Fair Warning: though this is a Johnlockstrade story, this first chapter is mostly Sherstrade. BDSM. Spanking. Biting. Voice kink. Military kink. Polyamory. Masturbation. And of course, rough sexy sex. Also, the first section involves weird childhood imprinting. It's not sex. Just spanking. But if that bothers you, go ahead and skip it.
Sherlock couldn't remember exactly when he'd realized he liked to play different games than the other children. He'd been very small. His childhood memories were nowhere near as organized as his adolescence or adulthood. Just snippets. Flashes of light and color.
But a few things stood out particularly.
Well, mostly his cousin. Victor. Out in the country, there weren't many other children around. Mycroft, seven years Sherlock's senior, seldom wanted to play. Victor and his mother visited often. It was Sherlock's primary form of social interaction before he started school.
He and Victor used to play a very special game. They called it detectives and criminals, but it wasn't that. Not really.
Most of the time, Victor played the detective.
They'd lock themselves up in the nursery, while their mothers had tea. Victor would make Sherlock sit in a chair while he asked nonsense interrogation questions.
"Where were you on the night of the forty fourth?" He'd demand in a high-pitched facsimile of a threatening growl.
"Nowhere, because that day doesn't exist!" Sherlock would retort.
Victor wasn't very scary. Even if he was a year older. Much bigger. With a prominent jaw line and thick blonde hair. Quite the contrast to Sherlock's waifish figure and mop of dark curls.
But when victor shouted, instead of getting nervous… Sherlock got excited. A strange sort of anticipation welled in his chest.
Perhaps because of what came next.
The questions weren't the important part of the game. No. Usually they ended quickly. The next step was far more interesting.
Victor would order Sherlock to lie on the bed and pull his trousers down around his ankles. Sherlock would lie face down, arse in the air. Sometimes Victor would sit next to him. Other times he'd stand.
There'd always be that moment of lingering uncertainty before Victor brought his hand down, across Sherlock's pale bottom. Victor would spank him. Lightly. More for the sound effect than anything. It barely stung.
"You're a bad criminal!" He'd say. And strange shocks of heat would pulse through Sherlock's body.
Mummy never laid a hand on him. Neither did father. Perhaps the novelty of it excited him. But even after they'd done it enough times for the shock factor to wear away—the whole exercise remained fascinating. Thrilling.
They stopped playing the game after the time they forgot to lock the door and Mycroft walked in on them. He came in during the part where Sherlock was lying half naked on the bed, with victor sitting next to him, smacking him.
Sherlock couldn't have been older than four or five. He didn't really have a concept of why Mycroft started shouting so angrily. But after that he wasn't allowed to play with Victor unsupervised until he got much older.
When John Watson walked into the Laboratory at St. Bart's, the first thing Sherlock noticed was his posture. Military man. Held himself upright. He exuded power, confidence, and danger.
Sherlock's mouth went slightly dry. He'd always like soldiers. They had less qualms about barking orders than other people did.
Of course, he remained outwardly calm. He needed a flat mate more than he needed a lover.
But then… god…
Sherlock fell in lust the first time he heard John shout.
"Damn my leg!"
Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs, on the way to a crime scene. Lestrade, for all his annoying habits, always provided a useful distraction. If not with cases to solve, then with his short temper.
Sherlock loved nothing better than making him angry. He went out of his way to provoke every member of Lestrade's team so the DI would become cross and stage a drugs bust. Drugs busts were exciting. They made Sherlock feel wonderfully helpless and subjugated.
But when he heard John shout he stopped mid step. His heart pounded wildly. The way John's voice boomed, echoed through the flat. Strong. Scary. It made Sherlock's blood rush south.
He turned around before he could think about it. Popped back into the living room, and invited John to the crime scene.
It was a delicate balance, provoking John enough to make him yell occasionally, but not enough to drive him away.
Leaving human or animal remains on the kitchen table was always a surefire way to do it. But Sherlock had to be careful with that one. He couldn't over use it, or it might lose its effect.
Sometimes stealing John's laptop would result in nothing more than a few grumbles. Other times he'd get a decent scolding.
John didn't seem to catch on to the fact that Sherlock enjoyed being yelled at.
