It was an ordinary day. Well, as ordinary as things ever were at 221B Baker Street. John Watson had returned from an exhausting day at the surgery to find his flatmate ensconced in their kitchen, decked out in safety goggles, elbow-length rubber gloves, and a particularly lurid green plastic apron. Said flatmate was sporting singe marks on his cheeks, missing half his left eyebrow, and currently standing in a cloud of acrid yellow smoke, hands steepled together under his chin, an elated, if slightly dazed, expression on his face. Something mysterious was bubbling in a pan, John noticed, and a rather gruesome-looking mould looked as if it might overreach its petri dish confines and devour the table at any moment. John didn’t even want to hazard a guess at the - oh dear, was it glowing? – purple liquid oozing across the lino.
It was a testament to John’s general acceptance of all eccentricities pertaining to one Sherlock Holmes that John merely raised an eyebrow, and, placing the shopping on the scant corner of free counter space, said, “Productive day, was it?”
Sherlock snapped off the gloves with a flourish, fanned at the smoke impatiently with his hands, and rounded on John with a grin.
“As I said, this concisely proves that Ifran Mansour could not have committed the murder; it was old pensioner in the flat below him. No one expects an unassuming, septuagenarian bird fancier to be a serial poisoner, do they? Oh, but if those idiots at Scotland Yard had taken a glance at his floorboards, the cupboard under his sink, and the cat… of course, the cat, John…” Sherlock trailed off as he noticed the slow smile that had crept onto John’s face. “What?”
“You really don’t notice when I’m gone, do you?” said John, shrugging out of his jacket.
Sherlock sniffed disdainfully and pulled the goggles up to rest in his unruly curls. “It’s hardly my fault that you insist on retaining that unfathomably boring day job. If you had remained here, you would have heard the entirety of this most excellent series of deductions. I require a sounding board, as you know, and I find you a most excellent one. Even better than the skull…” Sherlock’s voice drifted off as he prodded the mould with a fork, nodded conclusively to himself, and tossed the utensil carelessly in the direction of the sink.
John made a mental note to always, always disinfect the flatware before using it for its intended purpose and tried to ignore the warmth that had spread through him at being termed “excellent” and “better than the skull.” If that was what he now perceived as a flattering compliment, he really did need to get out more.
“Look Sherlock, I’m going to have a shower. Could you please at lease attempt to clean up this mess so I can make dinner?”
Sherlock made a noncommittal “Hmm” as he divested himself of his apron. As John walked away, he though he heard Sherlock muttering something about eating being “so boring,” too.
John sighed and headed for the loo. In the shower he let the almost-too-hot water soothe the aching muscles of his neck and drain away the day’s tension. He rolled his shoulders, arched his back, and groaned involuntarily. He felt so good, so relaxed, and he let his mind drift. Unfortunately, John’s mind decided to settle on images of his wild-haired, too-skinny, eccentric, mad-scientist of a flatmate, albeit in considerably less clothing than Sherlock had actually been wearing. And these images were inducing a certain…reaction in John’s lower body. He half-heartedly attempted to distract himself, thinking of football, Mrs. Hudson, even Anderson – but it was no use. John resignedly let his hand drift to his cock. It really was pointless trying to fight it.
John found himself thinking of Sherlock in this way more and more frequently. The first time it had happened had been the very first time they met. That day at Bart’s, Sherlock had whisked out of the room in a swirl of coattails, only to lean back in and declare his unusual name to John with a rougish wink. That wink had sent a shiver down John’s spine and left him both aroused and confused. What the hell? John thought to himself. This was a man. John liked women. He had nothing against gay men, but he wasn’t one. So why was he so turned on by this unusual, striking man, whom he had only met two minutes ago for Christ’s sake?! This train of though had been interrupted when John realized Stamford was talking to him. John put these new – slightly intriguing and equal parts disturbing – feelings out of his mind and continued about his day. It had been a fluke, he told himself, that’s all.
