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Is He A Friend Of Yours

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John was tucked up in bed with a book when he heard the knock on his door. Typically, even if Sherlock did bother to knock, he didn't wait for an answer before entering. But this time, there was just a knock. “Come in,” John said in that sing-song but matter-of-fact way.

The door opened just enough for Sherlock to poke his head in, looking anxious and timid. John knew then what was going on. He steeled himself for Sherlock's next utterance:


This happened occasionally. John had no idea why, and had never asked. And even if he was ever able to determine that something he was doing was precipitating it, he wasn't sure that he would make an effort to stop doing that thing.

John's voice went suddenly sweet and indulgent. “What is it, love?”

Sherlock pushed the door open and took one step inside. He was wearing his dressing gown, tied but clearly with nothing underneath. He carried a soft toy, a grey rabbit, which John had never seen before.

“I had a nightmare,” Sherlock whispered. “Can I sleep in your bed?”

Setting his book aside, John flicked the corner of the duvet back to invite Sherlock. “Of course. Climb in.”

Sherlock closed the door behind him and stood at John's bedside. He placed the rabbit on the bed, then untied his dressing gown and shrugged it off. It was so light, it rippled as it fell to the floor, revealing a very grown-up body, with angles and sinew and pubic hair. But then Sherlock picked up the toy, cuddled it under one arm, and got in the bed, covering himself up with the duvet so the only things visible were a dark mess of curls and an innocent, vulnerable expression. And, beneath his chin, a set of long, furry ears.

John stayed sat up in the bed, but turned to nod in the general direction of the rabbit. “Who's this?”

“Mister Bun.” Sherlock's voice was no higher than usual, but much softer.

“Is he a friend of yours?”

Sherlock smiled wickedly and hid his face behind the rabbit. It was obviously a well-crafted toy, somewhat anthropomorphised but not very cartoon-like. It had black glass eyes and the ears were exaggeratedly long.

With that mischievous expression on his face and the soft plush thing in his arms, Sherlock looked fuckable in a very, very wrong way. “He's soft,” Sherlock said, and loosened his grip on the toy minutely, offering John a feel.

John stroked one of its ears. It seemed to be made of...chenille, or fleece, or something.  “Yes, he is soft. I'll bet he feels nice on your skin.”

“He does,” Sherlock murmured, less shy now. “Mister Bun makes me feel good all over.”

"Does he? All over your body?”

“Yes.” Sherlock gazed reverently at John. “I put him in my lap and I get tingles everywhere.”

“Is that so.” John pulled the duvet aside, so he could see down to Sherlock's hips. Sherlock was curled in somewhat of a fetal position, but he stretched out as his body was exposed. His cock was at full attention.

John said, “Sherlock, show Daddy how you use Mister Bun to make you feel good.”

Sherlock inadvertently broke the whole facade for a moment; his smile had an element of satisfaction to it, like everything was going according to plan. He pushed the toy all the way down his body, down to his thighs, and dragged it back up again a little, so he could nestle his cock against it in just the right way. Then he held it still in his clutching hands and began thrusting against it, gasping at the sensation as though it were unexpected.

“Oh Daddy, it feels so nice.” Sherlock's soft coos and sighs were far different from the deep, masculine grunts he typically uttered in bed. He rolled his hips, burying his cock in the rabbit's soft tummy.

John wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next, or how much of it he would be expected to come up with. This particular game was usually fairly elaborate and drawn out. Sherlock had only gotten in bed a few minutes ago; there had to be more to this than him just watching Sherlock biting his lip and making little noises of erotic wonderment while he pumped away at a soft toy.

Sure enough, Sherlock's hips shuddered to a stop. He suddenly looked terribly guilty.

John whispered, “What's wrong, love?”

“I don't want to make a mess on Mister Bun.”

“Oh, but you don’t have to worry about making a mess,” John said tenderly, and stroked Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. “We can put Mister Bun in the wash and make him all clean again. Then no one has to know, except you and Daddy. It will be like a secret.”

Sherlock stared down at the toy, as if considering this. He rubbed slowly, once, up and down, still looking uncertain.

“Go on, Sherlock. Give Mister Bun your secret.”

With a final, obedient glance at John, Sherlock closed his eyes, and his mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he resumed fucking the toy frantically.

It was dirty fun to witness Sherlock's orgasm, as he made every variety of sexy noise throughout the process, from shuddering moans to whispered pleas. The thrashing was quite a show, as well, but John was most turned on by his final few thrusts, which were slower and shivery and accompanied by little whimpers, as Sherlock became too sensitive even for the touch of a soft toy.

John praised Sherlock for what he had done while gently taking the toy from his hands. It's fur was matted in several places with wet streaks. He leaned over the edge of the bed and set it on the floor, wet side up. “We'll get him clean later, I promise,” he said softly. “But Daddy wants to give you his secret now. Will you be a good boy and lie on your tummy?”

Sherlock turned obediently. John opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out the bottle of lube. He straddled Sherlock's hips, setting the bottle aside for a moment to devote both hands to giving Sherlock's smooth, round buttocks a good feel. He licked one thumb and caressed the tight, pink hole with it, circling round before going lower, to press on Sherlock's perineum.

“I'm going to put the slippery stuff on you to make you more comfortable. But don't worry; when Daddy's finished he'll get you all clean and no one will know. Just like Mister Bun.”

He took up the bottle again and pumped a generous amount of lube into his palm. He took the time to get it warm before spreading it between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse. He budged up and lowered himself so he could fit his cock in that cleft, then used his hands to squeeze Sherlock's buttocks around it.

“You're such a good boy,” he said as he slid up and down in that slippery crevice. “You make Daddy so happy.”

God, Sherlock just made him feel so fucking wrong and dirty that his balls ached, and all he wanted to do was empty them on Sherlock's bare skin. He pumped harder.

“Here comes Daddy's secret,” he said, and then he couldn't help but make a soft, strangled noise.

When Sherlock felt the hot squirts in the small of his back, he wriggled with pleasure. He lifted his arse to grind back a little, until John was too sensitive to be touched, and gently pushed him back down. Sherlock remained obediently still until, with reluctance, John sat up to get a discarded t-shirt from beside the bed. They both made little uncomfortable noises as the cool air hit the wet, sticky places on their bodies. John dried Sherlock first, then himself, chasing after the stray damp spots that felt suddenly cold as the air moved over them. Then he dropped the shirt, which landed on the rabbit, and took Sherlock in his arms.

“I'm going to feel a right fool if I find out one day that this has all been part of some experiment.”

Sherlock blinked several times in rapid succession; John could feel eyelashes moving over his collarbone. “Why would you think that? I promised you that I wouldn't deceive you when it came to...intimate matters.”

After the show he’d just put on, John had to laugh at Sherlock's suddenly demure vocabulary. “I can't put anything past you. I know what you're capable of.”

“But do you think that's what everything amounts to, me just using you when I need something done for a case?”

“It might not bother me if it was for a case, but sometimes you come up with things because you're bored. Last month you had me go to eleven hardware shops and purchase a hacksaw, sulfuric acid, and ammonia, just because you were curious to see which clerks would call the police.”

John could feel Sherlock smiling against his chest. “Well, I've got to have some fun, John.”

Sherlock didn't reveal anything to John about his motivations. Why bother? He knew it would have no effect on John's willingness to play along.