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Double Trouble

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The second time John Watson came home to hear the very enthusiastic slurping noises coming from the bedroom, he grinned, wrenched his coat and shoes off, locked the door to the flat, and went to join his lover.

“Couldn’t wait, eh, love? Started without me?” Sherlock’s silver eyes flicked over at John from where he was curled naked on the bed, head on the pillow, knees on the top of the headboard, cock in his mouth. He moaned, eyes fluttering, and reached out for John. John hurriedly stripped, getting caught up in his shirt sleeves and flinging his clothes in the vague direction of the laundry basket, before he climbed up onto the bed next to Sherlock. He swept his hands down the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, feeling the way the muscles were tensed, and murmured “gorgeous man…”

Without taking his eyes from Sherlock, he reached out to the drawer in the bedside table, extracting a half-full bottle of lube. He snicked open the cap, drizzled some out onto his fingers, and gently started to rub over Sherlock’s furled hole. The silver eyes flickered shut again, and this time they stayed that way.

“Don’t get too carried away there, Sherlock, I don’t want you to come yet.” John began to press his finger into the ring of muscle, testing the give, and dipped his fingertip inside. Sherlock moaned at the sensation, bobbing his head to take his cock deeper inside his mouth, and John smacked his arse sharply. “I said I don’t want you to come yet, Sherlock, and if you carry on like that you will,” he said, adding more lube and then pressing his finger deeper into Sherlock’s warmth.

Sherlock looked a little contrite; it was a look he had practiced on Lestrade often enough, but John wasn’t falling for it. “Come on, out,” he said, as though Sherlock was a recalcitrant puppy, and Sherlock released his cock from his mouth with a loud “pop”.

“John…” he moaned, and pumped his cock a couple of times with a tight fist. John smacked him again.

“Hey now, none of that,” he said, and eased a second finger in alongside the first, scissoring and stretching Sherlock’s tight ring of muscle. Sherlock started to try to pump his hips a little, aiming to get John’s fingers moving faster and deeper, but with the way he was curled over, it wasn’t easy. Finally, John seemed to be happy. He grabbed a couple of the antibacterial wipes from the drawer, and cleaned his fingers, Sherlock panting and begging for him to hurry up all the while. John picked up the lube and coated his fingers again, but to Sherlock’s surprise, instead of coating his cock, John started to work his fingers into his own arse.

“John? Oh!” John could see the moment that Sherlock worked it out, and began to grin. He uncurled his body a little, taking some of the pressure off his spine. John worked quickly, grabbing for the wipes again when he had finished, then coated his cock and then Sherlock’s in lube. He stood upright on the bed, turning to face away from the head of the bed, but with one of his legs through Sherlock’s. Sherlock took his cock in his hand, pushing it to point directly upright, while John pushed his to point directly downwards. It took a little finessing, but after a little while, they managed to get the angles right, and John groaned at the sensation of Sherlock’s cock pushing into his arse as John pushed into Sherlock’s. As the head of Sherlock’s cock pushed through, John went to stop, but realised that he was holding Sherlock’s arse open at the widest point of his own cock, so he gritted his teeth and slid down a little more, until he felt the ring of muscle close around his shaft.

After a few moments, Sherlock said, “It’s okay, you can move now.”

“No, I can’t, not yet,” John replied, teeth still gritted; Sherlock was a little longer and thicker than John, and John didn't bottom as often as Sherlock. Sherlock reached up, wrapping two fingers around the base of John’s cock, and stroking slowly two or three times. John moaned softly as he relaxed, and started to move, thrusting down onto Sherlock’s cock and he pushed his own inside his lover. A slight wobble nearly caused them both a serious problem, but John grabbed hold of Sherlock’s leg and pulled it tight against his chest, using both it to steady himself and to give himself leverage. The twin sensations of filling and being filled were almost overwhelming for Sherlock; his eyes were almost rolling back in his head as he gripped reflexively at the bedclothes. John flexed his thighs, glad of all the running around he did with Sherlock, as it had kept his muscles toned. “Oh god Sherlock, you’re so tight…” he trailed off, hips speeding up as he continued to thrust.

“John, John, I can’t, I’m gonna-” With a guttural moan, Sherlock came. Keeping his hand on his cock to prevent him accidentally slipping out of Sherlock – it had happened with an old girlfriend once, and John had never been in so much pain - John ground himself down onto Sherlock as his lover pumped his come deep inside John’s arse.

“Oh god John, I need you to fuck me hard, now John,” and John was climbing off of Sherlock, flipping him over onto his hands and knees, and burying himself deep inside again. He gripped Sherlock’s hips tightly – there would be bruises the next morning – and pounded as hard as he could, pistoning to the rhythm of Sherlock’s “yes, there, god, yes, John, harder, fuck, John.” With one final roar, John pulled Sherlock’s hips back hard, as he thrust his own forward and came hard.

“Oh my god, we are so doing that again,” Sherlock said as John collapsed onto the bed beside him.

“I might need a minute…”