3 October 2013
John was going mad. For over a month, now, there had been no cases. Sherlock was completely focused upon compiling evidence for the prosecution against Moriarty and spent at least twelve hours every day at the desk. He had never known Sherlock to be able to sit so still for such long periods of time without turning destructive. He wasn't making mess, he wasn't keeping disgusting experiments in the fridge, he wasn't shooting walls or burning household items or shouting angry deductions at people. He was at the desk before John rose in the morning and he was still there when John returned from work. He would only eat if John physically removed him from his seat at the desk and hauled him to the kitchen table. Similarly, he would only sleep if John pulled him to bed. This became a daily routine.
When he wasn't writing, he would speak incessantly to John of extent and reach of Moriarty's network. John didn't follow what he was saying a lot of the time - the web was so vast and complex that probably only the Holmes brothers and Moriarty himself could fully comprehend it. Sherlock was borderline manic; completely obsessed with deconstructing Moriarty's empire and laying it out for the prosecution. Sherlock always had been happiest with a puzzle, and this was the best one yet.
For John, though, it was slightly less thrilling. There was nothing that he could do to help. There was no need for running or doctoring or shooting. Now, the fight against Moriarty was purely in the courts. Letting the lawyers take him apart bit by bit with the information that the Holmes brothers were giving them.
So, he worked at the surgery. He prescribed antibiotics, he diagnosed gastroenteritis, he examined minor wounds. He did the shopping. He read books. He watched telly. God, is this how normal people live?
He came home on Thursday in a rotten mood. There was no particular reason for his bad humour; he hadn't been vomited or sneezed on, he hadn't had any cancer diagnoses, he didn't have to go shopping and argue with the bloody self-checkout machines. It was just the mundane normality that was driving him to distraction.
When he got in the door, Sherlock offered no greeting. It was entirely possible that he was so focused he wasn't even aware that John was home. Well, he'd be bloody aware of it in a minute.
Not very much time later and Sherlock was moaning softly into John's mouth, John having hauled him to the sofa and descended upon those lush lips. John left no mystery as to his intentions, pushing Sherlock down on his back and settling between his legs. He savoured the look of surprise on Sherlock's face even as the detective parted his lips to let John's tongue in. They hadn't had sex since Moriarty had been arrested - not on purpose, but Sherlock's mind was elsewhere and John was exhausted at the end of every day at the surgery (usually just pulling one off in the shower). Sherlock had clearly been ignoring any arousal, because now his body went from ground state to rock-hard in under a minute, just under the influence of John's lips and tongue on his own. Looks like I've opened the floodgates.
John didn't waste any time sitting back to pull Sherlock's pyjama trousers down just enough to free the erection that was tenting them. As soon as John's hands were out of the way, Sherlock's were unbuttoning John's trousers. His fingers slipped inside, stroking along his length through his pants. Sometimes, he remained in control just enough to make sex into an experiment. What touches made John melt? Gasp? Shout? How long could he draw him out before orgasm? How did his own moans, groans, curses, whimpers affect John's arousal? Tonight, though, he was content to let the fog claim him. He hadn't realised how mentally exhausted he felt until John had flung him onto the sofa. For the last month, he had been doing nothing but think of Moriarty's web for every hour of every day and, for once, he needed a break - to let his mind quieten. John was oh, so effective at doing that. He let his fingers tease John through the pants, relishing the little rolls of John's hips into his fingers. This raw, unthinking desire was what he needed now.
"Kiss me, John." His hand trailed up John's shirt to his chest, before catching the fabric and pulling John down towards him to kiss him again. However, John didn't oblige him. He stopped, his mouth two inches from Sherlock's, so temptingly close.
"Or what?" He raised his eyebrows in challenge. Sherlock tried to rise up to meet him by propping himself up on his elbows, but John just moved further away. This is new. Whenever they toyed with power imbalances, Sherlock was the one who took control.
