AN: This has nothing to do with the case-related part of the Hollowverse story arc, but it's all Johnlock sex, and maybe that's not a bad thing ;)
John paused at the base of the stairs, one hand hovering over the banister as he strained his ears. He was used to faint – or sharp and sudden – sounds filtering down from the first floor flat. Explosions, violin music, voices…
Sherlock's baritone usually carried more readily than his clients' voices. Sometimes it was joined by Mycroft's polished accent, or Lestrade's gruffer one.
This didn't sound like someone talking.
It sounded like someone moaning.
And it didn't sound like Sherlock.
John felt himself flush at the sudden realization, blushing more at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. Sherlock was a grown man and his partner. If he wanted to watch porn, it wasn't really all that shocking.
It wasn't as if John hadn't done it himself.
Right, the doctor thought firmly, gripping the banister. It's not as though he'll be embarrassed.
He never was. It was a bit… annoying.
John didn't bother to call out that he was on his way up the stairs; Sherlock seemed preternaturally attuned to his footsteps. Unless he was gone away in his mind, John's returns never went unremarked. More and more, the doctor noticed, his presence pulled the detective back to reality – although, admittedly, it was usually so Sherlock could pester him about something or make him do menial, pointless errands.
The scene John had been expecting (half dreading, half anticipating) was not the one he was presented with; Sherlock was watching porn – that much was obvious from the sounds, and it was on John's laptop, too, of course – but he was fully clothed, perched on the edge of his chair with the computer resting on John's, and taking notes.
"Sherlock?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. Grey eyes flickered up to him in brief greeting before the detective returned his focus to the screen, jotting something down.
"I can put on headphones if it bothers you," Sherlock said, and John rolled his eyes.
"You're taking notes?" he asked. "Really?"
"I have a vast academic knowledge on this subject, but you know full well my practical knowledge is limited to you. I was rather vehemently assured that expanding my knowledge without your consent would be A Bit Not Good. This seemed like the most logical way to pursue it without upsetting you."
"You were assured?" John asked, folding his arms, movements still careful without the sling. "I'm afraid to ask."
"By Lestrade," Sherlock replied with a scowl, looking up again.
"Oh lord," John muttered, dropping his head into one hand. "You are not talking to Greg about our sex life!"
"He knows we're sleeping together. You know he knows. Honestly, you're both so fidgety about it. Whom would you prefer that I ask?"
"Me, maybe?" John suggested.
"Do you mind if I sleep with other men?" Sherlock enquired. John caught the glint in his partner's eye but couldn't stop himself, even knowing he was being baited.
"Damn right I do!" he said. "Besides, you've never seemed interested in that."
"Precisely," Sherlock agreed. "Hence the videos. Do you mind? I'm trying to work."
John rolled his eyes again, crossing the room to circle behind Sherlock's chair, half expecting the laptop to be shut defensively and the notepad to be hidden away. Instead, Sherlock deigned to glance at him before glaring at the screen, pen poised over paper.
It was disconcerting, John had to admit, to watch his partner watching porn like he would study security footage on a case. Scrutinizing it, pausing the playback so he could jot something down, tapping the pen against his lips thoughtfully.
He had at least ten tabs open, John noted. He pursed his lips against a question, caught between embarrassment and fascination.
Gay porn had never really been his area, and that hadn't changed, even with Sherlock. The two men on the screen (and vaguely John wondered what variations of number of participants Sherlock had explored) didn't interest him much.
The fact that one of them was tied up did.
Especially since one of the other browser tabs clearly had the word "bondage" in it.
He doubted Sherlock would be into anything too serious in that regard – but for a man who wasn't legally allowed to make arrests, he was awfully fond of his set of handcuffs.
"I'll, uh, leave you to it," John said, dropping a kiss into Sherlock's dark hair. He went into the bedroom to change, and spent ten calculated minutes puttering around the flat, trying not to be distracted by the sounds of moans and curses, before vanishing back into the bedroom to liberate Sherlock's handcuffs. John slipped them into the back pocket of his jeans were even an observational genius hopefully wouldn't notice them.
He perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair, eyes flickering to the laptop, surprised to feel a dull thrum of desire at the image on the screen, the sinuous way the man on top was moving. He loved seeing Sherlock that way, riding him, long, lean torso arched, head dropped back, the hum in his chest so deep it was almost a purr.
John took a deep breath, slipped the handcuffs from his pocket and plucked the notebook from Sherlock's surprised fingers at the same time. When the detective reached instinctively for it, John snapped a cuff around a thin wrist, moving to reach around Sherlock quickly enough that the detective couldn't tense completely in resistance.
The click of the second cuff was surprisingly satisfying, and John felt the low burn of desire grow as Sherlock glared at him, caught between astonishment and irritation.
Without looking round, John closed the laptop, cutting off the sound, watching Sherlock's eyes widen slightly in surprise. He ran his fingers into the detective's hair, not missing the way Sherlock tilted his head to increase the contact before catching himself and cutting off the motion. Lines of tension drew down either side of his neck; John ran a thumb down one, softening it slightly.
"You know," he murmured, cupping Sherlock's jaw, tipping the detective's face up slightly, "the best way to gain practical knowledge is to practice."
Sherlock held his glare, shoulder shifting as he tested his wrists against the cuffs.
"Sometimes," John said, crouching down, resting his hands lightly on Sherlock's thighs, "not everything needs to be overanalyzed. Sometimes you just need to…" John shrugged, hiding a smile when Sherlock's eyes narrowed even more. "Let yourself go."
"Is that what you're proposing?" Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow, expression all challenge. John hummed non-committally, tracing small circles with his thumbs, feeling the jump of muscles beneath his touch.
"A good scientist experiments," John mused, as if to himself. "And I know you're fond of that. So why don't we," he slid his hands higher, and Sherlock spread his knees, giving him better access that John refused to take full advantage of, "experiment a little?"
"Other than handcuffing me," Sherlock asked, "what did you have in mind?"
"Hmm," John chuckled, pushing himself to his feet again, brushing his lips over his partner's. "Now where would be the fun in telling you?" He kissed Sherlock again, pulling away when the detective parted his lips to let John in, and didn't miss the flash of irritation.
"You can't always have your way," John said with a grin.
"I don't see why not," Sherlock muttered, nose wrinkling.
"Because I say so," John murmured, leaning in again, not quite close enough for Sherlock to catch his mouth. "Stay here. I have something I need to do."
He scooped up the laptop and settled on the couch, aware of Sherlock's scrutiny, and ignoring the way the detective was fidgeting, the cuffs clinking gently as he moved. John closed the tab Sherlock had been watching – and muted the sound – before skimming through the other videos.
He'd been right; there was a theme. Not all of them involved light bondage, but enough of them that even he, without a genius' brain, could see an obvious pattern.
He selected a longer one, put it in full screen, and returned the laptop to where Sherlock could see it.
"This is what I was doing before," the detective sighed as John settled back onto the arm of the chair, leaning past him to play the video.
"Nope," John said, trailing his fingertips just under the collar of Sherlock's shirt, feeling the sudden jump of goose bumps. "This time, you're just watching."
"What else am I supposed to do?" Sherlock snapped.
"Nothing," John murmured, tracing his thumb down the line of vertebrae on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Nothing but watch."
"John, that's boring," Sherlock protested.
"Is it?" John asked, playing idly with a curl. "I'll try to make it more interesting for you then. How about that?"
Sherlock's nostrils flared but John didn't miss the way his partner's pupils dilated slightly. He leaned down, brushing his lips over Sherlock's, contact that was barely there; Sherlock pursed his lips, annoyed, when John pulled away. He squared his shoulders as best he could with the cuffs and John swallowed a grin – of course he'd see this as a challenge not to react.
He slid a hand down Sherlock's arm and tightened the cuffs slightly – not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to put metal into contact with skin on all sides.
Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, but quietly, turning his gaze resolutely to the screen.
John traced his fingertips up and down Sherlock's forearm, enjoying the faint shudder beneath his touch, keeping his movements lazy, as if he had nothing else in mind. He tugged lightly on the cuffs, watching the tendons jut briefly on Sherlock's neck, then trailed up along his spine. Sherlock titled his head back into the contact, and John smiled, tracing an ear with his thumb before pressing more firmly into the base of Sherlock's skull.
The detective made a low noise, almost a groan, as John increased the pressure. Eyes fluttered shut and John made a tsking sound.
"You're supposed to be watching."
"Boring," Sherlock murmured.
"How long were you watching porn before I got home?" John asked, lips stretching into another smile.
"That was for research," Sherlock muttered.
"Well," John said, easing himself off of the chair to crouch in front of Sherlock again, hands on the arm of the chair rather than on Sherlock's thighs this time, "this is research, too, remember. And this is one of the controls: I want you to watch it."
Sherlock's eyes darkened again, the muscles in his throat working as he swallowed.
"The thing about being tied up is that you don't get to make any of the decisions," John murmured, casually dropping one hand to draw light circles on Sherlock's hip, "but it's still going to be all about you." He smiled, tracing a finger downward, along the outside of his partner's leg. "I know you'll like that last bit."
Sherlock pursed his lips, tilting his chin upward slightly – almost defiance, but not quite.
"So just watch," John said.
"Fine," Sherlock muttered, shifting slightly. "If it makes you happy."
John grinned – there were a lot of things about this set up that made him happy, not least that Sherlock's tone didn't at all match the desire flickering across his expression, particularly when John settled onto his knees. Grey eyes tracked his movements, and John raised his eyebrows.
"Watch the video," he said. "Not me."
Reluctantly, Sherlock raised his eyes, gaze moving past John's shoulder, and the doctor allowed himself a small, private smile as he brushed his fingertips up Sherlock's legs, starting at the ankles. He paused at the knees, feeling the slight jump of muscles in ticklish spots, before tracing slowly up Sherlock's thighs, thumbs just brushing the inner surface. Sherlock spread his legs a bit more, a silent invitation that John ignored.
He ignored the faint huff too, and the way Sherlock shifted to accommodate himself when John undid his buckle slowly. He felt a dull ache in his fingers, the desire to touch the beginnings of Sherlock's erection, but John resisted, skimming his hands upward to slip the buttons of Sherlock's shirt free, one at a time.
He tugged the shirt from Sherlock's trousers, letting it hang open, and brushed his hands over the smooth silk, focusing on Sherlock's nipples. The detective shifted again, jaw tightening briefly, eyes not leaving the laptop screen. The sounds of moans and skin against skin weren't doing much to help John's resolve – without being able to see it, it made him picture Sherlock instead, spread out and tied up, completely at his mercy.
It didn't help that he'd managed to pick a video where the bottom had the same deep, caramel rich baritone.
Steady on, Watson, he told himself, refocusing on the hardening nubs beneath his fingertips, using the silk for extra friction as he pinched and twisted. Sherlock made another small sound, more of a whimper, and John clucked his tongue when the detective's eyes fluttered shut.
With some obvious effort, Sherlock opened them again, letting out a surprised grunt when John leaned forward, sucking on a nipple through the shirt. He'd ruined more than one silk shirt this way, but knew for a fact that Sherlock didn't care – and the way he pressed himself forward, intent on more contact, was proof enough.
John chuckled and Sherlock groaned, the sound reverberating against the doctor's lips as he sucked harder. There was a clank of metal as Sherlock sought purchase with his bound hands, pushing his hips up hopefully. John wormed the wet silk with his tongue, dragging it back and forth over the sensitized nub, then caught it between his teeth, tugging none too gently as he brushed his fingers over Sherlock's trapped erection.
The detective gasped, a cut off sound, the following moan echoing the one from the video.
