Author's Note: I went to Scotland recently and saw several extremely attractive men (and one woman who was playing bagpipes on a street corner) wearing kilts, and it blossomed yet another fetish in me. So here. Have some kilt porn. Kiltlock? Kiltlock. I enjoyed doing the research for this, only to decide that Sherlock would know nothing about kilts, so none of the technical terms are mentioned. If you want to know more about them, however, feel free to ask! I can give you an easy run down.
Also, if you're curious about the title, a sgian dubh is a small ceremonial knife and sheath some kilt-wearers keep tucked into their hose. I thought it was an appropriate metaphor for our beloved Watson.
…
Sherlock knows practically nothing about kilts. If he ever knew anything about them, he deleted the information. So when he strides into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street and finds his flatmate, John Watson, stood in the centre of the room with his mobile in his right hand and a full kit of traditional Scottish garb on his person, it should mean absolutely nothing to him.
But it doesn't.
Sherlock's eyes drink in every detail before he can stop them. The kilt has a rich green tartan pattern and starts at John's waist, between his lowest rib and hip, and ends at his knees. The colour somehow makes John's hair and skin seem even more golden than usual. There are pleats at the side and back, and Sherlock can just make out the impression of straps and buckles beneath the fabric. Some sort of fur-covered bag-like thing with tassels is hanging from his waist by a thin silver chain, covering what Sherlock can only politely refer to as his 'pelvic region'. There is what appears to be a small, ceremonial knife tucked into his hose. John is wearing long white socks that are turned down at the top and have patches of matching tartan fabric sewed on the front. They rise to just below his knees, leaving only an inch of his smooth leg skin exposed. Sherlock latches onto that inch of skin like it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen, until he notices what's on John's top half.
A white button-down shirt clings beautifully to him, over which is a tight navy blue vest and a matching studded suit jacket with a kilt pin on the lapel where a sprig of flowers would normally go. John had started boxing a month prior at Sherlock's suggestion, and as a result he's gained a significant amount of lean muscle. The jacket hugs his broad shoulders and tapers down to a narrow waist, emphasised further by the tight fit of the kilt.
By the end of his examination, Sherlock is salivating, and he's doing nothing to stop himself. It isn't until John looks up from his mobile—clearly alerted to Sherlock's presence by the sound of his entrance—that he attempts to tear his eyes away. And fails miserably.
"Oh, hullo, Sherlock," John says casually, taking slow steps towards him. Sherlock eyes dart back down to the kilt as it swishes with his movement. "This must be quite unexpected. You know how my middle name is Hamish?"
Sherlock swallows but manages to nod. He feels his cheeks grow hot. In fact, all of him is unbearably hot, and something sharp and potent is stirring low in his abdomen.
"Well, my uncle on my mom's side is Scottish, and she apparently got the name from him. They were quite close as children, or something to that end. Anyway, my cousin—his daughter—is getting married, and I was invited to attend. You can't go to a Scottish wedding without breaking out the traditional kit, so yeah." He holds his arm out and spins slowly. "What do you think? I've not worn this since my army days. I was sure it wasn't going to fit, but it seems all the boxing paid off."
Sherlock's eyes dart rapidly up and down his body as John unwitting gives Sherlock an almost painfully erotic view of just how well the kilt and suit fit him. Hell, John's waist has never looked better—trim but still layered with hard muscle—and the way he has so little skin exposed just makes what's on display even more tempting, and oh fuck Sherlock swears he can see the jut of his shoulder blades beneath the fabric of his suit jacket. Sherlock feels his cock twitch and knows he's in trouble.
"Are you feeling all right?" John steps closer, concern evident in his blue eyes and the curve of his lips. Sherlock nearly gasps at their sudden proximity. "Normally I can't get a word in edge wise, and here you've gone all quiet."
Sherlock considers a number of perfectly plausible excuses he could make. He's ill. He's knackered. He's thinking about a case and wants John to shut up. Even if he didn't believe him, John would allow him to escape unmolested—he is silently amused by his own word choice—because he's a good, dependable man who is kind and honest and respects Sherlock's privacy and always gives him the space he needs and would give his own life to protect him, and oh hell. Sherlock's in love with him, isn't he?
