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Pinwheel Sparks

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At last they were at the flat.  John had to force his shaky legs to climb the last few steps.  His breathing was still shallow, he felt light-headed from lack of oxygen.  The residual adrenaline and fear from the pool, the crushing weight of the vest, the sniper's mark floating across Sherlock's forehead, fought with the anticlimactic dispersal of the parties involved.  

They'd taken a cab home, as if all were well.  John had spent the silent ride staring numbly out the window, and trying to still the shaking of his hand by pressing it hard into his thigh.  He did not look over at Sherlock.

Up the stairs to 221B, mindlessly he followed Sherlock's great coat, swinging heavily from his shoulders.  He actually plowed into it, as Sherlock reached into his pocket for the key.

Sherlock ignored him and opened the door, tossing the key on the table there.  John closed the door wearily and leaned against it.  He locked it behind him.  An unusual circumstance, but he didn't feel safe.  Sherlock had swung around and was staring at him with a bright, predatory look, his fingers twitching at his side.  John flattened his hands on the panels behind him.

“Well,” John began inanely, unbalanced by the feral expression on his roommate's face.  “I guess-”

“Mmm,” Sherlock simultaneously interrupted and dismissed him with the single noncommittal noise.  He stepped forward lithely, crowded into John's personal space, and without any further ado, without warning, crushed his mouth against John's, fiercely holding his face on either side.  He pushed closer until they were pressed full length against each other.

John's hands flew up to grip his wrists, pull him away.  But instead he held hard, gasping in shock, recognition and something like panic.  Sherlock pressed his advantage, spearing his tongue into John's open mouth.  He ruthlessly explored, dominated, and John was paralyzed against the door, the intermittent shivers of remembered fear overcome with fevered waves of surprise, arousal and submission.  A small whimper of denial escaped him, was devoured by Sherlock's hungry exploration.

Never lifting that fierce kiss, Sherlock dropped his hands from John's face and jerkily divested him of the cardigan he wore, pulled half the buttons off his shirt trying to pull them free.  His wrists were tugged free, and suddenly he was shirtless.

Sherlock pulled back, sliding his tongue free, biting and sucking on John's lower lip before releasing it with a soft pop.  He leaned away enough to cast his gaze down, across John's deep, furred chest.  John tended towards heavy muscle, bulky rather than slender, though his sides and belly were trim enough.

John found to his astonishment and disbelief that he'd grabbed Sherlock's shoulders once he'd been jerked out of his shirt.  His hands prickled with the rough, damp wool, still smelling of the streets of London.  He let his head fall back, banging rather uncomfortably against the panel, and stared up at Sherlock's face.

“Sherlock,” he began, meaning to chide:  he needed to be the adult here.  His voice was breathy and cracked.  “Sherlock-” he tried again.  This was ludicrous.  He wasn't gay.  He didn't kiss men.  Well, he just had, of course, and his body was still sizzling in reaction, but that was adrenaline-induced, surely.

Sherlock's gray-green eyes had become silver, lambent around enlarged pupils, and there was a hectic flush across skin that was normally so pale and achromic.  His lips were flushed too, moist and swollen from their kiss.  He studied John with his usual unnerving intensity, and instead of letting go, pushing him away, John found he'd tightened his grip on Sherlock's shoulders.

Curiously pliant, John watched Sherlock inventory him:  the darker hair that grew short and thick across broad pectorals, the long tear left by the bullet in Afghanistan, the stupid  Union Jack tattooed over his heart, that he'd gotten when first joining the service, a faint scar across his belly that he'd gotten not in the war, but in some childhood stupidity.

Mesmerized by his focus, John couldn't stop looking at his face as his hands, cool and long, strong and knowing, stroked across him, flattened over the planes of his chest, slid down his sides, pressed across his stomach.   Sherlock drew his thumb along the tops of John's jeans, stopped in the middle and stroked up, following the happy trail in reverse as it broadened into a V, until after an eternity his hands were back up to John's shoulders, caressing that thick muscle until they again cradled John's head.

John wanted to say No, knew he should be shocked and repulsed.  Instead he was captivated, frozen by Sherlock's  predatory aggression.  His blood heated and iced in turns, and a consuming lassitude overcame him, had him melting into the door.  His breathing quickened, remained shallow, and with a thrill of dread and fate, he felt his blood moving south.

