Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I admit it, I'm lazy. Since AtlinMerrick's prompts I have undertaken have 'Uniform kink' and H.I.A.T.U.S. challenge of this month asks for 'Military kink', I consider this as a fill for both. Sue me. ;D
Better than fantasy
They have a deal: for their birthdays, they'll each realise one fantasy of the other's. Well, not only that, there are proper celebrations and cake and extra gifts, because they can't help it – they'll see something (in this case, a book on bee genetics) and decide that their beloved needs it.
If Sherlock were to say that he hasn't been looking forward to tonight, when the guests will finally be gone, he'd be lying, though. He's still mildly surprised that some people show up wanting to celebrate his birth, beside immediate family members, who are more or less obligated by custom to do so. Why would anyone be happy about his existence, when he has so many flaws?
The amazement is enough to keep him in line, and persuade him not to chase away all guests early, with a snappish, "We are going to be…'busy'." But by the time everyone is offering their last good wishes and finally leaving, the detective's mouth is dry as the desert. Bless Mrs. Hudson for being the first to retire, and kick-starting the goodbyes. The good woman knows what's up, and will undoubtedly make good use of the sound-cancelling headphones they bought her as soon as they became a couple.
As soon as they are alone, John lets his army persona to the forefront. "I'm going to change. You, private, are going to our bedroom and wait for me there. I expect you to be at attention in front of the mirror. Of course, you're not to move a muscle without my say so. Much less touch yourself. Are we clear, Holmes?" he orders.
Sherlock's mouth has gone entirely dry, when faced with such a display. How many times has he dreamt this exact situation? And how has his love managed to read through his deepest flights of fancy almost word for word? True, they've discussed his fantasy, but not in detail – the point of it is for John to be his commander, if they'd agreed previously on every single word this would feel unbearably fake. And this is not fake, not entirely. John is (was, technically, but they all know that he's never left the battlefield) an army captain. Though the birthday boy frankly hopes that this was not actual routine with his subordinates. All the sleuth can do is nod vigorously.
Of course, that's not good enough for John. "Speak up, private. You're not gagged, after all," he snaps. It doesn't matter that he's still in his chequered shirt and maroon cardigan (Sherlock's favourite out of all his usual woollen clothes). He's obviously Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and anyone with common sense would do well not to cross him.
"Yessir," the detective replies, all in a rushed breath. He doesn't speak very loudly. He doesn't have oxygen enough in his lungs for more than this. Thankfully, John doesn't insist on proper enunciation, because he is so light-headed, faced with such an attitude, that he feels like he could pass out if forced to exhale again.
"Well then, march!" his lover orders, going towards the stairs to his old room himself, not even glancing behind to check if he's being obeyed…as if no other option is even conceivable.
Sherlock in any other circumstance would protest at such a tone, and start an epic sulk. Right now, he moves so quickly he's actually stumbling over his own feet. Displeasing the Captain is not an option, his giddy brain insists.
The wait isn't long, but it's still the hardest part. Left to its own devices, the consulting detective's brain is a vicious thing. Calculations, insecurities, memories fire all together, tearing him apart, threatening almost to overwhelm the arousal. He breathes deeply and concentrates on not accidentally breaking position – he tends to fidget, but that won't do. He attempts to hear the soft rustle of clothes upstairs.
For all his straining, John's appearance takes him by surprise. He's in full uniform, flashes shining, and for a second the birthday boy forgets to breathe. He's dreamt of this, of course. And it's since his teen years that he has amassed – in his mind palace and even physically – images of proud, sexy soldiers for his personal pleasure. But no model flaunting an uniform, nor all his cogitations could have prepared him for the glory that is Captain John Watson in his uniform.
Unlike anything else he's experienced before, this is the real deal. When John barks, "Stand straighter, Holmes!" he obeys instinctively, but his exhale – finally remembering he's supposed to breathe – actually sounds more like a soft groan.
John's – no, Captain's – lips stretch in a pleased smirk. "Now, soldier, we need to have words. We have a problem – and it needs to be addressed now," he declares.