Well, that certainly explains the heat simmering just below his skin at the mere sight of John.
Sherlock sighs, passes a hand over his eyes and makes a decision.
In one swift movement, he closes the distance between him and John and hungrily presses their mouths together. John is too startled to react at first, and that allows Sherlock to grab a solid handful of his dress shirt and yank him closer. For a moment, instinct takes over, and John kisses him back with evident alacrity, his warm lips moving firmly against Sherlock's, but then he tears his mouth away.
"Sherlock," he gasps, too shocked to take a proper breath, "what are you doing?"
"What are you doing?" Sherlock all but growls. "Prancing about the flat wearing that. How could you expect me not to react? Fucking hell, John, you must realise how delicious you look."
John's blue eyes go blank, and Sherlock realises it's possible he may have stunned him so utterly he broke his brain. Well, that should just make him more receptive to suggestion. Sherlock presses their mouths together again and nips at John's bottom lip. This earns him a gasp and a hint of a moan that shoots straight to his rapidly-hardening cock. John is gripping his shoulders tightly like he can't decide if he wants to push him away or pull him closer. Sherlock endeavours to convince him to choose the latter by placing his hands on his waist and brushing his thumbs over his clothed hip bones. When he digs his fingernails in, John groans in earnest. Sherlock rocks his hips forward until they're flush with John's warm stomach. He feels an answering hardness brush against his thigh, hot and thick with blood.
"John, I need you to say you want this," he breathes against his lips. Sherlock dips his head down to lick a slow line from just below John's ear to the collar of his dress shirt. "Tell me you want me."
John's eyes are half-closed, and his lips are just barely parted. He looks like he's suspended between pleasure and indecision. He hesitates for only a moment before he whispers, "Fuck," and grabs Sherlock's waist. Before he can protest, John is pushing him down and climbing on top of him, apparently too eager to make it the six steps to their sofa. Sherlock throws his head back with a luxurious moan and squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't come immediately just from the sight of John straddling him, his knees spread wide and the kilt bunched up around him.
John looms over him, supporting his weight with a hand on either side of Sherlock's head, and Sherlock rapidly transforms from the predator to the trapped prey.
"I am going to do unspeakable things to you," John hisses. "Now strip."
There's an edge of something sharp and dangerous in John's voice that makes Sherlock quiver. He shucks his suit jacket so fast two of his buttons go flying. He's just starting on his black dress shirt when he sees John start to reach for the buckles under his kilt apron. Sherlock snatches his hands up and places them back on either side of his head.
"Leave it on," he says hungrily, his voice nothing more than a deep rumble. He watches raptly as John's pupils dilate.
"Fuck," John pants. "If I'd known you had a thing for kilts, I'd have worn this around you sooner."
Sherlock growls and reaches for the hem of his kilt. John watches him with single-minded attention as he slowly draws it up until John's hips are revealed.
Sherlock has to shut his eyes again and breathe deeply as a jolt of arousal surges into him. "Oh, you gorgeous thing. You would choose not to wear pants underneath."
John is breathing hard, but he manages to say, "It's tradition," before he takes Sherlock's hand and guides it to the leaking, swollen cock stood straight out between his legs. They moan in unison the moment Sherlock's fingers curl around it. It's hot and heavy in his hand. It feels perfect. Sherlock begins to stroke him slowly, fumbling with his own trouser zip with his free hand. Luckily, John has enough cognisance left to sense his dilemma. He raises himself up—and fuck, Sherlock can't even handle the way his thigh muscles flex as he moves. Fucking hell—and unzips Sherlock's trousers with shaking hands. In a matter of moments, he's slipped into Sherlock's black boxers and pulled out his prick, taking them both in his hand. His fingers are just long enough to wrap comfortably around them. Sherlock has just managed to get his shirt open, but the moment John touches his cock, he forgets all about undressing and concentrates on the thick, simmering heat flooding his veins.
