Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. Not even the lyrics to the song "Evil Fantasies" by best Metal Band ever: Judas Priest.
Note: This is the Sequel to my Fanfic "Play with Fire" so I recommend you read that one first. A friend asked if I would maybe write some smut and I did my best (hope you like it!). Thank you once again, MrsNoggin, for taking the trouble of beta-ing this and turning it into something readable!
Evil Fantasies: A Sequel to "Play with Fire"
"After all that has come to pass between them over the past years, months, over the past minutes: there is no way John is letting Sherlock escape from this unburned."
This is torture. Fucking torture. The bloody bastard is doing this on purpose and John knows it. He fucking knows. And of course Sherlock knows that John bloody well knows. And maybe he is overreacting a little, standing there staring at the glossy haired back of this genius head (hair should not be allowed to look so bloody glossy - really, there should be some sort of regulation or law against that) with all these swear words racing around in his own head, colliding and crashing into every sentence of his overstimulated mind. Well shit. It's his head and he can think whatever he wants and it's not like his mum or Mrs. Hudson are listening in. Besides, it's the only outlet for all this tension currently buzzing through his body, like electrical charge through a hot wire, turning him on like a light bulb.
Earlier That Evening
It is still unusually warm when they leave the opera, walking briskly side by side, their shoulders brushing against each other with the desperate desire for touch, any kind of touch that is inconspicuous enough not to tell the tale of what is going on between them, but that is some kind of touch at all. The thought of that angry, breathy kiss from earlier is still buzzing in John's veins, like his whole body is on vibrating alert and calls from Sherlock are coming in constantly. And why the fuck does John still have to be stuck in this bloody itching tux with the choke chain for a collar? He can't wait to take it off. Or perhaps Sherlock would be the one to... But no. He won't allow himself to think about that. Not now, not here, not while a cummerbund is already messing with the blood flow in his lower body. Oh, how is he going to survive the ride home?
Hardly, as it turns out. The drive in the taxi is already almost unbearable as they climb into the backseat together. While John bravely scratches together every last bit of self-restraint in him to not grab that silky mop of luscious curls and yank the brilliant head beneath it into a breathless kiss (in retrospect, he should have done that right then!) and then bury his nose in the crook of that slender, white neck and breathe in the hot, delicious scent of Sherlock that is a mixture of soap and expensive aftershave and moist, sweaty Sherlock-ness, the unbelievable twat actually has the nerve to put a large hand on John's leg, just inches above his knee. Usually this gesture would not have been something considered as particularly suggestive, not since the Victorian era anyway, but in this very moment (and with this very hand) it is the most arousing gesture John has ever been on the receiving end of. The touch of those long, pale fingers burns right through the fabric of his dress trousers and leads an invisible trail of tingling fire right to parts that are not - John repeats it in his head so that these parts are definitely getting the message: not – supposed to react this way in the back of a fucking taxi.
They share smouldering looks over the small distance of the back seat. John licks his lips then bites them. Sherlock fidgets with the top buttons of his shirt under his tie. John wipes the sweat from the back of his neck with his palm. Sherlock breathes audibly through parted lips and squeezes John's knee. John suppresses a moan and edges a little closer. Sherlock's adam's apple bobs in his throat as he gulps heavily. John blinks slowly. Sherlock wipes his wet lips with the back of his hand. John snarls. Their eye contact does not break for one second.
When the cabbie pulls up in front of 221b and announces that they have reached their destination John and Sherlock are already halfway through a serious imaginary make out session. It costs John all the willpower he can muster to tear his eyes away from where Sherlock is currently wiping the moisture off his palms and onto his thighs with languid, rubbing movements, wearing a cruelly suggestive smirk that lets those peculiarly small teeth of his show as little white pearls in the reflecting city lights. The memory of the sound they made snapping together mere inches in front of his own mouth makes John gulp with anticipation. His head is swimming with the most evil of fantasies.
Oh god, the things he is going to do to this man. Before the night is out, he will have those sassy teeth clenching together in the sweet agony of an unbearable longing yet to be satisfied.
