annachibi asked: Soooo, soulrebel14 mentioned Sherlock and John having sex in the library, and I said "Oh, definitely! :D One of them should knock over a romance novel to the wrong page and start reading out of curiosity. XD And it'd escalate from there." and we think it should be made into a fanfic but I haven't written fanfics in aaages so I thought I'd ask you. XD Since I adore your Sherlock fanfics. You don't have to, just putting it out there.
John was bored. He was an educated man: he had been through university – far more than most people - in the pursuit of his medical degree, and he was more than familiar with libraries. He remembered that he had spent his late teens and early twenties imprisoned in them; trawling over medical book after medical book, researching the past, present and future of the craft; memorizing the anatomical drawings and the names of the bones and sinew, of the organs and the illnesses. And, when he had been released blinking back into the sunlight, his training behind him, he had hoped that he would never have to set foot in another one again for study. But that was before he met Sherlock and the consulting detective's obsession with 'data'. Now he sat on a chair opposite him as the detective was stood and hunched over the table, the archives of probably 30 years of horse racing and horse breeding statistics spread out in front of him.
John decided that he would end the day cursing the name "Silver Blaze". Sherlock hadn't even started the case yet, but apparently 'preemptive research' was essential. John had hoped that it would be over soon, but that damn horse had kept him tied to Sherlock in this library for almost three hours. He'd had enough.
"Do you want a coffee?" he said suddenly, if only to break the maddening void of his being utterly ignored. He didn't know why Sherlock needed him here when he offered nothing, but since the two had become 'closer' in every sense, Sherlock seemed even more reluctant to work without his presence, even if that presence was to simply stare into space and nod at all the right noises of half muttered questions or comments that Sherlock made while he read.
"Black, two-" Sherlock began, not looking up.
"Yeah I know." John stood up and stretched. The detective ignored him again and John sighed, walking out and into the hallway to scout out the vending machine they had passed when they entered. The building itself was unassuming: an Edwardian frontage with soulless corridors that led into individual spacious and decorated rooms divided by theme. Sherlock had chosen the archives but, sitting tantalizingly only a few feet from the vending machine, behind neat wooden doors, was the realm of fiction – the fun part of the library. But Sherlock insisted that he hated fiction, and so John was stuck with the archives. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, feeding the vending machine with coins (having to rub a 20p on the side of the machine until it finally accepted it), and waited for the watery coffee to dispense. It was late, late enough that he daren't look at his watch lest he start trying to calculate how many hours of sleep he'd have lost, and the library was deserted but for the reception downstairs, a scattering of students, and a homeless man who was wedged in the architectural archives section asleep. Once John had poured the coffee and gotten one for himself – tea simply didn't cut it at this hour – he held the hot polystyrene cups in his hands and turned longingly to the fiction section. He glanced over his shoulder to the archival door with no enthusiasm and sighed. Well, it couldn't hurt, maybe he could find something to read until Sherlock had finally gotten all the information he wanted.
Carrying the cups, he nudged through into the fiction section, the automatic lights flickering on as he stepped in. It was deserted: the night owls were only in the library for necessity, and so had no need for Harry Potter and the Hobbit and the reams of other books of imagination that lived here. John was greeted with countless colourful covers, enough that he didn't quite know where to start. He had to admit that his tastes were unimaginative: murder mysteries held no interest to him before he met Sherlock, and he avoided them now that he lived the reality; thrillers had always been an enjoyment of his, yet nowadays he preferred the idea of relaxing after the merry chase Sherlock dragged him on; he never held much enjoyment for sci-fi and fantasy, as ever being grounded in his tastes. He loved travel books, the spirit of wanderlust settled in a quiet alcove of his heart, but tonight he fancied fiction. Historical fiction bored him and war fiction irritated him, he had no eye for poetry and the classics and no enthusiasm for romance. As he spotted the romance section, he noticed the unassumingly titled 'general fiction' section next to it, and headed for there. The section was packed alphabetically with an eclectic mix, and he studied the spines, still dutifully holding the coffee in each hand. When he wanted to read the blurb he awkwardly balanced one cup on the crook of his elbow pressed to his chest and tried to pick it out one-handed, scanning over cover after cover for something that jumped out at him. There were so many books that he didn't know where to start.
"John."