"John–" he managed, and John hummed an enquiring reply, making Sherlock groan again. He moved his hand away, brushing it along the inside of Sherlock's thigh, never quite high enough despite all of the detective's encouraging squirming.
"Are you watching?" John murmured, pulling away just enough to be heard, and felt Sherlock shift as he nodded quickly. He raised his gaze to find Sherlock's eyes locked on his, and arched an eyebrow pointedly.
Sherlock swallowed hard, eyes returning reluctantly to the screen. John leaned back a bit, letting his hand trail back up, moving closer with each pass, until he skimmed across Sherlock's balls, earning a quiet gasp. Grey eyes fluttered shut; Sherlock tipped his head back as John stroked him lightly, fingertips playing over the swollen sacks.
"Sherlock," John admonished, and the detective wrenched his eyes open, breathing hard. "Better," John murmured, sliding his free hand across Sherlock's torso beneath the shirt, flexing his fingers just enough to drag his fingernails across bare skin.
He leaned forward, nosing the silk aside, keeping his kisses as light as his touch. Sherlock's thigh muscles tensed against John's arm as he pressed upward, hips canting gently, trying for more friction. John eased up in response, earning a low groan, tracing and tickling with his index finger.
Sherlock moaned when John darted the tip of his tongue out to taste salty skin. John chuckled, not bothering to chastise Sherlock when the detective dropped his head against the back of the chair, breathing hard.
"You like that." he murmured, voice nearly lost against Sherlock's skin, but his partner whimpered and nodded, hips tilting upward again. John kissed lower, nipping lightly just above the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. The detective gave a startled gasp, arms twitching, groan almost hiding the faint clink of metal as he tried to move.
"Patience," John whispered, dipping his tongue into Sherlock's belly button, meeting pupil-dark eyes when Sherlock wrenched his head down, gaze hard and hungry.
"John," he pled, and John smiled, pulling away slightly, still teasing and stroking with one hand.
"Just think," he mused, "of all the things I could do to you like this. And I haven't even watched the video."
"Oh god," Sherlock moaned, dropping his head back again. John ran his free hand over Sherlock's cock, feeling it twitch under his touch, a damp spot already formed on the dark wool of his trousers. "Please–"
John hummed in agreement, dipping his head to mouth Sherlock through his trousers. The detective gave a sharp cry, arching up, twisting slightly for better contact. John obliged him, opening his mouth, letting his teeth drag across the heavy fabric as Sherlock whimpered and thrust. He kept up the teasing touch on Sherlock's balls, using both hands now, body weight preventing Sherlock from sliding down to a position that would give him more leverage.
The front of the chair was pressed against his own erection, making his hips twitch with the urge to rut against it; John reined himself in, displacing the desire by teasing even more lightly while sucking harder. Sherlock was making small, desperate noises, moans echoed by the video playing behind them, pleas half formed and cut off by gasps.
The cuffs clinked again, and the thought of Sherlock freeing one hand to grip John's hair and press him down made him moan. Sherlock whimpered in response, breath coming in gasping pants. John hummed again, pressing his index fingers and thumbs into Sherlock's swollen balls, cupping them into his palms, and the detective shouted, arching up as he shuddered hard. John kept going, mercilessly, Sherlock's hips twitching helplessly, knees clamping around John's ribs to keep him in place.
He eased up when Sherlock slumped back down the chair, breathing hard and glassy eyed. John reached around to undo the cuffs, and there were hands in his hair immediately, combing and stroking, tugging him up for a kiss. He crawled up Sherlock's body, his own tension heightened by the sated relaxation emanating from his partner, but John caught Sherlock's hands as they went to work on his belt, shaking his head.
"No," he murmured. "I have plans."
"Mm," Sherlock hummed, stretching languidly beneath him, and John bit the insides of his cheeks.
"You're a menace," he said, trying to hide a shudder at the final sounds of the video behind him, cock throbbing at the knowing smirk on Sherlock's lips. "Come on."
