Chapter 1
Sherlock was still not feeling well since he came back to 221B Baker Street three weeks ago. He had spent almost a whole month in hospital recovering from the gunshot wound and his brave stunt of leaving the hospital so soon after his operation. The events of that night had taken more out of Sherlock than he cared to admit. The daring escape after the almost-fatal gunshot coupled with the revelation of Mary's dark past took its toll mentally and physically.
Back in the flat, he would sit down in his armchair or just lie down on the couch staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Somehow, everything seemed unimportant, useless and insignificant—or not enough for Sherlock to pay any attention to. It was like Sherlock's mind began to slow dramatically, as if gradually shutting down.
He refused to eat or drink. He rarely slept. What worried Mrs Hudson most, however, was that he gave up on playing the violin, too.
Mycroft paid a visit once or twice to learn about his brother's current cases expecting that Sherlock would be at least interested in hearing the news about Magnussen. A new government plan had been developed—which Mycroft was in charge of—to get to that dangerous man and his top secret vaults. Sherlock's help was quite vital but unfortunately at this point the detective did not even let his brother open his mouth. In fact, Sherlock had become so aggressive, as if he were high, that he started shouting abuse at Mycroft, showing him the door and making him leave the flat abruptly.
John usually visited him too, of course, only to see the detective's back curled on the sofa wearing his dressing gown and pyjamas and not even trying to say a word or glance at his former flatmate. All the questions John asked remained unanswered; all his attempts at starting a conversation turned out to be utterly pointless.
Nobody knew how to help Sherlock or what actually caused this state of his obvious depression.
You chose her, you chose her, you chose her! Sherlock's mind kept replaying those words over and over again, feeling them as if they were blunt knives attacking his brain, cutting it to pieces, slicing, chopping endlessly. He felt physical pain whenever he allowed himself to think about John, his flatmate, his soulmate, his only friend, who fucking had left him for Mary Morstan.
Nevertheless he could not stop himself from figuratively stabbing his exhausted mind and bleeding heart with the image of John. With Mary.
Despite the fact that she was trying to kill Sherlock.
Maybe Sherlock was expecting too much. After all, Mary was John's wife and a mother of his unborn child.
The detective closed his eyes, trying to remain calm and composed. However, he was all but calm and his looks revealed his mental state. Nothing about him showed that he used to be that smartly dressed, posh-looking man. He had been hanging around the flat, not bothered to even get properly dressed nor shave.
Cold reasoning which Sherlock held above most and was very proud of was not any helpful at that moment. Emotions—this was a new territory for Sherlock where he was feeling lost, where he was losing track somehow. Mycroft was absolutely right—as he had always been—it was better not getting involved, the younger brother admitted bitterly.
"You chose her, you chose her, you chose her..." The words echoed in Sherlock's head and he desperately tried to muffle them, his palms pressed tight to his ears.
"John...", he almost choked on the name. "John..." He mouthed with a silent sob.
It was not until Sherlock saw John's reaction to Janine's presence in his bedroom that the detective realized how much he cared for John Watson.
Frankly speaking, at first it was fun. John Watson—his just married mate—was wildly jealous and confused, surprised at the thought that Sherlock might not be gay. John always assumed Sherlock was not attracted to women. Not his area. Yes, it was fun seeing John like that and torturing him. A small revenge that tasted so good.
When Sherlock saw raw and sheer terror in the doctor's eyes after he had shown an engagement ring for Janine, he felt really satisfied. Suddenly a faint thought crossed the detective's mind like a tiny little spark. What if John was jealous because his affection is more than just pure friendship?
The thought had made its way to his brain and did not fade away. It had lingered in Sherlock's mind. He began imagining John and him being together, as the couple they used to have been taken for.
The long and tedious recovery time gave Sherlock enough opportunities to visualise their relationship with perfect acuity and in every detail. He cared very little what names this not-even-imaginable relationship should be given, if any were applicable. Sentimental, affectionate, emotional—he found it all new. A strange mixture of feelings he had abhorred for for his entire life were now flooding his brain and, shockingly, his heart. He felt like his mind was going to explode and the only thing that preoccupied his intellect during the long boring days and nights in hospital was John Watson.
The captain. Of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. John fuckingWatson.
He felt exhausted; he wanted to be able to stop thinking about the man but his brain did not obey.
One night when he was still in hospital recovering, Sherlock woke up from the dream that left him in a pleasant haze of subconscious. Astonishingly, he was feeling absolutely no pain, even though a good couple of hours had passed since he received his last morphine shot.
