Ignite Your Bones
It had started with a cigarette.
John had come home from a not terribly successful date with Janet-the-girl-from-Waitrose, expecting to find his flatmate either a) exactly where John had left him: curled into the sofa and pouting with undisguised ennui, or b) wrist deep in some no doubt caustic experiment that John wouldn’t have gone near wearing a full hazmat suit, or c) in some inexplicable act of horrific violence involving at least one firearm and possibly what remained of the fire extinguisher. Cringing already and braced for the impact, John was startled to find the flat appearing to be empty and still. Closing the door behind him, John moved into the sitting room, shucking his coat and tossing it carelessly over the back of his armchair. It was several minutes before John finally spotted his mad flatmate, silhouetted in the open window and leaning precariously out onto the decorative railings.
John’s entire body went rigid with alarm. It had been years since the roof of St. Bart’s, but seeing Sherlock near any span of open air at great heights tended to give him worrying flashbacks of pale, lifeless eyes and blood matted curls sprawled hopelessly across high cheekbones, and made his heart clench in a way he wasn’t terribly comfortable with.
“Sherlock,” he choked out, aware of his own pulse thudding loudly through his brain.
Sherlock turned his head slowly, sodium lamps bathing his features in an unearthly glow, and John was suddenly struck by the absurd thought of how unfairly beautiful Sherlock was. Light from behind spilled across his hair, tipping the ends of the inky black curls with gold. Orange light dappled gently across his sharp cheekbones, softening his features and making him look impossibly young. His mercurial eyes were rimmed with hazel, long lashes framing the iris in a way that should have been feminine, but only served to increase the exotic picture of pale beauty. John felt his breath catch as his eyes travelled down, sweeping the long expanse of pale skin along Sherlock’s throat, dallying overlong on the indent of sharp collarbones peeking tantalizingly between the two starched flaps of his open shirt collar.
John was suddenly and painfully mindful of the fact that he’d taken several unconscious steps forward and was now standing barely a lanky arm’s length away from Sherlock’s perch on the windowsill. He was also increasingly aware of his own labored breathing, skin feeling too hot and tingling all along his nerve endings. He hadn’t been this present in his own skin since that first night, years ago, with the Jefferson Hope case. The thrill of danger mingled intoxicatingly with a heady sense of acute arousal and John found himself licking his lips, noting with interest the way Sherlock’s laser-beam eyes focused on the action with rapt attention.
As John watched, Sherlock raised a pale hand, a still-smoldering cigarette balanced delicately between two of his long, elegant fingers. Barely daring to breathe, John watched as Sherlock’s sinfully full lips parted to accept the slim white stick before the tip flared suddenly red and Sherlock’s chest expanded with the acrid smoke. Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock tipped his head back slightly and exhaled a slow stream of grey, flicking the end of his cigarette with a neat thumbnail before quirking the edge of his lips up in an undeniable smirk.
“You’re home early, John,” he rumbled, taking another deep drag on the cigarette, the movement all at once calculating and carelessly sensual. “Was dinner with Johanna as abysmally dull as I predicted?”
“Janet,” John corrected automatically, mesmerized by the way Sherlock’s bottom lip glistened with moisture in the reflective lamp light.
“Yes,” Sherlock purred. His voice seemed to vibrate through John’s ribs, squeezing gently around his lungs and making John lightheaded and giddy.
“I…” John started, feeling slightly hypnotized by the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as he breathed in more of the carcinogens. He swallowed numbly around the thick feeling in the back of his throat and was only mildly surprised when Sherlock suddenly stood, looming over him and invading his personal space. John felt a thrill up his spine at the movement, but refused to back down.
“You…” Sherlock murmured, inches away from John’s lips. John could taste Sherlock on his breath: nicotine and London rain and a hint of lapsang souchong. Moving forward slightly, John plucked the still-burning cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers and took a long drag before tossing it out the open window.
