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Sherlock’s Laboratory, Episode 1: Romance

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This fic is part of a series, Sherlock’s Laboratory, an AU where Sherlock performs scientific experiments with smutty results. This episode is a fill for two prompts on the kinkmeme:
1. “When Sherlock and John start a relationship, Sherlock decides to turn the extra bedroom into his own SECRET LAB.”
2. “Sherlock clones himself for SCIENCE, and ends up with several fully-grown clone!Sherlocks with his personality and all his memories in tact. This, of course, leads to Sherlocks/John.”

This story is also available in podfic form. Thank you, Ro!




John had speculated, to himself, that this might happen eventually. He’d just assumed that when it did happen, it would be a dizzying confluence of adrenaline, flailing limbs, and poor judgment. Perhaps right up against the door of the flat. Perhaps right up against the street door.
He certainly could not have predicted that Sherlock would shut off the telly one evening, turn to John, who was sat next to him, and say, “Would you like to go bed with me?”
It was so unexpected, John at first did not register the last two words. “It’s only a quarter of nine.”
Sherlock frowned. “I suppose I should have expected I’d get that wrong,” he said, mostly to himself. “I practised it in front of the mirror for an hour this afternoon!”
“Wait. Did you just invite me to go to bed with you?”
“Yes!” Sherlock pointed at John with glee, as though they were a team of contestants on a quiz show. “That’s precisely it!”
John looked away, baffled, gazing at the blank television screen. “Well, alright.”
“Brilliant.” With characteristic strength but uncharacteristic affection, Sherlock gripped John’s knee with both hands. “I knew practising that speech would pay off!”
“You call that a speech?”
“Why, do you think it was a little too florid?”
As Sherlock undressed, John was pleased with what he saw, but for the most part not surprised; he had seen pretty much all of it before, as is often the case with flatmates.
He couldn’t help but grin broadly, however, when he got his very first look at the erection that had been tenting Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms for the last twenty minutes. The thick shaft, not too long but certainly long enough, curved slightly upwards, terminating in the roundest, plumpest glans John had ever clapped eyes on. His breaths came fast and heavy; he could nearly feel the crown of it already teasing his rim.
Desire brought a very different person out of John. By then he was too filled with lust to stop himself before saying, “That’s a nice, thick cock.” His voice, like his words, was low and coarse.
Sherlock drank in John’s obvious delight. If John’s lasciviousness surprised him, he did not show it. “I’m pleased it meets with your approval,” he said.
The words continued to pour out of John’s mouth, even as a little voice in his head warned him that he was being absurd. “Oh god, yeah,” he said, “I love a big cock. I like to feel really full.” As he reached out to give that broad shaft a few worshipful strokes, he had a look on his face like Sherlock had already satisfied him with it.
The truth was, Sherlock did find John’s pillow talk absurd, but in that charming way that he found all of John’s absurdities to be. And so he allowed John to push him onto his back and climb on top of him, and then Sherlock made John feel very full indeed.
A week or so later, having engaged in a several more bouts of comparable quality, Sherlock lifted his head from where it had been tucked under John’s chin and said, “Do you think that now that…things are the way they are…you’d be amenable to moving your things here into my room?”
“I could do that,” John replied. But being with Sherlock in this new way, while intoxicating, had not completely dulled his wits. “You’ve hatched a plan for how to use the room, I gather.”
“I’d like to turn it into a laboratory.”
“What for?”

Sherlock’s limbs slithered about, stretching here, clutching John tighter there. “For experiments, of course. What else is a lab for?”
“But you’ve got Bart’s.”
“I can’t do everything I want to do at Bart’s.”
“Did you purposely entice me in to a sexual relationship with you just so you could move me in here and have the other room for yourself?”
Sherlock hummed with contentment and put his nose underneath John’s ear so he could smell him. “Sounds like something I might do,” he mumbled, “but no.”
John immediately regretted giving Sherlock permission to repurpose the erstwhile bedroom, because the first thing Sherlock did was shut himself up in it, refusing to emerge for days.
John dutifully placed tea and biscuits outside the door at regular intervals. Sometimes he’d come back to find that they’d been consumed, sometimes not. Occasionally he would knock and shout, “Come to bed!”
