Send a Number challenge, third fill.

Most assumed it was Sherlock who couldn't relax. He knew how he appeared in public: wound-up, stroppy, demanding. In contrast, John was always the apparent picture of calm and relaxation. He doubted anyone would ever believe him if he told them that John was the one who could never relax, even in the quiet safety of Baker Street. In the beginning, before they'd become physically intimate, it had been such a fight to get his flatmate to relax, to find subtle ways to get him to relax without letting on that that was what he was doing. Now though… Now that they'd gotten past "not gay" and "married to my work", it was so much different. So much better.

John was already ready and waiting (stressful day at clinic) for him when he got home from his case, collar on and tail plug in, as he rested in Sherlock's chair, chin propped up on the arm to watch the door. Even after they'd become sexual, puppy play had been difficult to get John into. Silly man had tried looking up too much porn on his computer when Sherlock suggested it. It had taken a lot of subtle explanations, demonstrations, and demands to get him to understand that Sherlock did not want him to sleep in a cage or eat from a dog dish or wear a dog mask or cover his hands. It took him even longer to understand that this wasn't just for Sherlock, it was for him too. But at last, they were here, right where they needed to be.

"Good afternoon, John," he greeted as he hung up the Belstaff on the coat rack. When he turned back around, his chair was empty and his flatmate and lover was kneeling on the floor at his feet, leaning against Sherlock's legs and staring up at him with impossibly blue eyes. He didn't bark or wag his 'tail', again, something neither wanted out of their play time, but stayed quiet, just staring, waiting. "Were you a good boy today?" he asked softly, dropping a hand to stroke it through the ashen-blond hair.

John made a low noise and closed his eyes, sitting up on his knees to nuzzle at Sherlock's clothed and flaccid cock. He made another low noise and parted his lips, mouthing softly at the organ underneath until it began to fill with blood from his affection and swell. "Down," he murmured, entranced by the sight of hazy eyes opening and looking up at him. Slowly, John sunk back to his hands, eyes never leaving Sherlock as he waiter. He was so good like this: quiet, obedient, eager to please. It wasn't that different than their normal lives, except the relaxation it left them with paralleled nothing else.

"Come," he said softly, walking slowly over to his chair, hyper-aware of John crawling after him, thick, hard cock bobbing between his legs. As the detective went, he began removing articles of clothing, leaving a trail to his chair. When he arrived at the stout, leather piece of furniture, he turned and sat in it completely naked, spreading his legs as far as they would go.

"Come here," he called, patting the inside of his thigh. Obediently, John crawled into the space between his legs, staring up at him as he tentatively leaned forward to lick the tip of Sherlock's cock. The detective let out a soft sigh and John licked again.

"Good boy," he moaned, threading his hand back through the short strands and beginning to stroke, to calmly petting his lover. The tongue continued, innocent laps along the head and shaft, occasionally dropping lower to pay attention to the testicles that were drawing up. His orgasm building up was a slow burn, the simple licks arousing but not enough to entice his release any quicker.

"John," he breathed, his body trying to close his eyes even as he refused to look away from the doctor kneeling between his legs, lapping at his cock. Those innocent-looking blue eyes blinked open hazily at him for a moment before sinking back closed, the tongue on him stroking slower in longer, broader swipes. It was too much and not enough, all at once. It was maddening.

There was a quick, careful nip to one testicle and his eyes shot open, not even aware that he'd closed them. John was staring up at him, shoulders hunched and chin angled slightly away, expecting punishment. "Such a clever John," Sherlock praised instead, cock tip leaking precome that was licked away instantly. "Such a good, clever boy."

The tongue renewed its efforts, this time accompanied by short and quick nips with teeth. Before long, his orgasm was swelling and cresting, and he had to be careful to not clench his fingers in his beloved pet's hair. That sinful tongue continued to lap at his ejaculating cock, quick swipes of a pink tongue darting out to cart away another pulse of semen. Even with John's attentions, some still managed to land on his face. It went ignored as he continued to gently slide his tongue along Sherlock's slit, making sure no drop went to waste.

"You've made such a mess of yourself," Sherlock rasped when he had his throat back under control. "We'd better clean you up." He reached out, swiping his finger through each spot of come on his lover's face before offering it to that pink tongue like a tribute, until nothing remained. "Such a good boy. My good John. I think you deserve a treat."

He could almost see John's ears perking and his attention shift, gaze sliding so slowly to his that it was almost comical, like he was wary of the offer being retracted before he could reap its benefits. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, patting the tops of his thighs. "Come here," he called for the second time. One hand moved to the top of his thigh, and then the other to the other thigh, and then there was a pause. Sherlock patted high on his pectorals.

"That's right. Come here," he said a third time. The pressure on his thighs increased as John slowly shifted up into the chair and Sherlock's lap. He ended up perched awkwardly on pale knees with his hands braced on his master's shoulders. "Good boy," he praised again, pressing a kiss to a damp forehead. "Would you like your treat now?" He took the gentle butt of John's nose to his cheek as the acceptance he knew it was.

His lover's cock was hard already hard between his legs, as it always was when they played. It wasn't always about sexual gratification-sometimes it was simply for the joy of caring for and being taken care of-but it wasn't always not about sexual gratification either. He held his hand up to John's face with a quick "Lick", almost humming at the sensation of that smooth tongue gliding over his ticklish palm and up his fingers. When he felt the wetness sufficient, he dropped his hand between them and wrapped it around John's still-hard cock.

The reaction was instant: blue eyes closing and fingers curling into his shoulders, fingernails not unlike claws with the strength they gripped. Sherlock kept his pace as slow as his pet had kept his tongue, even though he knew his lover's pace couldn't be helped. There was a wet snuffling against his temple, followed by quick, desperate swipes of John's tongue: a plea. He ignored it, whispering his own litany of compliments into the sensitive shell of an ear.

He knew John's orgasm would be as slow as his, and so when the tongue on his skin paused so that sweet mouth could pant hard into his ear, he continued to slowly pump the organ, murmuring all along, "Such a good, good boy. So perfect, my John" until a low whine sounded in his ear. He was reluctant to let go, loving the way the small body above his trembled with over-stimulation, but after another whine, higher this time, he released the sensitised organ and John collapsed against him. Sherlock's soiled hand was raised to lover's face where it was nestled under his chin.

He could feel his moan in his chest as that same tongue as before licked his hand clean, each swipe lazy from the prior orgasm. His other hand occupied itself by stroking down the line of John's spine, all the way down to the soft tail and back up, over and over until that tongue ceased. When it did, so did Sherlock's hand, both his hands looping around John's back to interlace at his lower back.

As the sounds of London in early evening continued outside the open windows of Baker Street, the two lovers relaxed against one another. It hadn't been a taxing session by any means, but it seemed to be just what John needed, if the way he positively melted into Sherlock's chest was any indication.

"Welcome home." He had been waiting for the sentiment since they'd settled, and he readied himself for his lover to disengage, used to his soldier's embarrassment of his own sexual needs and the catchphrase prior to him pulling away. To his surprise, John instead wrapped his arms around his shoulders and settled even more firmly over him, knees settling on either side of his hips and the pelvises settling on top of one another. The touch of their soft cocks against one another was deliciously non-sexual, and slowly, Sherlock felt his mind his mind shutting down.

"I love you," he slurred into the blond hair under his lips. John's head moved minutely to press a kiss to his neck.

"I love you, too. Now be quiet, you git." Smiling, Sherlock, tightened his arms to pull John as close as possible to him, and then did just as his doctor directed.

FIN

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