But of course it wasn’t. Sherlock drew John to him like no other person. John found himself repeatedly breathless at Sherlock’s brilliant deductions, his beautiful violin playing, and the exciting and dangerous life that he led. The life in which, for some reason, Sherlock wanted John to play an integral part.
And John wanted to be there. The chases, the stakeouts, the late nights, the thrilling cases and the boring ones. John wanted all of it. Where Sherlock went, John would follow. That year, the year that they didn’t talk about much, the Year Without Sherlock, had been the lowest point of John’s life. Worse than the war. Worse than the boredom and the tedium that suffocated him upon his return from the war. That year. When Sherlock was gone, and John remained, wracked with guilt and drowning in words unsaid.
John shuddered despite the warmth of the shower, thinking of that year. The nightmares: seeing Sherlock fall again and again, powerless to stop it. Trudging though life convinced that he had failed; that if he’d only said the right thing he would have been able to save Sherlock. Wishing he had just possessed the courage to tell Sherlock that he…
But they were past that now. Sherlock had done the impossible, had returned to him. The clever detective with the brilliant plans, who lived life three steps ahead of everyone else, had cheated death. All those months ago, John had asked for a miracle. And Sherlock gave it to him.
John couldn’t help but smile and shake his head as he remembered that day. One innocuous Tuesday afternoon he had opened the door to find Sherlock sitting in his old armchair, as if he had never left. John had done a double-take, briefly considered that he might be hallucinating, seriously thought he might pass out, and eventually settled for sinking slowly to the floor, back against the wall, heart pounding. Sherlock had come to him then, grasped his hand, said simply, “I’m home John. It’s over.” John grabbed the consulting detective, pulled him into a tight hug, and held him for all he was worth. And then he punched him. Sherlock didn’t even try to fight back. Lay sprawled on the floor, staring up at John, who was kneeling above him.
“I’m so sorry, John.”
Such a simple phrase. But from Sherlock it spoke volumes. The proud consulting detective did not apologise, at least not without John prompting him, and usually then he didn’t mean it. He cared nothing for social convention and tended to trample on people’s feelings. But this was different. Sherlock stared up at John, genuine regret and concern radiating from his normally icy blue eyes.
John took a deep breath. Sherlock’s words and intense stare went straight to his heart. He raised himself to his feet, extended a hand, and pulled Sherlock up as well. Led him to the sofa, sat down, and listened to Sherlock’s account of the brilliant illusion he had pulled off. Made tea and tended to the cut on Sherlock’s cheek that had resulted from John’s punch. Listened to Sherlock’s explanation of why the world needed to think he was dead. Forced Sherlock to eat dinner, and then listened some more to the extraordinary tale of Sherlock’s journey across three continents to dismantle Moriarty’s criminal web. Made more tea and told Sherlock how sorry he was that Sherlock had to go through all that alone, that he had missed him, that life without Sherlock was impossibly dull and that he was glad to have him back. Told him everything but what was most important.
Because now that he had Sherlock back, why would John risk damaging what they had? After much soul searching, John had come to the conclusion that, no, he really wasn’t gay. Bi, he decided, if he really had to put a label on it, but in actuality, it was only Sherlock. John had no interest in other men, it was only the brilliant, infuriating, incomparable Sherlock Holmes who had firmly staked a claim to what seemed to be all of John’s affections. In fact, even women couldn’t compare to Sherlock. John wanted him, body, mind, and heart, all of it. There was lust, certainly, and a much deeper feeling that John tried his hardest not to acknowledge. Because John’s best guess was that Sherlock was asexual – the man had never shown the slightest interest in a man or a woman since John had known him. Body just transport, married to his work, etc, etc. So where did that leave John?
Standing in the shower, with the water starting to go cold, all this running through his mind for the umpteenth time. Oh yeah, and with a raging hard-on.
