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Wine's A Good Thing

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24 December 2012

 

Wine, Sherlock decided, is definitely a good thing. Very good thing. He tried to think of a superlative to better describe its very goodness, but his thoughts were so slow and muddled and he was a bit distracted by John's tongue on his neck, making him moan a little. Mm. John's a good thing, too.

John had pulled him up and steered him to the bedroom after Molly had walked in on them in the living room (why bother? 'S not like she's gonna come back) and Sherlock was now wedged between the doctor and the closed bedroom door. Not a bad place to be, really, he thought, as his hands cupped John's face and pulled him back up to his lips again.

More wine-soaked kisses, soft lips and smiles. They were slower now than they had been in the living room. Taking their time.

Lots of tongues, messy, hips sliding together a little. 'S Nice.

Sherlock slid his hands down to John's hips and pushed him gently, trying to direct him over to the bed without breaking their kiss. At some point, though, he realised they were going entirely past the end of the bed instead of onto it, and he finally broke contact. He clambered onto it without any romantic finesse whatsoever, all limbs as though he were a lanky teenager again, and flopped onto his back. John just laughed and straddled him and kissed him again, harder now, hands in hair and pulling a little, oh, John, you know how I love that, and they were both making little noises of lust in their throats. John's hands pulled his shirt untucked, then stroked his fingers on his stomach, up to his chest as far as the shirt would allow, and back down.

Electricity. Breathing hitched, heart rate rose, blood drained southwards.

A funny thought struck Sherlock. This is fun. He usually only associated the concept of fun with serial killers. Is this normal people fun?

The heat and need that he was beginning to grow familiar with were pooling between his legs, drawing his trousers tight. They had done this a handful of times since that first night, and Sherlock was finding that sexual encounters were indeed a very, very good thing, too. John gave him something he never even knew he needed. God, John, I need you, touch me, please, make me moan, stop me thinking. He tried to say it, but the noises he was making got lost between his tongue and John's.

When Sherlock took John's hand and gently pulled it down so that he could feel his growing erection under his fingers, John moaned softly. There were so many things he wanted to do with Sherlock, he was intoxicated with the possibilities. He popped Sherlock's trouser buttons and pulled down the zipper enough to let his fingers past. His grip tightened around the taut material outlining the shape of Sherlock's cock, and Sherlock grunted into his mouth with his hands on John's neck, deepening the kiss into something hungrier.

More teeth, pulling lips and sucking tongues like a pair of horny teens.

He pulled down the pants that were in the way, and took Sherlock's length in hand. Sherlock groaned beneath him, and his hands roamed through John's hair, down his neck and chest to his hips, pulling him close, rolling against John's own erection and sending that little delicious electric tingle through John's body. Sherlock was thrusting minutely into John's hand and he mumbled something about "Lots of clothes, too many clothes," and started to fumble with his shirt buttons. His fingers kept slipping though, and eventually he gave up with a frustrated noise and just ripped it open, the buttons going everywhere as that sculpted, pale torso was stripped bare for John.

Jesus. Drunk Sherlock is raunchy Sherlock. It was possibly one of the hottest things John had ever seen. He gripped Sherlock's cock tighter and began to stroke harder and faster, and the long-fingered hands that had just turned their attention to getting John's shirt undone suddenly fisted involuntarily in the material as Sherlock groaned through his teeth and his back arched.

"Oh, John!"

John loved how urgently Sherlock wanted him, how that brilliant mind faltered under his touch. He loved how badly he wanted Sherlock, he wasaching for him. God, he needed him, this brilliant strange creature writhing under his fingertips. He had been delighted in these last few weeks to discover that Sherlock was so much more receptive to pleasures of the body than he could have ever dared to hope, and God, knowing that it was John who did this to him, and that John was the only one to do this to him- the wine lubricated the words that might not have otherwise slid from his mouth.

"Sherlock, will you take me tonight?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he froze, his pupils dark and enormous. His eyebrows came together as though he was trying to understand what John had just said. John, emboldened by the alcohol, lowered himself so that he was in line with Sherlock's cock, and let his tongue dart out to lick the head.

"I want you to be inside me, Sherlock." A wet, sloppy kiss to the frenulum, and Sherlock gasped.

"I need to feel you filling me." He slid his lips over Sherlock's cock, just over the head, and back up again. He was rewarded with a noise that sounded something like "Nnngh!"

"Please, Sherlock, please take me tonight." He swallowed him down as far as he could revelling in Sherlock's taste, and if John had been looking, he would have seen the detective's toes curl. He certainly felt Sherlock's hips thrust involuntarily and heard the strangled whimper that escaped his lips.

Sherlock's mind ground to a halt. A whisper of "John," was all he could manage as he fought to regain rational thought. Oh, how he wanted this. John talking like that with his voice so rough and his tongue so hot and wet and soft was too much for him to handle. He wanted everything. His body, abuzz with alcohol and John, need more John, tried to tell him yes, God, yes, but he forced himself to pause, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow, trying to let the last sane bit of his mind break through the fog. John pulled back so that he was just licking up and down Sherlock's shaft, awaiting his answer.