And the reply would come, “Got a lovely cot in here, ta.”
John had only just grown accustomed to waking in the night to find Sherlock beside him, or sometimes half on top of him, and now he was absent again. In those fuzzy spaces between sleep and consciousness, John began to have strange dreams, in which machine-people were in the flat, dragging their metal feet about, scraping their hulking forms along the walls. They had the voices of men.
He did not notice the new scuff-marks on the dimly-lit staircase.
Then the telly was on the blink. At first, John might hope to catch a few minutes of a programme when Sherlock was out of the flat, but he gave up on the thing entirely after a while, once the ghostly interference on the screen became constant.
As he strolled down Baker Street on the way home from the surgery one day, he saw people out walking their dogs, on the way to Regent’s Park. Nearing 221B, the dogs would cower and whimper, and their owners would have to drag them along to the end of the street.
Having witnessed this, John took the stairs two at a time up to the laboratory, to confront Sherlock about it. But as he approached the room, a strange green glow suddenly poured out from all sides of the closed door. A low-frequency rumbling emanated from the room, and the hairs on the back of John’s neck stood up. He felt compelled to turn around and return to the sitting room, and did not pursue the matter any further.
And then John woke up to utter silence for the first time in weeks. Sherlock was not there in bed with him, but neither was that barely-perceptible electric droning that made John’s rubbish NHS fillings ache.
John showered and went into the kitchen to make tea and toast. He flipped through the paper in the blessed silent calm. Sherlock came in and poured himself some tea.
“Morning, John.”
“Mrn…” John mumbled. He was absorbed in a particular crossword clue. Sherlock left quietly.
Moments later, Sherlock reappeared, pouring himself another cup of tea.
“Morning, John.”
John tilted his head. “I said good morning. Anything on today, so far?”
“Not particularly.” Before leaving, Sherlock picked up John’s toast and took a bite out of it, knowing that he would get away with it.
Shortly thereafter, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen once more, pouring himself another cup and saying, more sprightly than ever, “Morning, John!”
“I said good morning. What’s with all the tea?”
“What’s with all what tea?”
Then Sherlock walked in again.
“John, my keys have gone missing again,” he said. “Have you seen them?”
Both Sherlocks wore the same white shirt and black trousers. John looked from one to the other.
“I hate dreams where I get up and do my morning routine,” he said. “Then when I wake up, I have to do it all over again.”
Typically, the moment John realised he was having a dream, he woke up. But now he remained where he was, staring at the two Sherlocks, who stared back at him, albeit in a less maddened and more captivated way.
A third Sherlock popped his head round the doorway. “Found your keys,” he said, and dangled them from two fingers. “They’d fallen between the sofa and the end table.”
The second Sherlock plucked the keys from his doppelganger’s hand. “Sounds like a place where I might drop them accidentally,” he said approvingly.
“You know, that was my thinking as well.”
“How interesting!”
John closed his eyes and sucked on his lower lip, then said, “Exactly how many Sherlocks exist, currently?”
“Just the three,” one of them replied matter-of-factly, as if to say Four Sherlocks? That would just be silly.
“And are there more on the way?”
A different Sherlock replied. “Not that I’ve created.”
John lowered his head and began rapping his skull slowly against the table. “Why, why have you done this? You know this will all end in tears, don’t you? I’ve seen Star Trek. At some point, these two will realise that there can only be one Sherlock Holmes in the world, and they’ll have to go. Then they’ll turn evil and decide they must eliminate you in order to go on living, so I’ll end up holding a gun whilst the three of you each try to convince me that they’re the real Sherlock, and at some point one of you will say, ‘You haven’t a choice. You’ll have to kill all three of us if you want to save the planet from destruction or whatnot.’ And that’s supposed to help me identify which of you is the original, because only the true Sherlock Holmes would be so self-sacrificing, but then I’ll have to wonder if the one that said that only said it because they’re savvy enough to know how I would react to it--”
“John.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “This isn’t one of your science fiction programmes. This is reality. When I created these two clones, I gave them an in-built limited life-span. They’ll expire in two days regardless of how they feel about it, and then life will go on as normal.”
