"I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice." Irene gazes intently at Sherlock, not realizing that at once, both the Detective and his Doctor are transported back several weeks.
John is sitting at the table, writing up one of his blogs, brow furrowed and lips pursed. He's stuck on a certain sentence, unable to find the correct adjective to describe the blood spatter of a well-smashed human heart on pavement. He supposes he could ask Sherlock, but doesn't quite wish to suffer another lecture on the trivialities of adjectival inaccuracies.
In fact, John is not sure if Sherlock is even in the flat. There's been no rustling of papers, no heavy sighs, no lazy gunshots. And so, several minutes later, after deciding to use 'Pollock-esque', a word sure to bother his flatmate, John is rather surprised to feel a pressure at the zipper of his jeans.
Startled, John looks down to see a dark curly head in his lap. A long, clever tongue is dampening the denim at his crotch while pale, nimble fingers work away at his belt. Aroused but vaguely exasperated, John rolls his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm writing."
"Boring." Despite the perfect articulation of its favourite word, Sherlock's agile tongue never seems to cease its teasing.
"Can't you wait twenty minutes?"
There is no reply. John, rather annoyed, as usual, by his flatmate's complete disregard for personal timetables, pushes his chair sharply back, throwing Sherlock off balance and onto his hand and knees. The doctor smirks as Sherlock pouts at this indignation. "Well, come here, then." John snaps goodheartedly, giving in to Sherlock's plan.
The detective smirks back, crawling forward to continue his administrations. John decides he likes Sherlock like this: usually John is the one on the floor. As Sherlock works his way past John's trousers and pants in quick succession, John decides that it's his turn to be in charge.
John's cock springs free of his boxers, pressing up towards the detective's thin lips. Sherlock takes the hot, thick length into his mouth, and John can almost feel his companion's smile.
John allows the younger man the reign for a bit, but soon he grabs a fistful of dark, curly hair and thrusts into Sherlock's mouth. There's a whimper, and John feels a rush. He allows Sherlock to squirm there for a minute, obviously not used to being helpless, and then lets up. Sherlock pulls off and looks up at John, a foreign expression in his eyes. John smirks again- he's rather come to like the expression, he supposes he got it from the detective, the quick twist of the lips and a small flick of the eyebrow- and grabs Sherlock by the front of his shirt. John stands, pulling Sherlock up with him; or rather, as up and Sherlock can get when yanked from a kneeling position by a much shorter man.
The doctor spins Sherlock around and pushes him to the table. He makes quick work of Sherlock's jeans, and unceremoniously yanks down his (purple, silk) boxers. The sight of his flatmate's tight arse, pale against the dark wood of the table, gives John great pleasure. He sucks on his fingers for a moment, and then begins pushing Sherlock open. There's sure to be lube within reach, but John is feeling aggressive. He's tired of always following Sherlock, of always being at the beck and call of this crazed younger man.
It isn't long before John is pushing against Sherlock's still-tight entrance. The detective's hands are clenching tightly the other side of the desk, hiding tremors. Sherlock can't be comfortable, pressed up against the desk, but that's hardly the point.
Sherlock cries out as John thrusts into him, strong, callused hands firmly gripping his hips. He's sure to have bruises in the morning, bruises John looks forward to lazily tracing with his tongue. Bruises are sure to look good on Sherlock, dark marks marring his perfect white skin.
John is thrusting hard and fast, rocking Sherlock and the desk. Sherlock mumbles something incoherent. The doctor is surprised: Sherlock rarely, if ever, speaks during sex. Sometimes, if Sherlock is making a particularly annoying rant, John will entice him into bed- or onto the sofa, or the floor, or the armchair- just to shut him up.
"What?" John demands, his voice surprisingly rough.
Sherlock whimpers. "Please."
"Please, what?" John is intrigued. He's never heard his flatmate beg before. He rather likes it.
The detective seems unable to articulate his plea, and John is close to climax, anyways, so he doesn't really press the issue. As his balls tighten up, John pushes harder and faster, his short nails pressing desperately into Sherlock's pale hips. He shouts his release, coming violently and hard. John is reminded of quick fucks behind army tents, trousers loosened just enough to reach boxers, boxers only pulled down enough to bare entrances and cocks. Quick, dirty fucks in the desert sand. John, bizarrely, misses the spontaneity, the danger of it. Some of his best orgasms were reached late at night in cold, dark, desert war zones.
He leans there, for a minute, still mostly standing, panting. Sherlock is very still beneath him, but John senses that he's aching for release. Slowly John pulls out, to a relieved sigh, and pulls Sherlock around to face him. There's desperation in those beautiful, clear eyes.
John, keeping eye contact, pushes Sherlock into the chair, taking pride in the wince that crosses his partner's sharp features as his arse collides with the cold, hard chair. Sherlock's cock is erect and leaking, begging for attention. Once again John slicks his fingers, but this time he reaches back to his own entrance, scissoring himself open. He nudges Sherlock's legs apart and straddles him. Slowly he pushes himself down on Sherlock's length, until he can feel the detective's balls against his arse. He rides Sherlock hard, almost as hard as he fucked him. John grips the back of the chair, pressing his face against Sherlock's neck. As his flatmate's breath begins to hitch and quicken, he pulls all the way off and looks him straight in the eyes. The strange, foreign expression is still there, completely indecipherable. John feels almost alienated by Sherlock's eyes, even though they're as intimately intwined as a pair can get. He pushes back down onto Sherlock, harder than ever before, and can feel Sherlock's balls caught between chair and arse. He revels at the shock on Sherlock's face, at the parting of the lips. He twists his hips slightly, and Sherlock cries out.
"Please," he cries again, his cheeks flushed. John doesn't see it, but there are tears spilling quietly out of Sherlock's crystal eyes. With one more twist of his hips, John brings Sherlock to a screaming climax. Sherlock writhes and arches his back, hitting John rightthere and causing him to come right along with.
John doesn't realize until much later than night, when he wakes to hear Sherlock weeping softly next to him, that he caused harm to his friend. The next day, he realizes that the foreign expression was fear. The next week he apologizes to Sherlock with soft kisses and gentle, tender lovemaking, and then all is mostly well between them. The next time Sherlock tops, he's a little too aggressive, and leaves a violent collection of scratches down John's back.
Sherlock breaks back into the present first, and startles John out of his guilt. "John, please can you check those flights and see if I'm right?"
John blinks. "Right... I'm on it, yeah."