Chapter 1: That's Absurd
“I’ve a reservation under Watson,” John said, tapping his credit card against the granite countertop. The young man at the computer smiled politely and started clicking through reservations.
Sherlock, who was much closer than acceptable social practices would permit, leaned forward and said in a stage whisper: “I’ve a reservation under Watson, as well.” To which John let out a small snort, because really.
Since their quiet, private ceremony two weeks ago and the subsequent wearing of tell-tale gold rings, there had been no shortage of innuendo thrown at them while on cases down at the Yard. Of course Sherlock had started to pick up on it, and he’d been perfecting the improper craft. As such, he was rather impossible when the opportunity arose for him to flaunt his new humour at the same time as his new husband. It was like being married to a 36-year-old teenager when Sherlock had the chance.
As it was, the detective should have been in the proverbial dog house for filling their flat with pink smoke that hadn’t yet been deemed non-toxic. But John could forgive him. By this point in their relationship, most destruction was fair game as long as Sherlock didn’t sever any limbs or leave them homeless for longer than 72 hours.
“Just one night?” The receptionist asked. He had rather untidy hair and looked a little out of place in such a posh hotel. But the place was on Mycroft’s tab while the flat was inspected and de-pinkified, so John couldn’t complain.
“That’s all we’ll be needing.” John smiled his “get on with it” smile. He was tired from occupying his afternoon worrying about everything he owned being pink, and they’d spent nearly five hours down at the Yard finishing the case the pink smoke had definitively solved. All John really wanted to do was turn down those lush hotel blankets and crawl into bed with his husband. Now that the case was solved... well. There were things that could be taken care of that simply weren’t on the radar while Sherlock was engrossed in a triple homicide.
Thank God he’d updated their emergency evacuation overnight bag with the essentials six months ago.
The young man behind the desk went back to his clicking and typing and John turned his head, just for visual validation that Sherlock was still there. He had to be chilled to the core. It was snowing lightly outside at the moment and the man was wearing nothing more than black trousers and an aubergine button up that fit him snugly but certainly couldn’t have been warm. His trademark Belstaff was possibly one of the day’s losses, and John didn’t want to imagine the epic sulk that was currently pending that confirmation.
He could have offered Sherlock his coat, but they’d be up in their room in a moment and the jacket would just be one more thing to strip away. Just now it was hard for John to keep from undressing his husband with his eyes, imagining those buttons popping, so he turned back to the receptionist.
“Something wrong?” he asked. Honestly, how hard was it to hand him a key card and let them be on their way?
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have a room available for you.”
John blinked at the man a few times before replying, “Come again?” with a charming smile.
He heard Sherlock inhale not far from his ear and reached back with one hand to touch his waist, silently letting him know that now certainly wasn’t the time. The heart-shaped mouth behind him closed audibly.
“I cannot let the room to you, sir. I apologize for any inconvenience. I believe there’s another hotel a few blocks from here that you may find more, ah, accommodating.” He looked toward the door, where another couple had just stumbled in rather drunkenly, tripping over each other on the way to the elevator.
John stared at the receptionist for another moment before taking a deep breath. “Listen, mate, I know for a fact that there is a room somewhere up there with my name on it. I’ve had a long day and I just want to unwind, have a cuppa, and go to bed. So you need to give me a bloody fantastic reason for not putting a key card in my hand right now.”
The receptionist’s eyes flicked over to Sherlock, who had started fingering violin chords against the small of John’s back to keep himself occupied.
“Hang on.” At the harsh tone, the young man’s attention snapped back to John. “You can’t seriously be trying to turn us away because we’re together.”
“No, no. You’re going to get me your manager right this instant.” When the receptionist didn’t move, John leaned forward over the countertop and simply said, “Now.” His tone was near-deadly, and he was fuming at the idea it was even possible that in this day and age that a hotel would have the stones to try and send them off into the snow for being in a homosexual relationship. It would be laughable if he wasn’t so angry. Ridiculous.