John jerked in surprise, stepping back and clattering into the romance section, sending books flying to the floor. He winced, face flushing in embarrassment at the flaw in his usually steadfast nerves, and glared at Sherlock for surprising him, and for making him feel guilty for deserting his post. Of course it was Sherlock - he knew the deep voice anywhere. Sure enough Sherlock was leaning around the edge of the bookshelf, looking at the mess John had made with an amused apathy.
"I was waiting for my coffee."
"Yes, Yes. Sorry. I lost track of the time." John said, passing Sherlock the cup. The detective took it and sipped it, raising an eyebrow in disapproval when he found it was cold. John huffed and took it back off him, putting them both down on the floor as he stooped to clear up the books. Sherlock crouched to help him, gathering them together, and picked up one that had failed open, creasing half the pages.
"And this is your usual reading material, is it?" Sherlock said with the subtle tease in his voice, casting his eyes over the rumpled pages. John looked at the cover: a woman straddled a horse, tight jodhpurs stretching over amply shaped thighs spread wide, a riding crop at her side. "Fitting in theme." Sherlock said, unable to suppress the smirk that graced his face.
"Shut up. Give it here." John said, reaching out for it. Sherlock snatched it back and held it high out of John's reach, earning himself another glare of annoyed humiliation from the shorter man. "Sherlock."
Sherlock ignored him and scanned the page. "The stallion charged towards the stable, the steady thump thump of its hooves against the gravel of the grand stable-house reverberating up his tightly strung muscles. I felt a great sense of purpose and authority with this powerful beast between my thighs and yet utterly under my control, and as I slowed him and rounded into the stable house I felt like I glowed. I was myself here. I dismounted, the stiff satisfying ache growling through my body from the long ride, and – to my surprise – I found the stablehand, Georgio, waiting for me despite the hour. His eyes were dark chocolate pools of an emotion that I could not quite place and yet it drew me ever closer-"
"Sherlock this really isn't the time. I wasn't reading that." John said with a huff. "Look, have you done with your archives or what?" He asked, face still coloured.
" 'Oh Georgio, I didn't know you were still awake.' I said, my face blooming in a rose coloured blush." Sherlock continued, showing no sign of stopping, looking amused. He leant against the bookcase with a casual elegance and John couldn't help but watch him. There was something always captivating about him, and the voice purring its way through the story in its panther's timbre didn't help. "Georgio said nothing, but stepped forwards, crushing his lips against mine, his tongue forcing its way to slide against my own in immeasurable passion. His great strong hands cupped the fullness of my flank and squeezed, and I gasped, unable to help but press myself against his body. It felt like it was carved from a great mountain: but a mountain that heaved and breathed and was utterly alive. He moved his lips to my throat and I gave a wanton moan of pleasure and desire..."
"Sherlock, come on, that's enough." John said reaching for the book again. He managed, with an undignified jump, to pull it out of Sherlock's hands and held it close to his chest to keep it away from him as he tried to smooth out the pages.
"Don't be dull." Sherlock said, moving around to look over John's shoulder, reaching for the book from behind, making the doctor wriggle in his attempt to keep it out of his grasp.
"How about you don't be ridiculous? You don't even like fiction, you said. And this is a load of rubbish anyway. Get off."
"Oh I don't. And it is: it is perfectly dreadful." Sherlock said, resting his chin on John's shoulder and grabbing the book again in a deceptively hard grip. John struggled uselessly and debated elbowing him in the ribs. "But I should like to see how it turns out." Sherlock added.
"Can't you just deduce it?" John replied with a flare of bitterness. Sherlock didn't move so he gave up fighting with a snort, waiting until the detective got bored and let go.
"That isn't quite as entertaining." Sherlock replied, turning a few pages forwards. "Do you want to know what happens next?"
"No."
"I found myself on my knees in front of him, the perfect cream jodhpurs Daddy had bought me were soiled from the straw on the ground I knelt on, the musk of manure and the horses all around me, and the scent of his own sweat and arousal before me. He was a stallion himself, great a powerful, and his length swelled in his passion before me, begging for attention, his girth and length a great size – the biggest I had known. It sent a shiver of nerves and pleasure down my spine and I leant forwards, parting my lips-"
"Sherlock.." John complained.
" –and licking out to circle the twitching head of it…"
John snapped the book shut and Sherlock conceded with a sigh of disinterest. "Dull." Sherlock repeated. He finally released him and John wriggled out of his grasp and replaced the book quickly before he changed his mind.
