Behind the Door Part 1

Dedicated to Mirith Griffin, Giraffes Sent Me, and BookWoman17NerdyMom with Evenlode's love.

Ladies and Gentlemen, fellow Sherlockians, Cumberbitches and FreemanBabes, I now present you (finally) with the much talked about, long awaited sequel to my story 'A Romantic Education', a glorious SLASH-fest of our boys going at it like rabbits, as a little gift for Valentines Day. (Comes in two parts.)

Warning: Does what it says on the tin.

NB for any old time Sherlockians out there – spot the Basil Rathbone quote….

Enjoy!

(Previously: Realising his feelings for John Watson are more than just friendship, Sherlock Holmes has set out to romance his flatmate with candle lit dinners, dancing to Frank Sinatra, punting on the Thames in Oxford, and the wicked consumption of a certain ice cream. After an afternoon of passionate kissing, they finally decide to consummate their relationship in the Presidential Suite of the Randolph Hotel in Beaumont Street, Oxford. You may remember that a passing member of staff overhears their passion…)

The door clicks shut and they stare at one another. John is standing by the bed, nervous in spite of the kisses. Those kisses. As Sherlock comes towards him, the sensation of them goes through his mind again. The plush softness of Sherlock's lips, the roughness of his tongue. It makes John start trembling all over again.

Thunder rumbles around the building as Sherlock's fingertips brush his cheek.

'I promise I won't hurt you,' he whispers.

John nods.

'We won't do anything you don't want to do.'

The trouble is that when Sherlock looks at him like that, when he breathes in his ear like that, when he comes close enough for John to sense the heat emanating from his skin, John wants to do everything. He can't think of anything he won't let Sherlock do to him, right now, scruples and hygiene and heterosexuality be damned, and he is sure as hell determined he's going to do every bloody thing back, because he has never wanted anyone this much in his entire life. Ever.

As Sherlock's arms encircle him, as his breath strokes over John's skin, the doctor whispers back.

'Have you ever felt this way before? Have you ever-' He wants to say more but he is shaking too hard, and delicate fingertips are stroking his neck.

'Never wanted anybody so much it actually hurts. A pain, John, a pain right through my whole body.' Sherlock kisses the fine skin of John's neck very slowly, and then breathes in his ear. 'This is it for me, my love. You're the one.'

It takes everything John has to stop his knees from giving way right there and then.

'I want to touch you, John. I want to touch your skin. I want to touch you all over.' This from a man who hates it when people repeat themselves. 'May I touch you, John?'

'Yes,' the doctor gasps, and Sherlock locks his lips onto his earlobe and sucks, and John moans and clings to the skinny man's shoulders as if he is drowning. And after a moment, Sherlock lets the soft little bubble of flesh pop out of his mouth and blows gently on the skin till John quivers.

Clever fingers (for what else could they be?) work at the buttons of John's linen shirt, slipping them from their holes, sliding over the clammy skin underneath.

'Can I look at you, John? Please?'

John knows why he has paused, when another lover would have stripped the shirt off without a second thought. And that makes him shake more than Sherlock's touch. Because he knows now that this man really does love him. Sherlock is never considerate and thoughtful to anyone, but right now he is being tender and kind to a man he knows has all sorts of hang-ups about his body and a selection of extremely good reasons for all of them.

Scars.

John swallows, loud and awkward.

Sherlock lifts his head and looks him right in the eye. 'We can do this clothed, if you'd prefer. But I'd much rather not.'

'No, no, it's okay.'

'It's not okay, John,' Sherlock tells him. 'I can see it's not. I'm asking if you will let me in. And I can promise I won't hurt you. I swear.'

He swears, John thinks. He's serious. So John does what all Englishmen do, and what all soldiers do, in the face of something so serious. He makes light of it.

'What's this? Your new "What would Mr Darcy do?" campaign?'

'Please?'

He looks up into those silver eyes, while the tail of the storm whips over the city around them, while a long sinuous hand rests on his belly, waiting. And then, he pulls his shirt off himself.

Sherlock looks.

And then he stops looking and goes back to kissing and stroking John's body, without so much as a second glance, and that, the little doctor knows, is something he will never forget and will be forever grateful for. He lets himself soften against Sherlock's lean form for a few moments, and then pulls back to tug at the taller man's buttons.

'Both of us,' he says. 'I'm not being naked alone.'

'You're hardly naked,' Sherlock points out, with a glint in his eye. 'Yet.'

Which makes John fumble a button, his fingers instantly turning to rubber.

Sherlock stands back, and begins to unbutton himself, and John isn't sure if that is consideration or the desire to show off because now he is doing the least subtle strip-tease John has ever seen and John never knew he could move like that.

'Where did you learn to do that?' he gasps.

Sherlock whips his shirt over his shoulders and tugs it into a kind of shawl, turning just enough to glance naughtily at John with a raised eyebrow. 'Pole dancing class,' he said.

'What?'

'It was for a case.'

'Yeah, sure it was!'

Sherlock shimmies a little, flips the shirt over his head, and loops it around John's neck, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

'What do you think?'