His hard-on was a done deal by the time Sherlock was teasing the tops of his trousers.

Once Sherlock's searching gaze lifted again to his face, John said, in a thready voice, “Sherlock.  No.   I'm not... I don't....”

“Nonsense.”  Sherlock's tone was brusquely dismissive, belying the tenderness of his hold.  “Of course you do.  I've known for months.”  He dipped his head and kissed him again, holding his head steady pinioning him with his body as he raided his mouth.  Sherlock's tongue slicked across his lips, shuddered across his teeth, twined around his own tongue;  an agile, aggressive muscle of wet and heat and desire.

John gave in, rose to his toes to increase the contact, let the heat move like honey through his veins.  He would have slithered to the floor if it hadn't been for Sherlock's hands, his long, hard body, the erection John could feel against his stomach.  Oh, god.  Oh, yes.  Oh, no.

“Sherlock-” he gasped, as Sherlock pulled away for a moment.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock interrupted him, and his expression was still wild.

“Yes-” John knew he was referring to the pool.

“I should have protected you.  I was distracted,” Sherlock mumbled as he ran his hands again over John's body and, bizarrely, petted his hair.  “It's unforgivable....”

“No, Sherlock,” John protested, and twined his arms around Sherlock's neck, threaded his fingers through his hair.  “I'm ok.  I don't blame you. It's ok, Sherlock.”

But Sherlock's eyes burned and his hand slid between them, brushing deliriously against John's straining cock as he fumbled with his own zipper.

They kissed again, and John grew more bold, sliding his arms under Sherlock's coat to trace the wings of his shoulder blades, the endless length of his spine, from the thick wavy hair atop his coat collar to where it disappeared below his belt.  God, he'd wanted to do this for so long!  John widened his hands, spanning Sherlock's narrow waist.  He suckled on the tongue speared into his mouth, gripped Sherlock with the fervor of a drowning man, felt the buttons, the rough wool, the belt, the long erection pressing into him.

The sigh of a zipper was unmistakable, and Sherlock leaned back, leaving John bereft, cold against the door.  Sherlock pulled his cock free with one hand, a smooth pinkened column, long and slender like the man himself.

Sherlock pressed John down with his free hand.  “Suck me,” he commanded, his voice rusty.  But John thought perhaps he heard desperation, even uncertainty behind the fevered lust.  And the hand that held his cock was shaking.  Sherlock's eyes glowed, wild, desperate and afraid.

Without Sherlock holding him up, it was easy enough to sink to a crouch, encouraged by the pressure on his shoulder.  Propped on his heels, he thought,  I'm not doing this.  This isn't happening.  But Sherlock's cock was hot and hard under his fingers.  When did I grab it?  He wondered.  It was elegant, delicate.  John slid his fingers up the shaft, alabaster, tinted dusky rose with blood, to the mauve head.

Sherlock gasped and groaned with the small movement.  Fleetingly, John felt aghast at himself, at his eagerness and excitement, but he let that go.  Sherlock needed him.  Needed this.  And John thought he might need it, too.

He slid both his hands onto the shaft, displacing Sherlock's grip, which transferred, predictably, to his head, fingers clutched into his hair.

Suddenly, John felt power, too, felt the long shudder as he traced the throbbing vein up the shaft.  Heard Sherlock's strangled moan as he opened his mouth and licked a circle around the head, tasted the salty, viscid drop that gleamed at the top.

“John,” Sherlock drew out his name into a moan, and his fingers slid to John's mouth, tracing his lips as John drew him inside.  He was smooth, and hot and John eagerly sucked him in, alive with wonder, excitement and lust.

He stroked the base of Sherlock's erection with thumb and forefinger while he roughly suckled as much as he could fit into his mouth.  He had no experience with a cock in his mouth.  Only knew what he'd like himself.  It must be working, though: Sherlock gave a broken moan and pinned his head, still with fingers sliding into his mouth, dragging through saliva, tangling with his tongue, and took over the rhythm, began stroking tumultuously in and out, until all John could do was keep from gagging.... suction was impossible.