"Are you finished messing around? We're supposed to be here for that Silver Blaze thing." John said.
"I've finished. And I couldn't help but be drawn to a book on riding. I and the main character share a common interest." Sherlock said airly.
"What? For massive twitching co-? You know, nevermind." John cut himself off as soon as he started that joke. The words sounded wrong in his mouth, tumbling out in an awkward shape and embarrassing him in their vulgarity. Nevertheless the attempt brought a laugh out of Sherlock, which he loved.
"No." Sherlock replied. "I mean that I used to do a lot of riding when I was younger. My family owned horses."
John raised his eyebrows, tilting his head a little. "Really?" As soon as he let the image bloom in his imagination he regretted it: the image of Sherlock's lithe body squeezed into a dressage suit and jodhpurs, his famous riding crop in hand, was indecently attractive. He tried to put it out of his mind and failed, it lingering there with intoxicating finality.
Sherlock nodded, his eyes trained on him in study. They were tired and a little dulled from all the reading but they were still alert, and John always got the unsettling impression that he could read minds when he looked at him like that.
"You must have been quite rich." John mumbled uselessly as a distraction. It seemed a stupid question. Of course he was: no man walked around in £600 suits and £1,000 coats and yet could barely afford to pay the heating bills unless they had been raised in wealth. You didn't need to be a consulting detective to work out that.
"My family are, yes." Sherlock said, leaning closer, still studying him. "I enjoyed riding immensely."
"Is that why you're taking the Silver Blaze case?" John asked.
"No. I never let personal preference guide my choices, John." Sherlock said.
"Oh yeah? What about me, was that a purely scientific choice?" John asked. "Us?"
Sherlock smiled, happy to be caught out. "No."
"What was it then?" John asked, teasing at him now he had the upper hand.
"Perhaps much the same thing that leads our narrator to Georgio." Sherlock purred. And that was it: Sherlock flicked back the upper hand as if it was nothing. John swallowed, and gave an awkward smile at that as Sherlock leant in to plant a kiss on his throat. John reached out to rest his hands on Sherlock's hips and enjoyed them, moving to catch his lips. He then pulled away, giving the deserted library a furtive glance.
"Come on, Sherlock, we should go home." He said.
Sherlock didn't answer and kissed him again, slowly but with a firm edge. John conceded, but backed a little closer into the corner of the bookshelves, aware of the need to hide. He remembered in university a few friends had had relatively steamy encounters in libraries – or at least it was part of the urban legend. The librarians didn't appreciate students getting together in there, and he doubted that this library would appreciate two grown men doing the same in the early morning hours.
"We shouldn't." he muttered as Sherlock gently opened his collar more, planting a kiss over his bobbing Adam's apple.
"Always the voice of reason, John. How tedious." Sherlock replied.
"Someone has to be."
"This won't take long. Let's say I've been inspired." Sherlock chuckled.
John gasped as the detective's long fingers tugged at his fly and he flinched away. "Sherlock!"
"Shh." Sherlock hissed. John gave him a look of disapproval and Sherlock looked back calmly as he slipped his hand under the waistband of his underwear. "Pity I'm not wearing 'daddy's jodhpurs'" he purred. "You'd like that."
"Ugh, I'm not so transparent, am I?" John complained, face flushing, worrying that Sherlock judged him. "I swear I didn't pick that book on purpose."
"Obviously." Sherlock said, his other hand sliding John's jumper and shirt up in a steady motion as the other moved south, rubbing over him. John bit his lip and stifled a little moan. John's eyes snapped open again and he looked around. "John relax, no one is coming."
"You don't know that. You don't know if anyone's moved." John snorted.
"I know everything." Sherlock said, bending down to kneel in front of him, kissing his stomach.
"No you bloody don't." John said, managing a laugh. Sherlock smirked and John ran his fingers through the dark curls, giving them a light tug. "Seriously, Sherlock, if we get caught…"
"We shan't. And I shall be careful." He looked up at him, a wicked smile on his face, circling his tongue around the doctor's belly button.
John shivered and gave a ticklish laugh. "Get on with it, then. I want to go home, please. Bed's been calling for the last three hours."
"My bed?"
"You'll be lucky."