“Filthy habit,” he whispered, letting the smoke invade his lungs for a brief moment before blowing it out into Sherlock’s open mouth. One dark eyebrow inched upwards in apparent challenge.
“I can think of filthier ones,” Sherlock breathed before finally closing the gap between them.
Christ, that mouth, John thought desperately as Sherlock’s too-plush lips melded against his, the tip of his clever tongue brushing slowly along John’s in an overt display of sensuality. John felt the groan as it travelled up through his chest, spilling forward into Sherlock’s mouth like an offering. Sherlock’s answering hitch of breath was remarkably satisfying and John finally allowed his fingers to sink fully into his soft, dark curls.
John felt like he was drowning, falling into an endless sea of desire and want, all the emotions he’d kept bottled up and hidden finally spilling forth like the tide. Sherlock’s large hands spanned the length of his hipbones and dug in, tugging him forward as though he couldn’t get close enough. He devoured John’s mouth with a passion John hadn’t felt since his Uni days, all restraint lost in the clatter of teeth and tongues. John arched forward, desperate to get closer, wanting nothing more than to crawl inside this man and tattoo his name across muscle and bone.
“Yes,” Sherlock growled, moving his lips down John’s jaw to nip teasingly at his pulse point. John wasn’t sure if it was the answer or the question, but he nodded all the same and allowed himself to be pulled across the room, shedding clothes so quickly he was sure he’d torn his shirt apart in his haste. Sherlock wasn’t faring much better if the scattering ping of buttons was anything to go on and John found himself giddy again at the sheer idea of what they were doing. The thought was quickly cowed, however, by the lingering question of why haven’t we done this before?
John followed Sherlock through the door of his bedroom, pulse thundering through his veins and making him slightly dizzy. The man himself was sprawled invitingly across the dark swathe of his navy blue bed sheets, braced backwards on his elbows and wearing nothing but a cheeky smirk. John felt his mind stutter to a halt, blood thudding thick and fast through his veins as it quickly relocated to his twitching erection.
“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” John whispered, and smiled at the look of genuine surprise that flashed quickly across Sherlock’s features before settling into his usual preening arrogance. As he watched, Sherlock’s gaze seemed to narrow, focus flaring up behind his eyes and making John’s skin practically vibrate into attention.
“You managed to hide something from me,” Sherlock said, a lingering smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh?” John asked, multi-syllabic words failing him in the wake of such capriciousness.
“You never told me you used to smoke.” It wasn’t a question, but there was something more in Sherlock’s voice, lingering on the edges of accusation. He nearly sounded… impressed. “Afghanistan. The habit itself disgusted you, but you wanted some kind of distraction. The nicotine buzz made you slightly ill, but it was better than getting drunk every night, especially with the constant thoughts of your sister’s and your father’s alcoholism. While the other boys were busy rolling joints and playing poker, you wanted something mainstream enough to fit in, but without the side effects of slow reflexes and empty pockets.”
John felt a smug smile stretch his lips. “Wrong.”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped up, brow creasing with incredulity. “Wrong?” he demanded, voice sharp and harsh.
“Wrong,” John said again and began slowly moving towards the bed. Sherlock’s bemused expression shifted into calculating concentration.
“Ah,” he said finally as John crawled up the bed over him, trailing small kisses along bony ankles and knobbly knees. “You wanted something to do with your hands,” he stated, back arching when John’s lips hovered over his left nipple.
“Closer,” John murmured against the sharp crest of a pectoral.
“You liked the feeling of something in your mouth, specifically between your lips,” Sherlock exhaled. John smiled against his skin, reveling in the way Sherlock’s breath seemed to be coming in quick bursts.
“Knew you’d get there eventually,” he grinned and sucked hard on the tight flesh of Sherlock’s nipple.
“I’m a bit, ah, distracted. Christ, John.” John chuckled darkly around the mark he was leaving and switched directions, tongue lingering over the dip of a navel before following the trail of dark hair downward, fingers tripping delicately over ribs and hip bones.