“Two days? If they’re only meant to last two days, why create them at all? You didn’t --You didn’t make two clones just to help you find your keys, did you?”
“Don’t be daft,” said Sherlock. “They’re a present. For you.”
John leaned back in his chair, now more incredulous than ever. “Right. That’s what I need. Three Sherlocks. I understand now, how ladies feel when they get lingerie for Christmas. Two more Sherlocks is a present for you. And wait a minute. If they’re due to ‘expire’ in two days, what’s to be done with them after that?”
Sherlock frowned. “It insults me that you think I won’t know how to dispose of two bodies.”
“I’m offended as well,” one of the other Sherlocks piped up. “In case anyone’s interested.”
John dropped his plate and cup in the sink without bothering to rinse them. “I don’t have any more time for this nonsense. I’m meeting someone in half an hour.”
Three pairs of eyes glittered with jealousy. “Meeting someone?”
“Well, Mike,” John said. “At Bart’s. He asked me to have a chat with a couple of bright sparks about field surgery.” He grabbed his coat and paused in the doorway, nodding his head in a wide circle to indicate all three Sherlocks. “When I come back, I want this sorted.”
He left without saying goodbye.
“What do you mean, sorted?” Sherlock called uselessly after him. “You think I can put them back in the packaging and return them to Debenhams?”
Fidgeting, another Sherlock protested, “I’d like to think of myself as more of a Selfridges situation.”
John returned in the afternoon to find there were still three identical Sherlocks in the flat. One of them was explaining to the other two about some of the chemistry equipment in the kitchen, and how it had proved useful in a recent case. John sat on the sofa and listened to the conversation as it turned to the various competencies (or lack thereof) of the Met, then to the current criminal climate of London, and then to John’s inexplicable and often annoying tendency to blog about things that were completely irrelevant, such as Sherlock having been unaware that bacon, pork, and ham all came from the same animal.
Listening to the authoritative lecturing and the quick but curious responses, John gleaned that the new Sherlocks had most of their creator’s knowledge, but not all of his memories and experiences. They were like amnesiacs, who knew what a cinema was but had no clue what their favourite films might be. It was quite entertaining to eavesdrop on; one Sherlock was obviously thrilled at having such a rapt and perspicacious audience, and the other two seemed delighted to have someone interesting to listen to.
There was no indication that the clones possessed any variations on Sherlock’s personality. He had not produced split-Sherlocks, one that was sweet and kind and one that was cruel and nasty. Pity; John might have been inclined to lobby for the preservation of a particular one, when the time came.
Before he could delve too deeply into the topic of ballistics and bloodstain patterns, Sherlock ended the lecture, insisting that it was now time to take John out to dinner.
Just watching Sherlock eat was like foreplay. It wasn’t that he was trying. Sherlock could do anything sexily, if he cared to, but he usually never bothered with such nonsense. Nonetheless, to see the ascetic Sherlock putting food in his body was always extremely gratifying to John. It was a corporeal indulgence, just as the sex was; that was probably why it turned him on.
“Are you the original Sherlock?” John asked.
“Does it matter?” said Sherlock.
“Well, no, in the sense that, if you aren’t, there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment. But I have questions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, what did you mean about this being a gift for me? What am I meant to do with three Sherlocks?”
“Oh John, you’re asking the wrong questions, as usual. It’s not what you’re going to do with us. It’s what we’re going to do with you.”
And he refused to say more on the matter. He just continued licking crème brulee off his spoon.
Upon their return, John turned his back for one second, and found himself stood next to what he suspected was a different Sherlock. This one, though dressed identically, didn’t seem to have cold winter air clinging to him, like his dinner companion had moments ago, when they’d climbed the stairs.
This Sherlock herded him into the bathroom, where the tub was just finished filling. Sherlock turned the tap off and bade John get in.
“What’s all this?” John asked.
“Whenever you come to bed and you’re not freshly bathed, you’re self-conscious about it. It can be quite tedious to seduce you in those circumstances.” Sherlock helped John undress.
“Will you be getting in with me?” John said as his shirt came off.
“Don’t fret about us. We’ve all washed.”
That hadn’t been quite what John meant, but he let it go. “Are you the same Sherlock I had dinner with?”
“Does it matter?”