Still half asleep, Sherlock slid his right hand under the blanket and slightly, almost accidentally, brushed against his growing erection. The touch was fairly delicate but pleasant. It made Sherlock's cock jerk in anticipation. He palmed the bulge feeling the pattern of thick veins rapidly filling with blood, covered by velvety skin. He firmly gripped his cock with his slim violinist's fingers and gave it a slow, languid stroke, as if out of curiosity. A pleasant sensation went right down to his spine. Immediately, his whole body felt like it was buzzing. Sherlock's moves began stronger and faster. He applied more pressure holding the shaft tight and added a slight twist at the glans using his thumb to smear the pre-cum leaking generously from the tip of his cock. He let out a muffled moan, trying not to whimper. The detective became so aroused that he had to bite on his lips to keep himself from releasing indecent noises that could attract unnecessary attention from the hospital staff.
Sherlock was overwhelmed by the response of his own body. He seemed to have needs he would have never expected or recognized. He was used to wanking but it had never been so...God...That was just transport, right?
Why was this different? He needed more data.
Sherlock's brain was not cooperating at that moment; he would figure it out later.
His physicality was taking control and he let it go.
He attacked his cock giving it a bit more friction. He slid his thumb up and down rubbing against a bundle of sensitive nerves under the head of his cock. The small shocks of tingling pleasure flooded through his brain. Sherlock whined getting closer but he needed more.
Suddenly, an image from his just-finished-and-almost-forgotten dream appeared before his tightly shut eyes. The vision of John armed with an impressive erection very close to Sherlock's swollen lips. The captain was wearing nothing but his dog tags and military boots. He was smiling down at him wickedly, then pushed his erect penis into the detective's open mouth. Sherlock complied eagerly.
Suck on it, slut.
Oh, yes. He craved for it, that was it. God, yes.Keeping the image in his mind, Sherlock managed to maintain the right speed and pressure pumping vigorously and tugging his balls with his other hand. He reached up to his arsehole and felt the sudden urge to violate his entrance locked by a ring of muscles.
He withdrew his hand and raised it to his mouth generously licking his index finger and coating it with saliva.
Back to his arsehole, Sherlock began slowly pushing his slicked digit into the hot tightness. The sensation was weird but not unpleasant and soon he adjusted to the feeling of fullness. He started to move his finger in and out setting up a steady rhythm. A pleasurable thrill after he found his prostate doubled his efforts and his movements become a bit erratic. His right hand still worked his cock which was so hard that it hurt. He felt that one finger was not enough, and soon there were two long, elegant fingers moving smoothly in the detective's hole. Fingering brought Sherlock to the edge of orgasm, his mouth slacked and opened wide, his eyes shut tight. Sherlock was gasping laud and writhing on the hospital sheets, almost sure someone would hear it. He did not care.
He was close. He just needed a bit more to get him over the edge.
Being on the verge of coming, he pictured John Watson from his dream saying harshly:
"Swallow it. That's an order, private. Now!"
Hot waves of release started somewhere deep, tightened his balls to the point of pain, which made his swollen, steel-hard cock throb. Sherlock gave it one last firm stroke and the whole built up pressure suddenly found its way up; the spurts of cum splashed onto his chest and belly and the detective came hard, with John's name on his lips.
Chapter 2
It was one late October morning when Sherlock, finally off the bed, marched to the kitchen yawning and stretching only to meet John Watson sitting at the table gaping at him in surprise.
"Mrs Hudson let me in", the doctor murmured and made huge effort to take his eyes off Sherlock's gorgeous (and incredibly and totally naked) body.
The detective did not seem to be embarrassed by his complete exposure.
"You know where to find tea and kettle", he said. "I'll be right back". He did not bother to cover his private parts, just turned on the heel crossing to his bedroom.
John secretly glanced at his muscled bum. Sherlock somehow felt his mate's stare and turned around quickly.
"Hungry?"He winked making John's cheeks flush. "Search for something edible in the fridge." The detective smirked and left the kitchen.
John shrugged and raised himself to prepare tea. He turned the kettle on, found two fairly clean mugs and waited until the water boiled. This routine was somehow soothing and helped him make up his mind. John had a problem.
Mary . A deceitful woman. An assassin. His wife – carrying his unborn child. Jesus! What was his life?
He sat back at the table with two steaming tea cups in front of him and closed his eyes.
Mary and John had not had a proper conversation after that memorable evening when he had learned the truth about his wife's past. The doctor could not forgive her shooting Sherlock in the first place. He had felt betrayed and humiliated.
John Watson was wrecked and far from forgiveness.