He could feel the heat rolling off of Sherlock in thick waves, the musky scent of his cock making John’s mouth water. He ran his lips lightly along the ridge of one overly pronounced hip bone, grabbing at Sherlock’s thighs to keep him from thrusting up off the bed. He allowed his breath to huff out hotly over the head of Sherlock’s cock, mouth open and pliant as he flicked a glance up. Sherlock was watching him avidly; eyes sharp and bright, pupils blown wide. He was breathing heavily, harsh pants loaded with so much arousal it was a wonder he was keeping still at all. Keeping their eyes locked together, John slowly lowered his mouth.
The first taste of Sherlock burst heavily over his tongue and John moaned unabashedly, eyes slipping closed in something like relief. It had been years since he’d done this and the feeling of a cock, Sherlock’s cock sliding over his tongue was magnificent. It felt like hard steel wrapped in the softest velvet, the taste salty and just a little bitter. John hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder and heard Sherlock’s low growl as though from a great distance.
Long fingers wrapped tightly into the hair at the back of his neck and John let his jaw relax, tongue running hard up the vein on the underside. Sherlock seemed to understand and began to thrust his hips up almost hesitantly. John huffed out a breath through his nose and blinked his eyes open, trying to convey permission without words. Sherlock’s gaze was riddled with such intensity it felt like a physical caress, but he seemed to get the hint and began moving his hips a little harder.
Saliva was pooling under John’s tongue and he felt some seep down the side of Sherlock’s shaft, slicking his fingers as they tugged along the rigid flesh, making up for what his mouth couldn’t reach. Sherlock groaned deep in his throat, hips stuttering and trembling in the air. John tried to ignore the fact that he was now actively drooling onto his own hand, lips and tongue working the foreskin back to curl around the glans, drinking in the small bursts of flavor as pre-come leaked from the swollen slit.
“John,” Sherlock gasped and his cock seemed to stiffen further, swelling and pulsing against John’s soft palate in rhythm with his racing heartbeat. The fingers in John’s hair tightened and he followed their lead, allowing Sherlock’s cock to slip free from his lips with an obscenely slick noise.
“Good?” John asked, irrationally startled at how husky his voice sounded.
“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled, though it lacked its usual bite due to the small waver in his tone.
John’s hand was still moving, slowly stroking up and down Sherlock’s length, spreading a heady mix of saliva and pre-come over the shaft and into his pubic hair. He leaned forward and swiped his tongue delicately along the head, teasing the frenulum with a flick of the slick muscle and causing Sherlock to gasp and arch.
“Stop,” Sherlock grunted, the grip in John’s hair flirting dangerously along the edge of too painful. John reluctantly sat back, no longer stroking Sherlock’s cock, but simply resting his hand at the base as though he couldn’t bear to let it go. Sherlock was panting, eyes shut tight and lips pressed firmly together, lithe arms stretching up over his head in an obvious attempt to ground himself. As John watched, he visibly calmed, breath deepening and skin easing to its usual pallor. John squeezed lightly and Sherlock’s eyes blinked open, pupils dilating into focus as a small, sinful smirk tugged at his lower lip.
“Another surprise,” he said, voice still low and deep, warm chocolate over gravel.
John couldn’t help the grin that snaked its way forward. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock still looked wrecked: unruly curls made even more disheveled by rubbing against the pillows, a high flush along his pronounced cheekbones, eyes bright and mischievous. If John didn’t know better, he’d have thought Sherlock was flirting with him.
Something electric sparked behind Sherlock’s eyes and he suddenly leaned forward, one long fingered hand wrapping tightly around the back of John’s neck and pulling him up the bed, flipping their positions so quickly John was hardly aware of moving until he found himself flat on his back in the middle of the mattress. John stared up in shock, military pride warring fiercely with intense arousal. He felt helpless and vulnerable, not something he was generally used to, and especially not in bed.