The receptionist had skittered off through a door, only to return a few moments later with a burly looking gentleman who looked more like a security guard than a hotel manager. But his name tag proclaimed him to be Evan, a manager. Good. A step in the right direction. A step toward a room, and a bed, and all the sex he could manage for the night just as a nice “fuck you” to these pricks who thought they could send him on his way.
“Mr. Watson, my name is Evan and I’m the night manager here.” The manager offered his hand, which John refused with a small shake of his head. Wouldn’t want to spread the gay, would he? God, the judgmental look the man was giving him made him want to crawl out of his skin. “Mr. Watson, Alexander here has let me know you wish to speak to me regarding our policies.”
“Yes,” John said, shuffling on his feet to dislodge Sherlock’s fingers from where they’d snuck up under his jacket to play at the waist of his jeans. Randy as a teenager when cases wrapped, honestly. Absolutely no regard for the fact that they were being blatantly discriminated against. “I reserved a room earlier today after an absolute fiasco at my flat, only to arrive here and be told that there’s no room for me. When I asked for a reason, I couldn’t be given one other than a very telling glance at my husband. And I find it absolutely ridiculous that--”
“Your what?” the receptionist squeaked. His eyes darted almost comically between Sherlock, John, and his manager.
“My husband.” John flashed a glint of gold on his primary hand. “We’ve had a very hard day, including nearly suffocating to death in our own sitting room and--”
“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Watson, it seems there’s been a misunderstanding,” said the manager. He turned toward the receptionist, who was now refusing to meet any of their eyes. “Alexander, if you’d please assist Mr. Watson and his husband with their reservation.” After a moment of stunned silence, the young man practically dove back to the computer to finalize details. “And Mr. Watson, please forgive us for the inconvenience--”
“Hang on, what kind of misunderstanding?” John narrowed his eyes. “What could you possibly--”
“They thought I was a prostitute, John,” Sherlock said from behind him, fingers slipping back under John’s jacket to find the skin at his back.
“That’s absurd.” John directed it more at the manager and receptionist than at Sherlock, since of course Sherlock was always right. But. “A prostitute? Him?” John jabbed his thumb in the air over his shoulder. “A bloody prostitute?”
“High-end rent-boy, obviously,” Sherlock huffed. He didn’t sound offended in the slightest. John, however.
“Mr. Watson, I assure you that your entire stay with us will be on the house--”
“I’m still a little focused on the first half of this conversation, if you don’t mind.” His husband, a prostitute. More absurd: Sherlock Holmes, a prostitute. How on earth could they even come to that conclusion? Sherlock has half a virgin when they met, for Christ’s sake. “What makes that even a little plausible?”
The manager’s dark eyes flashed like they wanted to glare viciously at the receptionist for bringing on the awkward situation, but rather than giving in, he simply looked at John and Sherlock and made a monumental effort to answer without too much offense.
“Short-stay reservations with late-night check-ins are suspect, Mr. Watson, as well as the fact that your husband isn’t properly dressed for the weather. Again, I apologize that the assumption was incorrectly made, and I assure you that you will not pay a penny for your stay with us. Should you need longer accommodations, I’d be willing to upgrade your room to another of our suites for the full weekend.”
The receptionist--who was now red to the tips of his ears--had been about to set their key card on the countertop, but he paused when the option of a new room was laid on the table.
“Your finest suite, I think,” John said, still flustered. What did it say about him that they thought he needed to resort to a high-end rent-boy to bed someone like Sherlock? He was Three Continents Watson. If anyone was going to be a high-end male prostitute it would certainly be--
Hang on, cut that chain of thought.
“You’ll be in room 712, Mr. Watson. Out the elevators and to the left on the seventh floor.” The receptionist held the key card out with nervous fingers.
John snapped it away and gave a terse nod to the two men behind the counter. He lifted the overnight bag from the floor where he’d set it and slung it over one shoulder. What did you say in a situation like this? He wasn’t sure. There was still a special kind of rage boiling in his stomach, causing tension in his shoulders that would probably make him sleep poorly. He had a few choice words still on reserve, but in the end he settled for:
Chapter 2: That Costs Extra
Sherlock has some thoughts about the services he would provide. John goes with it.