You give me evil fantasies
I wanna get inside your mind
Come on and live my fantasies
I'll show you evil you can't hide
The frustration that wells up in him as John turns around from paying the cabbie and hears Sherlock's voice, flat and efficient like always when work is involved, is so violent it threatens to make his chest explode. Um, well, and other bits.
"John."
John knows what is up already before he spots Lestrade's conspicuously inconspicuous civil official car several paces down the road. As if by command, Sherlock's mobile chooses this exact moment to buzz with the all too familiar sound of impending crime scenes, clue hunting around town and rude but brilliant deductions. It must be important, apparently, considering Lestrade has come by to pick them up personally before even trying to call.
Not that important in retrospect, John grumbles to himself. Not important enough to be fucking dragging them across town in a situation like this.
The whole case turns out to be even more of a pointless bother than expected (and only exciting in certain, not crime related ways, as he later remembers). There is not even a body for him to examine. It turns out to be a case of burglary in which the rare and valuable edition of an old book has been stolen from a locked private library. But the owner of the books appears to be a personal friend of a high ranking superior of the police department and success in this case seems to be crucial to the quality of the coffee the whole division will be drinking in the future. Or something.
Under the guise of secrecy and only after the promise to be out again in twenty minutes max, Lestrade smuggles them into the private library of the victim, positively begging Sherlock to find answers quickly. The whole matter seems so important to him that he has even taken the trouble to grudgingly refrain from commenting on their formal attire further than asking John whether he was "interrupting anything" with a wry smirk and an amusedly quirked eyebrow. Yes! Yes, god, yes! Every fibre of Johns being screams at that.
"We had to go to the opera. Former client invited us." Is what he flatly replies instead.
Naturally, the same amount of retentiveness cannot be expected from the other people present at the crime scene as they arrive. Anderson stops dead in his movements as he spies Sherlock striding into the room, all self-assuredness and gentlemanly air, immediately owning the place and wearing that sodding tux with more ease than any man should have the right to do at a crime scene. He just is that kind of person, John reckons, the kind that comes into the room and takes up all the space with his overpowering presence. Especially when dressed like that.
"You cannot possibly have been out?" comes Sally Donovan's derisive voice from somewhere in the room. "You unleash him on the public? To social events?" this part is directed at John, who is tempted to retort something insulting for a moment, but is stopped by the look that accompanies Donovan's words. Not quite compatible with the condescension in her voice. There she stands, acting like the world's most aloof bitch, all the while taking an unabashed eyeful of Sherlock's slim frame and general gorgeousness, probably believing herself to be subtle.
Thankfully Sherlock is not in the mood to delay the crime scene fun with the petty words of little minds and just runs a casual hand through his smoothly tamed mane - fully aware of the breathtakingly handsome picture he paints no doubt - and then goes to work.
With a smirk, John notices that he is Donovan's next object of involuntary visual approval, which feels rather satisfying. Not that her opinion counts in the least, but it is always nice to know you can still make the ladies gawk. Well, after they have gawked at Sherlock of course, but he can live with that. He hates Greg somewhat less in this moment for insisting that there was no time to change into more casual attire.
Now
And this is where he finds himself now, not more than ten minutes later. In this situation. Hot and itchy in his tight clothing, and helplessly lost in rather unchaste meditations of Sherlock's catlike gracefulness and surreptitious glances in John's direction. The bastard is being outrageous. John is almost sure he is looking this good on purpose. No, not almost. He is doing this on purpose. John can already see the inscription on his headstone: Tortured to death by the almost unbearable, infuriating sexiness of Sherlock Holmes.
It is that smirk - that split second flicker of secret amusement he shoots John when no one else is looking. It is that glint in those perfectly pale panther's eyes – the glint that John knows too bloody well to be putting up with any of this. Sherlock has this all figured out, probably had only minutes after arriving at the scene of the crime. The fucking bastard knows already. Behind those brows, knitted in fake concentration, are the answers and solutions to every single question that any of the police present in this room could possibly have. And he knows what he's doing to John by stalling, knows the dirty thoughts and evil fantasies chasing round in circles in his head. He is stretching all of this further for no other reason than this: Sherlock bloody Holmes is teasing. Teasing.