Sherlock chuckled. He loved this: John's mild mannered fighting. He never let Sherlock have complete control, yet he seemed to be so skilled at fooling Sherlock into thinking that he had it. Now, nestled in the dark corner of the library, Sherlock began to doubt how much John really meant his protests at all: indeed, whether he didn't secretly love the idea. He certainly wasn't stopping him. He felt another tug to his hair and obediently got to work, tugging his trousers and underwear down enough to free his growing erection, planting a few kisses to his member.
"Not quite Georgio's proportions." He teased.
"And you're not quite a nubile young woman either. We'll have to make do." John laughed.
Sherlock chuckled and stroked his stomach softly as he licked over him, deliberately circling the tip with his tongue, the book in his mind. He felt John shudder and give another quiet moan and took him in his mouth, his lips curved in a smile of satisfaction even as he took him. John leant back against the book case, arching his back a little, pushing his hips forwards for him and breathing as steadily as he could, trying to keep enough control so as to keep quiet. Sherlock was wonderful: it always brought him into a surreal sense of privilege when the detective grew close to him, breaching the borders of their friendship and his own wedlock to his work to lavish attention on him. It had taken time to draw Sherlock's sexual nature out, and it was a fickle beast that could scurry back to its shell of disinterest as quickly as it could pounce forward in insatiability. He was unpredictable but, having never listed the act high on his priorities, indeed having never even experimented before their meeting; it meant that he was unselfish in it, and curious. He wondered if it was curiosity, the desire to reward him for his patience, or genuine arousal from the book that fuelled this little connection. John decided that he didn't give a damn.
"Oh…oh..mh.." John gasped as Sherlock took him deeper, giving soft moans as his hips rocked in shallow little thrusts of encouragement. He spread his arms to grip onto the bookshelves, careful not to topple any again. He couldn't help but look around in the panic that they might be spotted, but Sherlock was completely focused on his task, eyes lightly closed, the soft vibrations of the hums of his moans making John's legs weak. John whimpered, swallowed and steeled himself, gasping more roughly and Sherlock continued. He reached to grip the detective's hair again, tugging it and toying with it as his head bobbed. "g-God Sherlock.."
He finally closed his eyes as the pleasure built and built and he heard movement as Sherlock couldn't resist slipping his hand in to take care of himself. Images of their being spotted drifted from his mind, melting away with each lap of Sherlock's tongue. His body felt tight, legs quivering and he pushed harder against the bookshelf to brace himself, rattling it. He heard muffled moans from Sherlock and opened his eyes to find the detective breathing shakily through his nose, hand pumping. "mmh..close…um,sh-Sherlock I'm.."
Sherlock made a noise of assent at the warning and spend up his pumps as he sucked at John with more vigor. John gave a loud groan that he couldn't restrain and gritted his teeth, gasping desperately as he grew closer and closer. Moments later, when control finally dropped away completely, he gave a snarl of desperation before moaning loudly at his peak. Sherlock took him, squeezing his eyes shut but otherwise giving no complaint, and John rocked his hips as he rode the pulses of pleasure away, panting lightly.
Sherlock released him and he sank down to sit on the floor, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him. John watched as Sherlock swallowed and shifted awkwardly, tightly strung in his own unspent arousal. He reached over, cupping his hand, and together, through a few messy kisses, John helped finish him off. Sherlock's orgasm was, as ever so far, understated, and he gave a soft groan like a long dragged low note of an old cello. John smiled and kissed him softly again, and Sherlock lolled against him. A rather smug expression crossed his face and John decided to ignore it.
"See? No one saw."
"They could have."
"A calculated risk." Sherlock said. John smiled and reached over, gently helping him do his trousers back up, tutting at the inevitable mess.
"They'll notice that." John said.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his long coat around himself, buttoning it up for once to hide any evidence. It seemed to satisfy John, and the soldier stood back up once he felt he had full control of his limbs again.
"So…do I get to meet this 'Siler Blaze' tomorrow?" he asked as he fastened his trousers and tugged his jumper back down.
"If it is alive." Sherlock said.
"Do you think it is?"
"One might always hope." Sherlock shrugged, but John assumed that he knew more than he was letting on.
"I never took you as the optimistic type."
"Calculated optimism."
John smiled at that and then looked up at him, expression softening into a smile. "I have a lot of 'calculated optimism' about you, Sherlock." He confessed gently.
"As do I." Sherlock admitted. He took a last look at the books and then headed for the door as if nothing had happened. "Come along John. You had better get some sleep if we are to catch the train tomorrow."
-the end-