“Suppose not.” Once divested of clothing, John shivered and happily stepped from the cold tiles into the scalding tub. Sherlock scrubbed him efficiently, his face void of affection or vicarious enjoyment. When he noticed that John seemed miffed about this, he explained that the three Sherlocks had decided it would not do to pleasure John too much in the tub.
“Would have liked to have been part of that discussion,” John remarked. “So why are you washing me at all, then? I can wash myself.”
Sherlock lifted each of John’s feet out of the water in turn, to scrub his toes. He was very careful, so it didn’t tickle at all. “Yes,” he said, “but this is more romantic.”
“Romantic, says the man who feared ‘Would you like to go to bed with me’ was too extravagant of an emotional outpouring.”
“Could you get on your knees and turn about, please, so I can finish washing you?”
“Oh, I stand corrected,” John said, rolling his eyes as he bent dutifully over the rim of the tub so that Sherlock could scrub with stark efficiency behind his balls. “This is getting more romantic by the second. I might swoon.”
Sherlock dried John with a big, fluffy towel and brought him out to the sitting room, which was a bit different from the sitting room through which John had passed half an hour ago.
A fire had been lit, casting a warm glow over the room and heating it considerably. The chairs and sofa had been pushed aside to allow two heavy duvets to be spread out before the fireplace. A sheet was laid on top, and the space was made cosier still by the ensconcing placement of pillows and cushions collected from all over the flat. A stack of towels and an enormous pump-bottle of lube lent a naughty air to the otherwise sweetly snug arrangement. Though by far the naughtiest additions to the scene were the two extra Sherlocks already curled up there, unburdened by clothing.
“Hello, John.”
“Hello, John.”
When John turned around, he saw that the Sherlock that had bathed him had also silently undressed.
John found himself guided down into this warm, inviting nest by these three maddening but irresistible men, and then slowly but inescapably set upon by a swarm of limbs and mouths. He lay on his back, succumbing to the sensations, watching intriguing shadows dance on the walls and ceiling.
With six hands and three tongues to be kept occupied, John was well feasted upon, touched and licked and kissed and over every inch of his body. This was no ordinary foreplay, with its perfunctory caressing of the usual erogenous zones. Although to be fair, John was discovering that any place licked and sucked at by a Sherlock became an erogenous zone. Sometimes, a touch that was wet or warm, or both, would make him arch or writhe, revealing a new, untouched patch of skin, upon which a pale, dark-haired sybarite would immediately set to work lavishing attention.
For a long while, no more attention was paid to John’s cock and balls then was paid to any other part of his body. An eager mouth would press against his shaft, but only on its way to his thigh, knee, and calf. An adventurous hand would caress his sack for one spine-tingling moment, before sliding back up over his iliac crest and on to his ribs.
Here and there, John would fight his way out of his happy, sensual haze, trying to find something, anything, that would differentiate the three Sherlocks, physically. Why it mattered, he didn’t know; perhaps knowing one from another would make him feel more in control of the situation. He sought out the tiny mole on Sherlock’s right hip that he found so endearing; not only did all three Sherlocks possess it, the third one displayed it for him, having noticed that John had been looking for it on the other two.
After that, he thought the trick would be the scars. A clone wouldn’t have scars, would it? But to his dismay, all three Sherlocks bore evidence of a knife wound over their respective left kidneys, as well as other matching shiny-pink patches and paths on their knees and shoulders.
Since they all moved with the same lissom confidence, it was only occasionally that John would remember that two of these men had never actually examined him before with their own eyes, and yet all three seemed to apply the same amount of reverential expertise. They made observations, like shop-talk, chatting about the perkiness of his nipples or the efforts which produced the most extravagant twitches of his cock, as if he weren’t even there. But never, while John could see them all, did one Sherlock or another display exceptional or prior knowledge of John’s body and thus give himself away as the original.
As they fell into their respective, languid rhythms, the three Sherlocks began to linger more in one spot or another, though once in a while they would all decide to change places, so that the one who had been worshipping his cock could spend some time lavishing attention on the sensitive spots along his collarbones. Whenever John made a move to reciprocate, to grab lazily for a cock or to stroke a thigh, he was gently admonished, told, “Just enjoy it,” and his hand would be replaced at his side.
