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“You were telling me about the summer of 2014.” Sherlock is sat in the wing-back armchair of a quality John never dreamed would be in his home, having dragged it away from its spot in the lounge. John thinks he sounds relatively calm, considering the present situation.
“I…I can’t remember,” says Mariana, her voice weak and distant. John gives her what he hopes is a comforting pat on the upper thigh, then resumes his work.
“You can,” Sherlock insists, razor-sharp focus trained on her. “The young man you met in…what was it now, Santorini?”
“H-Halkidiki,” Mariana corrects, and John can’t help the smirk that spreads across his face. Sherlock absolutely remembered the correct location; he just also happens to be remarkably talented at getting information out of people.
“That’s right, thank you,” Sherlock says sincerely, speaking confidently over Mariana’s soft, sweet cries. “Do you know I’d originally settled on literature as your university major? I deduced it was history on our second meeting, of course. It seems your foray into the Greek peninsulas was deeply educational indeed.”
Mariana does not so much agree as sigh pleasantly, though John’s not sure if it’s in reminiscence or reaction to John’s attention. Probably both, if he’s being realistic, but he chooses to believe it’s more to do with him.
“Go on, then,” Sherlock prompts. “It was Manos, yes? The interesting young man you met there? Would you say he was more or less enthusiastic than John about performing cunnilingus?” John honest to god hears a pen click, a sound which he has developed an inconvenient Pavlovian response to by now. Just to give himself a bit of a boost, John hooks his arms under both of Mariana’s legs and pulls her tight against him, pleased with the gasp she lets out as he does.
“L-less, very much less,” she replies, and John grins smugly against her. He has been, primarily, swirling his tongue in a broad, lazy circle around the hard, sensitive bud that so affects Mariana, but, just to be difficult, he now frames it with his lips and sucks between his teeth. Mariana’s answering moan is the most beautiful thing John’s ever heard, and it hardly even hurts when she tugs violently at his hair.
“Mm. Interesting.” Sherlock is scribbling something down in the notebook on his lap, tutting thoughtfully. “And in terms of- actually…” For a moment John assumes he’s just too buried in the wet heat of Mariana’s sex to clearly make out what was already a fairly muffled conversation, from his perspective, but he quickly realizes he can hear just fine: Sherlock is posing his next question to Mariana in Spanish.
John can’t help it; he makes a long, strangled sound of need, hips stuttering in a brief, spasmodic rut against the bed. He doesn’t come, by some miracle, so John just tries to collect himself following the intense reaction and returns to licking Mariana thoroughly, feeling even more sensitive than before.
They carry on like that for a minute or so, Mariana’s lovely, tinkling laugh accompanying the loosening of her fingers in John’s hair. She plays sweetly with it, absently, nails a gentle pressure on his scalp, and John entirely misses Sherlock’s next question.
“Hey,” Mariana says softly, shifting backward. John resists on instinct, gripping her hips, but Mariana is quicker, reaching down and holding his soaking chin in hand. “He’s talking to you.” John knows he’s pouting, doesn’t care.
“I’m busy!” he insists, appealing to the dark eyes that gaze down at him, wide-blown pupils Mariana’s only true giveaway in a hard-fought mask of calm.
“Believe me, I don’t want you going anywhere either. So answer him and get back to it.” John reluctantly relents, looking over his shoulder to where Sherlock is watching him with intent. There’s annoyance on that sharp, handsome face, annoyance tinged with an adoring sort of fascination. John is well aware he’s being cheeky, but let's be fair now: it’s partially for Sherlock’s benefit. John rolls his eyes, gives one more long, indulgent lick up Mariana’s center, and then releases her so he can roll on his side.
“Go on, then.” John tries and fails to sound put-upon - his straining cock would’ve given him away, anyway - resting his head in his hand and looking sidelong at Sherlock.
“Decided to participate, then?”
“I am a very- an extremely willing participant,” John says faux-indignantly. “You are interrupting an experiment mid-way through its stride-“
“Mid-way, Watson?” Sherlock’s eyes flick unsympathetically down to John’s pants, which, yeah, okay, are about as constricted as it’s possible to be. “I’d say your part is very nearly finished.”
“Hey, it’s not over ‘til the lady comes.” John hears a distinctly embarrassed groan of ‘oh, God’ from Mariana, but he is undeterred. “Sorry, sorry - ‘til the lady comes again.”
