John was in a jaunty sort of mood, anticipation for tonight's date making him smile at everyone and everything. They'd gotten fairly far snogging last time, and this third date promised the first sex he'd managed since he moved in with Sherlock and his mad interruptions and wonderfully dangerous pastimes. John paused between patients to get out his phone and, with an impish little grin and a tiny thrill of risk for the presumption, sent a text.
Your thighs are so
creamy white, I just
want to lie between
them and lap at your
skin. My mouth
waters at the thought
of tasting you tonight.
His phone beeped a few moments later and he read the reply eagerly.
Only for you would I
consider spreading my
legs, but you I would
welcome between my
John stared, and then stared some more, certain it was some sort of bizarre joke. Then his phone beeped again, and he read the next message with some trepidation.
That reminds me, we're
out of milk.
John laughed, but it had a bit of a hysterical edge to it. Sherlock had seen John's admiration from the first, put him off and pushed him away before John could even suggest anything untoward, and so John had soothed his bruised pride and unwelcome desires by asking out every attractive person he thought he could pull. The dates were never quite so satisfying as he hoped, but then, half the time they had Sherlock acting as third wheel, or just dragging him off midway through.
John stared at his phone again, and then sent another message.
If you mean that, I'll
cancel tonight's date &
be home by 6 with milk
& whipped cream. Be
John hesitated over the send button, and then figured, what the hell. If it was all a dream, then he'd wake up, and if it was some sort of joke, then he'd think of something really good to get his revenge. He rang the intercom for the next patient, wondering if his date would ever forgive him. Or if John would even care, once he had Sherlock in his bed. If he really got Sherlock into bed, and if he got to keep him there after. He nearly dropped his phone when it beeped with another message.
Get more lubricant,
you're nearly out. I
knew you were highly
sexual but not how
much you masturbate
when I'm not home.
John stared at the screen in disbelief, then tucked it away as fast as he could when his patient appeared.
When the next lull came and he could check his phone, John was amused to find he had several texts waiting.
I wonder, do you think
of me when you
masturbate so often?
If so, I'll have a lot
to live up to.
If I'm waiting naked,
should I be in my bed,
or yours? Mine is more
comfortable, but yours
Bored. Dull. Come
home soon, or I'll
start and finish
John laughed at that last one and texted back.
I still have an hour to
go, I said six and I
meant it. Don't finish
without me, or you
won't get to finish me,
John only felt a little bad that he was grinning hugely as he called to cancel his date -- his apologetic excuse of a last-minute Sherlock emergency wasn't quite a lie. He pocketed his phone and tried not to rush through his last few patients, ignoring the two times his phone chimed.
It wasn't until he'd safely ensconced himself in a taxi that he checked the messages, anticipation thrumming through him.
You really need to
either choose better
passwords or clear
your internet history
more often. Really,
with your figure?
Unless you're thinking
of me in those pretty
underthings, in which
case, carry on. I
look lovely in black
John laughed and texted back, blushing to his ear-tips but very amused indeed.
Actually that was my
cancelled date's thing,
but I wouldn't mind
seeing you in the one
It took less than a minute to get an answer.
If all goes well tonight
that can certainly be
arranged. This site is
John had to pause to pay the cabbie and nip into Tesco's. He made his way to the display of lubricants and then texted back.
Why do you think I
spent so much time
on it? What brand
of lube? Condoms?
John perused the rather small selection while he waited for Sherlock's reply, feeling a mix of pride and embarrassment that he was loitering around while his hopefully-soon-lover told him what to get. His phone chimed and a spike of pure desire replaced them both when he read Sherlock's text.
The one you have here
is fine, just get a big
bottle. I want the
knickers with the
ruffles you visited
17 times but didn't
Right, that was it. John grabbed the biggest bottle they had of his preferred brand and a box of condoms as well, and headed straight for the milk. He knew there were other groceries they needed, but he couldn't think past the mental image of Sherlock wearing black knickers with pink ruffles, bent over his lap and...
John made it through the chip-and-PIN machine in record time.
I'm almost there,
just finished up at
You. In my bed.
John took the few blocks from the shop at a quick-march that would've made his old Sergeant proud, and he ignored the chime from his pocket in favour of unlocking the door to their flat. He barely paused to put the milk away before he was heading toward the stairs, calling, "Sherlock? Are you in my room?"
"As per your request," came Sherlock's voice, floating down from John's room.