He just thought Sherlock was an inconsiderate sod that had no concept of why somebody would be angry about a farm of exotic fungi growing in the bathroom sink. Sherlock never bothered to correct that assumption, because it served his purposes.
"For fuck's sake!" John stormed into the living room, face going red, breathing heavily.
Sherlock remained outwardly composed. Tried to contain the lurch of arousal that shot through him when he heard John use that tone of voice.
The detective didn't even look up. He stopped typing, but kept his fingers on his laptop.
"Sherlock! Look at me!" John barked.
Sherlock turned his head slowly. John was holding the jar that used to be full of pasta sauce. The one that was currently filled with a pickled infant Crocodylus niloticus.
"Why the fuck is there a dead crocodile in the refrigerator?"
"Don't worry," Sherlock waved his hand vaguely, "it's perfectly sanitary. It's cured with formaldehyde."
"It's not sanitary! It's disgusting! How many times do I have to tell you not to put this stuff next to the food?"
"Calm down. If you're going to get that upset about it, I'll find somewhere else to put it." Sherlock kept an admirably level tone, considering how rapidly his cock filled out in his trousers. He shifted slightly. Pulled his laptop a bit closer to hide it.
"What did you do with my pasta sauce?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"It was almost completely full. I bought it two days ago. Are you kidding?"
"You hardly ever eat pasta, I didn't think you'd miss it this much."
"Jesus fucking Christ." John stalked forward. "If I find one more dead animal where food is supposed to be…"
"Technically a lot of your food already consists of dead animals. Why is it acceptable to keep the remains of poultry in the refrigerator and not crocodiles? That's unfair discrimination, John."
John set the glass jar down on the coffee table. Hard. Almost hard enough to break it.
"Keep the dead things in your room or I'm going to start throwing them out the window," he growled, and stormed out.
Sherlock waited until he heard the downstairs door slam. He closed the laptop and slid it to the side. He couldn't make it to his bedroom fast enough.
He locked the door behind him and all but threw himself down on the bed. He loosed the tie of his pajama trousers and kicked them off.
As he wrapped a hand around his throbbing prick—he thought of John. John's voice. The edge of anger. The frustration.
Then he thought of what might happen if John took that next step. From just yelling to actually slapping Sherlock across the face. He squirmed on the bed sheets, stroking himself slowly. He closed his eyes.
He thought about John pushing him up against a wall and kissing him.
He thought about John tying him to the bed and fucking him within an inch of his life.
He thought about John's gun. About being forced to his knees. About the metal pushing between his lips and violating the back of his throat while John called him a whore. Bitch. Slut.
It was so easy to slip into the fantasty. He'd constructed it perfectly, over weeks of fevered thought. It always started the same way. With John shouting...
"I'll show you what happens when you leave science experiments in the bathtub."
The riding crop whistled through the air, crossing across Sherlock's back. One, two, three times. Sherlock's hands were bound in front of him. Blindfolded—couldn't see anything. Nothing to help him guess what would come next besides the sound of the crop. Besides the inflection in John's harsh words.
"Open your mouth." John tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and yanked.
Sherlock yelped in pain, and that's when John took the opportunity to shove his cock between the detective's lips…
Sherlock moaned. The tension crested unexpectedly. The pleasure sparked through him as he came, ejaculating messily all over his thin t-shirt.
He found it difficult to breathe for a few moments. But as the rush of endorphins ebbed away, he felt slightly lost. Perhaps a bit guilty. Sherlock's concepts of right and wrong were murky at best—but he did know it was a bit weird to have violent sexual fantasies about your best friend and flat mate.
Besides, the fantasies were growing less satisfying.
Something could be done. Probably. Sherlock was good at getting what he wanted from people. He could be gently, or blatantly manipulative, depending how much he liked a person.
But he shouldn't do that to John.
No.
He had to find some other outlet for all this sexual frustration.
Sherlock sent the text at nine o'clock in the morning, after John had left for work at the surgery.
By the way, the man you're looking for is a certain Mr. F Harrison. He's a local dentist. You should find most of the stolen jewels in the crawl space of his house. However, some of them have probably been shipped out of the county– SH
The response was almost immediate.