We turn and face each other
My fingers pull your hair
You wince and jerk my wrist off
I bite my lip and stare
John is almost convinced by now that the ruddy tux he's wearing is getting tighter, literally shrinking around his body. His shirt is sticky and clinging to his entire backside, the cummerbund has contracted rather than given way throughout the evening, and this insufferable collar – he tries not to think about it. If it wasn't for the enticing idea of a certain detective fumbling it off with his fingers, nimble and clever even though somewhat clumsy from pleasant agitation, he would have taken the bow tie off ages ago, but the prospect of this particular fantasy being fulfilled will most likely be worth the wait. Also, why should he humble himself with displaying obvious signs of an overheated nervous system, when bloody Sherlock seems all concentration and focus on work – he seems to have forgotten the pleasantly strained silence and the heated looks they had shared in the back of the taxi only minutes ago entirely.
How can the bastard just switch off arousal like a water boiler? Because aroused he surely was. There was no mistaking the signs after their stealthy kiss against the wall in the opera house. How has he managed to switch to work mode while the impact of it has left John reeling until this very moment? And why is he even wondering? He's Sherlock bloddy Holmes, for God's sake. And that's another thing John does not want to think about too closely at the moment.
A third thing he doesn't want to think about is that ridiculously pronounced cupids bow, pressed against his own face in a heated encounter of mouths. Jesus Christ, what is happening to him?
John retreats behind a bookshelf to get away from that straining presence, pretending to be inspecting the surroundings on the dutiful lookout for clues. Moments later Sherlock brushes past him in the narrow space between two bookshelves, his excited (from the case or something else?) breath ruffles the soft hair on the back of John head.
"Excuse me," mutters Sherlock. Excuse me my arse. This is not a request, it's an obscenity judging by the way he breathes it into Johns ear, sending a huff of moisture onto the sensitive nerve ends of Johns auricle and a cloud of his scent right into Johns nostrils.
"Sherlock, what are you doing? You're driving me crazy." John murmurs, as he follows the other man. Sherlock crouches down in front of a bookshelf and runs an elegant finger over the wood before examining the dust that has caught on the tip.
"I'm solving this case."
John purses his lips. "No, no you're not. You're deliberately trying to tease me. You've solved it already. I can see it in your eyes. I'm not completely daft, you know, and I've been with you long enough. I know the signs."
Sherlock's tall body shoots up straight to tower over him, still as an antique Greek statue – and probably just as white and defined and beautiful under that tux, John assesses vaguely while trying to hold the steady glare that Sherlock gives him, fiery and defiant rather than angry, inches away from his own face. He would kiss him right here, right now, had he not known the whole Yard to be lingering around the room somewhere waiting for them to come back with a head full of brilliant deductions and a mouth full of answers. And insults, probably. But definitely not a mouth full of John's tongue.
Your stance at once defiant
I'm rigid to your pose
You clench your teeth in anger
My loving swells and grows
You're dragged into my vision
Trapped, serving to my need
Maybe imagination
Is where my dark side feeds
This is payback, John realises. It's payback for the dominance over the normally in-control detective that John had displayed earlier, by shoving him against the wall and initiating their first kiss. He is being punished and it's bloody well working.
"Sherlock, I told you I could only give you twenty minutes. When Miller sees you here, I'm in serious - Um, are you boys ok there?" Greg's voice is low and thin and just a little confused. With his rather sensitive nature he seems to have picked up that he is interrupting some kind of intimate moment and is sensible enough not to want to attract the attention of the other Yarders. John has his back turned to him, still holding Sherlock's burning gaze, but he imagines the poor Detective Inspector to be somewhat indignant.
"Stop talking, I'm trying to think."