Sighing, John began to stroke himself more firmly. Better to just get it over with, he thought. John closed his eyes and braced himself against the shower wall with his free hand. His mind was filled with Sherlock. He imagined what it would be like to touch unattainable body, to grab Sherlock’s dark curls, pull his head down, and kiss him breathless. He imagined exploring Sherlock’s long pale from with his hands and his mouth, finding all the spots that made the detective gasp and moan and beg for more. This was what made John’s cock grow even harder, made his breathing ragged as he stroked himself faster. The thought of Sherlock coming undone in John’s arms was a powerful, intoxicating idea. To have the ever-composed Sherlock flushed, panting and eager, giving himself over to John. Coming hard, spilling himself over John’s hand, or into John’s mouth. Crying John’s name… John couldn’t hold it in anymore. He bit his bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to keep himself silent as the orgasm ripped through him. John stroked frantically as two hot jets of come blurred into the streaming water of the shower. His legs began to shake. He gasped as…one…two…three more spurts shot out of him. John couldn’t suppress a groan as the last shivers of the orgasm coursed through him. He ghosted his palm over the head of his cock at the end, shuddering at the exquisite sensitivity. Wishing it were Sherlock’s hand, or Sherlock’s tongue, imagining that perfect mouth encircling him. John leaned his head against the cool shower tiles, trying to calm down. He let out a shaky breath, his mind still filled with Sherlock.
Shaking his head to clear the fog of erotic images, John rinsed his hand clear of the evidence, turned off the shower and gave a himself quick towel-off before getting dressed.
Upon re-entering the kitchen, John discovered that the litany of test tubes still covered the table, and the frankly alarming mould was still staking its claim. However, the bubbling concoction in the pot had been dispatched with, and the floor no longer sported the mysterious purple liquid, though it was still rather sticky. Sherlock, for his part, was now sprawled on the sofa, typing on a laptop. John’s laptop, of course. John straightened his shoulders, cleared his throat, and tried his damndest not to let on that he had just been wanking to thoughts of the man in front of him.
“You know, people use passwords for a reason,” John declared, though Sherlock’s “confiscation” of John’s computer was such an ordinary occurance that John couldn’t muster up true indignation.
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. “‘SodOffSherlockAndUseYourOwnDamnLaptop’ is not an effective password,” he drawled. “I don’t think you’re really trying.”
John rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond. Instead he set about gingerly preparing dinner around the detritus of the day’s experiment. He gave the mould a wide berth.
Having managed a reasonably palatable meal, John carried two plates to the living room. Sherlock had abandoned John’s laptop, but remained sprawled lengthwise on the sofa, one pale arm flung ostentatiously over his head like a Victorian lady with the vapors.
“Budge up, will you?” asked John. Whereupon Sherlock lifted his legs long enough to allow John to sit, and promptly replaced them in John’s lap. Sherlock held out his hand for the plate, clearly not seeing anything out of the ordinary with this arrangement.
John mind whirred for a minute, but he chalked it up to Sherlock’s typical disregard for personal space, and commenced eating, his own plate resting on Sherlock’s shins. They enjoyed their meal in companionable silence. Well, John enjoyed the meal. Sherlock picked at his, John shot him looks, Sherlock sighed, and John continued to indicate the plate with his eyes, until Sherlock had eaten what John deemed to be an acceptable amount.
When they had finished, John attempted to rise and take their plates to the kitchen. With an irritated “Hmph,” Sherlock simply took John’s plate from him, placed it on top of his own, and deposited them on the floor with a clatter.
“Later. I’m comfortable.”
John rolled his eyes, trying rather unsuccessfully to squash the little thrill of pleasure at remaining in their current position. He grabbed the remote and flicked on the telly, eventually settling on a rather silly American action movie. John attempted to keep his mind on the film, rather than the lanky young man currently draped across him. Sherlock, however, was making this rather difficult. For now, bending his legs up, but still keeping them across John’s lap, Sherlock had raised himself to a sitting position, snuggled (really, there was no other word for it) himself against John’s arm, draped his own arm bonelessly across John’s midsection, and lolled his head on John’s shoulder with a contented sigh.
