sharp, bright want sparking down his nerve endings, raising gooseflesh on the nape of his neck. It’s more than just wanting to fuck him, though, he does definitely want that. This is something deeper, more confusing than wanting a quick fuck and no phone number, thanks anyway. This is something that makes him pull his phone from the pocket of his jeans and toss off a text to Lestrade before he can think himself out of it.

Mark hasn’t shown, something else has come up. Turning my phone off, I’ll brief you tomorrow. SH    

Sherlock does actually turn off his phone, which is unprecedented. He slips it in his back pocket and watches Soldier Boy maneuver his way to the bar, hips swaying suggestively, and deftly duck under the open end. He starts refilling his tray with empty glasses, quick and efficient, his tongue tucked between his teeth. His blonde head bobs from side to side in time with the poppy beat of the current song, but his face is serious. This is a job for him, this isn’t entertainment. 

Sherlock's eyes never leave him as he takes the bills out of his shorts and smoothes them, laying them carefully on the bar in a neat pile and counting them twice before he folds them and hands them to the bartender. The bartender claps a hand down on his shoulder with a grin and wink. The sight of the other man’s large hand on that delicious curve of bare skin awakens in Sherlock an unexpected and ferocious surge of possessiveness.

I want him. He's mine.

Without even really thinking about it, Sherlock slams back the rest of his gin and tonic, sets the glass down on the nearest flat surface, and begins winding his way through the thrumming herd on the dance floor, pushing through with a single minded determination. Soldier Boy is pouring shots, unconsciously moving to the thumping beat of the music, as Sherlock approaches. He doesn’t look up as Sherlock steps up to the bar and drapes himself across it. 

His back is half to Sherlock as he finishes filling the glasses and goes to put the strap back around his neck. Liquid sloshes onto the tray, and he curses under his breath, sets it back down on the bar and begins topping off the spilled glasses.  Sherlock needs to get his attention before he goes back out onto the dance floor. He leans forward, bony elbows digging into the wooden bar.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock shouts above the music.

“What did you say?” That ruffled blonde head whips around to meet Sherlock’s piercing stare, and oh

Sherlock’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush. Up close, he’s absolutely deadly gorgeous. Smoky black eyeliner accentuates complicated and intelligent ocean blue eyes, ridiculously long eyelashes made even longer with thick mascara, iridescent magenta sparkles smeared across his eyelids. An elfin nose swoops down into a perfectly upturned tip, below which his small pink mouth sparkles with shimmering clear lip gloss. His jaw is squared and defined, begging for a hot tongue dragging along the smooth bone. Beneath those rosebud pink lips, a deep cleft in his chin lends his face an undeniable masculinity that saves it from being too pretty, too feminine. A smattering of acne scars across his cheeks are the only imperfection, and somehow they suit him - his face wouldn’t be nearly as fascinating without.

Sherlock is utterly and irrevocably captivated by this beautiful face, and the dark complexity of the man behind it. Their eyes lock together and it’s immediately high school all over again, trying to impress a cute boy and remember how to speak and breathe in front of that same cute boy who’s rendered Sherlock entirely incapable of doing either. Though no one has ever made him feel this kind of nearly painful desire. The thought of being rejected by this perfect being, of not having him, makes Sherlock's stomach hurt. He needs him.   

He swallows. “I said, Afghanistan or Iraq? Where were you stationed?”

“How did you know - ?“ Those fathomless eyes are boring into him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He runs a delicate hand through his hair, making it stand up in soft little spikes and then crosses his toned arms over his chest with a sultry little smirk. 

“I’ll tell you after you tell me which one.” Sherlock grins and raises his eyebrows.

Soldier Boy tilts his head enchantingly to the side as the tip of a dark pink tongue darts out to lick his lips. Sherlock barely holds back a sigh, immediately thinking of that tongue swirling over his nipples, licking hard at the head of his cock. The space between them is already crackling with heat, a hushed intimacy enveloping them as they stare steadily into each other’s eyes. The thudding din of the club fades, the roar of five hundred voices quiets into near silence, as everything falls away except the two of them locked together by nothing more than a gaze.

“Okay, smart arse, fine. Afghanistan. Now tell me how you knew. Did you talk to Kevin?” He shifts forward, hands on his hips, and chews on the swell of his bottom lip.

“I don’t even know who Kevin is.” Sherlock closes the space between them, arching up over the bar and putting his lips against his ear, “It was the boots. Mostly.”

Soldier Boy moves just that much, enough that Sherlock’s lower lip catches momentarily on the rim of his ear. Sherlock breathes out hard, and backs off, his cheeks hot. Their eyes meet again, and there’s no question of what’s going to happen between them tonight. Now it’s only a question of where and how quickly.

He flutters those long lashes at Sherlock, then looks down at his steel toed black boots, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Yeah? My boots? How?”

“Yes, they’ve clearly seen actual combat - the scuff marks across the heels, the way the  soles are worn. The way you tie them and the fact that they’re highly polished said you’d been in the army. Old habits die hard. Put together with the tan lines around your wrists and neck, and the still short army haircut, and it’s obvious you’re just back from active duty somewhere sunny.” It’s a sloppy deduction, but slamming that gin and tonic so quickly has made him more than a little tipsy, and he’s half hard already, trying to think straight through a haze of desire. 

“That’s - amazing. That’s completely amazing.” His face breaks into a wide grin as the spotlights above the dance floor start flashing white and purple, falling across his glimmering body in ribbons of colour and reflecting brightly in his luminous eyes. He shakes his head and trills a laugh, catching his bottom lip in his teeth again.   

He’s enchanting. He’s made of fucking starlight, floating down through Sherlock’s skin and his bloodstream and lighting him up from the inside out. Sherlock wants to consume him, wants to be consumed by him. He can barely tolerate his own building desire. He shifts his hips, trying to adjust his erection, which is pressing uncomfortably against the zipper of his too tight jeans.   