Doesn't look like it, mate, is what John fancies Lestrade to think, but thankfully the man refrains from commenting further. John hears the rustle of his clothing as he removes himself from where they are standing.
"Yes, I know who did it. But I need tangible proof for those idiots. They won't find it by themselves. And, oh John, don't you see? It's so much more fun this way." Sherlock mutters, and his pouty lips stretch into a grin that is both, vicious and at the same time almost tender. With his hair smoothed back like this, the edgy bone structure of his skull seems to stand out even more visibly than usual.
God, sometimes it's all he can do not to slap a pale, sharp cheekbone and mark it with a pink imprint of his own palm. Mine. Oh, the passionate glare he would be rewarded with (Sherlock is never penurious with these) and oh, the defiant, angry desire this would stir in the usually so cool detective. He'll hate it, John knows, losing control over the reaction of his body like this, unable to control the dilating of his pupils, the quickening of his pulse, the heaviness of his breath. And he'll love it. If this is a game, two can play.
You slide your nails down in me
I raise my structure high
You pout, I snarl, you whimper
And wave compassion by
You give me evil fantasies
I wanna get inside your mind
Come on and live my fantasies
I'll show you evil you can't hide
Sherlock just looks intensely at him with a seemingly blank expression and John knows if he looks away now he is probably lost. This is a staring game with a tiger – not the time to show weakness, you might lose your head. As if there is any hope for keeping that now.
"Fine."
With a sudden step back, John turns his body to the side and holds his arms up in apparent defeat, making way for Sherlock to step past him, out of the narrow corridor between the shelves and back into the room with the others. The detective gasps in involuntary displeasure as the close contact breaks.
"The book never left the house. In fact, it didn't even leave the room." Sherlock announces dramatically as he strides back into the middle of the room with renewed enthusiasm. He waves all appalled exclamations and derisive snorts away with an elegant flick of his hand and comes to stand in the middle of the room, his eyes now fixed on the ceiling.
"John." Sherlock signals over to the swivel chair a few paces away. It's not a question, not even a polite demand. To anyone but John it sounds like a usual request for his assistance, but John detects the low, vibrating quality in Sherlock's voice, the breathy final note following the last consonant, the subtle frisson of excitement as his grey-green eyes glance into his direction for a fraction of seconds.
"Steady me."
Before John can even protest, Sherlock has drawn the chair up to him and has jumped, with much more self-assured vigour than advisable when stepping onto a swivel chair, onto the seat. An exclamation involving the words "Do you know", "a fortune" and "Argentine cowhide" manages to penetrate John's ears, but never comes as far as being processed in his mind as he launches towards Sherlock immediately and wraps his arms around the man's stilt like legs before the chair can throw him off.
And this is how John Watson finds himself eye to... well ... crotch with Sherlock Holmes (not for the first time ever in all honesty, but for the first time since physical intimacy became a valid issue and an event about to happen very soon – very, very soon, hopefully.) in the middle of a room filled with people, some of them richly hostile towards the man whose thigh is currently pressed up against his cheek, with all the attention focused on them. John turns his head slightly and makes a point of fixing his eyes on some distant spot in the faraway corner of the room. Are they suspecting that all he can think about is the sweet scent of Sherlock's body that is filling his head, making every fucking nerve end tingle and prickle so that his knees are threatening to go weak? Do they know he is painfully aware of his fingertips digging into the bony hips hidden under the waistband of those tux trousers, holding them in place like they would in a very similar position but an altogether different action? Surely no one knows that John's whole consciousness, his whole existence, craves for nothing more than to sink his teeth into the soft milky flesh of those skinny thighs he knows to be hidden under the fabric of those trousers. Gently at first, and then harder. Harder and harder until Sherlock winces in delicious pain and the salty, iron taste of blood fills John's mouth – a taste not all unlike other fluids he longs to feel on his tongue before the night is over.