Are you sure? - G
Oh yes, I've been quite sure for about two days now – SH
What - G
I meant to tell you. Must have slipped my mind - SH
Lestrade did not text back. Sherlock settled in at the kitchen table, and prepared himself for a heated chewing out. He had to look busy, of course, so he got out some mold cultures he'd started a few days previously, as well as a notepad.
Lestrade stormed into the flat at 12:43 exactly. Enough time for him to do a raid on the house Sherlock had indicated. But he was still angry. Clenched fists. Narrowed eyes. Perfect. Sherlock barely looked up from his mold cultures. During the wait, he'd actually managed to become quite engrossed in the cross breeding of molds A and F.
"What the bloody hell?" Lestrade all but shouted.
It sent a wonderful shiver up Sherlock's spine.
"Hello, Detective Inspector," he replied mildly.
"What the fuck do you mean you've had the case solved for two days and you forgot to tell me about it? There's been three robberies in the last two days! Three!"
"I was otherwise occupied," Sherlock shrugged easily.
He liked this part. Watching Lestrade go from angry to livid. Watching the flush rise in the older man's cheeks. Watching him breathe faster.
"I—I should arrest you for obstructing justice."
Sherlock turned in his chair and held out his wrists. He raised his eyebrows. "Go on then. Cuff me. I won't go quietly. But you can try to make me."
Lestrade fumbled, reached for his handcuffs, but then seemed to think better of it. He took a few steps back. A few deep breaths. Trying to calm himself down.
No. That wasn't how this was supposed to go. Sherlock's cock twitched in his trousers. Half hard already.
Perhaps the situation just needed a little extra push.
"Really, NSY is all bark and no bite these days, aren't they?" Sherlock smiled placidly. "Now if you don't mind, some of us have important work to do. I've got to get back to these mold cultures. "
The next thing he knew, Lestrade had dragged Sherlock unceremoniously out of his chair and slammed him up against a wall in the parlor. Sherlock barely turned his head in time to not smash his nose into the wallpaper. Lestrade yanked Sherlocks arms behind his back. The metal cuffs clicked around Sherlock's wrists deliciously. He shuddered.
Lestrade didn't seem to notice.
"I'm going to throw you in the drunk tank while I bloody scour your flat for any hint of illegal substances. Even if I don't find anything, I can hold you for two days."
"Oh, I love it when you talk dirty," Sherlock chuckled.
Lestrade froze. "Don't pretend you're enjoying this," he growled.
Sherlock wriggled slightly, rutting against the wall. The friction was absolutely fantastic. He felt flushed all over. Lestrade still had a firm grip on his arms. Oh yes.
"Are you going to teach me a lesson?" Sherlock drawled condescendingly. "I'm not going to learn anything if you lock me up. You'd probably have better luck bending me over you knee and spanking me."
"Stop it," Lestrade sounded a lot less certain.
"Why?" Sherlock pushed his arse back against Lestrade's groin. And oh yes. That was definitely the beginnings of a fine erection. "Oh," Sherlock gasped in mock surprise, "you like the idea, don't you?"
Sherlock rocked slowly, grinding his arse against Greg's prick. Lestrade let out a small choked noise. But he didn't let go. Didn't recoil. In fact, his hands slid down to Sherlock's bony hips. Clutching him tight.
"I'll bet you fantasize about punishing me," Sherlock said in a low voice. "When I rip apart all the idiots on your supposed forensics team—I bet you think about shoving your cock in my mouth to shut me up."
Greg groaned. His hips jerked. He began to move. Sliding unmistakably against Sherlock. His cock pressed between Sherlock's arse cheeks. It was thrilling, even between two layers of fabric.
"Come on," Sherlock whispered, "don't be selfish."
Greg paused for a minute. Then one of his hands slid forward. Between Sherlock's cock and the wall. Greg cupped the younger man through his trousers. Began to clumsily stroke him through the fabric.
It was sloppy. Rutting against each other. Pressed to a wall, in broad daylight, with all of their clothes on.
But it was hot. Frantic. Sherlock felt Lestrade's every fevered breath in warm puffs of air against his neck.
"Jesus," Lestrade grunted. His motions became a bit more erratic.
And in spite of everything, Sherlock was quite keyed up. Lestrade's body felt warm and solid. His hand rubbed against Sherlock's prick in regular motions. Not much. But almost enough.