One minute was enough for Sherlock to deduce what brought John to 221B Baker Street.
Clear and evident clues were given by the doctor's appearance. Clean but crumpled clothes spoke volumes; that he had been spending a couple of previous nights – and days – away from home, probably at the stubble and hair shouting for trimming - obvious evidence of unusual neglect. His hands clenching and unclenching. However, the most significant sign of John's mental state was his face. Sherlock could not help but notice John's deep, dark circles under his reddened eyes, lips tightly pursed and a general look of sadness and resignation.
When Sherlock walked over to the kitchen table, John looked up at him blinking and cleared his throat.
"Uhm… How are you these days, mate?"He uttered. "Doing better, yeah?".
"Clearly" Sherlock replied slowly. He stared at John intently. "How's Mary?"He drawled trying to push things into the right direction. He vaguely felt that John would need some help.
The doctor tried to sound calm but his voice was trembling. He fidgeted back and forth awkwardly for a second.
"Sherlock", he began tentatively.. "Look, mate…, I." He stopped chewing on his lips and trying to find the right words. It was harder than John expected. It was shameful and he felt undignified.
"I was wondering if I could possibly… if you could...um..." John hesitated and looked down avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
The taller man furrowed his eyebrows staring at John intensively. Unbelievably piercing blue eyes shone bright while John's face was examined by them. It made Sherlock look a bit predatory.
John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He raised his head and looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. He swallowed, took a few steadying breaths and opened his mouth again.
"Of course, you can." Sherlock replied peacefully to the doctor's unasked question. "Your armchair is still in place, John." He added in his low baritone, his countenance softened and his lips twisted up.
"How…?!" The doctor blinked sheepishly and shook his head. "Never mind."
He glanced at his flatmate and for the first time; a timid smile brightened his face. A sigh of relief escaped John's mouth; he felt as if he had stopped breathing a good few minutes ago. He inhaled rapidly filling his lungs with air. Unspoken words were still humming in his brain. John sighed and shook his head again. No need to worry now. There will be time to sort it all out and talk about the whole situation. Sherlock seemed to understand without asking and John was the last one to complain about it.
The doctor stood up and said earnestly. "Thank you."
The detective nodded. He was secretly glad on his side. That was as if everything was coming back to the right track.
"Welcome back, John" He purred.
Later that evening John heard Sherlock downstairs: rattling, making noises, rummaging in the living room. That was a positive sign. Like good old detective was pulled out of his apathy.
The soothing violin sounds filled the flat with some well-known classical pieces—which John in his ignorance was not able to name— and made the good doctor feel finally at home.
He was on the verge of falling asleep when the image of Sherlock appeared under his heavy eyelids.
God forgive me.
The imaginary detective looked exactly like when he had seen him during their accidental morning encounter.. Yards of flawless, pale skin covering his slim and mildly muscular body, sinewy forearms, long, beautiful neck, shapely legs. God , those dreamy, unbelievably glowing eyes and sinful lips in his angular face topped with a mop of soft, messy curls. How was it possible he has never touched them?
John was trying not to think about intimate parts of Sherlock's anatomy. The man's arse butt, fuck. To his consternation the doctor felt his cock hardening.
That was not appropriate. He was being ridiculous. Sherlock was his friend and a flatmate. Never interested in any kind of sexual relationship. Or any other relationship in that matter.
John's fully grown and uncomfortably squeezed cock did not reflect his reasoning, though. He reached into his pants trying to adjust it.
At that touch his penis jerked eagerly. John gave it a firm grip and started stroking slowly in his usual manner. He hadn't gotten laid for at least last three months – he hadn't had sex with Mary either – even his wanks had become less regular.
He did not speed up, but he indulged in the sensation. It felt good. John rubbed his oversensitive cock from top to bottom, using his pre-cum to slick it and started to rock his hips setting up a rhythm that was slowly driving him insane. He was gasping. He wrapped his fingers around his throbbing erection and let out a small whine. He realized Sherlock was not asleep, he probably heard him but that thought turned him on more than one could have imagined.
Working his cock was pleasant but John needed more. He grabbed one of his erect nipples and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged the hard nipple slightly and groaned with pleasure loudly. His nipples seemed to be connected to his balls in a way the good doctor could not figure out at that moment. He moved his hand to another nipple and repeated his actions. He arched his back, eyes closed tight, his whole body tensed.
John's breath became heavy and ragged. Improbable Sherlock could not hear it downstairs. The doctor held his dick firmly and vigorously pumped back and forth trying to remove Sherlock's image out of his mind.