“Mm. I’ll let you return to it, then - no sense allowing you orgasm now, after all, considering how useless you are post-coital-“
“I will have you know I am a generous lover pre and post-“
“John, you have to admit, you're very lazy and much...cuddlier once you've been properly fucked,” Mariana teases affectionately. John barely has time to process how extremely hot it is to hear Mariana refer to him and the phrase 'properly fucked' in the same sentence before she's clearing her throat with no small amount of theatrics and doing a very bad impression of him. “‘Mari, I love you, let’s lie here forever-‘“
“Hey - okay, listen - shut up, you,” John snaps, giving Sherlock as stern a look as he can manage while their observer laughs. “That was- that was the first time, I’m sorry for being overcome-“
“I loved it,” Mariana insists, one hand resting behind her head, her body relaxed and limp against the headboard and yet still managing to look effortlessly sexy in a way John has never quite achieved - the closest he’s come is ‘completely debauched’. “I’ve told you before, John, it’s very romantic.”
“Yes, extremely,” Sherlock agrees dryly. “Lucky my interest was piqued that evening, or else our poor lover would’ve had to take care of herself.”
“I wouldn’t have left her like that!”
“You did, though. You were halfway to unconsciousness.”
“It was perfect,” Mariana says in a dreamy voice, her fingers still threading through John’s hair in a slow, methodical sort of knead. “Sherlock, god, your fingers… My two boys looking after me. I never even let myself imagine it.” John catches a definite dark flush spreading across Sherlock’s features and grins. Even when he’s not necessarily, ah, in the mood, so to speak, Sherlock’s always been weak in the knees for a bit of earnest praise.
“Yes, Watson’s very magnanimous that way.” The sarcasm falls short as Sherlock shifts in his seat, cheeks still obviously hot from the compliment. “Now, to ensure that today is as satisfying as that occasion, let’s get to the research.” John offers Sherlock a mock salute.
“Your extreme physical reaction a few moments ago,” Sherlock is saying, eyes scanning whatever he’s already collected, “appeared to be in response to our conversation. What specifically affected you? The use of a foreign language, or your relative lack of awareness as to the nature of our discussion?” John pauses for a moment, thinking hard. He’s never really taken the time to consider his turn-ons in this way, weighing his reactions against the other factors at play. It took him out of things, at first, but he and Mariana agreed there’s something intoxicating about Sherlock’s deep, confident voice remaining mostly unaffected as he questions them. Clerical and severe and in charge.
Now this sort of sex-based self-examination is just as liable to get John hard as his flatmate or neighbor appearing to him in lingerie.
“The, um, the second one,” John manages to stutter out, realizing his answer and the reasoning for it with an intense jolt of arousal.
“Remind me which that was again? In your own words, of course.”
“You’re a pest, Sherlock,” Mariana says laughing, even though she’s clearly also enjoying watching John squirm. “You know what he meant.”
“I need to be sure that Watson knows,” he insists, and yes, he’s telling a bald-faced lie, the bastard. “I’d hate to mark down the data incorrectly.”
“It’s- it was because of the- ah,” John hisses as Mariana walks her hands carefully off his head and down his chest, dancing prettily near his extremely erect cock. “I’m- I was- I liked how-“
“Something the matter, John?” she asks darkly, not quite grazing his manhood with her skin but drawing close enough that it twitches in reaction. “I thought I told you to answer Sherlock’s question.”
“I thought this was about teasing you,” John whines, burying his head in Mariana’s thigh, and in all fairness, it was. Sherlock’s line of questioning had been almost exclusively directed to Mariana as John ate her out with zeal, only tossing the odd inquiry John’s way to further understand her physical reactions from his perspective. But somewhere along the way, the tables had turned, and, as per usual, John is being teamed up against.
God help him it’s got him a shivering mess.
“What happens if he can’t tell you?” Mariana asks calmly. Sherlock makes a non-committal humming noise.
“That’s really up to you, isn’t it?” Sherlock replies after a few moments. “But considering how much you’ve endured this evening while remaining eloquent in the face of extreme physical distraction-“
“Thank you.”
“- of course - to me, it would seem only fair that Watson not reach any sort of satisfying conclusion. But, again, it’s hardly my place.”
“No, no, I appreciate your input,” is Mariana’s sage response. “Do you still have those handcuffs you borrowed from Scotland Yard?”
“Stole, he stole the handcuffs,” John pipes up, his brain working overtime in response to the frankly hot-but-horrifying possibility of being restrained from giving himself or Mariana any further pleasure. “And, look, alright it’s - fuck - it’s the, the not knowing, okay? I like it - I mean, I like how it feels, being, um, unprepared for…for what you guys might...do…to me.” John still has his face smushed into the soft skin of Mariana’s leg, and he only cracks his eyes open when she tilts him toward her with gentle hands.
