"Goodness, I can tell you were in the army! You are simply so strong!" Mrs. Templeton giggles.
"He was a doctor," Sherlock says, looking up from the late Mr. Templeton's datebook.
"What's that?" asks Susie Templeton absently. She bites her lip and cocks her head to the side, twining her fingers together behind her back to push out her chest.
"A doctor," Sherlock repeats, "and army doctor, not a soldier. It really shouldn't impact his musculature all that much.
"Well, it did," Susie says silkily. She runs a finger down John's sleeve. John clears his throat and stares pointedly at the ceiling – at the ceiling. It's not his Sherlock-get-me-out-of-here look. Sherlock does not know why it is not his Sherlock-get-me-out-of-here look. It's something else entirely, something Sherlock hasn't seen in him before.
Mrs. Templeton takes the opportunity to catch John's gaze, and she holds it.
"Someone who's seen all that war, all that terror…needs a strong woman to support him, don't you think?" She tosses a glare at her daughter. "A strong…woman." Susie scoffs and puts a hand on her hip, accentuating her curves.
John's ears are bright red as he looks deliberately away from Susie's ample chest and Mrs. Templeton's feline smile.
Sherlock forces his gaze back at the datebook and pushes his already accelerated brain into overdrive.
"Lucy Winthrop. He was sleeping with her. Was going to leave her for you, Mrs. Templeton. Snuck in and hit him with the candlesticks he gave her for their anniversary. We'll be going now."
Mrs. Templeton looks anything but relieved that her husband's murderer has been identified.
"Figures. Call the cops, and let them know, will you, Susie?" She slips her hand into John's coat pocket. "He wasn't going to leave her for me anyway – some other trollop I don't know the name of."
"Marie Woodcomb, Mrs. Templeton, that's the trollop. And we must be going. Now."
Sherlock turns abruptly and strides out the door into the night. It takes three seconds longer than usual for John to catch up with him on the empty street, and this irks him.
They walked halfway back to Baker Street before Sherlock realized John was smiling. A small one, but it was nearly genuine and so it incited Sherlock further nonetheless.
"You liked it," Sherlock mutters. John turns to him, his smile shifting into the completely genuine one he reserves just for Sherlock. This helps, but not much.
"What's that?" he asks, infuriatingly innocently.
"Their intentions. They were very nearly propositioning you, and you liked it."
"Don't be ridiculous," but Sherlock can see him blushing even in the faint streetlight, can hear the lie in his voice.
"It's fine," Sherlock spits out. He realizes he feels very hot, as if his ears were on fire from something burning in him, something he can't recall ever feeling before. "You are, of course, free to indulge in appreciating the offers tossed your way. Though I didn't think you'd stoop so low to cause conflict between a widow and a fatherless teenager. Who were you fancying more, anyway?" Sherlock's mouth is dry. "I thought it was the girl, but I couldn't quite judge." Perhaps because he was fighting not to notice.
"All right, fine!" John stops in his tracks, running his hands irritably through his hair. Sherlock notices, distractedly, the softness of the face beneath it, even when it's contorted in familiar annoyance. "I liked the attention, all right?" he snaps. "I liked people paying me attention, for once." Quieter, "I can't remember the last time people have treated me like that, or looked at me like that." His tired, piercing gaze meets Sherlock's and Sherlock feels his stomach lurch. He is surprised to find it's not altogether an unpleasant feeling. "It felt…good," John finishes somewhat lamely.
As he talks, Sherlock pieces together the facts.
"You've felt like my sidekick, my shadow," he realizes. "You haven't had a successful date since you've met me - and not for some time before that. You want to be wanted. That's why you didn't discourage their affections - you felt like no one really wanted you."
"Obviously!"
"But that's inaccurate," Sherlock continues, as he correctly interprets what he's feeling at last. "I want you."
John's eyes widen, his sweet small mouth gaping.
"Wh-!"
Sherlock does not permit him to finish the question. He grabs his army doctor and pulls him into a convenient nearby alley (which he deliberately waited to be close to before commenting on the smile, due to the probable chance that the conversation would take this direction).
Sherlock grabs the lapels of John's coat and pushes him against the alley wall, pressing their bodies close together. He feels John's accelerated heartbeat pounding against his chest and smirks. Dilated pupils, not fighting back, and - he rubs his own crotch against John's - unmistakable arousal.
John opens his mouth but shuts it as Sherlock stares at him. His words fade into nothing but a soft moan, which Sherlock cuts off with his own mouth.
Sherlock is rough. Thrusting his tongue into John's mouth, pulling at his hair, his cheeks, his shoulders, pressing their bodies as close as humanly possible. He is not experienced, but that doesn't matter, he knows exactly what he wants. What John wants, which he should have realized a long time ago. He's always known, perhaps, but he never felt the need to act on it until someone tried to take it away.
Sherlock does not share.
He slips his hands under John's shirt and slides his palms over ever inch of the man's chest, his stomach, his back, the smooth soft skin that's been waiting to be touched, to be owned. After claiming every touchable inch, Sherlock grabs at John's hair and pulls his head to the side. Here, Sherlock pauses for a moment, taking in the bare skin and John's shallow breathing, his startled eyes – and his arms that have somehow wrapped themselves around Sherlock's shoulders.