“What’s your name?” 

Soldier Boy’s perfectly shaped little mouth crooks up at one corner, his eyes dancing with mirth. He takes a step toward Sherlock, wriggles his hips suggestively and juts his lower lip out. Sherlock wants to sink his teeth into it. 

“What, you can’t figure it out from the number of freckles on my neck or something?”

“Oh, I probably could, given enough time and a bit more sobriety.” Sherlock leans forward, and lowers his already baritone voice into a dark rumbling purr, “And some familiarity with the freckles on your neck.”

Soldier Boy sucks in a breath, his cheekbones colouring a lovely coppery red. The space between them sparks silver with electricity, and Sherlock nearly wraps a hand around his neck right there and kisses him. Instead he licks his own lips, wetting them shiny with saliva, and lets them fall into a pout, never breaking eye contact. Sherlock's heart is hammering against his ribs.

“John.” He says, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s mouth. “My name is John.”

What a plain name for such a fascinating creature. “Well, hello, John.”

“Hello.” John smiles and drops his gaze, then looks back up at Sherlock through his lashes.  “I really should get back to work.”

“When do you have a break?”

“Don’t, really.”

“Take one anyway. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.” Sherlock traces the inner rim of his upper lip with his tongue, lets his eyes fall shut slowly. When he opens them, John’s staring at him with unabashed lust, his lips parted, breathing heavier.   

"How do you know I'm not with someone already?" John arches an eyebrow, his voice husky.  He really couldn't be more seductive if he tried. Sherlock's absolutely aching for him, his lower belly heavy and hot with desire. He wants to bend him over the bar, push him up against the wall of glass shelves behind, listen to the bottles crashing around them while Sherlock fucks him.  

"I would know." He's already deduced John's most recent shag was about four days previous, judging from the fading scratch marks across his shoulders, the faintly visible love bite under his ear. "You want me to tell you how? Or shall we just get on with the more private part of this conversation?"

The bewitching flush on John’s cheeks deepens and spreads, crawling down his neck, tendrils of crimson spreading across his bare chest. “I shouldn’t - I really only make money based on how many shots I can sell.”

“I’ll buy every shot on on that tray. I promise.” Sherlock holds out his hand, curls his fingers towards his palm. “Just come with me.”

John chews on his bottom lip, clearly fighting with himself. Sherlock watches him as he’s hesitating, letting his gaze wander over John’s tight, perfect body, every angle and curve covered in glitter. He’s wearing absolutely miniscule gold shorts, with no pants underneath - the outline of his cock is evident, larger than average and definitely interested. His hips are devastating - the gentle hill of his pelvic bone disappearing beneath the shimmery waistband just begging for Sherlock’s hands to follow it where it leads. His thigh muscles are exquisite, cut and rock hard, his knees knobbly and scarred. He played rugby at some point. The image of John wrestling in a muddy scrum, cleats scrabbling in the turf, grunting and straining, is almost too much for Sherlock to handle. 

John finally rolls his eyes and huffs, throws a backward glance at the bartender. He holds his index finger up to Sherlock. “One minute.”

Sherlock nods, holding back the shiver of burning pleasure that skids down his spine. God, he’s never wanted anyone like this. They haven’t even touched each other yet, and his breath is coming faster, his nerve endings already frayed and jumpy. 

John rocks up on his tiptoes to whisper something in the bartender’s ear, calf muscles tensing into perfect hearts as he stretches. His knees spread just the tiniest bit, tendons standing out, and Sherlock’s mouth floods with saliva. He swallows hard, trying to regain some of his normal control over his body. Everything in him is pulled to John in a way that feels inevitable.

John saunters back to him with an impish grin and ducks under the bar. For the first time tonight, there’s nothing between them - no bar, no writhing mass of people. John sidles up against Sherlock, all pretense abandoned, his half hard cock pressing against Sherlock’s thigh. He smells like sugared raspberries and tequila. Sherlock wants to lick every glittering centimeter of him, see if he tastes as sweet as he smells.

“You are positively edible.” Sherlock purrs, resting a hand over the swell of one perfectly muscled hip, pulling him closer. He feels like they’ll never be close enough, and he realises he’s already thinking beyond tonight, hoping this isn’t the first and last time.    

John grins - all white teeth and glimmering lips - and looks up at Sherlock, eyes wide and dark with desire. 

“I certainly hope so. Where're we going?” He trails a finger down the inside of Sherlock’s arm, leaving a line of fire in its wake.

Sherlock bends down and laps at John’s earlobe, pleased at the shuddering gasp it wrings from him. “Anywhere I can get my mouth around that massive cock of yours and not be interrupted.”

John’s hips kick forward like he can’t help it, and his fingers skid across the thin skin on the inside of Sherlock’s wrist and over his palm, interlacing their fingers tightly. He nudges his face against Sherlock’s, mouthing lightly at his jaw in not-quite-a-kiss, and whispers back, “I know exactly where we can go. Come on, gorgeous.” 

They wend through the dance floor, John tugging Sherlock by his fingertips, casting hungry glances over his shoulder every few feet. They make their way to the other side, and John yanks him down a dimly lit hallway, at the end of which is a closed door with a sign taped to it reading “No Entry.”

John pushes it open slowly and they slip through. The door shuts out the cacophony of the club, and they're abruptly enveloped in near silence. The room is cold and moonlight blue, though Sherlock knows it's not actually moonlight but just a neon sign at the liquor store next door. He pretends it's the moon. 

“Is this a loo?” His voice echoes brightly off the tile walls, too loud in the quiet room.

John giggles softly. “Yeah. It’s brand new though. Doesn’t have any water hookups yet, so no one can use it. It’s nice and clean.”