John’s breathing quickened; he couldn’t help it. He really didn’t know how to react to this. Was Sherlock conducting some sort of experiment? Surely he couldn’t just want to cuddle with John; hell would probably freeze over before that happened. There must be some logical reason for this, John thought. Wrapped in Sherlock, becoming aroused for the second time that night, John cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably, and attempted once more to focus on the film.
They remained in that position through the end credits, though John could tell you nothing of the film’s convoluted and car-chase-filled ending. All his senses had been filled with Sherlock: the feel of the detective’s slight weight draped across him, the acrid smell of his singed hair, the sound of the man’s steady, even breathing, and the wondrous sight of the usually frenetic Sherlock lying still and apparently not bored, a placid expression on his features.
As the movie gave way to a rather obnoxious late-night comedy programme, Sherlock sighed and shifted position, swinging his legs around to the other side and replacing them with upper body, one arm draped artlessly across John’s legs and his head - oh dear god – resting on John’s thigh.
“Hngh..” Or something to that effect, was the strangled, surprised noise in John’s throat. The proximity of Sherlock’s head to his cock brought John’s mind instantly back to the vivid images he’d conjured in the shower. His cock was already beginning to harden. Christ, John hadn’t had such a pathetic lack of self-control since he was a teenager. Sherlock would surely notice and that would be more than “a bit not good.”
John patted Sherlock’s dark curls rather awkwardly, then grabbed his shoulders and heaved him upright. “Well, um, should be off to bed, work in the morning, you know…”
Sherlock peered at him through his messy fringe and John saw what appeared to be amusement in those pale eyes. “All right,” Sherlock declared.
John headed for the stairs. Sherlock followed him.
“Um, Sherlock…what are you doing?”
“Bed, John. As you said.” That smile was positively wolfish.
“Sherlock, what are you on about? Is this some sort of –”
But John was cut off by Sherlock pinning him against the wall at the foot of the stairs. Sherlock stood toe-to-toe with John, his left arm braced on the wall, almost at the level of John’s head. With his right hand, Sherlock caught John’s chin and tilted it gently upward. Their faces were mere inches apart, Sherlock’s breath whispering across John’s forehead and though his hair.
“You want me to come to bed with you,” stated Sherlock, that deep rumbling voice going straight to John’s cock.
“Oh, John, do cease your rambling. You want me. You were thinking of me as you masturbated in the shower.”
As John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock continued on. “Don’t bother trying to deny it. The sounds you make are quite distinct, so there was no doubt as to the activity in which you were engaged. Now the length of your average masturbatory session is approximately seven point five minutes” - here Sherlock paused to roll his eyes at John’s embarrassed sputter and red face – “Oh for goodness’ sake, John. You really thought I wouldn’t notice? We share a flat with rather thin walls; it’s quite obvious. Anyway, as I was saying, your average masturbatory session is approximately seven point five minutes, but you were in the shower for almost twenty. Something had you aroused, but also conflicted, as reflected in the length of time it took you to climax.” Sherlock ignored John’s groan and barged on. “Now what could have you conflicted? I was under the suspicion that you have been questioning your sexual identity, but the data has proved inconclusive. Until now, that is. Because as soon as you came out of the shower, things became markedly clearer. You wouldn’t look me in the eye. There was an embarrassed flush to your cheeks. And a mere glance at your carotid artery showed an increase in heart rate…just like now.” At this, Sherlock ran his pale fingers lightly down the side of John’s face, brushed them across his lips – at this John let out an involuntary whimper – and brought them to rest at the pulse point on John’s neck.
Sherlock bent his head down and tilted it slightly to the side, so that their lips were at the same level, and just a breath away. When he spoke, it was nearly a whisper.
“There is no need to be conflicted John. Clearly you were worried that your desires would not be reciprocated and that the relationship we currently have would be irreparably damaged. But I can assure you that they are, and it will not, respectively.” At this, Sherlock allowed his eyes to flutter shut and moved his face even closer to John’s – as close as they could be without their lips actually touching. “So now that I have assuaged your baseless anxieties, shall we adjourn to your bed?”
