"John."
It was only one word. Only one name. Only one syllable.
"John."
It was a familiar voice. It was a familiar tone. From a familiar mouth.
"John."
It was nothing, not a sentence or a promise or anything. It was merely a name spoken softly into the small distance between the two men.
"Sherlock."
It wasn't a question or an answer. Merely a choked out name from a dry throat.
"John."
It was hard to focus on the word, that word that belonged to him.
"Sherlock."
Whispered again, struggling to gain control.
"John."
Finally, finally, the word, the name drew the man who owned it from his thoughts. He looked into the other man's eyes, hesitant and unsure, only to see his feelings mirrored on the other, paler face. John visibly relaxed, his shoulders drooping slightly. His lips up in a tender smile.
"Sherlock."
Firm, confident. He knew he needed to lead this. He knew it was his job to guide the other man.
"John?"
Now it was a hesitant question. John reached out, gently placing his hand to the sharp cheek.
"It's ok."
It was a soothing tone, meant to be reassuring, but Sherlock didn't feel any more reassured. This was so far from his comfort zone that he felt like he was drowning. He wanted this; he wanted the other man so bad it hurt his insides as those silly butterflies fought to break free.
"I have an idea."
The voice was bright and the eyes were brighter. Sherlock nodded, encouraging the other man to divulge the newfound inspiration.
"How about, if it gets too much for you, you just say a word, and I'll stop?"
It was really more of a statement than a question, but Sherlock considered it thoughtfully.
"A safeword?"
He'd heard of those before. That sounded…doable.
"Yes, think of something you'd never, ever say or think of during sex."
"Mycroft."
The answer was immediate and instinctive, no conscious thought had brought the name to his lips. The shorter man smiled.
"I think that will do."
Then he stepped forward, his touch gentle and caring, as he brought their lips to meld together. The paler man shivered, but pressed back; glad this moment had finally come. Gentle hands pushed and pulled and pressed him down. Lips and fingers searched him, feeling, exploring.
"John."
Now it was firm, breathy and moaned. Now it spurned the older man on.
"Sherlock."
The name was breathed in response. More searching, more exploring. Then coldness, wetness, pressure, burning. Then pleasure, white hot and intense. Sherlock screamed. A noise that tore from his throat without his consent.
"John!"
Now it was a shout, a chant, an encouragement. There was more, it was harder, more pressure, hotter. Sherlock groaned and moaned as the thicker man filled him. John was slow, gentle, careful. Easing carefully forward.
"John!"
Now it was snapped, impatiently, demanding he move. Now. Move, faster, harder. More pleasure, still pain, but so little Sherlock hardly felt it. But he felt his body, tensing, reeling, tightening around his lover. Wait. No. This was too much. It was too fast. No! Wait!
"J-John!"
It was shaky, scared, but didn't plead for the man to stop. Sherlock's mind raced, hurried, remembering his safety net.
"M-m-m-Mycroft!"
Shouted. Loud. Screaming. It was a stop, it was a "Wait, I'm not ready". John stopped. He waited. Sherlock shook around him, afraid and worried. John smiled gently at him and brushed the man's sweaty hair from his face.
"What in the hell did you just say?"
That wasn't the right voice. Not the baritone, not the gentle, caring one. That one was cold. that one was wrong. Two sets of eyes turned to stare at the tall, shocked man in the doorway. John's eyes widened, realizing what that had sounded like. Sherlock merely regarded the man in contempt.
"Oh god, that is not what it sounded like," John promised.
Mycroft regarded the two linked men in disdain and disgust, his mind reeling in panic.
"Please, Mycroft," Sherlock said in his usually arrogant voice, "How could you possibly think that I said your name because I desired you? Is all that sugar blocking the blood to your brain?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes; really it was an honest mistake. Now they were seated, fully dressed in the comfortable armchairs. John looked rather agitated as he sipped at his tea, wishing the older Holmes would bugger off.
"Why precisely did you said my name then, dear brother?" Mycroft answered in a cold voice.
"It was our safeword," John piped up, hoping the faster they answered his questions, the faster he'd leave.
Mycroft turned his scowl to the doctor.
"Your idea?" he questioned the sandy-haired man.
"The safeword was," John commented, "Not using your name. I said to choose something he wouldn't think of during sex."
Mycroft's scowl seemed to relax slightly at that, seemingly satisfied.
"Now, if you would kindly fuck off," John said, "We were busy."