“Well, let’s dirty it up, then,” Sherlock giggles back, his head muzzy with a strange kind of giddiness at actually having gotten this beautiful creature alone with him. 

“Fuck yes,” John grits out, his upper lip curled almost in a snarl, and pushes Sherlock hard up against the nearest wall, his muscular thigh insinuating between both of Sherlock’s and nudging at his balls. Sherlock jerks and curls forward, gasping at the sudden rush of pleasure coursing through him. John flexes his leg, grinds his hips against Sherlock's, and licks a stripe up the side of his neck.

"Oh my god, John, oh my god," Sherlock breathes out into John's hair.

John’s warm hands slide up over his biceps and the sides of his neck, feather light touches over his ears, and then strong fingers are twining in his hair and pulling lightly. Sherlock can't quite hold down a breathy shaking moan. 

John's grin is unadulterated sex, his eyes on fire. “Oh, did I surprise you? I may be short and pretty, but I was also an army sergeant. I'm no delicate little flower.”

“I would never, ever assume you were.” Sherlock murmurs, and tips his head down to John’s upturned face, putting their lips together for the first time. It's a bolt of pure electricity, arousal singing down his spine so powerfully his head goes light.

He's already drowning in this moment, awash in sensation. He couldn't think right now if his life depended on it, couldn't deduce the most simplistic problem. Every neuron in his brilliant mind is focused on the sensation of his tongue between John's lips and the heat of his hand gently stroking down between John's shoulder blades. 

John kisses fiercely, humming and sighing, nipping at Sherlock's lower lip and licking into his mouth with a hot wet tongue that tastes like...

"You taste like candy floss," Sherlock mumbles, lips still pressed against John's.

"It's the lip gloss." He smiles, his teeth against Sherlock's upper lip, which is confusingly both endearing and darkly sensual.

Sherlock's throat constricts, joyful endorphins flooding through his bloodstream. Usually this kind of thrill erupts in him while he's chasing a dark shape down an alley, or having a particularly complex deduction prove true. Never once has another person drawn this feeling out in him, especially by the simple act of smiling.

"What does the rest of you taste like?" His voice sounds raw to his own ears. Sherlock's not used to all these inconvenient feelings associated with sex. Feelings are difficult, heartbreaking, consuming. But he'd known the moment he saw John's compact body moving assuredly through that crowd of drunken fools, that John would be more than a one off fuck in the loo. Or he’d at least hoped. Feelings are probably unavoidable at this point.

"Why don't you oh god find out?" John's head falls back as Sherlock tongues over the fading bruise on his neck. "Yeah, keep doing that, that's - that's very good."

Sherlock laves at his throat, dragging his tongue roughly over his Adam’s apple, pressing into the hollow of his jaw, sucking warm raspberry flavoured skin between his teeth. The vague grit of glitter spreads across his palate as he trails his tongue down to circle around one pink nipple. John shivers against him, and twists his fingers in his hair. 

“I only have a thirty minute break,” He pants, slipping a hand past Sherlock’s cheek and caresses down his own flat stomach, palms himself through his shorts. He pushes up into his own grasp with a sharp grunt, and it's the goddamned sexiest thing Sherlock's ever seen.

Sherlock spins them so John’s the one against the wall, grasps his hips to steady him. “Then lets make the most of it, shall we?”

John nods slowly, his mouth slack, watching Sherlock from behind the web of his mascaraed eyelashes. He continues to slowly stroke himself through his shorts, hips pumping shallowly. Sherlock tightens his fingers around John’s hipbones, hard and well muscled under his hands, and dips his head to his nipple again. John gasps, high pitched and desperate, arching his chest into the press of Sherlock’s mouth. 

The little nub of flesh grows harder under Sherlock’s tongue, and he flicks at it gently, enjoying listening to John’s long drawn out moans. He nibbles, rolls pebbled skin between his teeth, and John's breath catches as his fingers tighten in Sherlock's hair. John pushes at his head, just lightly, but the intent is clear.

Sherlock glances up at John’s scarlet blushed face, at his pulse thrumming visibly in his neck, and nearly flinches at the ferocious desire in John’s eyes. No one has ever looked at him like this. It’s like looking into the sun - it hurts, it burns, and he can’t look away. John’s hand in his hair turns strangely tender, scratching fingernails along his scalp in a way that makes Sherlock think of some warm sunny morning with John stretched out beside him in bed, cool sheets and sticky bellies. He shuts his eyes against the thought - achingly sweet, oddly welcome, and surely unattainable - and goes to his knees. 

“Oh, god, fuck yeah,” John chants, rocking his hips as Sherlock noses along the crease of his pelvis, sucks at the plasticy fabric of his shorts. “Oh, your fucking mouth was made for sucking cock, wasn't it? Look at those lips, Jesus fucking Christ. I can’t wait to see my come all over them.”

Sherlock shakes at the filthy pleasure that rolls down his spine. He’s never particularly liked dirty talk, or feeling submissive, used. But he realises as he kneels at John’s feet, inhaling the musky scent of his prick through the thin fabric, that he would supplicate himself to this man every day for the rest of his life if allowed to. There's a gentle affection lurking behind every word, making Sherlock feel dangerously vulnerable. He doesn't even know John's last name, and he's already ruined. He'll never not need this.

Instead of dwelling on it, he yanks John's shorts unceremoniously over his hips. His cock springs free, nestled in a thatch of cinnamon brown curls between the hollows of smooth pelvic bones. Sherlock nearly whimpers at the sight of it, hard and dusky red, already glistening wet at the tip and standing proudly against John's taut belly. It's not much longer than average, but thick, so thick he's not even sure he can get his mouth around it comfortably. But God, how he wants to. 

