Okay! So, John and Sherlock pairing. Please review with any thoughts, it's very encouraging and promotes the chance for future chapters (of course, lack of reviews is also helpful in signalling that no more chapters are wanted). Hope you enjoy! This will be a multi-chapter fic, separately, (hopefully!) but is also featured in my Sherlock Drabbles : )
BBC Sherlock.
Darkness
"Sh-Sherlock!" John groaned. Sherlock's cool hand swept over John's muscled stomach, tangibly admiring the cut edges of his rectus abdominis and rectus sheath individually, stroking back the golden hair and gripping with his nails the lithe serratus anterior. John was lying flat on the bed, under the devilish detective, having been pushed down moments before. Sherlock's nose nudged into John's hip, more precisely his inguinal ligament, his rear thrust into the air in those tight, black suit trousers, his suit jacket draped on either side of them both, like some Cartier cocoon. "Sherlock, I don't want to do this," John hissed, though the fact that the ex-soldier wasn't pushing Sherlock off told an entirely different story and accounted for the tension in John's hands, shoulders and groin in quite another fashion.
"I. Don't. Care," Sherlock whispered. His voice was silk. He analysed a territory of flesh just above John's waist and pulled John's sweater further up. "I want this. I've never-" Sherlock slid his knee up to John's groin and let out a small, gasping groan himself- "Never wanted this. Until now."
It was dark in Sherlock's bedroom and the window was covered with a thick drape that just about concealed the milky lamp of the moon. So all was in shadow. Sherlock was shadow, as his musician's fingers scratched up John's sides, a byproduct of pushing up that woollen jumper; as his teeth lightly, lightly grazed under John's navel. He smelled of mint, fresh- from the menthol of that cheap, supermarket brand shower gel, Sherlock mused- and something warmer underneath... like hot milk... and honey. It was all Sherlock could do to not lick him.
Feeling his nerves stand to attention and practically salute Sherlock, John gritted his teeth and scrunched his eyes closed, resisting the effeminate urge to bite his lower lip-
Because Sherlock- virgin, asexual Sherlock- was so very, very good at this. His long index finger stroked the diagonal line of John's external oblique, sending a shiver of shock up John's spine. He still had not touched Sherlock himself, rigid beneath this sudden, spontaneous Romeo. His mind turned dark as he realised that would make him Juliet, but he had little time to wallow under that, as Sherlock spoke.
"Have you ever?" he asked, quietly as he slowly sniffed at John's torso.
"Ever... what, sex? Of cour-"
"With a man." John's eyes opened, his mouth opened as he began to breathe shallowly through it.
"Oh..." Sherlock paused in his ministrations and looked up, face navy in the darkness, but John could see the eyes wide with inquiry and mouth pouted in focus; he knew Sherlock was near totally unaware of this habit.
John cleared his throat.
"So, yes, then," Sherlock surmised.
"I didn't say anything-"
"You cleared your throat. You do that when you're thinking and if you've never entered into male sexual relations then you would not have needed to ponder the matter."
"I love it when you talk dirty." John said this for the humour and as a small stab at Sherlock out of frustration for his knowing him so well. Sherlock tried, hopelessly, to reduce the size of his pupils as they expanded; he loved the gravel of John's voice, so much so that it sparked a fire under the skin of his cheeks and chest.
"So," Sherlock continued, "you have? In the army, I assume."
"No, just... no! There was an 'almost' incident, but nothing of great- ah!" Sherlock, bored no doubt, had pushed his palm against John's groin. He tapped his fingers on John's belt.
"I've only read. I'm fairly skilled in theory. Never performed a practical."
"Can you please not turn this into a scientific shag? Can it please just be a shag?"
"Oh," and here Sherlock's voice melted into a lower, darker octave as he reared his whole torso up and kneeled between John's legs. "So you do want this to happen?"
Frank as ever, John sighed and spluttered.
"I'd have thought your research would have answered that question."
"I'm flirting."
"What?"
"Rhetorical questions have proved an effective device for flirtation." Sherlock's tone was so honest and forthwith, that John remained gaping for a few seconds before he replied.
"You've really never done this before, have you?"
"No," and with that, Sherlock looked away. His knees splayed apart and his arms hung loosely at his sides.
"Not even a fast fondle?"
"No."
"Quickie?"
"Never."
"One night stand?"
"Nein," Sherlock bit the word out. The silence was all too telling of Sherlock's disgruntled embarrassment.
"So," and John managed to ask this as though he wasn't being almost straddled by Sherlock, "I'm actually the expert here?"
"Sixteen short-term, heterosexual relationships over a thirty-year period does not equal professionalism."
"Err, and one make-out in the military. With a man." John smiled, a little smug.
Sherlock head snapped round and he locked stares with John for a long moment. They could not see the colour of one another's eyes.
John hummed and looked down at his belt. He was beginning to sympathise with Sherlock and did not feel the burning desire to tease him. He pushed back and bent his elbows behind him after flicking on the light on the bedside table. The periodic table poster glowed down on them from the ceiling, turning John rainbow-coloured. Sherlock was gazing at John's jumper-sheathed chest, eyes glazed as though he wasn't looking properly at all. His hair was monstrously marvellous, carelessly coifed and boldly black as a nighttime London alleyway. John reckoned it would feel like silk...
Light on, they both suddenly felt the intensity and daren't look into eachother's eyes.
Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's hair instead, the texture of which looked like fox-fur, grey and sandy like a day on an English beach.
John swallowed and bucked up his courage.
"I want to do this..." he said, quietly. He then pushed up, effortlessly, and slid Sherlock's jacket over his shoulders. From there, the jacket slipped off by itself and Sherlock's white shirt was also tattooed with the rainbow reflections of the coloured periodic table poster. Sherlock smiled, tightly.
"Fitting colours for the scene," he joked. The banner of the LGBT community swayed in John's mind and he let out a short laugh.
His eyes turned wide as he studied the blue duvet cover to his left.
"We haven't even kissed yet..." he muttered.
Reviews, please : ) Either way, I hope you enjoy, but feedback is pretty much monumental in how my stories turn out in that I am experimenting on this website and would love to know the effects of my writing so that I might continue or cut techniques.