The more he tried, the less he succeeded.
He could almost visualise Sherlock in all his naked glory seated on the sofa, legs spread, his erection jutting up; perfect cupid's lips wrapped around John's pulsing cock.
The image drifting through his mind was appealing; John began to increase the speed of his hold tugging the foreskin over the glans. The feverish thrusting made him shiver. It was not going to last much longer.. He could barely think straight. The sinful image of Sherlock. helplessly choking on John's thick cock penetrating his long throat; the doctor's entire body was heat.
Take it, love. Take it for your daddy.
All of a sudden, John felt the waves of his orgasm coming, flooding his body with endorphins. His cock jerked rapidly jetting semen around his belly. All his muscles contracted and released leaving a wonderful sensation of satiety. He gave his cock a few last strokes, slowing down gradually and easing his breath.
He tried to hear if Sherlock was still moving downstairs but he could not catch any sound. Little did he care. The good doctor fell asleep immediately with a happy smile on his weary face.
Chapter 3
When John came downstairs the next morning, Sherlock–neatly-dressed and looking fresh–was sitting on the sofa in his usual pose, fingers steepled under his chin, eyelids half-closed. He was wearing one of his designer suits and a pricey blue shirt which made his irises look unbelievably azure. The first two buttons were undone, revealing his long neck and smooth skin dotted with a couple of moles. His shiny dark curls had been styled smartly, not even a trace of stubble noticeable on his clean-shaven face. The old Sherlock Holmes at his best.
He seemed to be drowning in his own thoughts, not paying any attention. However, after seeing John, Sherlock raised his head and a hint of a lopsided smile appeared on his mouth.
The doctor avoided his gaze, just murmured "Morning" and went straight to the kitchen where he made himself a toast and a cup of tea. Carefully holding the mug he crossed to his armchair; putting the tea aside, he seated himself. He patted the arms of his chair as if he was meeting an old friend once more. He took a sip of the hot drink and finally looked directly at Sherlock. How can the man look so vulnerable and hot at the same time? The detective's immaculate and innocent appearance that morning somehow made him look unbearably hot. John could do nothing but helplessly admire the view.
The detective finally moved, inhaled rapidly, opened his eyes wide and asked casually, "How did you sleep?"
John's cheeks flushed bright at the reminder of what Sherlock must have heard the previous night. The obscene noises he had been making...Jesus. The whole scene was a tiny bit awkward.
"Fine". He replied trying hard not to think much about it; the very thought of Sherlock hearing him wank was arousing in an inexplicable and unpredictable way. Not that it had been the first time for John to masturbate, knowing Sherlock was present in the flat, yet never before he had done the act imagining his flatmate.
The doctor was almost sure his last night's actions were written all over his face and the world's only consulting detective could see through him in a second. What he had not anticipated though, was how much that thought–of Sherlock finding out about his dirty dreams–would turn him on. God, that was utterly unacceptable, improper in so numerous ways and at too many levels.
First of all, he was a married man and expectant father, not gay actually. And Sherlock was his friend, not a sex toy to please him. Yet, it was arousing.
For a split second he drifted away, overwhelmed by a vivid image of the said friend on all fours, with his gorgeous arse pushed up, his throbbing cock and heavy balls hanging underneath, begging John to fuck him; all needy with his slender thighs spread out wide, gaze dazed and head with a bunch of messy hair thrown back. John felt a familiar twitch in his groin. Goodness! The vision was heady.
The doctor hissed and shook his head to get rid of the indecent image that just popped up out of the blue. His heart beat faster, his breathing, hard. He kept his eyes closed, desperately trying not to reveal his state. It was unnerving. John snorted trying to remain his composure.
"Are you alright?" The detective asked with a true concern in his voice, looking at John with some sort of disbelief. He was taken aback by John's expression and behaviour. Something was noticeably different. Or his recent deductions had been completely faulty.
There was some sort of palpable tension in the air, which was difficult to define but both men could sense it.
"John?" He repeated silently, as the good doctor was sitting still, not moving an inch. John's expressive face gave Sherlock evident clues for what it was. He had known his flatmate well enough to notice typical signs of physical excitement: pulse elevated, pupils dilated (despite the fact, the good doctor was doing his best to hide it), cheeks tinted pink, lips slightly parted. He was licking them far too often.
Sherlock found it fascinating—John showing the signs of arousal. Stunning. The image creating a vision of how a kiss would feel.