John fumed silently for the duration of the elevator ride. He didn’t even want to acknowledge what had just happened, and he knew that Sherlock would be fine with pretending that it hadn't. The bloody genius could probably just delete the last ten minutes. He’d been amused. High-end rent-boy. Christ.
Once they were in their room--which was, in fact, a very impressive suite with a king-sized bed and comfy looking chairs and plush robes folded on the table by the bathroom--John shrugged off his jacket, dumped the overnight bag on a chair, and promptly flopped back onto the bed.
“I don’t know if I’m more offended by the thought of them turning us away for being gay or for you being a prostitute,” John said, shaking his head. He covered his face with his hands and scrubbed for a moment, trying to get out the hard lines from his confrontation with the manager.
Sherlock was sitting on the edge, untying his shoes silently.
“Where do they suppose I picked you up looking like that?” John joked, feeling the absurdity of the situation settle in.
“You picked me up from an escort service, obviously.” Sherlock stood, stepped away from the bed. John upped himself onto his elbows and scooted back to watch as his husband started to unbutton his shirt slowly, spreading the shirt open as he went. “The website would have had pictures, of course. Maybe some of the men were too young for you, others too breakable, some too posh.” John scoffed at the idea that anyone was more posh than Sherlock. “You favor sexual partners who are taller than you, so that would have been an important factor and certainly would have narrowed it down. Most of the rent-boys would have been shorter, since the most common clients are men who need to feel more powerful than their sexual partner. So my height would put me at a disadvantage for most clients, but not for you.” He pulled the shirttails from his trousers and let the purple silk shirt hang open for a moment. “In fact, it made me ideal.”
John licked his lips, not quite sure of how to add anything other than the unadulterated lust his eyes had to reflect.
“You’d be nervous, of course,” Sherlock said, undoing his shirt cuffs. “You’ve never hired a prostitute before. Maybe it’s been a while since you’ve been with a man. You choose me because of my eyes, though admittedly the cost of a night with me is outside your budget.”
Worth it, though, John thought as Sherlock shrugged off his shirt and tossed it aside.
“Still, the moment you saw me in person you knew you’d made the right choice.” Sherlock crawled onto the bed and over John on hands and knees. He leaned close for a moment, just letting his lips linger over his husband’s. “It was my lips that sealed the deal,” Sherlock breathed. “You couldn’t wait to get me to this hotel so you could put me on my knees.”
John closed his eyes, waiting for the kiss, waiting for the aforementioned lips to press against his. He was suddenly lost in this fantasy, and he could see it clearly. Could feel the apprehension in the pit of his stomach, the same way he’d been nervous about taking his friendship with Sherlock to another level. First kiss, first time, marriage. All of those nerves were back.
But there was no kiss. Sherlock sat back, straddling his husband, trailing his hands down a jumper-clad chest to stomach, where he slipped cool hands underneath to caress the warm skin he found there.
“There’s a twist, though.” Isn’t there always with Sherlock Holmes. “The receptionist knows I’m a prostitute. Perhaps he’s deduced it from the way I hold myself, can see that I’ve got a love-bite from an enthusiastic client. Maybe he’s even used my services himself.” John was flooded by a special rage at the unbidden mental image of Sherlock in bed with the young man from downstairs, and he frowned before Sherlock continued: “Either way, he knows. And he’s not letting you into his fine, upscale hotel with your rent-boy.”
John felt flushed, slowly moving into a state of heavy arousal. While he wanted all of his clothes to magically melt away, Sherlock’s voice wasn’t that powerful, and he needed to strip off his jumper at the very least. Thankfully, he’d married a man who could read him expertly, and the fingers under his jumper began to inch it upwards until John had to sit up to let it be pulled over his head.
“So you have to pretend, and it requires quick thinking to get us in,” Sherlock said as he threw the jumper to one side. “More likely than not, you’re married and enjoying a single-night affair. You flash your wedding band and that’s the ticket. They buy it, apologize profusely, and you’re in. With a free stay, to boot.” A slow swirl of his slim hips had John falling back against the bed again, and he let his hands come up to rest on Sherlock’s waist, thumbs stroking his hip bones.