But that’s as far as John got before Sherlock closed the last of distance between them and pressed his lips to John’s.
John’s brain seemed to short circuit for a moment, unable to process that this was actually happening, that Sherlock Holmes was kissing him. Because this kiss so soft, so gentle, so...un-Sherlock. Whenever John had imagined Sherlock kissing him, it was always forceful, consuming, demanding – like Sherlock himself. But this kiss was delicate, even chaste: Sherlock’s pillowy lips merely resting against John’s, an imperceptible pressure and then an achingly slow slide, so that Sherlock’s full bottom lip was aligned with John’s top one. Sherlock parted his lips ever so slightly and let out a small sigh, the gust of air causing John’s scalp to prickle and sending a shiver down his spine.
Sherlock pulled back, but tilted his face down so that his forehead rested against John’s. When he spoke, his voice was even lower than usual.
“You, John Watson, continually surprise me. Not many people can keep things from me. How did I not notice…? Stupid, stupid.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and John felt the full intensity of that blue-grey stare. “You intrigue me. You are exponentially less boring than anyone else that I know.”
“You…” here John cleared his throat in an attempt to make his voice less incriminatingly squeaky, “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And what would you prefer – inane chat up lines like you use on women in pubs? Or maybe you don’t want me speak at all, hmm…?” John could hear the smirk in Sherlock’s voice as the detective pressed their lips together for the second time.
This time there was more intention. Sherlock sucked deftly on John’s bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth. John gave an involuntary moan, and Sherlock took advantage of this, sweeping his tongue into John’s mouth. The hand that had been resting on the wall moved to cup John’s cheek, the long fingers threading into his short hair. John responded with enthusiasm, deepening the kiss, and wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s slender waist to pull them closer together.
Never one to be outdone, Sherlock parted John’s knees, pushing a slim thigh between John’s and grinding against him. John was achingly hard, and this touch was only enough to tantalize, offering no real relief. He could feel that Sherlock was as hard as he was, and this ratcheted up his arousal even more. Taking the lead for the first time, John slid one hand up to grab Sherlock’s curls, drawing the man even tighter to him as he plunged his tongue deeper into Sherlock’s mouth. John’s other hand drifted downward, gripping Sherlock’s arse, pulling the taller man roughly against him and grinding their cocks together once more. Even through two layers of clothes the touch was electrifying, and John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth. He was answered by the faintest of rumbles, more felt than heard, as Sherlock growled and raked his nails down John’s back.
“Oh, god, Sherlock,” whispered John, a shudder running though him, cock straining against his trousers. Sherlock broke the kiss and slid his mouth to John’s ear, nipping the lobe before swirling his tongue along the shell. When he spoke, it was barely audible, shockingly intimate and infinitely arousing. Sherlock’s breath cooled and tickled against John’s ear, the low growl of Sherlock’s voice vibrating through him, straight to his cock.
“I said, maybe you don’t want me to speak at all, but that’s not true is it?” At this Sherlock circled his tongue again and flicked it just inside, the sensation overwhelming John so that he groaned and turned his head slightly. Sherlock was having none of it, and used the hand on John’s cheek to hold his head firmly in place while he cupped his lips to John’s ear once more. “You like the sound of my voice. Objectively it has a sonorous quality that has, on more than one occasion, been described as pleasing. But for you, it is equal parts association. You like when I deduce things, describe things, see what others cannot. So yes, then, a combination of the vocal timbre itself and the substance of what is said results in –”
“It’s you.” John interrupted, the hand in Sherlock’s curls gently pulling Sherlock’s head back so that they were eye-to-eye again. “Everything about you. I’ve wanted you for so long, and I –” here John sucked in a breath and attempted to regain his composure before said too much. It’s just you,” he finished simply.