With all those smooth long limbs sliding over him, John had never before felt so desired, surrounded as he was by men who just wanted to handle his body. Never before had he been the object of so much sexual attention, and in fact, he reckoned there were few who ever had. Though sometimes the Sherlocks would encounter each other as they made their way about, get distracted from John, and snog each other for a bit.
Like the proverbial frog in the pot on the stove, John did not even perceive the increasing intensity of the encounter, so slowly was it happening. But eventually, he noticed that his cock had remained consistently in someone’s mouth for some time, while someone else nuzzled the sack beneath. The remaining mouth was on John’s own. John had never been kissed while receiving a blow job before. The novelty of these two familiar pleasures combined made him wriggle.
The tongue that had laved his balls was venturing further south now, teasing his perineum, then straining to reach behind, but enticingly unable to make contact. John wanted that tongue-tip to reach its destination, and tilted his pelvis as his thighs fell further open, until at last he felt the most feather-light touch against his opening.
That tiny but enticing caress proved the trigger. “Coming now,” John said. “Now. Coming. Oooh yes, ooh there it is…”
Two Sherlocks fought to taste his come as he pumped it, until they ended up locked in a kiss, with sticky strands bridging their lower lips when they separated. They licked these away from each other.
The Sherlock that had been kissing him lifted John’s head into his lap, whilst the other two soothed him with gentle caresses.
John closed his eyes and began to drift off. Someone murmured to him, “Feeling nice and relaxed now?”
Once it occurred to him that he was being spoken to, John responded with a satisfied hum. He did indeed feel quite soft and melty, like a chocolate bar would in front of this fire.
Then he realised what had just been said, and was roused from his half-slumber, and opened one eye. “Wait.” He sat up and looked with suspicion upon the three Sherlocks. “What is it I need to be relaxed for? What are you up to?”
The Sherlocks’ mouths did not twitch, but their eyes got smug. One said, “You didn’t think that was it, did you?”
John’s eyes were unfocused, his brain reluctant to leave his post-orgasmic fog. He collapsed back into that warm, inviting lap. He was still too deliciously full of oxytocin. Woozy and unresisting, he was easily turned onto his belly by the combined efforts of the trio. The moment that all three Sherlocks were thus out of John’s field of vision, one of them gave an authoritative speech that unmistakably identified him as the original.
“Before we begin, one thing I forgot to mention about John: he can’t come unless someone is touching his prick. My understanding is that some people are aroused by the concept of a person so abnormally sensitive that they are able to come solely through some other form of touch, but personally, I wouldn’t trade the sight of John writhing on the edge of orgasm, unable to touch himself, and struggling in vain to achieve the contact he so desperately needs. This is all my roundabout way of asking: Which of you wants to eat John’s arse until he begs?”
“I do!” “Me!”
“Hmm, well, too bad. I’ve got seniority. But you two can sit just to the side here, and John can watch you stroking your big, hard pricks. That will be quite nice for him.”
Then, without waiting for assent from any of the other parties, that Sherlock, obviously the original, settled himself between John’s thighs. He gently kneaded John’s cheeks apart and admired the view, the pink little pucker that winked when caressed by his breath. He worked some saliva onto his tongue before ducking in to spread it around. Next, he smoothly applied both tongue and lips while holding John open with his thumbs. John rewarded Sherlock with a string of soft, non-verbal sounds. He had forgotten any trepidation he might have had a few moments ago. To think, he’d been worried about what the Sherlocks had in store for him.
John watched the other two Sherlocks stroking and showing off their cocks. Though they were kneeling, John himself was flat on the floor, looking up at them, which made their cocks seem even more enormous. It would be so nice to have one of those inside him. He was already close to begging.
One of the two Sherlocks seemed to get bored, and batted his neighbors hand away to stroke his cock instead. The other Sherlock turned towards the grabby one and proceeded to snog him. Soon, they were stretched on the floor beside John, one atop the other, making little happy noises whilst their tongues were entwined. The one on top made a point of twisting to one side occasionally, so John could catch glimpses of those two thick cocks rubbing against one another, the wet, glistening heads spreading shiny streaks along their bellies.