“And what do I do once I have you to myself?” John asked, mouth dry. “Since I’m so hesitant.”
“Oh, that’s simple,” Sherlock said, leaning forward to set his hands next to John’s head. “You’re too reserved in the beginning to do much of anything. So you let me lead.”
John laughed quietly, breath huffing against Sherlock’s lips. “Shy, am I?”
“Mmhmmm.” Still denying John the kiss he wanted, Sherlock began to slip back down John’s body, placing lingering kisses to his heated flesh as he went, occasionally letting his tongue glide. “Luckily for you, I know exactly what you want. I’ve deduced it.”
God, he made it sound downright pornographic.
“And what do I want?” John asked breathlessly, though they both already knew the answer.
The other man didn’t humor him with a reply, simply lowered his mouth to John’s navel, just above the button on his jeans, licking a teasing trail to his belly button. John sucked in a gulp of air as practiced fingers undid the button and slowly slid down his zip. With his jeans open, Sherlock was free to press his lips against the cotton pants that housed the growing erection presented to him.
John let his head tip back further on the thick blankets. Sherlock was usually more about the “main course” of sex than the foreplay. That he was sucking a wet spot into John’s pants and humming in quiet enjoyment was certainly an unexpected turn for the night. Well, another unexpected turn.
One of his hands found its way into Sherlock’s hair, not pulling or pushing, just resting as a point of contact. Sherlock tapped one of his hips--a signal for him to lift so he could pull down his jeans--and when he lowered himself again, the pants remained.
His mouth pressed against John’s cock again, open lips slowly sliding down, hot and wet. Those blue eyes looked up in the low light of the room, eyelids low, and John had to redirect his gaze to the ceiling.
“And this was what you wanted,” Sherlock said quietly, each word breathing life into John’s arousal. “The whole way here, you couldn’t stop thinking about my lips wrapped around this cock.”
John squeezed his eyes shut tight, because no matter what universe they were in, that was pretty much always true. His fingers curled in Sherlock’s hair, still just a light grip. He was almost fully erect now and there was little in the world that he wanted more than the feeling of Sherlock’s lips against his naked flesh.
“Of course, I’d tease you relentlessly, because I know what you want better than you do.” Lips moved to the piping of John’s grey pants and began to move along the edge where elastic met skin. “It’s why I can justify charging you such a fee for a single night.” Down he went, following the curve until John was spreading his legs at the almost ticklish sensation, lifting his knees to give better access to his lover.
Sherlock took the invitation, sucking John’s testicles through cotton, one after the other and then back again, making John release him and fist his hands in the white down bedding. The base of his cock was next to receive his lover’s attentions, and John arched his back as the tip of Sherlock’s tongue snaked out to trail from base to crown.
“You’re torn,” Sherlock said, hooking his thumbs on the sides of John’s pants and pressing his lips to the sparse hair just above the waistline. “You’ve been fantasizing about my mouth since the moment you saw me, but you’d also like to fuck me.” With barely any help from John, the pants joined the other clothes on the floor, leaving Sherlock the only one still wearing a stitch.
“How ever will I choose?” John asked with a grin.
“I suppose your stamina will decide.” He was kneeling spread-legged between John’s, one hand on the the button to his trousers. John was amazed to realize he looked every bit his role: confident, controlled, a beauty nearly unattainable. But, God, by some miracle this man was John’s and took great pride in John being his.
Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers teasingly, undoing the zip at a snail’s speed, shimmying his hips almost imperceptibly, and John would’ve accused him of planning it all if the whole day hadn’t been so unpredictable.
The man was delectable.
He had to stand to properly divest himself of his trousers, and John nodded toward the overnight bag on the chair, figuring it was probably best to be prepared for all eventual outcomes so they wouldn’t have to leave the bed again. Once he found the small bottle in the side pocket, Sherlock crawled back onto the bed, positioning himself between John’s spread legs like a cat of prey prepared to pounce.