He kept his hands on the bottom of Sherlock's cock, though, to keep from choking, and shifted to caress the testicles hidden by fabric.  He moaned in his throat, eliciting further groans from Sherlock, whose pace increased until he was hammering in and out of John's mouth.  

“John.  John--”

John let Sherlock set the pace, used his tongue as much as he was able, and marveled at the feel of a cock thrusting in and out of his mouth.  What looked so smooth was hot, ridged, textured, almost an entity of itself.

Above the heavy scent of dampened wool, John could smell Sherlock himself, musky and elemental and unbelievably arousing.  John let his questing hand travel around Sherlock's pistoning hips, traced the iron, flexing muscles of his arse.

He thought Sherlock was about to come, and held on tighter, obscurely panicked that he might pull away, and prematurely terminate the encounter.  Shudders were coursing through Sherlock's body, and the hands around his head clamped unbearably.  John could taste new droplets in his mouth, salty and smooth and full of mystery.

He groaned, and that triggered the man standing before him, who spilled his seed silently, rigid and pumping.  The frantic pace slowed, and John struggled to swallow the semen that filled his mouth without releasing the exciting, comforting length of Sherlock himself.

Sherlock's fingers traced his mouth, catching bits of overflow that John licked away, and slowly withdrew.

John was left crouching against the door, shirtless, drops of semen on his chin and chest.  He slowly released Sherlock's arse and looked up, a little afraid now.

Sherlock was leaning over him, propped by both arms on the door.

“Dear God,” he said at last.  “That was....  Good.”

John licked around his mouth, still tasting Sherlock, and could think of nothing to say.  Sherlock flashed the small, fleeting smile that meant he was truly amused, and tucked himself, with some effort, because he was still engorged, back into his trousers.

He reached down and, grabbing John just above the elbows, hauled him effortlessly to his feet.  John recollected that Sherlock was unusually strong, something not easily inferred from his long, slender build.

He swooped down on John, kissing him this time more gently, more leisurely, biting at his lips, sucking the flavor of his recent feast for sampling.  John swayed forward into the kiss, tried not to rub his own insistent erection between Sherlock's legs.

He did not know the rules of this new game.

But Sherlock knew what he wanted.  His fingers bit into John's hips and pulled them smoothly, hard into his own, and John felt the ache of an unused erection tighten his body.  Tentatively, he thrust against Sherlock's thighs, and could feel Sherlock's smile flash again against his lips.

“Now we know how I taste,” Sherlock murmured.  “Let's see about you, shall we?”  And, shockingly, swept John up into his arms.  John jerked, and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders for balance.

“Put me down!” he gasped, struggling.  “Jesus, Sherlock--”  Sherlock clamped him in implacable arms, and stepped swiftly through the kitchen to his bedroom.  As John lifted a clenched fist, ready to batter his way out of the humiliating position, Sherlock let John slide slowly down his body, let his feet touch the ground.  He stood with the backs of his legs pressed against Sherlock's bed.

“Sherlock-” he began, not knowing what he could say, feeling conflictingly nervous and excited.

“Shh.  Don't talk.  Don't think.  It's your turn.”

Sherlock knelt before him, thumbed open the fly of his jeans, and rapidly and efficiently divested him of his remaining clothing, until John stood naked before him.

Kneeling in a pool of black wool, still fully dressed, Sherlock ran his hands along John's strong, muscled thighs, and goosebumps chased each other across John's flesh as the wiry hairs on his legs were fluffed.  He could feel Sherlock's hot breath fanning across them, heating the blood rushing to fill his own cock, and its hard length bobbed suddenly towards Sherlock, who quickly captured it, caged it in his long fingers.

John had nothing to be ashamed of about his cock.  It, like Sherlock's, echoed his phenotype:  average length but thick and strong, ruddy, in its dark nest of hair, almost purple with his excitement.  His testicles hung heavily behind it, twitching in anticipation.  Sherlock mad an appreciative “Mmmm.”

With no more prelude than he'd demonstrated in initiating that first kiss, Sherlock inclined his head and took John into his mouth.  John jerked with surprise, almost dislodging Sherlock, who reached up with authoritative hands and firmly held his hips in place.