His mind wandered. Those lips . Soft, wet and delicious–with a strong ruthless tongue invading his hungry mouth, its busy tip tracing the outline of his teeth; heated by raw desire, boldly pressing deep inside, the detective's lips crushed, bruised. He'd eagerly let the intruder in. He'd lick it up and down, teasing, tasting, biting; he'd suck on it, desperately searching for more contact. God . He'd be hard from that. In fact he's getting hard now.
His powerful erection is making him buck his hips and grind into John's. Small, indecent moans are muffled by his partner's mouth. Their groans combined in one loud whine. Tongues tangled in the hot, sensual fight, bruised lips burning, breaths ragged, squirming bodies shouting for release, swollen cocks pressed against each other, aching. Their entire world reduced to the sheer need and desire. God…
"I'm fine!" John barked abruptly getting to his feet. It brought Sherlock back to reality. "I need some air." Added the doctor, then grabbed his jacket from the coat hook rack and dashed into the street.
The detective pondered. "I need more data" he mumbled and steepled his hands again. He remained still for some time; finally, he leaned back in his chair and chuckled noiselessly.
Sherlock had a plan.
After John had left the flat, he did not know exactly where to go. It was his day off at work and he had nothing much to do. For a moment he considered ringing Greg up for a pint or two but decided it was too early. He went for a walk instead.
Not even five minutes passed when the doctor saw a black, sleek car pulling over the kerb. He rolled his eyes and gave a mental shrug. Not again. Please.
The elegant vehicle stopped and the rear window opened majestically. Mycroft's face appeared, his tight smile turned broader as he drawled "Hello, John." As the doctor did not answer, staring blankly at the older Holmes brother. Mycroft continued, "Nice to see you again in the old quarters of yours."
John did not reply holding his gaze sternly; Mycroft let out a small exasperated sigh. He managed to hide his irritation, however, and opened the limousine door.
"Do you mind taking a short ride, John?"
The doctor remained unmoved, thus Mycroft tilted his head and added
"Please?"
Without one word, John simply came to the car and opened the door. Mycroft moved himself slightly allowing the shorter man to get inside and they drove off.
The doctor did not feel a particular need to start the conversation. He felt somewhat thrown off balance, yet he hoped it was not visible. Well, you never know with the Holmes brothers anyway. He swallowed and directed his questioning gaze to Sherlock's brother.
In reply to his unspoken question, Mycroft said quietly, almost whispering,
"Do not do him harm, John."
John was sure he had to have misheard it. He blinked astonished and looked entirely puzzled at the other man.
"He's already dealt with too much," the older Holmes brother added bitterly.
"You mean Sherlock?" John managed to produce the first sound since their bizarre chat had started.
Mycroft did not add anything else, looking down at his carefully manicured fingernails. All at once, John became very angry.
"Why is everything always my fault?" he yelled indignantly.
"I'm not saying that," Mycroft replied sourly with a wicked smirk on his face. He continued looking John in the eyes. "You should know, however, that Sherlock is prone to believe you're his damsel in distress." John gaped at him on the statement. "He wants to protect you, whatever it takes."
A strange, unrecognisable sensation started growing somewhere in John Watson's stomach; it went up to his gullet and stayed there for a while almost gagging him. He grunted, cleared his throat and asked, "Why are you telling me all that?"
Mycroft stared intently at him.
"I worry about him. Constantly".
John did not come back home until late evening. He had finally ended up in a pub with Greg Lestrade where they both got a bit plastered drinking two or three pints too many. Neither of them wanted to talk personal and they just had a casual chat, talking about latest scores and sipping their beer.
Back at the door to 221B, he rummaged for the keys in his pockets. Finally he gave up and alarmed Mrs Hudson, who let him in with a look of disapproval on her face. She did not say a word, however, for which the good doctor was grateful.
John went upstairs, stumbling and trying not to fall down. Keeping balance seemed a bit difficult, everything kept spinning round. He energetically opened and slammed the door.
The flat was dark and empty. Sherlock had had to have gone out eventually.
"That's for the best" the doctor mumbled. Leaving his jacket on the door knob, he crossed to the kitchen; his mouth was bone-dry. Drinking directly from the tap, he raised his head, his body suddenly tensed–he heard someone in Sherlock's bedroom. He creeped there, opened the door slowly and froze in pure amazement; he could not process what he was seeing.
Completely undressed and utterly disheveled, Sherlock was sprawled across the bed, impressive erection jutting from his pale, slim body, legs outspread with one hand wrapped around his dick; another one placed under his head. He was stroking himself loosely, with no sign of confusion when he noticed John staring at him with a shocked expression.