“Shall we begin?”
One corner of his mouth quirked when John took a deep breath and held it, waiting.
He tried to imagine it, the anticipation building, the feel of a stranger’s expert mouth setting to work. Just waiting for Sherlock’s lips to touch him was an overwhelming experience and then--
The flat of his tongue retraced its previous steps, base to tip, dragging the foreskin upwards, tensing to a point at the slit and probing gently before flattening to curve around the head. Naturally, John’s hand found its way right back into those endlessly satisfying curls as Sherlock took him into his mouth.
Long fingers wrapped around the base to keep steady as Sherlock’s head bobbed slowly, taking more with each downward stroke until he let his hand slip down and away. It was only a few moments before Sherlock was bravely taking John to the root, pressing nose to navel.
And that was when John dared to look down and meet the clear eyes that were gazing up at him, holding contact as Sherlock slid his mouth all the way up, letting the head rest on his tongue for a moment before taking him right back down.
John’s breath left him in one great, heaving exhalation, only to be replenished by a desperate gasp. He couldn’t remember the last time Sherlock had looked quite so dirty. They had great sex, fantastic sex, but ever since he caught Sherlock taking notes on laughably inaccurate gay pornos, he hadn’t seen any of these practices.
Now, though. Christ.
There was something in his eyes that John didn’t want to let go.
Letting his head fall back, John closed his eyes and focused on the sensation, keeping the image of Sherlock’s expression burned into his eyelids. He knew that if he looked back down, those eyes would still be digging deep into his own. Focusing on the wet heat and suction of Sherlock’s mouth was enough to be going on, for the moment.
“So good,” John said quietly, carefully guiding Sherlock back down. He knew, of course, that Sherlock didn’t need the affirmation.
It continued on like this for some span of minutes that John couldn’t count, until he realized he was pulling his lover up and back down again with growing urgency. The swirling heat throughout his body was making it harder to focus on the fact that he had other plans. Spilling into that talented mouth became a pin-sharp focus, and the next time he opened his eyes was when he knew he wasn’t far from the brink. One last look, just to have it permanently embedded in his mind for every other time Sherlock was too wrapped up in a case.
But as soon as his eyes opened to glance down, the heat was gone and his hand was dislodged from it’s position as the crown atop those disheveled curls. The frustration of the loss made him groan and drop back against the bed.
“I do this for a living,” Sherlock said, kneeling back. He wiped his shining lips with the back of his left hand. “I can tell when a man is close.”
John couldn’t look at him just yet if he wanted to maintain control, so he focused on the ceiling. That is, until the great hovering detective climbed back into his view, sitting atop his hips, cocks just barely resting parallel to each other, hot and heavy.
He leaned in close so that John thought he might finally kiss him, but he turned his head at the last moment and directed humid words into John’s ear. “And I made the decision for you.”
Before he could ask, Sherlock had positioned the tip of John’s cock against his entrance with one hand and began to sink down.
John, who was blatantly unprepared, grabbed his husband’s hips tightly and fought with every cell in his body not to come. He suddenly wished he hadn’t spent quite so long with his eyes closed over the last few minutes, because seeing Sherlock opening himself with those talented fingers while sucking on his cock was something John had never seen and suddenly wanted to see more than anything.
It usually took a little longer than they'd been at it to get Sherlock ready, and it was certainly a snug fit, but John didn’t see any discomfort on his husband’s face to cause concern. Which was excellent, really, because John wasn’t sure he had the aforementioned stamina to survive this portion of the night, let alone last longer than a few minutes.
“Can I?” John asked with a gentle tug to Sherlock’s hips. When he nodded his approval, his curls fell forward into his eyes, making him look positively debauched with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Not needing further permission, John began to slowly thrust his hips up, meeting in the middle on his lover’s down.
He relished the feeling of Sherlock’s body moving with him, the heat inside triggering small spasms through him as he got closer and closer to the edge. One hand moved around to grasp the plush arse as they moved, and his dominant hand drew Sherlock in closer. When his fingers slipped along Sherlock’s skin to rest on the nape of his neck, clearly hoping for a kiss, Sherlock turned away once more. Tease.