John takes his cock in hand and rubs the head along Sherlock's waiting mouth. Precome spreads slick across his bottom lip and he instinctively opens his mouth, taking in just the first few centimeters of velvety hot skin. John's prick is heavy and salty on his tongue. He wants more of it, wants to take John in until he's gagging on him. 

Above him, John shudders and whimpers, his chest contracting. "Take it, come on, you want it, take it, yeah, yeah, that's it."

John's pleasured whispers fill every corner of the empty room, echoing in Sherlock's ears as he inches his lips forward, forces his tongue down. He can't help a slight scrape of teeth as he takes John deeper. The head so broad it’s nearly choking him, he tries to disassociate himself from his gag reflex. His teeth scrape the underside, and he flattens his tongue, trying to somehow keep his teeth away from sensitive skin. John doesn't seem to mind, jerking and panting above him, murmuring quiet little encouragements and rubbing his hand in circles at the base of Sherlock's skull.

"Oh fuck me, that's so good," John's prick is already dripping copiously onto the back of Sherlock's tongue, “I don’t mind a little teeth, it’s alright. Just keep sucking me like that, it feels so good, you’re amazing - “

Sherlock rings his index finger and thumb around the base of John’s cock, and they just barely touch around the girth of him. Sherlock’s so turned on, he wants to rut against the zipper of his jeans, John’s shin, anything. Usually sucking cock makes his own erection flag, but sucking John makes his entire body tremble with desire - just the smell of him is intoxicating. He meets his fingers with his mouth, glans pushing against his throat as the tip of his nose brushes soft damp hair. He could do this forever.

John’s hand moves from the back of his head to brush his hair from his forehead, with such tenderness that Sherlock's breath catches. He dares a glance up at John’s face, and nearly sobs from the look of pure wonder beaming from his half closed eyes. John smiles, his tongue squeezed between his teeth, and rubs a thumb against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. 

“You’re going to let me come all over that beautiful mouth, aren’t you?” John’s thumb dips between Sherlock’s lips, dragging along the side of his own cock, feeling where their bodies are joined together.

Sherlock nods, pulls off enough that he can pull languidly at the head with his lips, lick into the slit. John shudders hard, and precome leaks salty all over the tip of Sherlock’s tongue.

John’s skin is sheened with a thin layer of sweat now, slick under Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock laps at him - animalistic and desperate - all his smooth seduction forgotten in the wake of throbbing visceral need. His nostrils are filled with the scent of John, masculine and musky under the layer of sugary sweet body glitter, and Sherlock has never ever wanted another person to come as badly as he wants John to right now. He slips his hand between his legs, plays with his balls, rolling them in his hand, dragging the pad of his thumb between them. John spreads his knees, tips his arse up, encouraging Sherlock’s exploring fingers.

John begins to tremble, his cock thickening. “Yeah, yeah, oh god, I’m so close. You are so beautiful, Christ, you are absolutely - oh fuck - oh, god, I’m right there - “

Sherlock pushes his finger against John’s hole, cupping his balls in his hand, and sucks harder, tongue dancing lightly over the tip of John’s prick. A low bone-deep groan and a twitch of those gorgeous hips signal John's release. Sherlock pulls off at the first pulse of hot liquid, allowing John’s come to spatter thick against his lips and chin, drip down his neck. It feels gloriously degrading, the combination of power and subservience making him dizzy with arousal as John quakes and groans and pulls at his hair.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John's voice breaks into a shuddering whimper, one last pulse of his cock landing a spray of come across Sherlock’s left cheekbone. He dips two fingertips into the mess on Sherlock’s face, shoves them into his open mouth. Sherlock instinctively shuts his eyes and sucks, and John hisses through his teeth, “Christ, you are fucking incredible. That was incredible.”

John slides his fingers out of Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock lays his face against the warm plane of John's belly, too overcome to do much except lean against him and pant. His hand is still between John's hot trembling thighs, his index finger pressed between his arse cheeks. He wiggles his finger experimentally and John breathes out raggedly, smoothes his hand over Sherlock's sticky face.

"Yeah, go ahead. I the waist of my shorts, there's a little pocket..." John's breathless, chest still heaving from coming.

"I'll have to - " Sherlock says apologetically, taking his hand from between John's legs.

"That's okay. This will make it better." John grins triumphantly down at him, sweaty, eye makeup smeared, his lips swollen. 

Sherlock can't stand the rising tide of affection in his chest. His heart has already staked a claim on this beautiful being - he can't fight it, can't ignore it. It's painful, how much he wants from John, and how much he wants to give in return. Thirty minutes will never be enough. A lifetime won’t be enough. 

He looks away, instead fumbles at John's shorts, crudely bunched around the tops of his boots. Their need had been too frantic, their time too short, to take them off all the way. Sure enough, there's a tiny elastic pocket sewn into the waistband. Sherlock slips his fingers inside and pulls out a small tube of lip gloss. 

He starts to laugh, and John laughs too, the sound ringing warmly through the empty room. 

"It'll do, yeah?" John's fingers rub circles in Sherlock's hair, probably tangling it horribly. Sherlock couldn't care less.

"Yeah," Sherlock whispers back, and unscrews the cap, squeezes a bit of the stuff onto his fingertips and rocks up - somewhat unsteadily - onto his feet. He braces himself against the wall with his left arm, and John’s arm slides naturally around his waist, like it was meant to be there. 

John looks up at him with wide eyes, and draws his fingers down the side of Sherlock's face. "You look pretty fucking gorgeous with my come all over your face, you know that?"

A dark pleasure throbs hot in his belly, making his painfully hard cock twitch inside his jeans. John slips his hand from Sherlock’s face and insinuates it between them, caressing Sherlock, rubbing his palm flat over his cock and between his thighs, never breaking eye contact. 