They remained like that for a few moments, eyes locked, breathing as one, before Sherlock broke the trance, pulling John roughly up the stairs after him. Flinging open the door to John’s room, he pushed John down onto the bed and, before John could react, climbed on top of him, straddling John’s thighs.
“John Watson. You continually provoke surprising reactions from me. As you have no doubt noticed, this type of activity is not something in which I typically engage. In previous experiments I found it to be tedious, messy, and slightly distasteful. But with you…with you…” Here Sherlock faltered for the first time, grasping for the right words. John felt a small glow of warmth in his chest at this.
Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat. “I suppose if I were to put it in the vernacular, I would have to say…” at this he leaned down and put his mouth to John’s ear once more, “I want you, too.”
John groaned and bucked his hips against Sherlock’s. Reaching up, John grabbed the consulting detective by the shirt collar and pulled him down for a passionate, bruising kiss. Working his hands down, John began to unbutton the silky purple shirt, although it took rather longer than usual, distracted as he was by the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth on his own.
When John got the shirt unbuttoned, he ran his hands across Sherlock’s pale chest and taunt stomach. Sherlock, for his part, was doing his best to work John’s belt and trousers off, although he was somewhat lacking in his usual grace.
Seeing the detective aroused and wanting was heady for John. It was a thousand times better than any of his fantasies, and he wanted to take it all in – the flushed skin, the harsh breathing, the demanding hands that had now roughly pulled off his trousers, tossing them carelessly on the floor.
Sherlock, straddling John’s thighs once more, palmed John’s cock through his pants. John groaned and arched into the touch. Sherlock slid his hand up and down, using just the right amount of pressure to feel oh-so-good but leave John wanting more.
Sherlock removed his hand, and John groaned at the loss of sensation. But the hand was replaced by Sherlock’s hips, as the detective slid upward and began to grind himself against John. Sinking down on his elbows, Sherlock once more placed his mouth at John’s ear. When he spoke, it was still in the low, sensual rumble, but Sherlock’s speech had lost its usual crisp finesse. His breathing was rough, and he seemed distracted by the sensation of rubbing against John, grinding faster and harder as he spoke.
“What do you want, John? I’m sure that being in this position is rather suggestive…” Here, Sherlock let out a small sigh after a particularly forceful upward thrust from John. “Do you want more? My hands, which I catch you watching as I work, don’t think I don’t notice, you’re so obvious – Ah!” Here Sherlock gasped and shuddered as John gripped his arse and pulled the two of them tighter together.
“Do you want me to penetrate you John? Do you want me to…ahhh…fuck you?”
Hearing Sherlock use such an obscene term made John groan and bury his face in Sherlock’s pale neck, biting it none too gently.
“You just have to tell me, John. What. Do. You. Want?” Each of these words was punctuated by a sharp thrust.
John gripped Sherlock’s shoulders and flipped them so that he was the one on top. He began working Sherlock’s trousers off, hands shaking with desire. He stroked Sherlock’s erection through the silk boxers and was rewarded by a hiss of pleasure from the detective.
“I want to make you come. I want see you overtaken by pleasure and I want to be the one to give it to you. “ At this he slid the soft underwear down, revealing a long, slender, and extremely hard cock. “I want you to come all over my hand and I want my name on your lips when you do.” John grasped Sherlock’s cock firmly and slid his thumb over the head. “That’s what I want, Sherlock.”
Sherlock gave an involuntary groan when John touched him. He pushed himself up on his elbows. His eyes found John’s, took in the lust and pleasure and nervousness. He drew in a deep breath. When he had experimented before (a smattering of both genders, for scientific purposes) Sherlock had usually been the one taking the lead. He disliked people seeing him when he wasn’t in perfect control of his mind and body. Giving himself over to someone during those seconds when his mind went blank had been almost repugnant. This was one of the main reasons Sherlock had been loath to engage in such activity after his experiments at Uni.
But this was different. This was John. Sherlock trusted the man with his life. He could trust him with his body. Sherlock laid his head back on the pillow and let his hands fall to his sides.