'Right now?' John is frankly getting rather breathless. 'I'm thinking: you in a black satin basque and stockings and suspenders and five inch heels and a feather boa, and I'm thinking I'm going to have a heart attack.'

'Not yet, my love. Not till I'm ready to give you one.'

John whimpers.

'Besides, I never had you down for the dressing up type.'

'Oh, love, the army is the best dressing up there is. You have no idea'

'Mmmm, maybe not, but I'm getting one. And it's thoroughly unwholesome and naughty.'

'Definitely having a cardiac episode now.'

'Wait for me, darling,' Sherlock cooes, and claims John's mouth, running his hands down his skin and then, while the shirt tumbles to the carpet, dips his head and latches onto John's nipple with his voluptuous lips, and pinches the other between his fingertips, so that John yelps.

The suction and the pressure and the teeth are mind-bending, and John's heart is racing as if it's close to bursting. And as Sherlock's fingertips wander lower, it occurs to him that he is hard, so hard that his trousers and pants are barely containing his erection. He glances down and is shocked to see the head of his cock peeping above his waistband, and he is praying Sherlock hasn't noticed just at the same moment that it becomes abundantly clear that Sherlock certainly has noticed and intends to make exceedingly good use of the knowledge.

'Aha!' he says, 'What's this?'

John growls as Sherlock sinks to his knees and assaults his belt. The zip comes down and Sherlock presses kisses across John's belly as he eases the waistband over his hips. John is panting now, cricking his neck to stare down at what is happening below his navel. The detective is stroking his skin, licking his hipbones, nuzzling hungrily at the base of his belly where the hair begins to spread out. Long hands circle around to the small of his back and stroke down over his buttocks, sweeping his trousers before them, until the fabric sags and drops around his ankles. Sherlock slips his hands up the legs of John's shorts and massages the gluteal muscles, and John groans, bucking helplessly.

'So good,' Sherlock mumbles. 'You feel so good.' He is rubbing his cheeks and lips over the ridge of John's hard on, making it bob beneath the thin jersey.

'Please Sherlock,' John begs.

He is not sure if he really hears the crump outside of the door of the suite, but by then it's too late and his capacity to focus on anything that isn't his cock is reduced to zero, because Sherlock has slipped his pants down and taken the dripping head of his erection in his marvellous mouth.

'Oh, God, yes, Sherlock, yes…'

It's hot, and it's wet, and it's oh so incredible. There are those plush, lush lips and that insatiable tongue, and teeth, yes, just the slightest suggestion of teeth, so tantalising, and then there is the divine sucking and the movement, in and out, and if it goes on for much longer, John really isn't going to last because this is frankly just about blowing every neuron he has. He grabs onto Sherlock's bony shoulders and sinks his nails in, trying to hold him back, trying to get him to just give John a break here, because this is just too much, and then Sherlock looks up at him, and his eyes twinkle, and he pulls off with a slurp.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock,' John groans.

'Darling, I haven't even started yet,' the detective promises.

'Take it easy, for God's sake, or I'll come before we've even got on the bed,' John tells him. So Sherlock leans forward, sticks his tongue out and tickles the tip of John's cock with it.

'You taste so good,' Sherlock breathes. 'I can't help it.'

'Well, try.'

Sherlock hums and examines the hard-on that is an inch and a half from his face.

'Beautiful,' he whispers. 'I want it.'

And without any warning he takes it in his mouth again, and this time shows no mercy. Down it goes, the whole length, and John's jaw falls open as he realises that Sherlock can actually deep throat and is doing it to him, right now. And then Sherlock swallows, and his soft palate is massaging the head of John's cock, and John lets out a little wail of disbelief.

And doesn't come.

Much to his own surprise.

'Oh baby,' Sherlock moans, letting John's cock slip out of his mouth, and then slurping it in again, and then John is fucking him, fucking his mouth, helpless, jerking his hips and needing that luscious throat so much, and then suddenly, just when he thinks he is going to lose it, really lose it this time, Sherlock pulls off again and scrambles to his feet and falls on his mouth like a plague of locusts.

Every nerve ending in John's body is on fire.

And then a delicious certainty comes to him. He pushes Sherlock back, away from him, and the sinuous body flops onto the bed. John stands over him and grins his best evil grin.

'My turn now,' he says. 'Baby.'

He makes short work of Sherlock's belt and fastening, and rips the trousers over his narrow hips, made brazen by the desire coursing through his veins. Kicking off shoes and socks, he crawls over the panting detective, whose eyes are wide with need.

'You want some?'

'God, yes,' Sherlock moans.

John has never personally sucked a cock before, but he has been on the receiving end of an impressive number of blow jobs and he reckons he knows roughly what he's doing. Besides, he's a doctor and he's handled his fair share of cocks in a professional capacity at least, so he has a good idea of what not to do. Now he's faced with Sherlock's member, things seem oddly awkward and, at the same time, painfully simple. He won't be able to replicate Sherlock's impressive technique, but he reckons that doesn't matter because right now the detective is straining and moaning underneath him as he takes his shaft firmly in his hand. It is narrow and hard and long, and gleaming at the head where anticipation has rimed it. It's been a long, hot day, and Sherlock should stink of sweat, especially in his crotch, but he smells sweetly instead, of oranges.