"I bet your dick's as pretty as your face," John deftly undoes Sherlock's jeans with three fingers, and pushes them down just far enough to shove his hand in and pull Sherlock's cock out. He whines with pleasure, wraps his hand around Sherlock without preamble and begins to stroke, “Fuck, god, every part of you is gorgeous. I want you to fuck me with your pretty perfect cock.”

John keeps whispering filthy beautiful words against his ear, kissing at his neck, tugging at his earlobe with his teeth, and stroking him slow and rhythmic - until he’s weak with it, until he can’t do anything except push John over on his chest on the sink counter, and drape himself over John’s back with a growl. His fingers are still slick with lip gloss as he circles them around John’s hole and kisses the nape of his neck.


“Yes, oh god, yes,” John’s face is bright crimson, thick black eyelashes fluttering beautifully against his cheeks as he gasps. He grabs at the empty places in the counter where the sinks should be, tilts up onto his toes and wriggles his arse against Sherlock’s fingers. “Put those goddamned pretty fingers in me.”

Sherlock noses against his neck and shoves into that perfect tight heat, all the way up to the knuckle. John cries out, arching from neck to ankles, his entire body going tense. Sherlock stills, thumb rubbing against John’s tailbone soothingly. “Too much?”

“No, fuck, it’s so good, that feels so - “ John’s voice breaks, and the sound of it lodges painfully behind Sherlock’s sternum. He wants John to make that sound underneath him every day for the rest of his life.

Unable to process these hopelessly sentimental thoughts, he closes his eyes against the curve of John’s neck and twists his fingers inside him. John moans wantonly, every muscle of his back flexing against Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock brushes his fingers against John’s prostate, and John bucks up, slamming his palms flat against the counter. Sherlock stays with him, stroking him slow and deliberate, sucking lightly at the tendons in his neck as he writhes and whimpers. 

“I wanted you the second I saw you,” Sherlock tucks his burning face against John’s spine, whispering words he almost hopes John doesn’t hear.

“Me too, oh fuck, me too,” John gasps, more breath than words. His entire body is shivering, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the counter. “I couldn’t believe it when you - oh Jesus Christ - wanted me too. Oh god, please, please - “   

“I want," Sherlock gasps out, hoarse and thin, and slides back over John’s trembling body to sink to his knees again. His fingers slip out and he rubs his hands tenderly along the insides of John's thighs, pushes them farther apart. He spreads his hands over the curves of that perfect tight little arse and licks along the crease. 

John shudders above him and lays back down flat on his belly over the counter, his arse pushing back against Sherlock's hungry tongue. "Yeah, yeah, put your tongue in me. Fucking hell, you are fantastic, you - "

The end of his exclamation dissolves into a high pitched grunt as Sherlock spreads him apart. He strokes gently over where his fingers have been for the last ten minutes - John's hole stretched pink and perfect, the muscle fluttering around the absence of Sherlock inside him. Sherlock runs two fingertips around the rim, watching with a rising urgency as John's hole tightens and clenches at his touch.

"I'm going to get you so wet for me," Sherlock manages, before lowering his face to John’s arse and licking a long wet path from his perineum to his sacrum, dipping just the very tip of his tongue into his loosened hole. The noises it wrings from John’s throat are like nothing Sherlock’s ever heard before. He does it again, this time lingering over that most sensitive place, thrusting his tongue deep inside John, inside that welcoming heat. John turns into a thrashing, whimpering thing, clutching at the edges of the counter, at Sherlock's hair, at anything he can dig his fingers into. He keeps pushing up to his toes, rocking his arse back, like it's not enough, like he can't get Sherlock's tongue deep enough. Sherlock licks and sucks at him until his entire face is wet, saliva running in rivulets down his throat and down John's balls, in thin streams on the inside of his thighs.

The rhythmic clench of John’s muscles around his tongue is achingly erotic. He tastes like musk and sweat and candy floss, and suddenly, even while he’s damn near incinerating with lust, he has to stifle a laugh.

John’s constantly moving body goes still. He says breathlessly,  sounding both indignant and amused, “Are you laughing back there?”

Sherlock kisses him, kisses those perfect dimples at the base of his spine, kisses each arse cheek. “Your arse tastes like candy.”

John laughs, big and broad, his entire body shaking with it. He folds his arms and sinks his forehead to them, and laughs and laughs, the sound of it enveloping Sherlock with warmth and contentment. Their desperate need forgotten for just a moment, Sherlock lays his head against the curve of John’s spine and laughs with him. He’s never had this during sex, this lighthearted companionship - and it's addictive. He knows he’ll never want fuck again unless he can feel John’s laughter vibrating against his cheek. 

Eventually their laughter fades, and John twists underneath him, works one arm back to brush at Sherlock’s hair. “I hate to - but I really do - “

“Have to get back to work, I know.” The dread that fills his chest at this being over, at John walking out of this room, is inexplicable. 

“Sorry, I’m so - I wish I could stay with you all night - ” John pushes at him, turns so he’s sitting bare-arsed on the cold marble counter with Sherlock between his knees. He reaches down and finally yanks his shorts over his boots, kicks them onto the floor. “Come here.”

Sherlock melts forward between his legs, wrapping his arms around John’s back. John’s chin tilts up, his eyes sparkling in the blue light. “Kiss me.”

Sherlock is nearly undone right then, the searing desire and playful affection in John’s eyes cracking him apart inside. He presses his mouth against John’s, licking at the seam of his closed lips, and John opens them immediately, sliding his tongue against Sherlock’s and licking, licking desperately into his mouth, making harsh bitten off little noises. John’s body hitches forward, and his cock nudges against Sherlock’s, which is jutting obscenely out of his unzipped jeans.

“You’re hard again,” Sherlock murmurs wonderingly against John’s kiss bruised lips.