Sherlock’s Cheshire grin was predatory, fingers closing around John’s wrists and pressing them firmly into the sheets on either side of his head. John fought the urge to panic, limbs locking up with renewed tension. He was just about to buck upward, body switching to autopilot as his defenses kicked up a notch when Sherlock leaned in, the tip of his nose skimming just under John’s jaw, and inhaled.
“John,” he purred, body sinuous and sinful as he rocked lightly against John’s thighs. All thoughts of protest died in the sound of John’s drawn out groan. He was fairly certain he’d never been so turned on in his life. When Sherlock’s mouth finally reached his, John opened to him without hesitation. His body was on fire, back arching up and wrists straining against their hold, but Sherlock was relentless.
Sherlock tasted faintly of nicotine and recklessness, and John found himself craving more. Moaning a steady stream of expletives against Sherlock’s tongue, John arched again, shamelessly rubbing his cock into the cradle of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock licked into his mouth, grinding down against John in an unmistakable rhythm, sweat and endorphins spreading between them and making everything sticky and slick.
With a bitten off groan, Sherlock tore his mouth away, releasing his hold on John’s wrists to pin his hips down instead. “Not yet,” he ground out, panting into John’s collarbone and keeping his body tantalizingly out of reach.
John’s own frustration was palpable. He could practically taste the orgasm, just out of reach, but when Sherlock’s eyes refocused onto his, John gasped aloud. Sherlock’s gaze was animalistic, possessive heat licking up John’s nerves and causing him to shiver with the impact.
“Not yet,” Sherlock whispered again, husky and low against John’s ear. “I’m going to come inside you, John, and not before.”
John shuddered helplessly, image after image racing around his brain at the thought. How many times had he wanked to that very idea? How often had he wondered what it might be like to be the sole focus of such intense attention? Sherlock’s lips quirked a little at the corner and he mouthed heavily at John’s neck, hips slowly undulating as though they just couldn’t keep still. John was aware of his own panting breath, his lungs seemingly unable to capture enough air and his blood rushing through his veins.
“I take it you’re amenable?” Sherlock asked lightly, running his tongue along the stubble at the edge of John’s jaw and twining their fingers together against the mattress.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John gasped, hips arching and skin feeling oversensitive. Sherlock let him go and John’s hands immediately curled around the headboard, grasping and grounding himself to the solid oak as though his life depended on it. Sherlock’s fingers were trailing lazy patterns along his hipbones, pads sliding smoothly across skin and muscle before he lifted his hips away and slid his hand in place. Long, elegant fingers closed warmly around John’s cock and he couldn’t help the full-body shiver that passed right down his spine and into his groin. His erection throbbed and he could feel a thick bead of pre-come slide along his shaft and onto Sherlock’s thumb.
Keeping his eyes locked on John’s, Sherlock raised his hand to his mouth and licked away the thick fluid, and John felt his face flush with more heat and arousal than he’d ever felt before. His body felt electric, his head dizzy and full of cotton wool. Sherlock’s grin was greedy as he slowly leaned away and over, tilting towards the bedside table and extracting a small bottle of lubricant and a condom.
John swallowed audibly at the implication and couldn’t help the furious blush that infused his skin from the tips of his ears to his chest. Sherlock was still watching him, gauging his reactions and no doubt filing every twitch away for further examination later. John found he couldn’t really be bothered to care at the moment, not when Sherlock’s deft fingers were snapping open the bottle and rubbing the clear substance over the obscenely long digits.
“You’ve done this before,” Sherlock mused, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration.
“It’s been a while,” John managed after a moment, his voice sounding choked and harsh even to his own ears.
“I’ll start slowly then,” Sherlock purred and leaned over to capture John’s mouth in a searing kiss. John gave himself over to it, curling his hands into Sherlock’s hair and letting all his pent up frustration out in the tangle of teeth and tongues. He felt Sherlock shift, widening his knees and pushing John’s hips apart enough to ease a hand down between them, slick fingers trailing through John’s pubic hair and searching lower. John gasped when he felt the blunt end of Sherlock’s index brush lightly against his hole and his whole body shuddered with pure want.