"Talk," Sherlock grunted.
"You," Greg said breathlessly, "are filthy. You're a horrible brat. And most of the time I want to strangle you."
Sherlock let out a small moan. He felt the tension gathering. His head spun. A bit dizzy. A bit fevered.
"Most days, I kind of hate you." Greg grazed his teeth against the back of Sherlock's neck. "You're infuriating. Barely worth the trouble…"
"Uh," Sherlock panted, bucking against Greg's hand.
"But god, your arse," Greg bit into Sherlock's skin. Low. By the collar of his shirt.
The orgasm exploded though Sherlock, almost by surprise. He moaned, loudly. The pleasure rolled through him. He could feel all the way to his fingertips and toes.
Greg shuddered against him, then went still.
All was quiet for a few moments. Then Greg pulled back slightly. Sherlock felt the motion behind him, then the handcuffs clicked open.
The younger man pulled away from the wall, rubbing his wrists slightly. Greg looked dazed. As if he weren't sure what had just transpired.
Sherlock grinned. "Go away. I have work to do."
"Really?" Greg snorted. "That's all you've got to say?"
"What else should I say? Thank you for the frottage in my living room, it was quite stimulating?"
"You're impossible."
"Clearly you like it."
Greg pulled his coat closed, over the wet spot on the front of his trousers and walked away, grumbling.
Sherlock retired to his room and stripped completely naked. He fell asleep thinking about how wonderful the handcuffs had felt against his wrists.
The sated feeling didn't last for more than a few days. Soon the anxious arousal returned, squirming threateningly in Sherlock's stomach every time John's voice dropped a few registers. He contemplated provoking Lestrade again. But things were a bit awkward already. People had noticed.
John had noticed.
"What did you do to Lestrade?" the doctor asked as they ducked under the police tape, walking away from yet another crime scene. The boyfriend did it. Simple. Hardly worth Sherlock's time.
Greg had spent more time staring at Sherlock's arse than listening to him explain what an open and shut case it was. Then when Sherlock had snapped at him—Greg had looked a bit like a kicked puppy.
"Nothing, why do you ask?" Sherlock replied coldly.
"Well he seemed… I dunno, sad?"
"And why do you assume that's my fault?"
"Are you kidding? You were laying into him left and right. I mean, usually you pick apart Anderson, and Sgt Donovan, and all of them, but I've never seen you be quite that mean to Lestrade."
"I wasn't mean. He shouldn't have called me. He didn't need me."
"You accused him of going senile. He's forty-nine, Sherlock. That's not old." John frowned.
Somehow, Sherlock felt guilty. Well… he didn't exactly feel like he'd done anything wrong. But he didn't like being looked at that way.
He didn't like it, and it still made his blood rush south.
Fuck.
Later that night, after John had gone up to his room, Sherlock sent off a text.
John has informed me that my behavior this afternoon was somewhat inappropriate - SH
Is that an apology? - G
Take what you will from it - SH
I really don't know why I put up with you at all - G
What if I sucked you off? - SH
Is that an offer? - G
It might be - SH
They sent a few more texts before Sherlock caught a cab over to Lestrade's flat. As vaguely promised, he sucked Greg's cock. Relished the burn of his knees on the carpet as Greg's prick nudged at the back of his throat. He let the drool run down his chin. Greg's fingers tangled in Sherlock's dark curls, yanking on them every so often.
Sherlock got himself off.
And then, after they'd recovered somewhat, Greg pinned him face down against the bed, slicked his cock with lube, and slid between Sherlock's arse cheeks. Not inside him. Just against him. Rubbing over his arsehole enticingly.
"You're such an arrogant prick," Greg grunted, "I should fuck a few more manners into you."
"Ugh," Sherlock replied, quite eloquently.
Greg paused in his motions. The Sherlock felt it. The insistent, blunt press of a cock against his hole. He breathed heavily. God it would hurt, wouldn't it? Greg had slid two slick fingers inside Sherlock's arse when they first flopped on the bed. But that was nowhere near enough preperation. Especially when Sherlock hadn't been fucked in years...
"Just a bit," Greg said in a strained, voice. "Come on, relax."