John placed his hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed him down again. Oh God. All the air left his lungs, and it wasn't due to the weight that John was pressing on his sternum.
The look on Sherlock's face was priceless. His eyes were wide, his pupils huge, and his lips were parted in surprise. John hadn't felt the need to take control like this before, but tonight something in him just flicked like a switch. He needed to see Sherlock beneath him, hear him begging for him, doing exactly what John wanted him to do.
"John." Sherlock's voice was close to breathless and his eyes never left John's. "Please, take what you need from me." There was no hint of mischief in his voice.
John smirked, and shifted down between Sherlock's legs. He tugged up the detective's pyjama shirt and laid the softest flutter of a kiss next to his belly button. That alone was enough to make Sherlock's breathing hitch. This is going to be fun.
He laid gentle kisses all over Sherlock's navel, then at the join between his stomach and his leg, then down closer to the base of his cock, where the dark hair tickled his lips. Sherlock's breaths were losing all rhythm and he was shivering beneath John's lips.
John came up so that his lips just brushed over the head of Sherlock's cock, and he heard a gasp above him. He peppered soft, dry kisses all over Sherlock's length, and Sherlock was already moaning softly, so sensitive after a month without any touch.
"Sherlock, tell me something interesting." He pulled his lips away to make eye contact. Sherlock's eyes were wide. "What?"
"Tell me something interesting - not about Moriarty's network - and I'll reward you." He continued those little dry kisses, just enough to make Sherlock shiver and twitch his hips and definitely enough to make him crave more.
It took Sherlock a few seconds to reform coherent thought. Interesting. Interesting. Not Moriarty's network. "Um, ah -" his voice came out shaky, but he was so far gone he didn't even care. With John pressing his lips against him, only to take them away, and repeat the torture over and over again, how could he think? Need to feel more. Need to please John. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.
"Chromium has electron configuration with one electron in the 4s orbital and five in the 3d orbital instead-" he gasped as John's tongue darted out to touch his frenulum, "-instead of the expected two in the 4s orbital and four in the 3d orbi- oh!" He bucked and his eyes flew open as John's lips slid tightly over the head of his cock, that wet, hot tongue pressing against him. "Oh God." He was panting, his arm flung over his eyes. Somewhere, distantly in the back of his mind, he was raising an eyebrow at himself. Really, first-year chemistry? That's the best you can do? But that voice was quickly shooed away by a gloriously luscious lick up the centre of his erection.
"Goethe! Goethe was the first scientist to show that the intermaxillery segment exists in all mammals -Oh, Jesus - and he-he published one-hundred and forty-two works ranging the fields of poetry - oh, fuck, John - novels, history, botany and-and biology - Ohh!" His words ceased as John swallowed him to the hilt.
Well, if this wasn't one of the most erotic things John had experienced, he didn't know what was. Sherlock actually cursing out loud was something he rarely heard. Sherlock just didn't use such crude words - in fact, he seemed to always revert to French when overcome by lust. This - curses and blasphemy, in English, nonetheless - was just about the hottest thing he could think of right now. And the fact that he was clearly so desperately trying to stay online - his desperate stream of facts to please John, despite his obvious mental exhaustion - was rather sweet. He decided to take mercy on the poor man.
Sherlock was trying (and failing - most of the noises he was uttering as John bobbed and swallowed around him definitely weren't part of the English language) to tell John something about the first recorded crime gangs when John's fingers pressed over his lips, silencing him. He felt John's lips slide off from around him.
"Suck. Get them nice and slick."
He did as John said, sucking his first two fingers as far into his mouth as he could, and felt John's mouth envelope him again. He groaned, and felt John groan around him, too. This was going to end very quickly if John kept this up. He licked all around John's fingers, between them, getting them as wet as he could, but John was pulling them away, out of reach of his tongue, and oh. A short whine pushed out of the back of his throat as he felt John's fingertips push against his entrance.
"Is this what you want, Sherlock?"