“Of course I am - you just fingered me for ten minutes and had your tongue up my arse. If I wasn’t hard again, I’d be a bit concerned, frankly,” John snickers as he pulls Sherlock’s jeans down to his mid thigh and leans back, bending his legs up to hook the heels of his boots on the edge of the counter, spreading himself out for Sherlock. He picks the lip gloss up from the counter with a wink and squeezes a generous amount into his palm, then reaches between them and gives Sherlock’s cock a long wet pull, twisting his wrist at the tip in a way that makes Sherlock’s entire body convulse.

“Oh my god, I’m so - “ Sherlock runs his hands furiously over John’s bare thighs, kisses his throat and his collarbone, “I need you now, or I’ll just - “

“Shhhh, I know, I know,” John gives Sherlock a few light strokes, making sure his prick is well coated, and then runs his palm between his own legs, slicking himself,  “There. Now get that beautiful prick inside me.”

Sherlock’s mouth goes completely dry as the rush of arousal zigzags through every nerve ending, looking at John’s stretched hole, his balls heavy and full between his shimmering thighs, his cock hard and flushed. Sherlock can actually see the vein pulsing on the underside. Sherlock wrenches his eyes up to John’s mischievous grinning face, and realises with a lurch that he is completely and entirely gone on him. The silvery ripples of pleasure in his belly aren’t just arousal, aren’t just about fucking. He wants John’s smile, and his laughing eyes, he wants his sleepy morning breath against his face, wants to lean against him while they watch television. 

He was supposed to be on a fucking stakeout. Jesus. 

John inclines his head, raises an eyebrow. “Well, come on. Stop staring at me and fuck me.”

Sherlock snaps himself out of his reverie by closing his eyes and brushing his mouth over the inside John’s bent knee. John trembles and drops a hand to Sherlock’s waist, pulling him forward. The head of Sherlock’s cock nudges just inside, and John lets out a shuddering exhalation, fingers digging painfully into the soft skin above Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock pushes home slow and steady, trying not to give in to the overwhelming need to just thrust and fuck and slam John up against the counter as hard as he can. 

John groans so low in his belly that Sherlock can feel the tremors inside, and his hands move up, scrabbling at Sherlock’s shoulders for something to hold on to. “Oh god, fuck that feels so good, you feel so good inside me.”

All Sherlock can grunt is, “Fuck, yes, fuck,” his pleasure slithering hot across his nerves, drowning his brain in hormones. He’s dizzy and drunk with arousal - he’s been hard and wanting for the better part of forty minutes, and he really can’t hold on much longer. 

John’s sturdy legs curl around Sherlock’s hips, his ankles crossed against the small of Sherlock’s back. The heels of his heavy boots dig in, pushing Sherlock closer, his muscular thighs clenching and drawing their bodies as tightly together as possible. The room fills with their mingled sighs and grunts, gentle moans and hoarse breaths rising into the unfinished ceiling, echoing into the empty corners. They move together for what feels like hours, time suspended, Sherlock lost in the grind of John’s arse against him, the squeeze and release of his thighs as he arches up off the counter to meet Sherlock’s every thrust. 

Then soft lips are moving up the column of his throat, mouthing wet over his jaw, as John’s arms drape over his shoulders. John’s lips meet his with a slow, deep slide, nothing but tongue and wet heat and Sherlock kisses him back with abandon, weak with desire and teetering on the knife’s edge of orgasm.

John tightens his arms around Sherlock’s neck and whispers against his cheek, “Against the wall.”

With a rough growl, Sherlock grips John around the hips and lifts him easily up off the counter, slamming him hard against the nearest wall. John arches, whining and shaking, and slices his fingernails into Sherlock’s shoulder blades so hard that he’s thankful he’s still wearing his shirt. John throws his head back and it hits the wall with a crack as Sherlock plants his feet and thrusts up, pistoning hard into John’s willing body. 

“Jesus, are you alright?” Sherlock pants, holding on to John’s thighs so tightly he must be leaving bruises.

“Yes, fuck, oh god, I’m perfect, I’m fucking perfect, don’t stop,”John clenches his thighs, running his hands nearly frantically over Sherlock’s neck and up into his hair, then back down, over and over.

Sherlock couldn’t stop now even if he wanted to. He pushes in, in, unable to get as close as he wants to be, John's back skidding up the cold tile wall as Sherlock shoves into him. He can feel his foreskin slipping over the head of his cock as he rocks inside John's tight slicked passage. Radient waves of pleasure pulse out through his belly as John clings to him, fingers clawing at his back. He’s right there, his whole body trembling and quaking, the tension in his belly and his balls building and building, cresting inside his chest like a wave about to break. He slips in and out of John's slick hole with a filthy wet noise that's mindbendingly arousing. The sound of his cock thrusting into John's body melds with the slap of their flesh, John's whimpering sighs - it reminds Sherlock of music. A dirty hard edged symphony. The sounds tearing out of his own throat are needy and frenetic as he pounds into John punishingly hard. John wraps one strong hand around to cradle the back of his head and pulls it down, putting Sherlock’s sweating forehead in the hollow of his collarbone. 

“I’ve got you,” John breathes out into Sherlock’s hair, so comforting and tender that it aches.That whispered endearment, the unaffected fondness in those words, is what pushes Sherlock over the edge. Pleasure washes over him, hot and cold and shivering, and he comes with a sob, face buried in John’s neck, as his hips continue to pump gently against the soft swell of John’s arse. 

John strokes his hair, murmuring gentle, soothing words against his ear. The aftershocks are strong and numerous, and John holds him through them, legs still locked tight around Sherlock’s waist. Finally, he stops shaking enough to pull out, leaning all his weight hard against the wall, and feeling as if he could slide right down it. John drops his feet to the floor and puts his hand on Sherlock’s stomach, smiles up at him. He catches his bottom lip in his teeth again, like he had earlier in the evening, and Sherlock is completely at his mercy. John could get him to do absolutely anything with that coquettish little lip bite.