Sherlock clenched involuntarily against the intrusion. But Greg didn't pull back. Just kept up the steady, insistent pressure, until Sherlock's body gave. Until just the head of Greg's cock slid in.
"Fuck," Greg groaned.
It did hurt. But not entirely in a bad way. It made Sherlock feel shivery. Like he couldn't breathe.
"You're so tight. I just—" Greg rocked forward every so slightly.
Sherlock moaned, partially in pain. In panicked claustrophobia. But mostly because his cock throbbed, and he felt delirious. Like he'd slipped underwater. The constant white noise that echoed through his brain had gone completely silent.
His entire world focused down around the burn of Greg's cock inside him.
Greg let out a choked whimper. And Sherlock felt the flood of sticky heat. Greg withdrew and flipped Sherlock over. The older man slid down the bed and opened his mouth. He wrapped his lips around Sherlock's cock, and tongued it slowly.
He slipped a finger inside Sherlock's arse, slick with Greg's release, and continued to suck his cock. He glanced across Sherlock's prostate. That was it.
Sherlock came. It felt like a car wreck. An explosion of white hot pleasure. Then an exhaustion that he hadn't ever experienced. He lay there, on Greg's mattress, wondering if he'd ever be able to move again.
Greg flopped down next to him, grinning stupidly.
"This doesn't nearly make up for all the shit you've put me through."
"It's not supposed to," Sherlock snapped, halfheartedly. He was too tired to think of any particularly smart retorts.
"Next time I'm going to fuck you properly."
"You can try."
Things with Lestrade went mostly back to normal. Occasionally, Sherlock would behave in an especially infuriating manner, and later he'd let Lestrade smack him around for a few hours. But for the most part, things stayed the way they'd always been.
Sherlock sill left eyeballs in the microwave. John still shouted when his jam mysteriously disappeared—replaced by rare plant spores.
Then one evening, while Sherlock was sitting on the couch, just thinking, John walked up to him and brushed his fingertips across Sherlock's shoulder.
The detective startled.
"What are you doing?" He demanded. The place where John had touched him felt over sensitized. Almost electric.
John frowned slightly. Sherlock had on one of his oldest t-shirts. With a stretched, rippled collar. The fabric had slid down, exposing a good amount of Sherlock's left shoulder. A section of skin usually covered by his clothing.
A section of skin that Lestrade had sucked an utterly wicked bruise on a few days previously.
"Is that… is that a hickey?" John asked, in a tone somewhere between bemused and incredulous.
"And what if it is?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"I thought—well I thought you didn't do that sort of thing."
"What? Sex? You didn't honestly believe I was a virgin," Sherlock snorted.
The expression on John's face answered for him. Yes. He had thought that. He recovered quickly. Withdrew. Crossed his arms and put on a fake smile.
"So when did you get a… partner, or whatever."
"I didn't," Sherlock said flatly.
"So you had a one off with a random stranger? Classy, Sherlock."
"It's happened more than once but we're not together by any means, and it's really none of your business," Sherlock smiled.
John's tongue flicked out over his lower lip. "It is someone I know?"
"What does it matter?"
"Come on. Is it Molly?"
"God, no," Sherlock shuddered.
"That's right," John said softly, "women aren't your area. So it's a bloke?"
"What if it is?"
"It's Lestrade isn't it?"
Sherlock managed to keep an entirely neutral face. But John apparently took his lack of reply as confirmation enough, because he let out a harsh little laugh.
"It is. You're not the only one who can deduce things. I mean, the way he looks at you… god. You would love the irony of actually screwing the law."
"Shut up. It's no more ridiculous than any of the women you bring about. Besides, I'm an adult. Last I checked, I'm allowed to sleep with whoever I like."
"Yeah. Of course," John shrugged. "Just… be careful, all right? Don't break him. Lord knows he's already been though enough with that divorce."
"He's not some swooning maiden that needs you to defend his honor."
"I know. But he is my friend. And so are you, and I don't want either of you to get hurt."
Sherlock sneered and flopped down on the couch, turning into the cushions. He heard John's footsteps getting quieter as the doctor walked away.
Sherlock had never made John angry by accident before. It had always been a carefully controlled reaction with an expected result. But John had been upset for days, and Sherlock didn't know why.