"Right," said John, shedding his coat. "Right, so we're going to do this, then," he added to himself, shoes kicked off in the general direction of the door. His socks were discarded forlornly on the stairs, and he was unbuttoning his shirt even as he pushed open the door to his room.
His breath caught, and he dropped the bag of supplies as his fingers went numb from pure shock. He had half expected Sherlock to have been playing some elaborate prank on him, and nothing at all had prepared him for the sight of Sherlock, on his back in John's bed, skin flushed against the white of the sheets. Sherlock had two fingers buried inside the very pink ring of his arse, and a little whimper escaped both of their mouths as their eyes met.
"Lubricant would be good," said Sherlock, pulling his fingers out with a positively obscene noise and holding his hand up.
John gave himself just a moment to stare before he scooped up the bag and began fumbling with the bottle, cursing whoever it was that caused safety seals to be invented. He finally got it open and squirted a healthy dollop onto Sherlock's hand. "I want to help," said John, when it looked like Sherlock would finish getting ready without John getting to slip his finger into that inviting, tender-looking opening.
"I'll save this for you, then," said Sherlock, eyeing John's rumpled clothing significantly.
John shucked his kit with army efficiency, and managed somehow to climb between Sherlock's legs while getting his own fingers slick with lubricant. "I half thought you were joking," said John, leaning down over Sherlock, trying not to find the entire thing too surreal.
"As did I," said Sherlock, his clean hand tangling in John's hair as their mouths met in a messy, needy kiss. Sherlock's other hand found John's cock and began to spread the cool lubricant over it, making John hiss and moan.
John retaliated by sinking two fingers into Sherlock, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's and trying to catch his breath. "Next time," he said, working them in and out, "I want to do this right, undress you, kiss you more before we get to this bit."
Sherlock grinned and arched up for another kiss. "I didn't want you to back out," he admitted, his own breathing reduced to erratic panting by John's deft touches.
"God, no, been wanting this," John laughed, kissing Sherlock hard. "You saw it from the start." John slid in a third finger just to watch Sherlock lose his train of thought, that great brain stuttering on the pleasure of John's touch. "Wanted you forever, Sherlock."
John crooked his fingers upward and Sherlock moaned, shuddering as John stroked unerringly over the sensitive gland inside him. "Now, John, make it now," begged Sherlock.
Sherlock writhing beneath him was the hottest thing John had ever seen in his life and he was quick to comply. There was more fumbling but between them they got his cock covered and slicked, Sherlock's legs up over John's shoulders and John pressing his way inside.
"Christ, you're tight," said John, trying desperately not to come right then just from the look on Sherlock's face.
"It's been, fuck, a while," Sherlock groaned, his voice low and rough. One hand was braced against the headboard, giving John extra leverage, while the other wrapped itself around his own cock.
John's hips jerked forward, and after a few stuttering, amazed starts, they managed a rhythm of sorts with John thrusting and Sherlock stroking and both of them trying not to finish before they were half begun. John's hands ran up and over Sherlock's thighs and then gripped his hips, making sure he could give Sherlock as much pleasure as John was getting from the tight, hot grasp of Sherlock's willing body. Neither of them managed any further words, just noises and half-moaned syllables.
John let his eyes drift closed, but he couldn't deny himself the sight of Sherlock, his Sherlock, actually beneath him, around him, letting John have him. When he opened them again he met Sherlock's lust-addled gaze and it was all too much. John cried out and thrust harder, hips snapping forward with each pulse of his orgasm, spilling everything out into Sherlock.
John would have worried about Sherlock thinking he was too quick and might always be fast, but just as John finished Sherlock let out a loud groan and came all over himself. Sherlock's face was flushed and his hair stuck in sweaty ringlets to his forehead, but the expression was otherwise very close to the one he wore when he'd had a revelation about a case, very close to the one he'd always worn in John's imagination when he came, but this was so, so much better.
John couldn't help the grin on his face as he watched Sherlock in the throes of pleasure, and watched that brilliant intelligence come back into his pale eyes afterward. "Gorgeous," said John, rubbing one hip gently.
Sherlock smiled right back and stretched, languid as a cat. "I am, aren't I?" he teased, and John laughed.
There were a few moments of awkwardness when John pulled out and they cleaned up and disposed of the detritus, but John was pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock had no intention of leaving his bed once they were done.
"Wouldn't have figured you for a cuddler," said John, head happily pillowed over Sherlock's heart.
Sherlock kissed his hair and said softly, "As with many things we've done together, only with you."