Despite every nerve ending in his body screaming yes, YES!  at him, Sherlock managed to pant out, "N-not now, John, can't now, not tonight."

He looked down at John to see his reaction, and John was pulling the most ridiculous puppy eyes and pouting his lips at him. He snorted, the sight of John's silly expression distracting him from his mad lust for a moment, and pulled John (laughing, good, not upset) back up to kiss him. His fingers got to work and finally managed to get the doctor's shirt undone without ripping any buttons off. Quite proud of himself, really. He pulled John down to lay flush with him, chest against chest, those vast expanses of skin and muscle pressing together. He caught John's mouth with his own again before pushing up and rolling them over so that Sherlock was between John's legs. His lips found John's neck and he spoke to him between licks and nips and kisses while John's fingers entwined in his hair.

"Alcohol compromises pain perception," -a kiss- "don't want to hurt you," -a suck- "by accident." A lick right up John's jawline, causing John to moan and something hot ran down Sherlock's spine and coiled in his groin. "And," he added, his lips at John's ear, "I want to be fully present for that particular event." He pulled back and finally, finally pulled down John's jeans and pants.

"Right now I'm not much good for anything more than this-" and without further ado, he leaned down and took a long, wet lick up John's shaft, relishing the taste. He heard John say "Oh, God, tomorrow, then," and his hands fisted in Sherlock's hair and pulled, and God, that feeling made him ache, John, I want you, I want everything of you. He lapped hungrily at John's cock, far more messily than he would have otherwise, but John gasped and moaned and squirmed beneath him and oh, John, hearing you like that- he couldn't help but reach between his own legs and take himself in hand, groaning low and dirty around John at the touch.

"Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, are you-?"

John's voice was strained with lust, and at the sight of Sherlock touching himself while his tongue was on John, he fisted his hands into the sheets to prevent himself pushing Sherlock's head down. He may be drunk, but he wasn't an arsehole.

Sherlock sucked John's length into his mouth and hummed a deep affirmation that vibrated around John's cock. The doctor's voice broke as he moaned at the sensation, and Sherlock stroked his own cock in time to his mouth on John, unable to resist thrusting into his own hand, more animal than human now, fuck, John, oh God, your moans, your taste, how'd I miss this for so long? He pulled off John for just a second; there was just one thing he needed.

"John, pull my hair."

John didn't need asking twice. He would've done anything Sherlock asked of him with that timbre of voice. He fisted one hand in Sherlock's curls, pulling firmly but gently, and fought the temptation to squeeze his eyes closed with pleasure, because the sight in front of him was beyond comprehension. Sherlock, with shirt hanging open and hair messy, on his hands and knees between John's legs, moaning and thrusting hard and fast into his own hand (is that how his hips would move if he was fucking me?) while he sucked John like his life depended on it, John hadn't had sex like this since he was nineteen, Jesus, fuck, if this is how Sherlock gets when he's drunk-

Sherlock came suddenly, sooner than he was expecting, maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was John pulling his hair but one second he was relatively close and the next second he was coming, oh God, he was coming, moaning and bucking his hips with every wave of pleasure leaving his head spinning and his come was coating his hand and fuck. He managed to stop himself toppling right over, and took a second to close his eyes and pant through and regain balance. He brought the hand that was hot and slick with his own come to wrap tightly around John's cock, there was something so deliciously filthy about using his own semen to lubricate John, and the sound that John uttered would have made Sherlock hard again instantly if he hadn't just had an orgasm. All he wanted right now was to hear John make that noise over and over and over again, lose control, John, break for me. He pumped John hard and fast, the obscene sound of Sherlock's fist fucking John mingling with John's cries, and then John bucked and swore and shuddered, thrusting up into Sherlock's hand as his come spurted rhythmically over his stomach with cries of "Oh, fuck, Sherlock, Jesus, oh God, ohh God..." and then they were both panting heavily in an exhausted, satisfied sort of way. Sherlock stripped off his ruined shirt and used it to clean off his hand and John's stomach before collapsing back onto the bed next to John in a messy heap. John burst into laughter, and Sherlock couldn't help but join him.

"That - was - ridiculous." John panted out between giggles.

Sherlock smiled, remembering the first time John had said that to him.

"Yes, it was." He suddenly felt the need to kiss John's neck. So he did, although he was too exhausted and mushy (mushy? Since when'd I start saying 'mushy'?) to do it properly so it ended up being more of a sucky licky thing. John giggled again, and turned his head to kiss Sherlock properly.

"And fantastic." He ran his fingers softly through Sherlock's hair as they settled back onto the pillows.

"Mmm. Very." Sherlock rolled over, draping his arm over John's chest. Now that he was sated, the pull to sleep was irresistible, and he could feel himself slipping into a warm, swirling darkness. Not yet, no no wait, there's something I need to say. He tried to fight the descent, but he couldn't keep his eyes open.

"John... you know... I..."

But he never made it to the end of the sentence. John just smiled and placed a kiss into Sherlock's hair, pulled the cover over them both, and made a mental note to thank Lestrade for getting Sherlock drunk the next time he saw him.