"Yes, John. Please. Please, anything -argh!" A guttural groan escaped him as John pushed not one, but two fingers in, laving wetly at his cock with his tongue again. He arched his back, pushing for more, deeper, need more burn, and John gave it to him. He hit Sherlock's prostate once, twice, three, four, five times, and Sherlock couldn't think of anything but the sensation, he was overwhelmed, John was inside him and around him all at once, he was so close to the edge -
"Come on, Sherlock, let me taste you."
He couldn't resist the demand. He came hard, his hips thrusting forward into John's mouth then back onto his fingers, completely trapped in this prison of ecstasy, and he felt John swallowing around him, and he couldn't do anything but shudder and groan and gasp for air as the pleasure rolled through him.
Eventually, Sherlock stopped shuddering beneath him. John was going to give him a few minutes to recover (Sherlock had a very short refractory period and this night was definitely not over yet), so he just rested his head against the detective's hip. Not thirty seconds had passed, though, before Sherlock was sitting up, his eyes wide again.
"Please, John. Please, fuck my mouth. I need you to take me how you want me."
The detective slipped off the sofa so that he was kneeling on the floor. Hearing him say "fuck" again did something very good to John's cock.
All of a sudden, he found himself standing, Sherlock's lips sucking around his cock and his eyes locked on John's. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's buttocks, ensuring he stayed steady. Jesus, that's a sight. Sherlock looked so needy. The detective never did things in half measures.
His fingers laced into Sherlock's curls as a moan escaped his lips and he pushed into Sherlock's mouth. He had never really done this - he had always let his partners go at their own pace. He prided himself on being a considerate lover, but if this is what Sherlock wanted - hell, who was he to refuse?
He picked up his rhythm, but was still a little cautious of choking Sherlock. The detective pulled off, stopping for just a moment, a smile playing about his lips.
"Oh come on, John. Misbehave." His hands gripped John's buttocks and pushed him deeper into his throat, his muffled moan practically pornographic in its wanton hunger, and John really got the message. Those lips, that hot, silken tongue, that rumbling vibration around his length, and those grey eyes wide and fixed on him? He let go of all inhibition as he fucked Sherlock's mouth in earnest, and both men's moans echoed through the flat.
He hadn't yet seen this side of Sherlock; so desperate for John to take complete control. Sherlock showed no sign of being pushed too far - even when he gagged once or twice on John's cock, he only pulled off for a second before swallowing him down again with renewed enthusiasm. Fuck. John was on the edge within minutes, brought there by the feeling of Sherlock's tongue sliding just so against him as he swallowed around John over and over, as though he couldn't get enough.
"Oh, fuck, Sherlock, wait, stop," he managed to pant out, tugging the detective's hair to make him pull off. He rested there for a few seconds, panting, regaining a little control. Sherlock just waited on his knees for instructions, his cock red and leaking again. Begging to be touched.
"Table or bed?"
Sherlock's pupils visibly dilated and his long fingers jumped up to stroke John's thighs. "I am yours, John. Take me how you want me."
Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the bloody donkey. Sod the table, sod the bed, this is happening right here. John leaned down to catch Sherlock's red lips with his own in a kiss that quickly became a burning dance of tongues.
Sherlock's head was spinning as John pulled away and nudged his knees apart. Then, John himself kneeled behind Sherlock, knees just inside Sherlock's calves and his cock resting in the dip between Sherlock's arse cheeks. He felt the warm, strong hands caressing his waist, his ribcage. He shivered.
"Ready?"
"Always."
John's left hand snaked under Sherlock's t-shirt, coming to rest over his heart, holding them upright in a tight embrace. John pressed his head into Sherlock's entrance, the way eased by the slick coating of Sherlock's spit still covering his cock. Sherlock's lungs inflated as John's hot, heavy length filled him. This was such an intimate way to make love. John's left arm was around his chest, feeling the patterns of his heart and his lungs. He heard John's quiet, breathless "Oh, my God," as the doctor buried himself to the hilt. Knowing that John was just as lost to this as he was made Sherlock shiver. John's right hand came around to the front to take Sherlock in hand and Sherlock's hips bucked. "Oh, John."