He has never had such kinky, sadistic fantasies with anyone else. No, they are reserved for Sherlock alone, because John knows he does not have to be ashamed because of them. Sherlock can handle them, share them, will love to be part of them. Sweetness has never been their thing. John is the fire, Sherlock the firecracker – together they will start a blazing explosion.
You give me evil fantasies
I wanna get inside your mind
Come on and live my fantasies
I'll show you evil you can't hide
Sherlock still claws and fumbles at the ceiling and stretches his body up further, causing the chair to swing dangerously in the process. John has to adjust his grip and finds one hand clutching the dinner jacket just beneath Sherlock rib cage. The picture of the detective in this pose without the dinner jacket is almost too much to bear. He has seen Sherlock's naked upper body before, but never like this. Never this stretched and twisted and inviting. He just wants to flex his fingers so that he can run them along the curve of those prominent ribs, undoubtedly clearly visible under the silk-thin, white skin of the detective's torso. He wants to press until he hears Sherlock inhale in painful pleasure. He wants to let his fingertips glide in the spaces between those ribs and dig them into the soft tissue and never ever let go. Possessive.
Oh God, John is dying of heat and suffocation and desire and he really shouldn't enjoy this compromising pose so bloody much while everyone is watching. As his eyes dart around the room he can see the mixture of morbid fascination, dawning comprehension, and utter disgust on Donovan's face. Fuck her. The more pressing problem, literally pressing, is the fact that his sodding tux pants are threateningly close to becoming a size too small in certain areas and this can't, he repeats can't, happen here. It can't. It won't.
"This is a library."
"A valid point and a very keen observation, John."
John pinches the delicate skin in the place where Sherlock's narrow behind meets the back of his thigh inconspicuously to punish the sassy bastard for that reply. Much to his disappointment, he is not even rewarded with an uneven gasp. Damn his Jedi self-control. John hasn't even taken the time to try and figure out what the hell Sherlock is fiddling with the wooden panelling of the ceiling for. This entire case is just one blurry scene of Sherlock running around slinkily and getting them into provocative positions. It would be heaven if it wasn't already absolute hell.
"You know, there probably is a ladder somewhere here. In this library."
God bless Lestrade! The man, sensing Johns plight even if probably not the correct reasons for it, rumages in the back of the room and produces a small ladder for bookshelves. John is about to extract himself from the position when a clicking noise announces the success of Sherlock's destructive work on the ceiling. Dust trickles, the wooden panel lands on the floor with an unceremonious crash.
And moments later John is released from his position as Sherlock produces the allegedly stolen book and tosses it over to Lestrade with a casual gesture, before he climbs down from the chair.
"How – What – SIR?" Lestrade turns to the supposed victim in bewilderment.
Sherlock clasps his hands together and wrings them in content finality. "Apparently insurance fraud is something that happens to the best of us." He says sarcastically.
"This is –" The accused starts enraged but gets cut short by two policemen seizing his hands and then seems to lose the ability speak altogether as he is led out of the room.
"I really don't want to ask, but I have to. How did you know that? We looked everywhere?"
Oh no, please no. While John knows how quickly and efficiently Sherlock can rattle down the deductions of a whole evening, wrap them into a nice, idiot-proof package (with an accurately tied bow on top) and hand them to the mildly competent (Lestrade excluded) bunch of police officers, John also knows how utterly thick some of them can be when it comes to unwrapping said package. He's absolutely sure he can't take any further delays. The way that dinner jacket is stretching over Sherlock's trim torso, the way dust from the ceiling has settled adorably in his luscious locks and is clinging to his mildly sweat slicked forehead – he's just not capable to suffer through Andersons question time for dummies now.
Just as Sherlock inhales to start his speech, John closes the distance between them and comes to stand in front of him, perhaps a little closer than strictly necessary to emphasise his point.
"Sherlock." He says loudly. "You and me. Home. Now." Dear lord, did that just happen? What will people think?
Gonna take you, gotta get through
Gonna make you do what I want
The room is thick and hot with tension, people are staring. John feels Sally Donovan's appalled stare, the unbelieving gaping of Anderson, and Greg's baffled yet slightly amused look prickle unpleasantly in the back of his neck. They all wonder, maybe suspect. John could hear the shallow, quickened breathing of the detective in front of him, if he had not chosen to abandon breathing for a moment or two.