"John," the detective purred in a low voice. "Come in," he added, tilting his head in an infallible sign of invitation. His gaze was dazed, unfocused, high cheekbones blushed, cock glistening in the dim glow from street lightening seeping through the curtains. The view was unbelievable. And sexy. Fuck!
John was anything but ready for it. He looked away, in an unavailing effort to stay calm. In his insobriety, for a second, he thought he was imagining it all. He felt like a stone. Finally, he swallowed and moved uncertainly towards the bed, still avoiding Sherlock's eyes. He did not know where to look. What the fuck was going on in here? He got irritated and confused by the pure surrealism of the situation. Somehow, he managed to keep his expression remarkably blank. After taking a few steadying breaths, he asked in his best–not being all good news for those who knew Captain John Watson–whisper.
"What are you doing, Sherlock?"
"Waiting for you, John", the other man replied bluntly.
John held his breath. Thousands of different thoughts were crossing his drunken mind. Sure, Sherlock had always been far from what most people would consider normal, but this was...This was…He could literally find no words for it. Jesus! How was he supposed to behave in such circumstances?
"I thought we could have some fun together instead of lone wanks," Sherlock said in his most seductive baritone. "You haven't had a proper shag for quite a while."
John couldn't help but nod unconsciously to the statement; his limbs refused to obey any longer and he sat down heavily on the mattress. He shook his head, put his palm to his face, trying to figure out what to do next. The absurdity of it all was overwhelming–the concept of getting off with his best friend was fucked up, yet his imagination started running. His penis did not consider the events inappropriate, though; John felt a familiar sensation in his groin. The doctor became hard so fast that he felt dizzy, not only from the alcohol still buzzing in his veins but also from the blood rapidly flowing down from his brain. He looked exasperated at Sherlock, only to meet the detective's smug smirk, eyelids half-closed, his hand languidly moving up and down his length. The taller man cocked his eyebrows and asked.
"Care to join me?"
John inhaled rapidly hearing those words, his cheeks flushed, heartbeat accelerated with sudden rush, his cock started pulsing painfully in the seemingly too tight underwear. The doctor awkwardly rubbed his forehead and frowned.
"Sherlock," he began slowly, "you realize this can ruin everything, our friendship…" He hesitated. "My marriage," he added quietly.
"As if that's not broken already," said Sherlock, calmly narrowing his eyes. He sat up straight, leaning closer to John. He kneeled behind John, so near that the doctor could feel hot waves of the taller man's breath touching his neck; he got goosebumps from it. The proximity of Sherlock's hot body made him shudder with desire. He tried to protest, to express his doubts, but his uninhibited mind just gave up. The doctor's thoughts got a bit blurred. His body also betrayed him. His uncomfortably pressed cock cried for release. With a sudden flash of decision he turned towards Sherlock.
"All right," he rejoined. His lips twisted up a bit and the tension he felt seemed to leave his body. John relaxed visibly and pulled Sherlock into a kiss.
"Let's give it a proper start," he murmured, grabbing the detective by the back of his head. Twining Sherlock's hair around his fingers, he brushed his lips against Sherlock's, slightly at first, then bit on them with more force. The taller man quivered, a flash of desire flooding through his body and he eagerly slid his investigating tongue between John's teeth. The doctor gasped and opened his mouth broader, letting Sherlock enter; their tongues tangled, hungry mouths clinging to each other. They were exchanging breaths and saliva in a sloppy snog that made them both go wild. Sherlock melted into John, panting heavily, almost devouring the other man's lips. The shorter man pulled away carefully, however, causing the detective to whine in exasperation.
"Patience," came a breathy explanation. John began unbuttoning his shirt. Soon, the clothing slipped down, revealing John's muscular arms and chest with sparse light hair. In no time, Sherlock's impatient fingers found their way to unfasten the fly of his lover's jeans; he tugged them down hastily. Only the pants were left, the thin fabric stretched tight with John's massive erection utterly visible, a huge damp spot in the place where his pre-cum was soaking through the soft material.
It did not take more than a jiffy for Sherlock to get rid of the last piece of John's clothing; he simply put his thumbs under the waistband and rolled the pants down. John lifted his hips slightly and his cock leaped out with a sudden jolt.
Sherlock immediately placed himself on his knees in front of John, who moaned with heated impatience. God, this mouth . All of a sudden, all his wet dreams were coming true. John was not prone to analyse the reasons of what exactly was going on there. Who cares anyway? He leaned his head back and, supported by his arms, spread his thighs wide.