Sherlock bends down gently and flicks his tongue over John's neck, pleased that he can physically feel John's erection growing as he licks down the curve of the man's shoulder, the lobe of his ear, the hollow of his throat. And then Sherlock pounces, sucking hard on the skin, marking him, claiming him, and John's knees go weak, he nearly slips to the ground but Sherlock's arms hold him up, press him harder against the wall as his neck is ravaged.
Sherlock can feel his own cock growing even more uncomfortably hard. He slips a hand down John's back and grabs the cheek of his ass. John moans with pleasure, bucking back into Sherlock's palm. Sherlock strokes his entrance gently, reveling at John's stifled gasps, and then slips a finger inside of him.
At this, John makes his only effort at pushing Sherlock away. Eyes wide, face flushed with arousal and embarrassment, he glances around them nervously.
"Sherlock, we're in public!"
Sherlock continues stroking inside of him, quite enjoying the hot tightness around his fingers. He pushes deeper, adding a second finger and a third. John's head flings back uncontrollably at the sensation, exposing the now-bruised neck. Sherlock is pleased at his handiwork.
"Hardly. It's nearly one in the morning, and this alleyway is empty."
"Yes, b-but people live in those houses! What if – ah!" Sherlock knows he has found John's prostate. He strokes it harder, pressing his fingers up into John's body. "What if th-they hear us?" John finishes half-heartedly, scrambling to work his hands between their bodies and touch himself.
"Then keep quiet."
In one fluid motion, Sherlock turns John around, presses his front against the alley wall, and yanks down his trousers and pants, leaving his full round ass and desperately hard cock completely exposed.
"Hands on the wall," Sherlock snaps, unbuttoning his own trousers. He keeps his coat on. "And bend over."
John shoots him a familiar you're-ridiculous look over his shoulder – but obeys. He faces the wall and places his hands on it, spreading his legs apart. Sherlock can see the small dark entrance of John's asshole, waiting for him, begging for him.
Sherlock is nearly disarmed at how obedient John became so quickly, how much the man must trust him to expose himself, to make himself so vulnerable in so many ways, when he had been training himself his whole life to be a soldier. Sherlock registers how much he's underestimated John's growing need for attention – for his, Sherlock's, attention.
Sherlock pulls his own trousers down to his knees and releases his fully erect cock. One hand clenches at him, rubbing precum down the length, making it as slick as possible so as not to hurt John too much. The other hand slips three fingers into John again, stretching him gently, learning where his prostate was from this angle. John moans desperately and tries to reach for his own erection, but Sherlock smacks his hand away.
"Not yet."
John grunts, impossibly frustrated, but the sound turns to one of imperceptible pleasure as Sherlock pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock.
"J-Jesus Christ!" John gasps, too loudly. Sherlock, nearly blinded from the sensation of John's ass clenching around his cock, raises his hand and spanks the right cheek of his ass, hard. This makes John clench even tighter, and Sherlock begins thrusting, almost without realizing it, forcing himself as deep as possible.
"Be quieter," Sherlock hisses, and gives a smirk John can't see. What a cruel request. He thrusts roughly, deeply, reveling in the physical satisfaction he had never quite felt before, in how John's tight virgin ass was clenching desperately around him, stretching to fit him.
"I – but – you're huge!" John manages, his voice breaking.
Sherlock pauses.
"Do you want me to stop, then?"
At this, John pushes back on him, presses his palms against the wall, grinding his ass back at Sherlock, pulling the cock deeper in.
"N-no – sorry – please – "
"That's right," Sherlock says, smirking again. He grabs John's hips and starts thrusting again, with renewed vigor. This time, though, he remembers where his fingers had been pressing on John's prostate, and he maneuvers John's hips accordingly. A little lower down…
"Ah – ah! Sh-Sherlock!"
There we go.
Sherlock fucks him faster and faster, making sure to hit that spot every time, until John is begging, as quietly as he could.
"Please…please let me touch myself…please…God damn it, Sherlock, I've got to cum, please…"
Sherlock waits a few more moments that he knows are agony for John, bringing himself closer to his own orgasm. Then he leans forward – pressing even harder against John's prostate – and wraps his cool slender fingers around John's throbbing cock himself.
John lets out a sort of strangled moan, his entire body tightening at the sensation, and Sherlock knows he is close. He fucks him harder, loving that John's ass is stretching for him, pulling him in. He feels John's sweaty lower back pressing against his abdomen, and he leans forward to support himself with his other hand on the alley wall, so that John's body is entirely covered with him.
Sherlock jerks John's cock in time with his quickened thrusts, and John eagerly pushes back on him now, unashamed, desperate, shoving his cock into Sherlock's hand and his ass back on Sherlock's cock, enveloped in the body of his consulting detective, until finally, his labored breathing catches and his body stiffens in orgasm. Sherlock releases at the same time and John lets out a delicious moan as Sherlock's hot cum is spilled deep into his body. As they finish, Sherlock sucks on John's neck one last time, both marking him and making his entire body shake with sensation.
Panting heavily, Sherlock slides his cock out of John's ass. His mouth quirks into a smug self-satisfied grin as he surveys his work and sees John's ass completely used, the cheeks pink from Sherlock's body smacking into it, the hole stretched with Sherlock's cum dripping out.
He leans forward and leans his sweaty head on John's trembling shoulder.
"You're mine. Don't forget that."
John's exhausted face forms a small, incredibly honest smile at the ridiculously odd relationship he has somehow gotten himself into with this mad man.
"I won't."
END