Sherlock is vibrating with pleasure as John begins to stroke them languidly, their cocks slick with sweat and pre-come. John's white shirt is now clinging to his skin, and his kilt is rucked up obscenely around his hips, and his cheeks are beautifully flushed with arousal, and his mouth is slack from pleasure, and Sherlock can already feel the intensity of the orgasm he's going to have. It's not going to take long at all.
"Fuck, John," he says, dropping his voice a step to the velvety-dark baritone he knows drives John wild. "I had no idea how badly I wanted you. You're amazing. I've never been so hard in my life." He watches as a shiver visibly trickles through John and has to bite his lip against the surge of desire it gives him.
John grits his teeth and begins moving his hand on their cocks faster. His free hand trails down Sherlock's smooth chest, stopping to flick a thumb over one pert nipple. Sherlock moans unabashedly. "God, you're so beautiful. All lean lines and taut, white skin. Keep talking with that gorgeous voice of yours, and this is going to be over far too quickly."
Sherlock spasms as John starts focussing on the heads of their cocks, jerking his hand in quick, sharp movements. Sherlock feels pleasure coil deep in his abdomen and knows he's nearly there.
"Oh, fuck, please," he babbles. "God, I'm going to come. I'm so close, John, so fucking close. Please don't stop."
He hears John draw a ragged breath, and then he groans, long and low. His pace doubles, though now he's so undone he can't keep a steady rhythm. "Fuck, like I would stop now. Come for me, Sherlock. I want to watch you come all over that pretty pale chest of yours."
The rough note of command in John's voice snaps something deep within him, and Sherlock doesn't orgasm so much as experience a small, localised eruption of pleasure low in his belly. He cries out and clenches his eyes shut, limiting his sensory awareness to the sheer, raw feeling shuddering through him. It's like electricity shooting down his spine and converting into pure heat when it reaches his groin. Something splatters on his chest, and then he hears John shout, obviously in the throes of his own orgasm.
John thankfully releases his prick before he becomes painfully oversensitive, and when Sherlock manages to crack one eye open, he sees John stroking himself shallowly as he comes, his eyes clenched shut and his body hunched over Sherlock. He has semen dripping down his fingers and sweat glistening on his brow. He looks wholly, thoroughly debauched. If Sherlock hadn't just come, the sight would be enough to get him going again.
John stills a moment later and releases his cock with an obscene wet noise. He spends a moment breathing heavily until his respiratory pattern returns to homeostasis. Sherlock watches the process with muted fascination.
When John opens his eyes, they've returned to a normal level of dilation and contain an emotion Sherlock, despite his lack of expertise in the area, feels confident labelling "wariness."
"So," John says hesitantly, "what the fuck was that?"
"I believe the term is 'mind-blowing sex'."
John raises an eyebrow. "And you have sex now, then? I thought you were married to your work."
"It seems I've just committed an act of adultery."
John huffs out a laugh and stretches his arms above his head, causing his sticky dress shirt to ride up and reveal his hard, golden stomach. Sherlock is instantly riveted.
John unfortunately returns to his former posture and then appears to swill his words about for a moment before asking, "Is it just the kilt, or are you attracted to me as well?"
Sherlock honestly considers the question. He'd experienced a number of inexplicable feelings for John over the course of their friendship, but he'd never known quite how to qualify them. Lately those feelings had been occurring with greater frequency and intensity. "I believe the kilt was merely a catalyst. I'd no prior precedent against which I could evaluate my feelings, and so I didn't understand them well enough to interpret them as sexual arousal until I saw you in the kilt." Sherlock let his eyes rove shamelessly over it. It was noticeably rumpled and would need to be dry cleaned. Sherlock deemed the damage worth it. "However, I don't believe I would require its presence to feel such arousal again. Though I certainly wouldn't object to it." Sherlock traces a finger lightly along a thread of the tartan pattern. "You look amazing in it."
He doesn't need to look to know John is blushing. "Well, then, want to find an actual bed, or shall we just rut on the floor all afternoon?"
Sherlock grinned. "My bedroom's closest."
…
The end.