Meanwhile, John was still being teased by the third Sherlock’s mouth. That playful tongue circled round and round his rim, but never pressed into the center. Sherlock was determined that John would get absolutely no penetration until he begged. So that tongue continued to caress and flick and lick long, wet stripes, but never pushed inward. And it was tempting to do so. John was so relaxed and open now; he was even sighing those little sighs he made when he felt open and vulnerable. It would have been so easy to just dart in for a second, feel the very edges of that hidden inner muscle. But Sherlock resisted the urge.
John was as close as he could ever get without his cock being touched. He’d tried to get a hand under himself, but Sherlock wouldn’t allow it, pressing down on his sacrum to restrict his access.
“Enough,” John said. “Fuck me already. Please, just somebody stick it in me.”
“Was that really begging? It didn’t sound pathetic at all.”
“John doesn’t do ‘pathetic.’ ‘Raunchy little tart,’ yes, but not ‘pathetic.’ Now, gentlemen.” The original Sherlock slapped the behind of one of the two snogging Sherlocks. “Let’s not forget, we have a job to do.”
The snogging Sherlocks sulkily untangled themselves. “We were just putting on a show.”
“Yes, well, no one ever remembers the opening act. Come over here and have a look at the headliner.”
Once again, all three gathered behind John, and began to chatter about him. John stayed still and felt a bit conflicted, but admittedly mostly aroused, about being prodded and discussed like a sex object.
“Oh, look at that,” one said, as another spread John’s arse open to display him. “He’s ready.”
“He’s got the loveliest arsehole I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s the only arsehole you’ve ever seen.”
“Well, I may not know art, but I know what I like.”
They began to commiserate, muttering low enough that John could not hear what they were saying. He’d long since lost track of which was which again.
Finally, one of them laid flat on his back beside John and ordered, “Right. Come over here and ride me, John.”
John turned his head to smirk at him, “You what?”
Another Sherlock corrected the first. “Lots to learn, still. You see, it is well-established that John loves cock. He likes it in his mouth and his arse, and he’s not picky about how he’s oriented; he’ll take it when he’s on his belly, flat on his back, even on hands and knees. But he’s no one’s submissive, and he won’t be ordered. He welcomes you to treat his arse like it’s your personal playground, but you must ask nicely.” Sherlock then leaned over John, giving him a bit of a back rub all the while, and nuzzled that spot behind John’s ear that made him pliant. He said softly, “We’d love it if you got on top of this fellow here.”
“S’more like it,” John grunted, as he raised himself up and climbed on.
But rather than do any work at all, the Sherlock that John was about to ride busied himself playing with John’s cock whilst his two counterparts took turns with the bottle of lube, one of them gently pushing two slick fingers into John, the other spreading his share up and down the cock that would be doing the honours.
Only when both were prepared and the cock guided to John’s entrance did the Sherlock on his back grip John’s thighs with both his hands and urge him downwards. John could feel himself making incidental contact with the hand that guided the cock, as he slowly pierced himself with it.
This was a special favorite of John’s, sitting on Sherlock’s cock and feeling it go up him. Sherlock had spoken the truth, he did enjoy receiving whilst on his back, or side, or belly, but something about that swift vertical stroke of Sherlock’s cock gave him a unique and brilliant jolt of pleasure.
He was, however, always mindful of the possibility of a mishap in that position, and so never let himself get too frantic; he made sure Sherlock’s glans was seated before making each great shove downwards. He grew to love this short initial stroke just as much, for the tingling anticipation it triggered.
Once he’d got himself well-spitted on that shaft, the Sherlock that had guided the cock inside then snuggled up behind John, giving him sweet little kisses on the back of his neck. What the third Sherlock was doing, John couldn’t see, but he wasn’t concerned at the moment. He rode contentedly on the cock inside him and stroked his own, listening to them talk about him.
“Oh, he’s happy,” they said. “Look at him bounce on it.”
John paused only when he heard the plastic creak of the lube-bottle’s pump. 
“I’m sorted, thanks, I don’t need any more lube.”
“Oh yes, you do.”
The Sherlock behind John put a hand on the bottom-Sherlock’s thigh to indicate to whom he was speaking. “Pull out almost all the way,” he said. “Alright, now push in.”