"Excuse me?" The indignation on Sherlock's face is superficial and easy to see through. John has no trouble spotting the sardonic amusement tugging at corners of those delicious lips – he wants him to see it, of course. There is no way John would if Sherlock didn't want him to.
"You heard me." John replies trying his best to sound as sweet and cordial as he can manage with that searing heat burning in the pit of his stomach. His pulse is hammering in his ears. He is painfully aware that everyone is staring, eyes and ears wide open. "You've solved the case. Let's just put this off until tomorrow. You're just trying to – " for a second there he is going to say tease but that would give people the entirely right 'wrong idea', " – annoy me by stretching this further. You know how badly I want to – " he does not almost slip on that one, just hesitates shortly in order to make sure the right words come out, " – loose the bloody tux."
Oh well, could have been worse. From the baffled look Donovan gives him and the polite way that Greg disguises his discomfort with a pretend cough he reckons he could probably also have done better. What-fucking-ever.
Their eyes never disconnect as Sherlock quickly says: "Just arrest the man, Lestrade. He attempted insurance fraud and tried to get away with it under all of your noses, obviously believing his best mate's own men incapable of solving a dull, obvious little case like this – not all without justification, I might add, but that's fairly besides the point. You can call me for the details tomorrow."
John breathes out audibly. He doesn't even give a second thought about what people might think anymore as both of them turn sharply and march out of the house at a speed that can only barely not be classified as running.
The protesting "But–" Greg tries to shout after them gets lost in the sensation of Sherlock's hand on his elbow, pushing him towards the taxi in a rush.
They hardly make it up to the flat. The taxi drive is another strenuous ten minutes, but as soon as the door of 221 closes behind them John yanks the collar of Sherlock's coat, not even noticing the faint ripping sound of fabric as a seam seems to yield to Johns burning desire. And oh god, this kiss is even more intense than their first one was. Hot, wet lips and tongues and sharp teeth collide, hands get shoved in hair and tug fiercely. Clothes get ripped and pulled and left forgotten, scattered, with buttons torn off, all over the hallway and the stairs leading up to their flat. Not even for a second Johns thinks about the shameful excursion he will have to undertake in the morning in order to retrieve them. Undoubtedly long after Mrs. Hudson will have spied those telltale signs of unrestricted passion under her roof and grinned at him in self-satisfied contentment. But he can cross that particular bridge when he comes to it. Now is now and now is Sherlock. He needs the closeness, the contact of burning skin on skin like a parched man needs the water, like a frozen man needs the heat of fire. He cannot bear even one inch of air between them. He wants their bodies to melt into one contour-less blotch of skin and sweat.
As it turns out Sherlock was right, just like he always is. His little game did make everything better and more exciting and oh, so much more rewarding and pleasurable and mind-blowing in the end. And it turns out as a damn good feeling when John can finally transform all those fantasies he has formed earlier into reality, even if he gets sidetracked by new ones here and there and loses himself in the sensation of a burning match being held against the sensitive skin of his neck or the feeling of fingernails boring into the dimples on his lower back or the faint pain of teeth scraping over his exposed throat. Because Sherlock, as it turns out, has his own evil, little fantasies he craves to fulfil. And both men are more than happy to help each other with that.
And in the end, John even gets the sweet revenge he has wished for and has the obnoxiously restrained and dominant detective quivering and squirming underneath his touches.
"You should wear clothes like this more often." John breathes into Sherlock's ear.
The voice that replies is a low rumble that vibrates through John's entire body, shaken here and there by deep gasps and surprised moans.
"You shouldn't. – oh - I would have solved that case in half the… half the time had you worn one of those oh - off putting jumpers of yours."
Not that it matters, all in all, but eventually it is good to know that John is not the only one who has felt the torture.
Gonna make you do what I want
End