"Must we?" Sherlock complains, his eyes meeting his love's in the mirror, not daring too turn around without permission. Insubordination would not be tolerated.
"Must we, Sir," his lover corrects him sharply. "And we definitely do. This is war, Holmes, not a game. You're not supposed to 'follow a hunch' to gain intel about the enemy. You're supposed to obey your orders, and to act only with the proper backup."
"Not when orders come from idiots, Sir," the birthday boy replies breathily, looking at his captain's reflection from under coyly lowered eyelashes despite the challenging words.
"You're already in trouble, Holmes. I don't suggest defying me any longer. When I do give an order, it's for your own good. And as clever as you like to imagine you are, sometimes you are not. And I'll prove both these things right now," John retorts, taking another step so that he's flush against his lover's body. That elicits a shudder, and he smirks and splays both hands on Sherlock's ribcage, with a, "You're not supposed to move or talk without an explicit order, private. We need to have you retrained."
It might not be a word, technically, but the sentence makes Sherlock whimper softly. "Look at you," the captain states, his formerly stern gaze softened by love and awe, "look at us. All your brain is already so far gone that you can't follow basic orders, much less outsmart them. But that's fine. I'm here to take care of you. Turn around."
The sleuth does, adoring how his lover doesn't break their embrace. Immediately, John starts unbuttoning Sherlock's jacket and then his shirt. The detective was tempted to put on one of his partner's jumper for his party – the winter season would justify it, and it would be easier to get out of – but that would ruin their army fantasy, so now he has to wait through a slow, teasing undressing. Button. By. Fucking. Button.
John's smirk makes obvious that he's perfectly aware of his partner's impatience, and loves it. As far as he's concerned, he's already making allowances by not stopping at every article of clothing. Instead, he lets his fingers brush against every new sliver of skin revealed, eliciting soft sighs of ecstasy. Then, he takes off both together, letting them fall to the floor. "It appears that you've lost your dog tags too, soldier," he chides.
"I…" Sherlock hesitates, wrongfooted. What would be a legitimate excuse? He doesn't think there's actually any.
"Never mind," his captain cuts in, rescuing him from his floundering. "It's not really regulation, but we'll do things like this. Hang your head. You have enough to be ashamed of anyway."
The sleuth does…and John's own dog tags are put around his neck, clinking gently against a wildly beating heart. He can't help it. He moans loudly.
"Didn't I say to keep quiet until you were allowed to speak? I'll have to keep you quiet somehow. Open your mouth, soldier," John commands. He allows himself a smile seeing his lover's jaw drop immediately. Deliberately, he inserts his dog tags in the waiting mouth. "And I'll expect you not to drop them," he warns.
They just taste like metal after this long, of course. But with Sherlock's overactive imagination, the sleuth can almost convince himself to be able to taste sand, sweat…and even the faintest trace of blood. The brain is truly the biggest sex organ of all.
"Now, it's damned hot in here," the Captain declares. It might be January, but it certainly feels like it at the moment. His love's hooded eyes are enough to raise the perceived temperature by a good fifteen degrees. "So you get to undress me back…As far as I did to you."
The detective's hands are all too eager to reciprocate. So much so, that their usual dexterity is partially gone. He's getting in the way of his own desires, buttons seemingly too large for their eyelet to anxious fingers. Another day, he'd give into impatience and just rip them off. But he'd never damage John's uniform. He loves it as much as he loves the hero wearing it. (Sherlock had to admit that heroes do sometimes exist – and John is definitely one of them).
John tuts at his partner's clumsiness, to keep in character, even if he finds it terribly flattering. Once they're naked from the waist up, and Sherlock is busy plucking at his nipples (which he might not have ordered technically but is not going to complain about, thank you very much), he manoeuvres the both of them towards the bed. Before pushing his beloved on it, though, he says, voice no more than a whisper (he's never needed to yell orders to a single man and won't start now), "On your knees. Let's see if you can keep following orders for a bit longer."