John began to stroke Sherlock. He had never done this to another man before, but John knew what he liked, and tried to replicate that with Sherlock. Solid, firm strokes, slowly increasing the speed, a twist of his wrist at the end. Sherlock seemed to be receptive; his eyes had fluttered shut again and he was letting out a breathy moan with almost every stroke.
John used his free hand to cup Sherlock’s balls, rolling them gently in his palm. Sherlock hissed and began to thrust his hips upward to the rhythm of John’s strokes. John’s wanted to take in everything: how Sherlock’s damp curls clung to his forehead, how the detective reflexively clutched the sheets in his fists, how his thrusts were becoming jerky and uncoordinated. Sherlock was close, John could tell. John’s own cock was throbbing, and there was a growing wet spot on the front of his pants. He had never been this turned on by watching someone. Of course it was different, because it was Sherlock.
John stroked Sherlock’s cock faster, and Sherlock responded with a moan that was none too quiet and ended in a gasp. He promptly clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, but John stopped stroking Sherlock’s cock to gently reach up and pull his hand away.
“I want to hear you. Please.”
Sherlock – panting, disheveled, looking for once in his life as if he were unable to focus his mind clearly – gave an absent sort of nod and flopped his head back on the pillow.
“Please, John, keep doing what you were – AH, yes…”
John had resumed his rapid stroking, and this time he slid two fingers of his other hand down to caress Sherlock’s perineum. Sherlock responded enthusiastically, groaning “Lower…” John sucked in a breath, felt his cock twitch. Slicking up his fingers with an obscene wet sound, John continued pump Sherlock’s cock vigorously. He pushed Sherlock’s legs further apart and began to rub his thumb over Sherlock’s arsehole. Sherlock moaned loudly in response.
John took in the spectacle before him. Sherlock’s left leg jerking restlessly, eyes squeezed tightly shut, teeth clenched, everything about him wound tight. It was beautiful. John felt strangely honored to be able to witness Sherlock in such a state; he knew Sherlock rarely (if ever) let his guard down, and it was a powerful turn-on to see him come undone
John replaced was now slowly working two fingers into Sherlock, a gentle contrast to the frantic stroking of his right hand. He didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, but the detective, true to form, was impatient with John’s careful approach. Sherlock rocked himself back onto John’s fingers forcefully, eyes snapping open at the sensation.
“John…I’m…I’m..ngh…I think I’m going to….” At this Sherlock flailed one elegant hand somewhat helplessly.
The World’s Only Consulting Detective was apparently unable to form a complete sentence. John found this unspeakably hot.
“It’s ok, Sherlock, go ahead.” At this John worked his fingers deeper into Sherlock. “I want you to come for me. Just let go. I’ve got you. That’s it…”
Sherlock let out a very un-Sherlock-like cry that sounded vaguely like “John” and John knew the man had hit the point of no return. He watched, entranced, as the detective arched his back almost completely off the bed. He felt Sherlock pulsing around his fingers, and scissored them gently to give Sherlock some extra sensation. The first spurts hit Sherlock’s chest, two thick pearlescent streaks on his pale form. The rest spilled over John’s hand, hot and sticky.
“Harder!” gasped Sherlock, and John gripped him tightly, wringing the orgasm out of him, wide-eyed at the sight of Sherlock Holmes writhing in orgasmic bliss.
As Sherlock’s breathing began to approach some semblance of normalcy, John softly slid his fingers out of Sherlock. He stripped off his T-shirt and gently used it to clean himself and his dazed partner. Sherlock lifted his head and shoulders for a moment, attempted to speak, apparently decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and collapsed back on the bed. He lifted an arm languidly, and pulled John down to him, John’s head coming to rest over the detective’s still-racing heart.
John snuggled against Sherlock, hips twitching involuntarily as his cock brushed against Sherlock’s thigh. He tried to suppress a moan; he was still ragingly hard and anxious for release.