Sherlock grinned against his lips and slid all the way in to the knuckle, swallowing John’s low moan and holding him suspended with desire. John felt all the air rush out of his lungs on a harsh gasp as Sherlock rocked his finger slowly, allowing John to acclimate to the feeling of being filled so intimately before pulling back and adding a second finger.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John groaned, painfully aware of how desperate he sounded. “Oh my god.”
Two of Sherlock’s long, clever fingers, slick with lubricant and filthy intent, were currently buried knuckle-deep inside of him and John was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. Sherlock pulled back, excruciatingly slow and careful before sinking in again with a little twist that had John’s bones melting with the unbridled heat of his arousal.
“Fuck,” he gasped instead, stars blossoming in his vision as the pad of Sherlock’s middle finger brushed intently against his prostate.
“Language, John,” Sherlock purred and John could hear the smirk in his tone. Sherlock admonished him with another blissful curl of his index before spreading his fingers wide and causing John’s toes to curl against the mattress.
“I’m ready,” John panted, and couldn’t help but writhe against the sheets as Sherlock’s wrist twisted again in agonizingly slow thrusts.
“Not quite,” Sherlock murmured, lips catching against John’s neck and John could feel Sherlock’s cock throb against his inner thigh.
“Please,” John whispered, all dignity lost in the onslaught of pheromones and desperation. He felt Sherlock’s teeth against his skin and the low hum as it traveled through Sherlock’s chest and into his own. With one more excruciating twist, Sherlock’s fingers slid all the way out and John felt momentarily bereft.
He was vaguely aware of the sound of a foil packet tearing and the muffled curse as Sherlock’s slick fingers fumbled with the latex, but he was too lost to concentrate. John’s body felt like molten lava; his blood thudding thick and heavy through his veins and pushing towards the surface of his skin, making him feel overly hot and itchy with desire.
The moment stretched between them and John finally opened his eyes, not even having realized he’d closed them, to find Sherlock staring at him with a mixture of wonder and possessive fervor. John involuntarily arched off the bed, fingers scrambling across the tangle of sheets to cling to pale skin and draw Sherlock forward and into him.
The blunt head of Sherlock’s cock nudged up against his arse and John sighed out a moan at the stretch. Sherlock was breathing harshly and staring into John’s eyes with such intensity, John felt like he might ignite where he lay. With a deep and measured breath, Sherlock sunk into him in one slow, slick slide of delicious friction and heat. John’s head thunked hard against the mattress and the noise that came out of him was purely animalistic. Sherlock’s eyes seemed to gleam in the low light and he moved with calculated precision for all of thirty seconds before abandoning his restraint and simply taking.
John could feel his control slipping, Sherlock in him and around him, an intoxicating mix of power and testosterone. John’s nerves felt raw, flayed open and searing, orgasm crashing into him faster than he would ever have expected. He could feel his body tightening, heat coiling low in his abdomen and as Sherlock leaned forward, one hand sliding up the back of his thigh to spread him even wider, John swore he stopped breathing.
“Fuck,” John gasped, eyes squeezing shut as his body tensed, one hand clenching hard into the back of Sherlock’s curls and the other reaching down to swipe over the head of his cock.
“John,” Sherlock panted and snapped his hips harder, fucking into him faster and rougher with every stroke. John was teetering on the edge, his skin oversensitive and fevered. Then Sherlock leaned forward and ran his tongue up along the side of John’s neck and bit down hard on the underside of his jaw, and John felt himself shatter.
John came with a gasp and a shudder, shooting over his fingers and up his abdomen, painting long white stripes up along his ribs and chest. Sherlock groaned into his skin and his rhythm faltered, bony hips stuttering and slamming into John’s hard enough to bruise. He looked completely wrecked: eyes shining and pupils blown wide, sweaty curls bouncing against his temples with every sharp thrust, and a high flush spreading along his impossible cheekbones. John watched with a sense of wonder as he began to crack along the edges, his control slipping and his breath huffing out with exertion. With an inhuman strength, Sherlock pulled back, grabbing at John’s thighs and physically yanking him down onto his cock twice more before he stilled, head thrown back, jaw clenched and tendons straining hard along his elegant neck.