The doctor looked down at the gorgeous man who was brushing a kiss at the head of his leaking cock. The detective smeared a drip of the pre-cum over the glans and lapped his tongue up and down along the shaft a few times. The sensation was remarkable, causing John to hiss and reach his hand out to try to give his throbbing prick a grip at the base, but Sherlock pushed his palm away.
"Hold on," he panted hoarsely. At John's questioning gaze, Sherlock opened his mouth wide and stared at his lover, seductively engulfing John's dick in one swift movement. He did not withdraw until he nuzzled John's pubic hair. He repeated the movements slowly a few times; it didn't take long for his throat muscles to relax and enwrap gracefully around John's cock.
The view was magnificent and hot beyond belief: loads of messy curls, bruised lips, and blue eyes almost black with pupils dilated in an unmistakable sign of arousal. John began rocking his hips involuntarily, his pushes became harder and faster. The doctor's thrusts became frantic, he was vigorously mouthfucking Sherlock who was so adorably, unbelievably pliant. Fuck! It felt so good.
Sherlock's mouth was perfect – warm, wet and tight. Friction, pace and pressure ideal. Yeah, just like that, right there . He was pushing deep down Sherlock's throat in firm and hasty moves. The detective gagged but did not withdraw, his dark head was bobbing in a steady rhythm, so pleasurable that John just basked in the feeling. His whole world shrank to the small sensitive space of his dick. He was getting dangerously close. You like it, slut, don't you? I'll give you more of it. Thrusts became rough, almost uncontrolled, muscles contracted around his cock, so perfectly tight. Sherlock desperately tried not to choke on his cock, his mouth went slack, he was drooling. Right there, yeah.
John closed his eyes, his movements became erratic; he knew it would not last much longer.
Suddenly, the marvellous sensation stopped, and the doctor felt cold streams of air encompassing his abruptly abandoned dick.
"Sherl…" He groaned in surprise, his mind blank, pulse elevated to the limits, eyes wide open. He was desperate, he needed to cum. Now!
"Fuck me, John." A passionate whisper approached the doctor's ears. Sherlock was staring at him intensely, his tumescent cock leaking, his swollen lips covered with pre-ejaculate and saliva. He wiped them off and positioned himself on the bed, legs to the sides, feet on the mattress.
"Please," he whined.
John eagerly, however awkwardly, leaned over the detective's slender body. He hesitated for a moment, not sure what his next move should be. He grabbed Sherlock's knees and spread them apart. An enticing view of his fully exposed arsehole revealed to John's eyes. But, but , there was something there that the good doctor had not expected. Jesus! What was he supposed to do?
"I've prepared myself for you". Sherlock purred, completely proud of himself. "You like it?" He pointed his butt vaguely.
John could do nothing but stare at the detective's entrance.
A massive silicone buttplug was filling his glistering hole – properly stretched and ready in a clear sign of invitation.
Chapter 4
This was insane. John sat back on his heels and gaped at his flatmate. Or lover?
"Wha'...what now?" The man stammered hesitantly, feeling absolutely dumb and ignorant in a situation which was all new to him. He was afraid to act recklessly; at the same time he wanted to avoid making a false step. The good doctor lost his confidence–his erection flagged somewhat–after he had interrupted his actions. In fact, John had not known anything certain about Sherlock's sexual experiences. On the other hand, he was quite sure his own were not adequate in that matter.
Fuck! Three-Continents-Watson intimidated by a piece of arse.
A man's arse, to be precise. So what? Easy, Watson. Let's take it slowly.
In spite of his bewilderment, John desperately wanted to come. The incredibly hot view of Sherlock's exposed butthole, his hairy balls drawn up tight to the jerking cock in front of him made him grab his own dick firmly. A few strong strokes brought his erection back to life. Half-forgotten images from his past flowed before his mind's eyes: occasional, usually drunken, hand or blow jobs, sloppy kisses exchanged with his army fellows... Basically, there was nothing unpleasant about those memories. He had enjoyed those sporadic homosexual encounters. Why not try to move on a little bit?
Bending over Sherlock, the doctor grabbed his wrists with both hands, he pulled them up over the taller man's head. He pinned him in this position, holding his wrists together, the detective's pale body strained. Both men began panting heavily.
"Don't you dare move, understand?" He croaked, straightening back. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, his gaze dark, breathing ragged. He nodded ardently and managed, "At your orders, sir."
A sudden rush of extreme arousal made John's blood circulate faster, he felt loud buzzing in his ears. He patted Sherlock on the cheek roughly causing the detective release almost an inaudible groan and bit on his lower lip.