“John –” the word came out about an octave higher than Sherlock’s usual baritone.
The detective cleared his throat and tried again. “John, that was…good. It was very good. Thank you.”
“Um… you’re welcome? It was my pleasure, Sherlock really. You were…it was…” John was also having trouble expressing himself clearly.
“Arousing?” At this Sherlock gently pushed John off of him, and rose up on his elbow. “You seem to have enjoyed it.” At this he palmed John’s cock again.
John groaned and tried not to thrust against Sherlock’s hand. “It’s ok, Sherlock, you don’t have to…”
“Oh, but I want to.” There was a mischievous gleam in Sherlock’s eyes as he slowly pulled down John’s pants, taking in the thick girth of his cock. Sherlock wrapped one graceful hand around it and John let out what could only be described as a whimper. Sherlock’s hand was cool and smooth, and his grip was perfect, just the right amount of firmness. John knew he wasn’t going to last long.
“I have to say that I’m quite flattered, John” drawled Sherlock in that voice which was quickly pushing John to even greater levels of lust. “You reached a state of heightened sexual arousal with hardly any stimulation to your person. So it appears you are very ‘turned on,’ as they say, by giving pleasure to me…or by watching my reactions to your ministrations” at this Sherlock flicked his thumb over the head of John’s cock, causing the smaller man to cry out. “You liked watching me come, didn’t you John? Feeling it stream all over your hand. Knowing that you made lose control. Seeing me come apart under your hands. A powerful thing, that.”
Sherlock leaned down so that John was under the full intensity of the detective’s stare. “So I think you can deduce what I want now, John.” At this, John managed a feeble moan and tried to nod. His body was shaking, his balls were so tight it was almost painful, and every cell in his body seemed to be begging for release.
“Come for me, John. Now.”
When Sherlock told John to examine a mutilated corpse, John did. When Sherlock told John to hurry, that they needed to chase a dangerous criminal across a series of rooftops, John did. When Sherlock told John to get out of the house right now, because he had inadvertently created a poisonous gas in his kitchen laboratory, John didn’t think twice, just did.
Where Sherlock went, John followed. When Sherlock spoke, John listened.
And when Sherlock told him to come, he did.
It was glorious, every pent up feeling and desire came flooding out of him. The world seemed narrowed to the perfect sensation of Sherlock’s hand on his cock and the intense shuddering waves roaring through him. Sherlock’s eyes remained locked on John’s as he stoked him though his climax. The gaze was so intense that a part of John wanted to turn away, but it was so breathtakingly beautiful and exciting that he couldn’t. Sherlock’s stare conveyed that the detective was just as aroused by watching John as John had been by watching Sherlock. This thought thrilled John and kept him coming longer than he thought was physically possible. Sherlock didn’t let up at all; neither the powerful stare not the frantic pace of his hand, until John was gasping for breath and the edges of his vision had started to go a bit fuzzy.
As John recovered himself, Sherlock grabbed John’s now-defiled T-shirt to clean his hand. He then gave John a cursory wipe-down. John took in the sight of Sherlock: hair completely disheveled, wearing naught but the unbuttoned purple shirt, looking somewhat distastefully at the T-shirt he was now tossing on the floor by John’s bed. John couldn’t help it; he started to laugh. A slightly hysterical flood of giggles that was not inclined to stop.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What, John?”
John could have replied in any number of ways. He could have said that people would certainly talk now, that everyone who thought they were something more than friends would be delighted to hear of this recent turn of events, that he liked seeing Sherlock wearing nothing but that purple shirt, that this was the best sex he’d ever had, that he couldn’t quite believe this was real…but John didn’t say any of those things. What came out was:
“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, and then his face relaxed into a genuine smile.
“Obvious. And though it pains me to say it as the phrase is soppily romantic and thoroughly overused, it appears that I feel the same.”
Sherlock leaned down and placed his mouth to John’s ear. “I love you, John Watson.”
Just another ordinary, extraordinary day at Baker St.