John was so royally pissed, he didn´t even give Sherlock a good-night kiss, as they went to bed in Sherlocks´ old childhood bedroom. It had been a tedious day at Holmes Manor, having to deal with Mummy (yes, right, Mummy! She insisted on him calling her Mummy! John wanted to scream. He already did have a mother. What was that? Did she want to feign intimacy, where there were only icy glares and fake laughter?) and her "witty" remarks on Johns common upbringing and along the way decide on flowers, locations, cakes, meals and registrars.
But it was not that, what pissed John of. No.
What really got on his nerves was Sherlock, his fiancé, the love of his life, the person on whom he should always be able to count on, staring holes into the panelling, not moving a muscle, not uttering a word. Not even when Mummy asked if "that woman" (Harry) would show up at the ceremony, because Mummy "would not like to have our guests associate the Holmes family with something like her".
He would have punched her, if she wasn´t a woman.
And now he lay in between the cold sheets, not warming up at all. Holmes Manor was a big, old building with high ceilings and the windows were badly sealed. It also didn´t help, that John had moved himself as far away from Sherlock as possible. Two whole feet were separating them. Really impressive for a childhood bed, but in Holmes Manor everything was big.
John pondered on the pros and cons of grabbing a further blanket (pro: warmth, con: possible interaction with Sherlock and having to touch the cold floor with his feet), when he noticed Sherlock hesitantly stroking his hips with his fingertips. For normal people, who had gone through such a terrible afternoon, this soft fondling introduced an apology. But not for John, having known Sherlock of years now.
"No, Sherlock."
This soft, oh-so-casual touch meant: Fuck me hard. Now.
Sherlock huffed slightly, but continued his assault on Johns´ thigh.
"Sherlock, stop!" John grabbed his fiancés´ hand and shoved it away a bit more roughly than necessary.
"But I want to make love now, John!" Sherlock whined slightly.
John took a deep breath in order to stay calm. "I normally love to make love to you, but I really don´t feel that loving tonight."
Sherlock took a quick glance at John out of the corners of his eyes. "It´s because of today, isn´t it?"
"Yes, brilliant." Johns´ jaw clenched.
"It was not good?"
"Nope."
Silence took over. They both knew Sherlock would not apologise. Sherlock would not have survived his childhood if he had weighed every word his mother uttered. John knew he would forgive him. That´s what he always did. He just needed some time and space and get the fuck out of that bloody manor!
After a few minutes Sherlock shifted so his left arm was pressed against Johns right. John could feel the body heat radiate off of him and it felt nice, cosy, and warm, like home. But his brain insisted, that he didn´t want intimacy right now and just as he was about to complain Sherlock spoke.
"I had a short span in adolescence in which I pleasured myself every night in this bed."
John forgot to complain. Hell, John could have even called himself lucky to still know his own name .
"It was the summer break. I was sixteen, at home for the holidays. Both, nor women nor men before interested me. But that one summer we had the outer wall of the Manor painted. There were young men strolling around, more smoking than working. Mummy didn´t look twice at them, but I did. I looked at them. Their exposed torsos, their defined muscles, the sweat running down their backs. At night I locked my door, got in bed, naked, and remembered."
The fiancés, already grabbing and stroking at various places, finally looked at each other.
"W-what did think about" John barely got it out of his mouth, his lips completely dry.
"I thought about how they would do me." Sherlock answered, his excitement obvious in his voice (and Johns´ hand). "I thought about them shredding me of my clothes, their weight holding me down. I thought about them kissing me fiercely, twisting my nipples between their fingers, stroking my penis with their big brawny hands."
Johns´ actions followed the lead of Sherlocks´ words and soon he was on top kissing his fiancés neck, twisting his right nipple and stroking what was left to be taken care of. Sherlock was groaning underneath. Obviously fighting hard against the sensations to continue his story.
"While I imagined that, I touched myself. Even when I imaged how they would enter meeehh~." John had done just that.
And they were kissing. Lip on lip, tongue on tongue.
It was hungry and greedy and loving. Everything it had always been and everything it would always be.
One of Johns´ hands was tangeled between his lovers´ thick black locks as the other supported himself. Sherlocks´ ankles were crossed over Johns´ arse and his feet tried to push the cock pleasuring him even deeper inside.
They didn´t usually do dirty talk. It was not something they needed to get off and they both had always felt free to use the correct terms for genitals. (With John being a doctor and Sherlock being ...Sherlock.) But damn! It was hot hearing his love speak about masturbation and imagine sixteen-year-old Sherlock wanking desperately. He must have been beautiful.
They didn´t postpone the inevitable, for they were both (really, both!) tired and someone could hear the bed creaking in this old halls. The orgasmic bliss held for a few seconds and John finally felt warm enough to be able to find some sleep as Sherlock snuggled up to his side.
"You know what I never imagined?" Sherlock mumbled sleepy.
"I never imagined there would be someone to hold me afterwards."
John didn´t know anymore what he had been so pissed about.
Hope you had fun! Are you interested to read more about the wedding?
