Another date ruined.
Another date ruined by Sherlock.
Another date ruined by Sherlock, who as usual looked like he should have been posing for a sculpture by Praxiteles. Provided the sculpture in question was called “Victorious Spartan lounging about on sofa in his anachronistic dressing gown and pajama bottoms,” perhaps he already was. Certainly he’d won the latest skirmish in his ongoing war against John’s sex life. Sherlock 17, John’s Libido 0.
John hadn’t been looking for just a shag, but he had rather been hoping for a shag. It had been his third date with Christina, and they’d already made it past the obligatory first date peck on the cheek to the optional snog on the lips and had, he’d have said before everything tonight went pear-shaped, been heading straight towards the hopefully fantastic ‘back to her place for coffee.’
That was before, of course, Sherlock happened. Without, apparently, ever having left the sofa.
And now John was back here too, in his sodding flat with his sodding flatmate, looking forward to an intimate evening spent with his hand instead of the lovely Christina. Who now, quite understandably, didn’t seem particularly interested in ever seeing him again.
He sighed, hung up his jacket, and tried to let go of his frustration. It was just Sherlock being… well, being Sherlock. And John was just as much at fault… well, half as much at fault… alright, something like thirty-five percent as much at fault… for letting him get away with it.
No point dwelling on it now, anyway. Sleep and a wank, not in that order. “Look, unless you’re actually being murdered, I’m going to bed. On the off chance you’re being murdered, let me know so I can join in or at least blog about it.”
But of course he wasn’t getting off that lightly.
“John,” Sherlock said. John stopped. “I need you to give me a hickey.”
“Well, you’re clearly the expert on such things,” Sherlock said, having as usual missed the bit where people are more likely to do things for you when you don’t simultaneously ask and insult them. Especially should the flatmate in question already be annoyed with you.
“No,” John said, and continued towards his room.
“Come on, John, it’s for a case. I need to confirm an alibi by studying the rate at which her fiance’s bite marks healed.” Clearly impatient with the conversation, he added, “Would you rather I ask Molly?”
“Oh god, no,” John said, passing his hands over his face wearily. He could already picture how poorly that would play out. “You do realise this isn’t a thing flatmates do for each other.”
“Neither is shooting people, and yet here we are.”
Just another evening at two twenty one B Baker Street, then. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you sure you wouldn’t rather give me one?”
“I’ve never done it, and the online guides are ridiculous and inadequate,” Sherlock said, making a face. “Just... pretend I’m one of your girlfriends or something.”
John rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go brush my teeth, then.” He could still taste the lingering flavours of the curry and lager he’d had for dinner.
He returned to the sitting room a few minutes later, breath fresh and tie gone. “So… where do you want it?”
Sherlock sat up, his dressing gown falling open to frame a column of pale flesh. “She had one about here,” he said, indicating a spot above his right collarbone.
John licked his dry lips and took a minute to centre himself. The last time hickeys had been part of an ‘experiment’ he’d been fifteen and desperately trying to get his kit off with Samantha Kettridge. This was… emphatically not the same.
“Get on with it, then. I fail to see the appeal of being slobbered on and bitten but it can at least not take up the entire evening.”
Maybe it was the bored tone, maybe just his lingering frustration over yet another ruined date, but it was at that point that John’s vision went a bit red around the edges. Sod it, he was Captain John Three Continents Watson, he actually was, in fact, the expert here, and damed if he wasn’t going to make Sherlock acknowledge it.
“Right then,” he said, a note entering his voice that his subordinates would have recognised. And feared.
He marched across the room to stand in front of Sherlock.
“Right.” He climbed on top of Sherlock, legs folded to either side with his knees almost against the back of the couch and his arse resting atop Sherlock’s thighs. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, and began rubbing gentle circles with his thumb. “Here?”
Sherlock nodded, eyes a bit wider than usual.
John leaned close, burying his nose in the junction between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. Sherlock smelled clean, his expensive soap leaving hints of sandalwood. It was a pleasant enough scent, but John wasn’t in the mood for pleasant. He swiped his tongue against the skin, and there it was, Sherlock, some strange melange of a thousand smells without names that John would have recognised blindfolded. John licked again, teasing out notes of tobacco, rosin, formaldehyde, coffee, and underneath them all Sherlock.
“John…” Sherlock said, voice gone a bit higher than usual, “I believe you’re meant to be biting me.”
John sat up. “Sherlock,” he said, moving his hand to cradle the side of Sherlock’s face and catching his eyes with his own. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I…”
John leaned close, breath hot and moist in Sherlock’s ear. “Then trust me.” He licked a stripe up Sherlock’s neck from the space between his collarbones to just under his ear. Sherlock let out a shaky breath, unconsciously tilting his head to allow John better access. John nipped at the earlobe, then followed back down the path his tongue had just traced.
Sherlock’s hands reached around to grab tightly at John’s hips. John let out a grunt of approval, shifting closer. Apparently encouraged, Sherlock’s hands moved further back to clutch at John’s arse.
His hands moved downward from the shoulders, smoothing the silk of the dressing gown over Sherlock’s sides. At the waist, they moved inward, palms pushing the gown aside before shifting upward over the planes of Sherlock’s bare chest. For all his skin invited comparisons to marble, it felt soft and heated under John’s fingertips.
John continued exploring Sherlock’s upper body with his hands while he mapped the territory of shoulders and neck with lips, tongue, and teeth.
He could feel Sherlock’s length pressing firmly against his perineum, making it clear he was wearing nothing beneath the thin cotton pajamas. The heat from it seemed to seep through John’s trousers and pants to his own erection, trapped against Sherlock’s stomach.
Sherlock ran his hands up John’s back, one moving to the back of John’s head to clutch at short strands of blond hair and the other wrapping around the small of John’s back to pull their bodies flush against each other. One of them, and John couldn’t have said after which, began rocking gently, though they were pressed together too tightly for it to be any more than a teasing friction against their erections.
John pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling the skin into his mouth and sucking gently to hold it there. As he waited for the capillaries to bruise, his left hand moved downwards, sneaking fingers between their bodies to trace the lines of Sherlock’s hipbone back and forth, thumb dipping teasingly below the waist of Sherlock’s bottoms before moving upwards again.
Eventually satisfied he’d made his mark, John gave a final, soft lick to his handiwork before slowly letting go of the skin.
He peeled Sherlock’s hands off him, setting them on the couch cushions to either side.
“Well,” he said, climbing off Sherlock and standing. “If I’m remembering correctly, the hickey should show up in…” he glanced down at his watch.”...give it about ten minutes.” John stretched his arms over his head from side to side and yawned. “I hope that’s useful to the investigation. I’m off to bed.”
John risked one further glance towards the couch before heading nonchalantly up to his room. He would treasure the sight of a completely gobsmacked Sherlock, mouth and eyes wide open and pants still tented, for a long, long time.
Almost as long as he’d treasure the new wank material he was about to put to very good use.
John 1, Sherlock’s libido 0.