He hadn't left any experiments in odd places. He hadn't used John's computer. He hadn't played any horrible squalling ballads at three in the morning.
In fact, he'd been the model flat mate.
Still, John made excuses to leave rooms whenever Sherlock entered them. Even if he was in the middle of a meal, or a television programme, and Sherlock flopped down on the couch—John would suddenly remember an important engagement and bluster out of the flat. He seemed to be working longer hours at the surgery, and going on more "dates" whenever he had free time.
He'd been acting strangely ever since he'd seen the hickey on Sherlock's shoulder. But that couldn't be the reason, could it?
"John's figured us out," Sherlock groaned softly as Lestrade's cock dragged against his prostate in just the right way. "Oh yes… like that."
"What are you on about?" Lestrade breathed against Sherlock's mouth.
The younger man's wrists were cuffed to the bed. The skin on his back burned with fresh pangs of heat with Lestrade's every movement. He could feel each stripe that the DI's belt had left on his skin.
Glorious.
"John. He knows we're shagging. He saw the hickey you left on my shoulder."
"Oh yeah?" Lestrade asked, though Sherlock got the sense he wasn't really paying attention to the conversation.
"He's cross about it, I think."
"Well, you two are basically an old married couple. He's bound to be jealous." Lestrade nipped at the skin on Sherlock's neck.
"John's heterosexual."
Lestrade responded with a rather undignified snort. "Please. He stares at you like he wants to bloody eat you whenever you're too engrossed in a crime scene to notice."
"Really? … It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters."
"It doesn't."
"Then why are we talking about John when I'm fucking you?"
Sherlock wanted to puzzle that one out. But Lestrade had found the correct combination of angle and speed, and it was making it hard to think clearly. He opened his mouth to say something—something sharp and sarcastic—but all that came out were a few rather embarrassing moans.
"That's it," Lestrade panted, "you like being stuffed full of my cock, don't you?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied meekly. In that moment, he probably would have said anything to keep Lestrade thrusting into him, shallow and quick, and fuck, right there.
"Such a little whore. Are you gonna be a good boy and come for me?"
Lestrade wrapped a hand around Sherlock's prick and began to stroke him. His motions were rather unfocused. But it was enough.
Sherlock went crashing over the edge of orgasm, easy as you please. Perhaps shouting Lestrade's name. A detail which he would later deny.
Because Lestrade was getting to be a little too good. He seemed to have figured out all the things Sherlock liked, and avoided the boring parts that other people got caught up in. The cuddling. The slow, tender, "lovemaking" that always triggered Sherlock's gag reflex.
With Lestrade everything went fast and rough. He could wring more pleasure out of Sherlock's body than anybody else had been able to in a long time.
It had started out as a simple outlet for his sexual impulses. But it was turning into a large and time consuming distraction.
He should end it.
But then Lestrade kissed him, harsh, and deep, and utterly filthy while still thrusting into him—and Sherlock decided that perhaps he could keep Lestrade as a vice if he actually gave up smoking. Because really, isn't every man allowed at least one area of indulgence?
"Well, I'm headed out," John forced a smile as he pulled on his coat.
"You could at least stop pretending that you're not purposely avoiding me," Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn't move from his curled position in John's favorite armchair. Sitting like that, with his thighs pressed against his stomach, arms wrapped around his folded legs, was comforting, if not somewhat regressive.
Most of all, he knew how it made him look. Childish. Perhaps it was slightly manipulative. Looking vulnerable and fragile, because John was a doctor—and wanted nothing more than to fix broken people.
John paused, with his arm halfway into his coat sleeve. "Sorry?"
"You're avoiding me," Sherlock repeated, though not with his usual haughty inflection. "You're the one that's always saying we should talk about things like adults."
John blinked.
Sherlock debated arranging his face into an impressive pout, but decided against it. That would be too much. Too theatrical. John wouldn't believe it. So instead he just stared, somewhat woefully in John's direction.
John hung his coat back on the rack. Sherlock had to make a conscious effort not to smile at his impending victory.
"I haven't been avoiding you. I've just been busy." John strode across the room, but he didn't sit. He stayed standing, about a meter away from Sherlock's chair.