“That costs... extra.”
John laughed a single ha, nearly dislodging himself in the process, and pulled Sherlock’s face back to his own. They panted against each other's parted lips quietly for a stolen moment before John muttered worth it and crushed their mouths together.
The position was always a hard one to maintain while kissing, because it trapped Sherlock’s cock between them and also meant that John wasn’t able to get as deep inside him as was ideal, but it was always worth it for the added closeness.
Trying for better leverage, John lifted his knees slightly and adjusted his own angle. He wouldn’t be able to maintain it, but he was close enough that it wouldn’t matter in a moment. And if the way Sherlock was breathing harshly through his nose was anything to go by, he was just as near the peak. John slipped his tongue up into Sherlock’s mouth for a moment and dragged him back in for a final, deep kiss.
I want him to feel it with no hands.
It wasn’t John’s most coherent thought, by far, but he was going to put it into action. Without a second’s delay, John began to thrust ruthlessly, knowing it usually took a bit of rough to finish Sherlock if he was going for hands-free. It was a rare occurrence, but tonight was a rare night.
Only a few upward pumps of his hips later, John could feel a cramp starting in his leg. He didn’t want to give up, wasn’t ready to give in without his prize. Bloody inconvenient and he was just about to think about how Sherlock was a lucky bastard that he could ignore his body's pain signals--but before he could spare another thought, Sherlock drew back barely an inch from where they’d simply been breathing together, mouth falling open in a quiet Oh, and then John felt it.
And oh, it was beautiful. The sensation of Sherlock’s cock pulsing against his stomach and the rhythmic contractions of his body around him and oh, God the sheer knowledge that John had done that--it was all enough to send him spiraling over the edge himself.
John’s legs shook as he tried to thrust through his orgasm, determined to leave his seed as deep inside as possible. When Sherlock caught on to his efforts, he arched his back, allowing John just that much deeper for the final spasms.
One hand on his hip, one on his nape, John held a contented Sherlock close in the aftermath, coming down slowly and wishing he could chase the feeling just a bit longer. He was contemplating falling asleep without bothering to clean up--or even willingly removing himself from Sherlock’s body--when both their phones chirped with text notifications.
“It would be unprofessional of you to leave this bed and answer that when I’m paying you,” John mumbled against the side of Sherlock’s neck.
Another text, both phones.
“I’ll get the phone,” Sherlock said, “and then come back.”
“You will, will you?” John asked with a smirk, immediately missing the warmth of the other body against his as Sherlock carefully pulled up and away. He moved across the bed like it was a monumental effort, drastically different from his normal grace and weightlessness.
As soon as his feet touched the ground, he was back to normal, bending fluidly to fetch his phone from his trouser pocket. He lit the screen, typed in his code--1895--and read his texts as he walked toward the bathroom. He didn’t bother to turn on the light, and the faucet ran briefly before Sherlock walked back into the room. Still gazing at his phone in one hand, Sherlock wiped at his stomach absentmindedly with a damp flannel before passing it to John.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, beginning to turn down the very blanket John was lazing on top of. When John didn’t move, Sherlock gave it another impatient tug. “The flat is no longer pink and has been cleared for human occupancy once more. I told you it was nothing to be concerned about. We’re invited to go home in the morning.”
“You’re thrilled, I suppose.” John joined him under the covers, getting close and waiting patiently for Sherlock to put the phone down on the nightstand. After a moment, the detective noticed and set it aside.
“I think I could be convinced to stay the remainder of the weekend, should you wish to take advantage of the hotel’s generosity,” Sherlock said, rolling over and letting his head rest on the pillow next to John’s. “I normally loathe having repeat clients, but I may be willing to make an exception.”
Brushing the damp hair away from his eyes, John asked, “And what sort of fee would one incur for such a rare exception?”
“Well, you'd likely not be able to afford a second night on your salary, but there are several experiments I’ve been--”
John kissed him with a small smile. “I’m sure appropriate compensation can be arranged.”