John started painfully slowly. He pulled out until only this head was still inside Sherlock, and then slid back in equally slowly. At the same time, his fist slid up and down Sherlock's cock, so he was fucking him inside and out. Sherlock let out a whimper that was definitely not within his usual vocal range.
"Sherlock, tell me again," John's voice was rough, and Sherlock's voice turned raw and deep now, his neck arched back as he tried to find words in the fog clouding his mind.
"I am yours. I am yours - ungh - and I will only ever want more of you. More of this. I will always be yours, John." And with that, John moaned into Sherlock's shoulder blade and lost control. His hips collided with Sherlock's arse again and again, the obscene slaps of skin-on-skin ringing through the flat. Sherlock groaned as the shudders rocked his body, his eyes rolling back, his hands reaching up to anchor themselves in John's hair as the doctor's teeth sunk deep into his shoulder and he slid into him again and again. This was hard and fast, and the rhythm of John fucking him and pumping his cock all at once rocked all coherent thought out of him, he was just letting out a stream of constant moaning cries, as John hit his prostate again and again and again, more, John, more, please John, oh Christ, oh Christ, keep biting, it hurts, it's good, it's so, so good, fuck me harder, like that, just like that, oh fuck, John-
Sherlock came screaming and sobbing, shuddering back into John as his come spurted rhythmically over John's fingers and onto the sofa. John wasn't far behind.
Experiencing Sherlock breaking was always enough to push him over the edge. Knowing that he was the one to reduce the great Consulting Detective to this beautiful mess off nerves and need and lust was the most incredible sexual experience he could have. He came hard, his teeth still digging into Sherlock's shoulder, he tasted blood on the material of the shirt as he shuddered and groaned, God, I've been missing this.
Eventually, their hips stuttered and stilled, the only sound in the room their panted breaths. Both groaned when John withdrew. Sherlock flopped forward and rolled onto his back, a satisfied smile plastered over his face. John joined him, his head resting on Sherlock's bicep. That warm chuckle rumbled through Sherlock's chest and John couldn't help but laugh, too.
"You, John Watson, are a marvel," Sherlock said. His fingers came to softly run up and down John's arm. Jeez, he must really be gone. Compliments were a fairly regular occurrence - but tender post-coital caresses, as though they were doe-eyed twentysomethings? That was definitely out of character. Not that John minded.
"I'm yours, too, you know."
Sherlock turned his head to meet his eyes.
"I know."
John thought that he was the only person (perhaps Mrs Hudson was an exception) to know the warmth with which Sherlock could smile. Whatever anybody at the Yard may claim, Sherlock Holmes definitely had a heart.
John caught the fingers stroking his arm with his own and intertwined them. They laid like that for some minutes, enjoying the quiet. Breath. The traffic of Baker Street. London rolling on. It was quite possible that they could fall asleep right there on the floor, but John had some sense of practicality about him.
"Right. I've got to clean your shoulder up and we both need a shower."
"Hmm." Sherlock hummed noncommittally, clearly unwilling to move just yet.
"And if you come have a shower now, I'll make bolognaise for dinner with garlic bread." Sherlock's eyes flew open with a sudden vitality. He was perfectly willing to go for days without eating, but there were a few certain meals that he couldn't resist the temptation of.
"Oh, excellent idea, John." He pulled himself to sitting, and then shakily got to his feet. He bestowed a clumsy kiss on John's lips before ambling towards the bathroom. Small spots of blood had bloomed on his t-shirt where John's teeth had dug into the back of his shoulder. John regarded them with a not insignificant amount of gratification.
If he told anybody he knew about what he had just been doing for the last hour, not a soul would believe him. He chuckled to himself before following Sherlock into the bathroom.