"Do you really think you can lie to me?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I've upset you. Or rather… my sleeping with Lestrade has upset you."
"No it hasn't—"
"Cause and effect, John," Sherlock couldn't help but let a little of his normal biting tone seep into the words. "You found out that Lestrade and I are shagging and ever since it seems like you've been trying to live at the surgery."
"Believe it or not, the world doesn't revolve around you, Sherlock. We've been really busy. There's been an utterly nasty flu going around. People are being hospitalized for dehydration! If I'm on call, and they call me, I have to go in."
Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow in response.
"What? Do you think I'm jealous or something?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"Well I'm not," John snapped.
"Clearly."
"Look—first of all I'm not gay, and second of all, if I wanted to shag you that badly, I bet I could."
"Is that so?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.
"Well if Lestrade got in your pants, it can't be that difficult, can it?"
"Are you calling me a slut?" Sherlock's heart raced. He felt the flush rising in his cheeks. It was so close he could almost taste it.
"Oh—fuck—no, Sherlock I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that," John groaned. "I just—I haven't been sleeping that much lately. I'm a bit on edge, right?"
"Pity."
"What?" John's eyes widened.
"If you'd meant it, things could have been so interesting."
Sherlock slid out of his chair and brushed past John on the way to his bedroom. The doctor didn't follow. He just stared.
He didn't burst through Sherlock's closed door and fuck him into the mattress. But he didn't leave the flat either. After a few minutes Sherlock heard the water running through the pipes.
He couldn't help but roll his eyes. A cold shower, John. Really?
In the end, it happened organically. Things were certainly tense after John and Sherlock's little conversation in the parlor. The air seemed to crackle with electricity whenever they got within reaching distance of each other. But John went about his business as usual, and Sherlock decided against pushing the situation any further.
After all, it was only a matter of time.
The conditions it took to break John Watson were actually rather simple. A heart stopping, adrenaline fueled chase across the city. Three Russian assassins. A knife held to Sherlock's neck so that it scratched the skin—but had it gone much deeper, Sherlock might have died.
John, of course, fired two kill shots. Sherlock took care of the third assassin with the knife he managed to wrench out of his hand.
By the time they got back to the flat, it was about 3:00 in the morning. They were both high on the residual panic. The exhilaration of the chase.
It happened right after John closed the front door. They stared at each other in the semi-darkness for about thirty seconds.
Then they fell together more than anything else. Sherlock's back against the cold wood of the door. John pressed up against him. Their lips met franticly. Fevered. Desperate. Their tounges tangled erratically. John's teeth dragged across Sherlock's lower lip.
Their bodies slid together. The static friction seemed like it might be enough to start a fire. Sherlock's blood rushed to the surface of his skin. Every inch of him buzzed with anticipation. It felt like drowning. He surrendered completely. The kiss was wet, and savage, and it was going to kill him.
They clung to each other. Heads spinning. Barely breathing.
And then… and then John pulled away.
"Fuck," the doctor muttered. "Sherlock—I…"
John took a step back, breathing heavily. Sherlock wanted to reach out for him. To pull him back into that lovely kiss. But it didn't seem like John would respond well to that.
"I don't want to get tangled up in whatever weird thing is going on here. I mean, you're with Lestrade—"
"Irrelevant."
"No it's not! Jesus you can't just… you can't just take whatever you want all the time without thinking about the consequences."
"Why?"
John let out a small groan. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took several steadying gulps of air. "I'm going to bed," he said after a few moments. "We're both exhausted, and obviously not quite sane. Let's talk about this in the morning, ok?"
Sherlock didn't know what to say beyond come back here right now. He watched as John turned around and began to climb the stairs.
It hadn't gone exactly right. But Sherlock supposed it was still a small victory. John had gotten over moral qualms before. This shouldn't be any different.
Besides, if it really mattered that much, he could just invite Lestrade over and seduce both him and John at the same time.
Special thanks to MadameDevo who commissioned this glorious smutty romp. The next chapter is in the works. I think it should be up in two or three weeks.
Interested in making me your personal smut puppet? Lord knows I love writing porn for money.
Check out the commissions page of my tumblr (taylorpotato . tumblr . com) or shoot me an email: taylorpotato at yahoo . com