Sherlock explored John's cock with his tongue the same way he'd observed his naked torso earlier with his eyes.  He measured the length and girth of it with strong, firm strokes.  His hands traced the hair at its base, traveled to the sac below, weighed it in deceptively delicate fingers.

He licked.  He suckled.  He dragged his teeth across the head, and murmured with satisfaction as he drew the droplets from that weeping eye.

John, who had not known what to do with his hands, finally brought them to Sherlock's swaying shoulders, then up to tangle in his hair.  For the briefest moment, he looked down, and was staggered and dizzied by who it was that knelt at his feet.  Not only a man, but this man.  John's fingers tightened on Sherlock's head.

Sherlock made a disapproving sound in his throat, and the vibration of it brought John very close to the edge.  Without breaking his concentrated ministrations of John's cock, he grabbed John's wrists and disengaged him from his hair.  He brought his hands behind John's back and held them both there with his left hand while his right went back to stroking.

John moaned and shuddered, his arms captive behind his back.  Sherlock's right hand, dampened with saliva and pre-cum, traced down his shaft, dealt decisively with his bollocks, and worked back until one long, sensitive forefinger rested presumptuously against his anus.

He gasped, and clenched up.  Sherlock lifted his head and freed his mouth long enough to look up, frown at him, and say, “Not this time John.  Relax,”  before redoubling his efforts.

That finger, rubbing with gentle insistent pressure, added a dimension that John had never before experienced.  He moved to free his arms, but Sherlock just held them more tightly, which aroused him even more.

Fuck.  Sherlock.  I'm... This is...” he groaned, on fire and shuddering.  He could feel his bollocks tightening, and his cock jerking rhythmically.  He felt hot, hotter, burning to the tops of his ears.  Pinwheel sparks were flying in his peripheral vision, but he couldn't close his eyes, had to keep them on Sherlock's, gleaming and mercuric.  

Sherlock increased his pace, and sucked powerfully:  long, strong suction to pull everything out of him, and with a shout he couldn't quell, John began to come, and Sherlock calmly drank it in, and his hand cradled John's bollocks, and that wicked finger slipped in a tiny bit, and John was going to fly to pieces, grounded only by the hand crushing his wrists, the other torturing him with pleasure, sucking him dry.  He'd have gone into orbit if Sherlock hadn't anchored him, and chills chased across his skin as he finished his release.

Slowly, gently licking, Sherlock drew back, let John's wrists free, dropped his hands to his lap and sat back on his heels.  He looked at John with a certain smug satisfaction.

John's knees gave out and he fell to the bed behind him.  He flopped backwards and stared up at the ceiling.  There seemed to be nothing to say, and he couldn't organize his brain anyway.  

Sherlock stepped out of the room and John heard water briefly run, but was too lethargic to lift his head.

He'd never come that like before.  He felt release, the flood of endorphins, the crazy high he got from danger, from beating the odds.  Mixed with that was shame and confusion.  He'd just participated, undeniably, and enthusiastically, in gay sex.  With his presumed asexual roommate, no less.

John groaned and flopped his arm over his eyes.  He couldn't even try to look at Sherlock.  His wrist still tingled from the hard grip with which Sherlock had bound him.  He shivered.  He'd enjoyed that.  Too much.

When Sherlock returned, he flicked off the switch, and the room was dark but for the reflected gleam of the street light.

“Budge up, John,” he said laconically, and pushed at him until he was arranged on a pillow.  John complied, but still couldn't look at him.  Then Sherlock climbed into bed beside him and pulled the covers over them both.  He'd undressed, and John felt himself pulled until he was satisfactorily arranged into the curve of Sherlock's body – lithe and strong and smooth.  I haven't seen him naked, he mourned, before he could catch himself, a forbidden thought.  

But what he said instead, feeling Sherlock's cool skin warm where it touched him, was, “Did that just happen?”

There was a huff against his neck that could have been laughter, but nothing was said.

“People will talk,” he continued, recalling the darkened pool.  This time there was definitely a small snort of laughter behind him.  He could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice as he said, “People do little else.”

And then, later, as John drifted on the edge of sleep, he heard Sherlock whisper, fiercely and with conviction, “You are mine.  And I will protect you!”