Sherlock goes to reach for John’s cock, which is still hard, but John shakes his head and whispers, “I’m okay. It’s fine.” 

“You sure?” 

John nods, and rests his head against the wall, traces his fingertips in patterns against Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock closes his hand over John’s, and they stare at each other, fingers lazily stroking.   

“Well.” John finally says, but doesn’t move.

Here it comes. The end. The that was lovely and all, don’t call me. Sherlock knows, because that’s usually his line. 

Instead, John starts to laugh. Sherlock smiles, because John’s laugh is absolutely infectious and it’s impossible to not smile from ear to ear, but he has no idea what’s happening. 

“Should I be insulted right now?” Sherlock lifts an eyebrow.

John shakes his head, still grinning wildly, “No, god, no. That was the most brilliant sex I have ever had in my life. No, don’t be insulted. I just, um. I just realised I don’t even know your name, I don’t know anything about you. Nothing at all.”

Sherlock furrows his brow, certain he’d told John his name, but no, thinking back, John hadn’t asked and he hadn’t offered.    “It’s Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” He says, feeling more than a little ridiculous introducing himself to John, after just having had his tongue and fingers and cock all over him and inside of him.

“That. Is. A fascinating name for a fascinating person.” John goes up on tiptoes, presses a strangely chaste kiss against the cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s upper lip. He slips under Sherlock’s outstretched arm and picks his crumpled shorts up. “It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. Last name’s Watson, since you didn’t ask.”

‘’No, I didn’t. Rude of me.” Sherlock tucks himself back into his pants, realising how disgusting and sticky they both are. “Ugh.”

John’s bent over pulling his shorts back on, and Sherlock is mesmerised by the translucent line of come dribbling down the inside of one toned, beautiful thigh. He swallows and breathes out through his nose. John throws him a questioning look over his shoulder. 

“What? Ready for round two already?” John stands up, tugging at his shorts and adjusting his now softening cock inside them. “I really do have to go back to work. It’s been forty five minutes, and I can’t lose this job.”

Though his heart gives a leap at John leaving open the possibility of “round two,” Sherlock ignores that for the moment, in favour of more practical questions. “I was actually thinking we need to get cleaned up. Because I don’t know about you, but…”

“Yeah, you have dried come all over your chin.” John’s crooked grin is salacious and proud.

"And candy floss lip gloss all over my cock." Sherlock gestures to his groin with a grimace. "Sticky."

"Delicious." Winking, he takes Sherlock by the hand and twines their fingers together, “Come on, we can clean up in the staff washroom.” 

They slip out of the door, the pounding noise and lights of the club assaulting to Sherlock’s senses after the silence of the empty loo.  

John drags him down another corridor, this one stacked with boxes of liquor and crisps, piles of burnt out spotlights and several rolling wardrobes hung with drooping feather boas and spangly dresses. There’s a tiny loo at the end, a hideous shade of green, the paint chipping,  and barely big enough for both of them to fit at the same time. They squeeze inside and John locks the door with a rusty slide bolt, turns to Sherlock and kisses him, pushing his sweat and come stiffened hair back from his forehead. 

He pulls back with an almost shy smile. “Well, lets get cleaned up then, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, unable to formulate any words that make sense. John yanks a few paper towels out of the dispenser and hands then to Sherlock, then takes some for himself. They wet them under the tap, watching each other in the cloudy mirror. Sherlock scrubs his face and neck and John wipes at the smeared eye makeup across his temples and the come dried on his belly. The shared grins and winks are almost more than Sherlock can take, the intimacy of this moment more intense than the sex. 

When they’re cleaned up, Sherlock pulls John’s tube of lip gloss from his jeans pocket, not even remembering how it got there, and John tilts his face up. Sherlock takes the hint, and carefully smoothes it shiny over his still puffy lips. John pouts his mouth, eyes locked on Sherlock’s, resting his hands on Sherlock’s waist. The smell of candy floss is going to remind him of sex for the rest of his life. 

They stare at each other a moment longer, and then - not knowing what else to do - Sherlock puts the tube in John’s hand and closes his fingers around it. John tucks it into the waistband pocket and steps toward the door. 

“So. I’m gonna go back to work now.” John says slowly, looking at Sherlock with wide cerulean eyes. He looks as if he’s waiting for Sherlock to say something. His face falls a bit when Sherlock doesn’t, and he nods, as if to himself, and moves to unlock the door. “Okay then.”

He’s halfway down the hall before Sherlock finds his voice. “John!” 

John turns with a hopeful smile. “Yeah?”

“I could wait for you. Until the bar closes. I could - wait. If you want me to.” Sherlock stumbles, unaccustomed to this - to affection and companionship and soft smiles and the idea of someone sticking around. The idea of him wanting anyone to stick around.

John’s grin goes almost impossibly wide, his eyes sparkling brightly. “I would. I do. Want you to.”

Sherlock grins back, full to bursting with complicated undefinable emotions, and follows John back out into the crowded club. He finds an empty spot at the back wall, where he can watch John as he goes behind the bar and retrieves the shot tray, returns to the dance floor. John’s eyes find his many times through the rest of the night, connected to each other as surely as if they’re physically touching. Sherlock’s the last person there, the stragglers filing out through the front door as the lights come up and the servers begin clearing tables and sweeping discarded napkins and broken glass into piles. 

John makes his way over to Sherlock and presses up against him without hesitation. “You waited.”

“I told you I would.” Sherlock murmurs, John already stretching up to put their mouths together. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s bare waist, brushes his knuckles over the small of his back. 

John smiles and pulls back, taking Sherlock’s hands off his back and squeezing his fingers. “I just have to change, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here.”