“It’s about giving us control,” Mariana says, and it isn’t a question. John knows his face is a tomato but he nods anyway. “Releasing control, and…”
“Anticipation,” Sherlock finishes neatly, scratching away at the paper. “The thrilling rush. It’s in part why he enjoys cases so much.”
“I don’t get off on them, though.” Sherlock makes a disbelieving little noise that John is ready to argue, but Mariana’s giggle stops him. “What?”
“The two of you,” she says with a laugh. “Sex, drugs - none of it compares to a good mystery.” John grins despite himself, lying flat on his stomach again and rubbing the curve between her thighs and her sex in slow circles with his thumbs.
“I wouldn’t say none of it,” John murmurs, pressing a single chaste kiss to her lower belly. Mariana moans weakly, dropping her hands to the bedsheets.
“It’s- it’s okay,” she says to him, voice going hoarse as John spreads her open with his fingers once again, tongue moving slowly, exploratory, “I get it. There’s other…things that do it for- for me, too.”
“What are those?” Sherlock asks curiously, the question reverberating and genuine, somehow even hotter as it lacks any of the innuendo another person in his situation might’ve injected.
“I got wet one time when you guys held onto all your receipts,” Mariana replies, deadpan, and John’s startled laugh rumbles out of him unexpectedly, vibrating against Mariana’s cunt.
“Hmm. I’ll make a note of that.” Sherlock sounds skeptical but does not seem to have completely picked up on Mariana’s joke. Then again, that might’ve been the plan all along.
“Ah, thank- god, John - thank you, Sherlock. I’m- I’ll- oh I’m going to-“
Babbling. Mariana’s other clear tell, unlike John who does it all the time. John circles her clit with his thumb and lets his tongue probe at her entrance, doing his level best to sink it in and pull back out at a pace similar to the one his thumb has set. It’s a bit brutal, how quickly he’s massaging at her, but John knows it’s just a matter of time before-
Mariana’s scream is near-silent, a desperate croaking sound wrenched from low in her gut. It’s music to John’s ears as her hips jerk uncontrollably, legs shaking and toes curling, and yes, John’s a little smug about it because he did that to her. Him and his mouth and his fingers and- and, okay, also Sherlock’s impassive voice, but John’s giving himself the bulk of the credit here.
It’s a bit tricky to manage, but John sits up with his thumb still rubbing at Mariana’s swollen bud, pressing sweet kisses to her throat and holding her steady with her free hand as she falls apart for him. She’s gorgeous like this, sort of strung-out and needy, and John’s more than willing to provide support, even - hell, who’s he kidding - especially because his own sex is currently jumping furiously in his pants. Mariana finally bats his hand away, and John is merciful, instead offering sweet nothings against her brown skin.
“Mari,” John breathes into her neck, overwhelmed with attraction, emotion, “god, Mari, you are-“
“Lovely,” Sherlock finishes. John looks over his shoulder and finds that Sherlock is gazing at Mariana with the same affection John currently feels, minus the eroticism. Pride and enchantment and a fierce, protective sort of love.
“You are absolutely lovely-” Sherlock tells her again, and for one beautiful moment John thinks Mariana is maybe going to weep under their combined attentions, “-Mrs. Hudson.”
John’s head snaps back so fast it gives him a crick in the neck.
“Sherlock! What have we talked about!”
“One rule, Sherlock,” Mariana groans, even if her voice is amused. “We have just the one rule in bed-“
“I’m- I am sorry,” Sherlock concedes, his voice an approximation of sheepish, hands raised in surrender. “It’s just, that rule applies in bed, as you say, and I’m…not, at the moment.”
“We’ve had the bedroom observation discussion, Sherlock, don’t deny it,” John says as sternly as he can while aware that he’s completely hard and straining through his pants. “You know her name!”
“It’s- memory association, I don’t-“
“I told you my name the first day we met!”
“But it makes you special, like - like Watson-“
“That’s his name, Sherlock! His actual name!”
“Make it up to her,” John says decisively, putting an end to the argument that will no doubt go on for the next 10 minutes if not stopped. Mariana’s generally less arsed than John over the whole ‘Mrs. Hudson’ thing, but when she’s this loose and giddy, well, arguing with Sherlock is practically her favorite pastime. “Go get the cuffs.”
Practically her favorite pastime. There is just the one thing she enjoys more.
“I don’t- are you serious, Watson?”