A finger easily followed the cock back inside. John made a little noise of mild surprise.
Sherlock leaned forward again, and John felt the smile of approval against the side of his neck. “Yes,” Sherlock murmured, “this is definitely happening.”
A chill went up John’s spine. “Excuse me, what is happening?”
The finger slid between Sherlock’s cock and John’s rim, making a half-circle journey. It made John’s skin tingle all over.
A second finger pushed its way in, alongside the first. It was gradually becoming clear to John what was about to happen. He opened his mouth to get verbal confirmation, but no words would come. He just listened as the three voices chattered over each other. Which words belonged to which Sherlock had become a blur.
“Oh, this is so dangerous,” one said.
“But he likes danger, doesn’t he.” A Sherlock leaned close to repeat in John’s ear, “Doesn’t he?
“How shall I -- shall I take my fingers out first, then put my prick in?”
“Hmm. Try putting your prick in between the two fingers as the fingers are going out.”
John’s breath was coming in pants, punctuated by little ohs of panic. “Erm, the prick is in, gentlemen. Unless I’m mistaken?”
“Relax, John.” Sherlock knew that John understood perfectly well what was happening, and did not bother to clarify for him. “We’re being very careful back here. Just stay calm.”
“‘Stay calm’ is not something you’re supposed to say during sex!”
“Ugh, is this about me not being romantic again?”
John’s head was swimming. Not in that sweet, post-orgasmic way, but buzzing and frantic. Whoever had said it had been correct, this was dangerous. He had to decide right now if he wanted it to happen. God, the thought of two of those luscious fat cocks inside him made John quiver from head to foot. But should he attempt it?
“John.” It was the third Sherlock, now sat by his side, who was whispering to him. “I know you want this prick inside you.” He reached back and touched a fingertip to the point where the eager second cock was trying to make its way inside. “I know that you’ll love it. It’s difficult because the head of it is so big and round, but you like it that way. You can’t see his, but here, have a look at mine.” Sherlock tugged at his cock and displayed it for John, who tilted his head to gaze down upon it. The foreskin was drawn back and the glans was glossy with pre-come. “See that? It’s the same as the ones behind you.”
John tried to focus on it.
“Now, picture it in your mind. Picture this pushing against you. Can you see it?”
John closed his eyes. “Uh huh.”
“Now picture your arsehole relaxing and admitting it.”
“Okay. Okay.”
But try as he might, John could not get relaxed enough. Sherlock pushed and John pushed back, and nothing happened.
“Don’t disappoint us now, John. We know you love cock. You want all the cock you can get.”
“Just yours,” John gasped. “I only want yours.”
“Then take it.”
From behind John, a voice cried out, “Oh God, it’s going in.”
The two Sherlocks that were able to watched as John’s body engulfed the plump glans, then the thick shaft of the second cock. John growled and grunted as it was fed to him, inch by inch.
The Sherlock who was sat beside John heaved a great sigh of relief, and smiled. “Oh, John,” he said, “John,  your body is incredible.” Sherlock continued to watch as the cock retreated just slightly, then powered in further. He tilted his head toward the Sherlock underneath John. “Wish you could see how easily he’s taking it now. Really just a delightful sight.”
He returned his attention to John. “Do you feel full now?”
“Yes,” John panted.
“Just impossibly full?”
“Uh huh.” Despite his terror, John was wracked by the inescapable pangs of pleasure that those two cocks were inflicting upon him, those cocks that didn’t even fit in him properly, but somehow worked.
Sherlock left his side, no longer shielding John from the heat of the fire, and John felt bereft, even though he still had two more bodies pressed up against him.
“Tell me more about it,” Sherlock said.
John shook and stuttered; by now he was not so much breathing as hiccupping. He was trying to form words, but one cock or another was always pressing down on his insides and sending jolts up his spine and down his thighs. Finally John took a deep breath and bellowed the only thought he’d been able to hang onto for the last five minutes.
“It hurts but it feels so gooood oohhhh fuuuck--”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. John was a complete mess, and it was so beautiful to see. He bent down and put his lips against John’s ear and whispered, “But you’re not actually full yet, John, did you know that? Because you need a prick in your mouth as well. Bet you’d like that.”