John watched with heavy lidded eyes as Sherlock’s body calmed, muscles releasing slowly and tension fading from his shoulders. He gradually let go of John’s legs, easing him back onto the mattress and leaving ten perfectly shaped bruises along his hipbones and arse. John knew he would carry them for days; a constant reminder of their current activities, and he felt something warm and dangerous unfurl tentatively in his solar plexus.
Sherlock stretched and unfolded himself to land gracefully next to John, both of them staring up at the ceiling and attempting to catch their breath. One lazy hand flopped down to the pillow above John’s head and he felt those sinful fingers rub gently into his hair, both of them still too breathless to do anything more than huff feebly at each other for long minutes.
John was starting to doze; the feeling of being petted and soothed adding to the weight of his day and making him sleepy and content. Sherlock shifted and John’s eyes snapped open, worry creasing his brow as he wondered if he was about to be kicked out of bed, but Sherlock just sat up and tugged the duvet up from the floor before dropping back down and curling a long arm around John’s waist, pushing his face into John’s neck and breathing him in.
John felt the grin tug at his own lips as he pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s curls and tried not to think too hard about the fact that Sherlock was apparently a cuddler.
“Stop that,” Sherlock mumbled, words muffled by the press of John’s skin and John felt momentarily bemused.
“Thinking, John. It’s distracting.” Sherlock sighed and stretched, rolling briefly onto his back before reaching for the bedside table again. John could hear him rummaging around in the drawer and a moment later, he hear the distinct snick of a lighter and the air filled with the overwhelming scent of burning tobacco.
“That’s still a bad habit, you know,” John admonished softly, but his heart wasn’t really in it. It was difficult to make a point, really, with Sherlock lounging back against the headboard, still gloriously naked and looking about as shagged out as John felt.
“I’m an addict, John,” Sherlock intoned evenly, blowing smoke towards the ceiling and fixing John with a hard stare. “Some habits are worse than others.”
John felt the gravity of the statement and decided to dismiss that more serious topic for a later date. He was too blissed out and boneless to worry about much of anything right now. “We could make a habit of this, you know,” he tried instead, going for playful and missing by a tentative mile.
Sherlock’s face softened and his lips stretched into a real smile, the left side quirking slightly crooked as he stared evenly at John. Then he shrugged and took another drag, flicking the ash over the side of the bed and onto the floor before raising one knee and leaning an elbow on it, smirking as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“Be careful what you wish for, Doctor Watson,” he purred, eyes raking up John’s form in an almost physical caress and John felt his pulse impossibly quicken again in response. “I don’t break habits easily.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” John said and leaned forward to pluck the cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers, inhaling deeply and smiling at the look of piqued interest on his angular face. Sherlock smirked and leaned in, capturing John’s lips and sucking the smoke from his lungs.
“I don’t share what’s mine, John,” he whispered and John felt it all along his skin, licking up his spine and settling deep in his abdomen. “And I don’t let go once I have something I want.”
John grinned and kissed him back, rolling them over and down onto the mattress, and using the momentum to stub out the cigarette against the metal ash tray on the bedside table. Quick as a cat, he grabbed at the pack and launched himself over the side of the bed, glancing back to take in Sherlock’s startled expression for a half second before leaping through the door and out into the sitting room, managing to fling the carton out the window just as Sherlock’s long legs ate up the distance and he felt himself caught around the waist and yanked backward against a wiry chest.
“Oh, you’re going to pay for that, John Watson,” Sherlock growled in his ear and John shuddered pleasantly.
“I’m counting on it,” he said again and felt Sherlock’s dark chuckle as he was pulled back toward the bedroom, the lingering scent of smoke hanging suspended in the air.
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
~Fix You, Coldplay