John saunters away, a spring in his step. Sherlock feels like his entire body is smiling. It’s absurd, and he would normally be more suspicious, but he can’t find it in himself to be. John Watson inspires emotions in him that are completely foreign - trust, and confidence, and certainty. Nevermind the sizzling electric physical desire. He can’t imagine being separated from him. Ever. 

When John returns, his face has been scrubbed clean, no eye make up, no glitter. He’s wearing worn light blue jeans, a striped blue and grey jumper, and chocolate brown oxfords. He’s got an army green backpack slung over his shoulder, and he looks like a fresh faced uni student. His eyelashes are no longer thick and black, but honey coloured and softly swooping up to touch his eyelids. He's still wearing a little bit of lip gloss, which shimmers in the dimly lit club. He gives Sherlock a crooked grin that makes his stomach flip over. 

“Still good?”

“Even better.”

Sherlock grabs his long woolen coat off the rack by the door, and John easily drops an arm around Sherlock’s waist as they walk out. It feels absolutely right, and Sherlock drapes his arm across John’s broad shoulders in return. 

“So, my place or yours?” Sherlock nuzzles his nose against John’s temple, feeling uncharacteristically affectionate. He’s never been like this with anyone. 

John’s arm tightens around him. “Mmmm. Yours. My place is - a shithole, really. I’m broke, I mean really broke.”

“What do you do, John? I mean, other than that.” He inclines his head back at the bar as they emerge into the frigid night. John shivers under his arm.

“I’m a med student.”

Sherlock knew he was intelligent. A med student. Fascinating. “A GP?”

“Surgeon.” John wiggles his fingers under Sherlock’s nose, and lifts his eyebrows. “Very dextrous hands.”

“I won’t argue with that.” Sherlock grabs John’s wrist and puts his lips against his pulse, licks a thin stripe up into the middle of his palm. John giggles, and the sound is so goddamned enticing, Sherlock can’t stop himself from sweeping John into his chest and capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss. John hums approvingly and throws his arms around Sherlock’s neck. They stand there on the sidewalk, entwined and kissing, the wind swirling icily around them, until a catcall from across the street interrupts them.

“John, get a room, mate!” A gaggle of the other employees at the club are laughing and whistling as they walk to the bus stop.  

“Oi, fuck off!” John shouts back, giving them the finger and laughing.

A cab turns the corner and Sherlock hails it, hardly able to believe their luck at getting a cab this late. They slip in the back, John pressed up against Sherlock and shaking. 

“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock says to the cabbie as they pull away from the kerb, “John, are you cold?”

“A bit, yeah. I left my jacket at home. Didn't realise it was going to get so chilly.”

Sherlock covers them both with his coat, tucking it around John's legs. "Better?"

John nods and curls into his side, drops a hand onto his thigh and squeezes. “God, where have you been all my life, seriously? I’ve never - “

“Nor I.” Sherlock tilts his head so his cheek is resting against John’s soft blonde spikes.

They don’t say anything else the rest of the ride to Baker Street. Their bodies fit together like they were made to be this way, the curve of John’s hip nestling against the long line of Sherlock’s thigh, his hand cupped around Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock strokes up and down John’s bicep, absorbing the sound of John’s contented little sighs like he’s been a drowning man who’s just broken the surface into fresh air. 

He can’t believe how much he didn’t even know he needed this. 

By the time the cab pulls up in front of Baker Street, John’s nearly asleep, breathing humid against Sherlock’s throat.  

“John.” Sherlock prods him, nudging with his elbow. “John, we’re here.”

John steps out of the cab and looks up, his eyes drifting over the white stone facade, the ironwork balustrade, the massive first story windows. “This place is huge.”

“Well, I only have the first floor flat. Actually…”


“I have been looking for a flatmate.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Are you asking me to move in with you, after one day and one fuck in a loo?” John’s grin is so bright it could power half of Marylebone. 

“You don't have to - it doesn't have to be like that. I mean, I do have a second bedroom, if you want it.” 

John shakes his head and surges up against Sherlock, grabbing his face between his hands and kissing him, their teeth clanging, and it isn't even a pleasant kiss. Instead it's exuberant and deep, and heartfelt, and it makes Sherlock's throat sore. John pulls back to pepper kisses down across Sherlock’s jaw, into the hollows of his neck, whispering, “I don’t, I don’t want it.”

“Good.” Sherlock says, and kisses him. 


Sherlock wakes up foggy, vaguely registering that his right arm is asleep. Blinking sleepily, and feeling unaccountably warm and well rested, he rolls over and directly into the solid form of John Watson. Memories of round two flood his synapses - Sherlock opening a bottle of wine, clothes dropping onto the floor as they drifted into the bedroom, John’s drowsy wine-red mouth pressed all over him, John's perfect little body squirming on top of him, his hands pinning Sherlock's wrists above his head, their cocks dragging against each other until they both jerked and went stiff and panted into each other's mouths and made a mess of their bellies. Sherlock recalled rolling out from under John to get a warm soapy flannel, and John taking it from him, cleaning them both with his delicate perfect hands. Sherlock kissed his neck and the end of his nose and John giggled sleepily into Sherlock's pillow until their eyelids got too heavy to look at each other any longer. They fell asleep all tangled limbs under the sheets, spent and sated. 

Now John is still here, laying heavy across his arm, his perfect pink mouth slightly open and his blonde lashes fluttering as he dreams. Sherlock could watch him for hours. For the first time in years, Sherlock has absolutely no urge to get out of bed. No urge to check his email, or his texts. He should really call Lestrade. He should really go into Scotland Yard. He should. He's hopelessly distracted. He doesn't care. John shifts, yawning, and rolls onto his back. Sherlock eels up against him, twists a leg over John’s thigh, lays his head on his chest, and drifts back to sleep with John’s fingers in his hair.