John tugged the detective to his feet, feeling a stab of pride at the way Sherlock's legs wobbled a bit before he found his balance. The doctor closed his hand around a wrist, feeling the jump of a pulse beneath his fingers, and raised his eyebrows at his partner, leading him toward the bedroom.
"Let's get you out of these, shall we?" he murmured, dispensing with Sherlock's belt, tossing it on the bed before going to work on trousers and pants. Sherlock shuddered when John skimmed his fingers over the damp spot, flattening his palm.
"John," his partner warned, and John eased up, drawing his fingers away teasingly to dispense with Sherlock's clothing.
"On your stomach," John said, enjoying the way Sherlock worried his lower lip quickly, obeying with surprising speed. He settled a pillow under his hips and stretched out – it was all John could do to keep his control, stripping off his jumper and t-shirt to let them join the pile on the floor.
He crawled onto the bed, trying to ignore the subtle way Sherlock shifted his hips, and grabbed the detective's belt, winding it around his wrists. Sherlock raised his head in surprise that shifted almost immediately to a smirk.
"Stay here," John murmured, pressing a kiss against Sherlock's spine, before vanishing into the living room, returning with their scarves. Sherlock gave him a quizzical look, but John didn't explain, looping the fabric over Sherlock's ankles instead. They were each long enough to tie to the frame, spreading his partner's legs nicely for him.
John swallowed hard, digging his phone from his jeans pocket. He had a small but growing collection of what Sherlock referred to as the 'personal photographs', and if he missed the chance to add this one, he'd never forgive himself.
The sultry smile that stretched across Sherlock's lips didn't help matters; John held his hands steady through long years of medical training, managing to get a couple of good shots before he tossed the phone aside, fumbling out of his jeans and pants, nearly scrambling onto the bed.
Reaching for the lube in the nightstand drawer made them both moan as John's erection brushed against Sherlock's back, and the doctor nearly lost his grip on the small tube when Sherlock wiggled his hips. A couple deep, harsh breaths got him under control, and John sat back on his heels, aching cock twitching at the sound of the cap snapping open.
He ignored it as best he could – no easy feat with Sherlock spread out, naked, beneath him – and coated his hands liberally, the scent of orange and vanilla permeating the room.
John leaned forward again, pressing a kiss against Sherlock's spine between his shoulder blades, tracing two slicked fingers along the cleft of arse cheeks, feeling the flutter of muscles as he passed over the hole. Sherlock pushed his face into the pillow, breathing hard, and tried to spread his bound legs further as John traced the entrance teasingly.
The creak of leather from the belt as Sherlock fisted his hands shot straight to John's groin, sending a jolt through him that made him bite his lower lip hard to keep control. Some dim part of his mind wondered what it would be like to take Sherlock to sex shop, and the thought made him moan, dropping his forehead against bare, salty skin.
He slipped his index finger in, encountering minor resistance that relaxed when Sherlock moaned. John pursed his lips to contain a sound of his own, eyes closed, focusing on loosening the ring of tight muscle. He could feel the heat of his breath bouncing back at him from Sherlock's warm skin, and wanted desperately to push himself in now, to fuck Sherlock into the mattress.
He held onto himself, also wanting Sherlock to enjoy it, to hear the small whimpers that slipped from his partner's lips, nearly buried in the pillows. John was rewarded by a faint gasp when he drew out enough to slide a second finger in; the sound deepened to a cut off moan when he skimmed Sherlock's prostate, tickling and teasing.
"God, John," Sherlock moaned, voice somehow managing to drop an octave. He pushed himself onto his forearms, back arched, trying to push into John's hand but hampered by the restraints around his ankles. His head dropped between his bound wrists, shoulders heaving, and John moved up, kissing the base of his neck, nose brushing over sweat dampened hair.
He curled his fingers, focusing on the small gland, the tiny sounds Sherlock was making nearly undoing him. A deep groan reverberated against John's lips when he pulled his fingers out, sliding three in easily, stroking and massaging the muscle. He brushed the tips against Sherlock's prostate again, a shock of stunned desire coursing through him when Sherlock's hips took on a slow cant. Bracing himself, chest pressed against his partner's back, John slid a hand beneath Sherlock, feeling an unexpected but familiar hardness.