“John?” Mariana asks, unable to keep her interest under wraps. John shrugs.
“It’s been on my mind since you brought it up. I mean, I wrecked you, right? Now it’s your turn.” Mariana looks at him for a long, tense moment and then turns her gaze on Sherlock.
“Go get the-“
“On it,” Sherlock agrees, scrambling out of the room. John turns around so his back is leaning against Mariana’s chest, sighing appreciatively as she offers him some water and a clean flannel, and then letting out a strangled groan as she takes his wrists in each of her hands.
She fits her lips to the junction between his shoulder and neck, sucking gently and creating a small, pleasantly dark bruise that John will admire in the mirror for days to come.
“I hope you give as good as you get,” John says casually, already knowing the answer.
“You’ll be a husk of a man when I’m through with you, Watson,” Mariana murmurs, nipping playfully at him. Sherlock’s footfalls echo up the stairs - is he taking them two at a time?
“Looking forward to it,” John sighs. Sherlock appears in the doorway, his eyes wild and the cuffs a dull gray in the dim lighting.
“Watson. Listen. This is very important.” Sherlock brandishes the restraints, holding out his hand for John and Mariana to see. “Are you listening? Yes? Good. Which scenario is more erotic - binding your hands together behind your back, or me retrieving the second pair of handcuffs I keep stashed in my bedroom drawer and chaining you spread eagle to the headboard?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Let’s start with the first one,” Mariana supplies smoothly, “and work our way up from there.”
“Of course, you’re right, of course,” Sherlock says distractedly, hurrying over to them both. He places a near-perfunctory kiss on John’s forehead before hauling John roughly forward by the shoulders. “We have all the time in the world.”
Sherlock takes a brief pause in his fiddling to kiss Mariana soundly on the mouth. John thinks he hears something that might be an apology, but Mariana is tracing his wrists with curious fingers and Sherlock is stuck to him like velcro, and John can’t really be arsed to decipher whatever they’re saying to each other. The kiss breaks, and there is an unmissable unlatching sound from somewhere behind John.
“Safeword, John?”
“Red.”
“Good. None of your showmanship, Watson, these things will chafe, so you need to express excess discomfort as it arises.”
“I know, Sherlock.”
“We can always use something gentler, John. Just because we both think the cuffs are…intriguing doesn’t mean you have to go through with it.”
“Mari, I know that. It was my idea!”
“She makes a good point, Watson, we have other means of restraining you-“
“Can we please, please stop acting like I haven’t been asking you two to make good on this for weeks? If you take them away now you will kill me. Actually kill me. Here lies John Watson, Son, Friend, and First Ever Man to Die by Edging-“
The cuffs clink closed around John’s wrists.
“Steady, Watson,” Sherlock breathes in his ear, pulling away and off the bed before John can capture him in a needy, knee-jerk kind of kiss. John doesn’t take it personally, of course, but the firm, unforgiving figure Sherlock cuts is positively devastating. And John can’t even appreciate this fact properly because Mariana is taking him suddenly, mercilessly in hand.
“Remember to be as still as you can, John,” she tells him in a stage whisper, “for Sherlock’s research.”
“For the research,” John slurs, yelping when she wraps her other hand loosely around his throat.
“Good boy, John,” Mariana says silkily, confidently, her tone seductive but unyielding. “Anything in particular you’d like to see, Mr. Holmes?” John can see it, even in his lust-addled state, the way Sherlock’s lips begin to form a familiar, if incorrect, name. To Sherlock’s credit, he seems to bite his tongue before he can get the ‘Mrs.’ out.
“I defer to your excellent judgment,” Sherlock says at last, gesturing politely in Mariana’s direction. “I’m sure Watson is in very capable hands.”
“I like to think I know my way around,” Mariana agrees pleasantly enough, keeping her tone airy even as her fingers stroke cruel, teasing fingers up and down his throat. “Then again, you've kept such good notes on him, it’s hard not to give him exactly what he likes.”
“Please,” John whines, writhing and unashamed. “I know I was kidding before but I’m pretty sure you’re going to kill me for real.”
“It’s called ‘la petite mort’ for a reason, Watson,” Sherlock replies primly as Mariana finally, finally, squeezes her hand minutely around John’s weeping cock. “We’d hardly be doing it right if you came out of this whole and unaffected.”
And, well, John may hate to admit it, but Sherlock does make an excellent point. What is good sex, really, but something that makes John beg and whimper, and yes, outright scream at some point throughout the night?
Thank god the downstairs neighbor doesn’t mind.