He's been careful not to mention it until his partner stands on his bedside rug (that is one of the many little luxuries the detective allows himself). Otherwise, with the way his love drops to his knees – like a puppet with his strings cut, sheer adoration in his eyes – said lovely knees would be bruised.
"Unlace my boots," the Captain demands. From the way Sherlock spontaneously worships them, though with closed lips because he's not giving up the dog tags without an order, one would say he's enjoying himself.
Once the task is done, the sleuth sort of slithers up his beloved's legs like a particularly amorous snake. Before he can open his partner's fly, John's hands snatch riotous curls and use them to keep him at a small distance.
"No acting without orders, I said," he remarks sternly, "You're not helping your cause, Holmes. And look at this hair – definitely against regulation. You're keeping it to seduce people, aren't you?"
Still in his lover's strong but not painful grip, the detective's head shakes carefully. Not with as much emphasis as he would have – then he would be hurting himself – but he needs to object against 'people'. There's always been only one man he's wanted to beguile.
"Pity, because it's working," his blogger quips at the wordless denial. "Now, on the bed with you. Belly up."
Once again, Sherlock scrambles to obey, but before he can put his loafers on the covers, a hand stops him, and John rids him of his shoes. Then, he cocks his head and examines his eager lover. "Well, you've behaved until now…more or less. I'd say you deserve a reward," he declares, before tugging on his dog tags's chain and diving for a long, sensuous kiss.
The birthday boy gets lost into it, moaning into his mouth, but when they're forced to part for air, he throws him a questioning look.
"Yeah, yeah, that wasn't your only reward, Holmes. It's just that I wanted to do that since you took my dog tags in that luscious mouth of yours," the Captain assures. "Now, we only need to get rid of these last layers."
Both their trousers and pants end up on the floor somewhere, and Sherlock wouldn't be able to say who undressed whom. When finally their cocks meet, unimpeded, both men groan deeply. As usual, the detective tries to rush his lover through preparation – too impatient by now to tolerate John's careful approach – and as usual, the doctor refuses to be rushed. Only, instead of gentle cajoling, it's a light slap on his hip to stop the detective from demanding more. "You'd been doing so well. Don't be insubordinate now," his lover reminds him, before kissing him again – just because he can.
John's aim is not to torment either of them, though. So – when his medical side is satisfied – he doesn't dillydally anymore (there was quite enough of that already). He just makes love to Sherlock, deep and strong and wild. Lazy love is for another day. Now it's the time to make his beloved feel as if they need to make the most of every second, because any moment they could be interrupted…and there could be no more occasions if they wasted this one. Not with the both of them alive.
If he really started to ponder, the Captain would find it's technically true. With their career, there's no guarantee that they'll make it to eighty (though John will do his damnedest best to ensure they do). And…well, not Lestrade, obviously, but some unaware inspector – maybe Dimmock, he doesn't seem the brightest of the lot – could pop up any second to bring them a juicy murder. Though they have the fearsome Mrs. Hudson downstairs protecting them, and he really bloody hopes they wouldn't let that disturb them as an enemy raid unquestionably would.
Of course, there's nothing at all in his brain at the moment if not, "Love…'Lock…Yes." And Sherlock seems to have gone entirely nonverbal, wordless moans and cries his only expression. When their orgasms hit, the whole of Baker Street knows – the intensity is too much for either of them to contemplate being quiet.
The birthday boy is half passed out, and – while he would love nothing more than snuggling him and falling asleep at his side – John makes himself get up and take care of them. A clean up, however cursory, is needed if they don't want to have a very disappointing awakening tomorrow.
The stern Captain is gone, the boyfriend who takes pride in tending to the consulting detective's often neglected transport is back.
John can't help it. Even with the very obvious evidence of their mutual enjoyment, he needs to ask. This was his beloved's fantasy, after all. Did Sherlock want something different? More? Less? "Are you happy? Was it what you hoped it would be?" he murmurs, while sponging his love.
"Better than that," his love replies, squinting at him – too worn out to look properly at John. "Now stop being considerate and get on the bed. I need a cuddle."
The blogger can't help it. He giggles. And then – of course – he obeys.