John felt a presence directly in front of him, looming over him. He opened his eyes to the sight of that third enormous hard cock. He nodded. “Unh.”
“How fortuitous that I happen to be here.”
John opened his mouth just slightly, so that Sherlock would have to push his way inside, the way John liked. Once he had, John latched on to that cock and sucked without shame. Sherlock refrained from thrusting, instead letting him quietly enjoy his mouthful.
Meanwhile, the other two Sherlocks were not being so quiet. They argued about how, precisely, they should go about their business now that they were both sharing John so intimately.
“Just -- don’t push! Let me pull out, then you push in, and then--”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Then stop pushing before it’s your turn to push!”
As soon as the two bickering Sherlocks got themselves synchronised, a new line of conversation began. The voices were a muddle to John, their words crisp but their origins indistinct to him.
“There were never any negotiations about who should climax first.”
“I’m going first.”
“But John’s the guest of honour.”
“Don’t think it would be a good idea for him to come whilst he’s sucking you off. He might bite. Unintentionally, of course.”
“That’s not why I’m going first. It will be a turn-on for him if I come in his mouth whilst he’s so full of cock. Put him right on the edge, I should imagine.”
“Good thinking.”
“Isn’t that right John? Wouldn’t it turn you on if I came down your throat?”
John closed his eyes and nodded.
“And we do so hate to disappoint you.”
Sherlock began to make little thrusts into John’s mouth, to indicate that he was ready to finish. John took the cue and worked his tongue and throat more aggressively. His helpless noises of pleasure were involuntary, and Sherlock found it quite gratifying to hear. It was only a matter of seconds, and Sherlock was shooting down John’s throat.
Once John had swallowed down everything given to him, Sherlock removed himself reluctantly from John’s mouth. He glanced down and saw John’s untouched cock twitching and jumping with every thrust he received.
“John,” Sherlock said. “why aren’t you touching yourself?”
John whimpered.
“Do you want one of us to do it?”
“Is something the matter?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of what, John?"
John’s chest heaved as he opened his eyes and forced out the words. “Of coming with two cocks in me.”
Three large hands, each belonging to a man who believed he knew what was good for John better than John himself did, fought for space on his cock. A few tangled, irregular strokes was all it took. John came screaming, his sphincter spasming hard but unable to contract around that pair of thick shafts. Two hands milked his cock, which spurted volcanically, while the other squeezed his balls.
From behind him, Sherlock groaned, “Oh, I’m going. I’m going,” and wrapped both arms around John, clutching him tightly and panting in his ear whilst pumping his load into that crowded space. When he began to soften, he pulled out, dragging with him come and lube that dripped over the remaining cock inside and down John’s thighs.
The last Sherlock raised his hips and gave John a couple experimental thrusts, before declaring him gorgeously filthy and loose. He tried to flip John onto his belly, and when John reminded him that he did not take orders, he politely asked John to please get on his belly, which John assented to. Once John had assumed the position, Sherlock crawled on top and entered him once more, elaborating to his counterparts his thoughts about this sloppy, noisily wet denouement. With every slap of Sherlock’s pelvis against it, John’s arse jiggled, and the other two watched raptly and speculated on how John must have felt, inside and out, what it must feel like to come inside a hot, slick hole already filled with spunk.
With a stutter of his hips, the last Sherlock roared and rounded his shoulders, and then suddenly had no more to contribute to the conversation. He collapsed onto John, who grunted but tolerated his weight for a minute or two.
The three Sherlocks each took up a towel and cleaned the stickiest parts of John’s body, then tended to themselves, all the while promising their thoroughly used and exhausted John another nice hot bath just as soon as he felt up to it. John merely grunted again.
Someone inspected his backside, then proudly declared him fit as a fiddle, though John disagreed with this diagnosis. “If word got out about the state I’m currently in,” he said, “six terrorist groups would probably take credit for it. Parliament will pass a security bill to assure the people of Britain that this will never happen again.”
One Sherlock cleared his throat, indicated his neighbor, and said, “That’s all very well if John’s done for the night, but we’ve only got thirty-six hours left on this planet. Would anyone mind if the two of us just had another snog?”