"Gorgeous," he murmured, lips moving against Sherlock's skin, feeling the moan as much as he heard it. Every nerve in his body was screaming, the tightness in his groin accentuated by having made Sherlock hard again so soon. John pulled his hands away, fumbling with the lube, coating himself hurriedly and tracing more around Sherlock's entrance.
The detective gasped when John pushed in, arching his head back. John bit the insides of his cheeks, thrusting in and out slowly until he was flush against Sherlock's ass, pushing his partner's head back down into the pillows as he wiggled his left hand between Sherlock and the pillow. Through sheer effort, he stayed still, stroking clumsily with his hand, feeling Sherlock shudder hard when he swiped a thumb over the cockhead.
"Move," Sherlock managed, voice thick, single word slurred. John ignored him, drinking in the way Sherlock's features tightened, eyes squeezed shut, lips parting to exhale harsh pants. He kept stroking, pressing down harder with his entire body weight, refusing Sherlock the room he needed to thrust, feeling the twitch of trapped muscles beneath his own hips.
Sherlock whined, bound hands scrabbling for purchase against the smooth wooden head board, trying to push him back. John pressed Sherlock's erection against his stomach, stroking roughly, his own muscles screaming in protest as he tried to keep himself still.
"Please–" Sherlock gasped, and John couldn't stop himself anymore, setting a hard, fast pace that he matched with his hand. He wasn't sure he could last but oh, he wanted to see Sherlock break down completely, face pressed into the pillows, the end of each panting gasp breaking on a sob as John pounded into him, stroking quickly. Sherlock was shaking his head, trying to move, hindered by the restraints and John's body. John scrabbled at the last of his self control, tasting blood as he bit his lower lip.
"I can't–" Sherlock managed, word half lost to the linens and to his own desperation.
"I want you to," John whispered, hot breath brushing over Sherlock's ear, feeling the answering shudder down his partner's spine. Fingers curled into the pillows, twisting, and Sherlock shook his head again, gasping desperately.
"John," he moaned, the word barely discernible, dissolving into weak whimpers. John groaned at the tightening sensation and thrust harder, focusing his attention on the cockhead, rubbing back and forth relentlessly.
"Come on, Sherlock," he managed, barely recognizing his own voice. "Now."
A strangled cry escaped Sherlock's lips and John kept his hand moving, stopping his aching hips to let Sherlock come – weakly and shuddering, gasping small, broken sobs. He picked up his pace again immediately, any ounce of self-control gone, the sounds of Sherlock's desperate whimpers of relief and anguish spurring him to move even harder until the edges of his vision went dark and he came, sinking his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder blade. John's hips twitched hard, his groan echoed by a fainter one from Sherlock. He thrust a couple more times, emptying himself completely, and collapsed onto his partner's back, unable to support himself on shaking arms.
It was a long moment before he could fumble with the belt around Sherlock's wrists to free them, and hook clumsy toes around the scarves, giving Sherlock enough space to pull trembling legs from their restraints. John tried to move away, drawing deep groans from both of them when he collapsed again. Cajoling aching limbs, he managed to pull out and grasp a nearby towel, cleaning them awkwardly, hampered by weakened hands and by Sherlock pressing against him, warm mouth finding John's in an inelegant kiss.
He wanted to say something about further experiments and about Sherlock being free to ask for whatever he wanted, but the mouth against his was making speech impossible, and his mind was begging for surrender, exhausted and lulled by the relief and the warm body fitted around his, smelling of salt and sweat and sex.
Fumbling, John drew the duvet over them, letting himself be tugged along as Sherlock settled onto his back, long limbs encaging him expertly. John wound himself around Sherlock in return, face buried against Sherlock's neck, feeling the slowing beat of a pulse against his forehead as fingers trailed lazily up his spine, the movement drifting away as sleep crept in and stole over both of them.