John drops his head and gulps him in. And Sherlock's moan must be wired straight to John's groin because the sounds goes right through him and makes his knob twitch almost painfully.

John licks and sucks gently, swirls his tongue around, and flicks it tentatively at the end, and Sherlock's back arches in appreciation.

'So good,' he croons.

John's getting into the swing of this now. The skin is salty and firm, and there is a satisfying resistance to it. The length is weighty too, and he senses the amount of blood that is pooled there, throbbing. He starts bobbing his head up and down, letting it slide in between his lips, almost allowing it release, and then sucking it back again. Sherlock struggles up onto his elbows so that he can watch John crouching over him, using his mouth.

'Yesssss,' he hisses, rolling his head. John doesn't need to stop to ask if it's good. He can see from the flush spreading over his lover's chest and cheeks.

'Mmmmm,' he drones, mouth happily full, knowing all the while that although he's enjoying this, it's giving his own cock time to ease. And actually, it's delicious and satisfying, and he really loves the sense of power it gives him, right up until the moment when Sherlock cries out, a strangled, desperate cry, grasps his shoulders and pulls him up his body to sink his tongue into John's mouth and taste his own precome on his lips. They are both panting and slithering together, naked and hard, as they roll across the bed, mouths locked, hands grasping. John finds Sherlock's long neck and sinks his teeth in, and Sherlock lets out a little wail. The detective grabs the back of his head, knotting his fingers in John's sandy hair, and drags his skull back so that he can make a matching mark. John writhes, finds himself on his back and held down. Sherlock lifts his head and fixes him with his silver stare.

'I want you, John,' he pants. 'I want to be inside you. Will you let me? Will you let me have you?'

His words are practically on fire.

'Do I get a choice?'

'Always a choice, my love. But I want you to know that I want you. How much I want you. You're burning me alive.'

John knows the risks. He's a doctor. He knows what's involved. What's more, he's done trauma work for years, trained in Barts A&E department. He's no stranger to casualties with anal or colon ruptures, or with any manner of weird objects jammed in their rectums. He has no illusions about the vast range of sexual peccadillos of the human race. And so at any other moment in his life he would have argued strenuously, probably with his fists, against having anything stuck up his arse. But when he glances down at that beautiful cock, attached as it is to the most beautiful human being he has ever laid eyes on, all that goes out the window.

'Yes,' he says.

And why? Because, quite apart from the fact that he is insanely in love with this man, this afternoon's events have already proved that Sherlock knows exactly what he is doing. And if Sherlock does something, he does it perfectly. There are no half measures. So John knows beyond doubt that he is in absolutely the best hands for his first foray into anal penetration.

Sherlock swiftly kneels up, his eyes tender.

'Are you okay with this? Really?'

'Yes.'

'I won't hurt you.'

'I know.'

'We can stop whenever you want.'

'You said.'

'I love you.'

And that's what breaks him. Those three words, such simple words, so often abused, coming out of the mouth of the one man on the planet who was never supposed to say them, and certainly not to a short, stocky, rather ordinary little former battlefield surgeon. Right there, John Hamish Watson's heart breaks soundly into pieces, and then Sherlock reaches out and with the lightest touch of his lips, puts them perfectly back together again.

'Fuck me, Sherlock,' he whispers as Sherlock releases his mouth.

So then he is crouching on shins and forearms, and Sherlock is stroking his back with tender strokes, pressing kisses to the nape of his neck and the nubs of his spine, licking his shoulder blades and the small of his back, and murmuring all the while:

'So beautiful, so beautiful…'

Licking and kissing and licking, further and further down, and then. Strong hands press John's buttocks part and that short nose nuzzles between them, finding, finding.

John feels a twinge of consternation at this moment. After all, he's been up since 8am, on his feet and travelling through a long hot day. And his body is fully functioning, no problems there. So when he realises that the hot, wet sensation he is feeling is actually Sherlock's tongue, licking his hole, tracing little circles around his anus so that he can blow on them a tiny, cooling draft of tingling pleasure, he can't pretend he doesn't have qualms. Sherlock, it seems, doesn't. However salty, sweaty, or anything else he might be up there, Sherlock isn't worried about any of it. He is sticking his scalding, squirming tongue in, and John is moaning because God, that's so good, fuck me, that's incredible, and Sherlock is thrusting and opening and licking and all concerns evaporate immediately and completely.

And this seems to go on for-blissful-ever until long fingers reach between and then Sherlock is holding his cock and stroking it, and sucking on his balls, sucking them into his mouth, and then working his way back up, up, and John never knew his perineum could tingle like that, and his legs are shaking, and he realises with utter certainty that if Sherlock doesn't fuck him in the arse right now, he literally going to collapse and die.

So it's a sudden and serious blow when Sherlock gets up and leaves the room.

Many thanks to everyone who commented on A Romantic Education. I hope you will be back for the next part tomorrow...