"Good boy." John leaned over Sherlock's smooth chest and teasingly licked one of the man's dark nipples, which instantly went hard. He circled a tip of his tongue around another one, finally biting on its peak lightly. The detective hissed and started writhing. The doctor continued stimulating his sensitive nipples, shifting from one erect knob to the other; he used his tongue and teeth first, then he rubbed them simultaneously between his thumbs and forefingers. Sherlock could not help but let out muffled whimpers, bucking his hips and pressing his buttocks into the mattress, in order to keep his anal plug in place.
"Stop moving now, or I'll have to punish you," said John apparently calmly while, in fact, he was all buzzing. He had not realized before how much pulling rank could turn him on.
He hovered over Sherlock's rock-hard dick, mouth slightly open, and the tip of his tongue stretched out, which made the taller man involuntarily fling his hips up in the air in helpless anticipation. The detective's wet, dripping prick touched John's lips, he licked them off and smiled wickedly.
"I warned you." It came in a hoarse whisper: "On your knees, private." This was intoxicating, John became so hard; it was painful. He felt his balls shrinking, he was so close. God. He had not even touched the man with his cock.
"Yes, sir." Sherlock complied, out of breath, quickly turning around on the bed. It was heady. It was delightful. He needed more.
"Arse up, legs wide, head down." John barked short commands, too focused on restraining himself from coming right then to be able to formulate more complex sentences.
"Do you want me to fuck you, private?" Asked John in a strangled voice.
"Oh, yes" Came an eager reply. Sherlock pushed his arsecheeks higher, rocking his hips, spreading his thighs, waiting impatiently.
"Yes, sir!" John yelled and spanked the white flesh with an instant thwack. Sherlock moaned loudly and his cock throbbed.
"I beg of you, sir!" The detective shouted, too needy to stay calm.
John teased Sherlock's locked entrance with his dick, rubbing it between the taller man's cheeks.
"Get ready for the punishment, private", he wheezed and reached out to the bedside table and took out a bottle of lube. The doctor pressed a generous amount of the liquid onto his palm and covered his dick thoroughly, smearing the lubricant all over it.
"Ready for the grand opening, private?"
In reply, Sherlock–finally relieved–pulled the butt plug out slowly and growled passionately: "Take me, Captain."
Those simple words set fire in John's veins. No more encouragement. The detective's arsehole was open wide, relaxed visibly. He aimed at Sherlock's inviting entrance and started pushing carefully but constantly. He began vigorous pumping, canting his hips back and forth.
The detective shivered. It took a moment for him to adjust to the feeling of his lover's enormous dick filling his anus. Soon he started pressing backwards to meet John's thrusts; short and shallow at first, gradually becoming deeper and harder.
The air was filled with panting breaths, obscene noises triggered by rapid movements of the cock sliding in the profusely slicked hole, a sort of musk and semen aroma–all together creating a perfect scene of sex.
John was on the verge of losing control–this had been too much–strong muscles entrancingly contracting around his dick, the slick sensation of smooth slides; Sherlock's bony hips rocking in an intoxicating rhythm. He refrained from pushing stronger, though, in fear he could do some harm to Sherlock.
"More! Give me more!" The detective cried imploringly. His lover changed the angle of his thrusts a bit and attacked his orifice harder. An inarticulate sound informed the good doctor that he had found the sweet spot; brushing against Sherlock's prostate made the detective moan and beg desperately, "More!"
"Right there," he whined, "Please, sir!"
What a needy little slut we have here.
John grit his teeth and began pounding him into the mattress. Sherlock's feverishly shaking limbs gave up and he fell down heavily onto the sheets, his face down, gorgeous bottom up; he squirmed and wiggled his hips in a desperate effort to get more. Both men were sweating, the temperature in the bedroom seemed to rise to an impossible degree. John panted, trying not to collapse onto his lover, shoulders tense and burning. Sherlock's hair was all damp, dark strands sticking together, breathing hoarse and loud, his vision blurred at the edges and his mind deprived of any coherent thought; the detective's whole world was limited to the overwhelming sensation of fullness and friction. The jolts of unspeakable pleasure and gratification coming right from his prostate made him lose his wits.
John's unrestrained pushes finally sent Sherlock over the edge–he was coming hard, screaming, howling; his cock gushed white, sticky stripes of ejaculate all around. He felt totally happy and relieved. His mind was wonderfully empty, he felt sated, complete. He lost sense of time at that precious, unique moment–let alone his ability to reason and think. It was a wonder.
The detective's climaxing was all John needed to bring him to the long-awaited finale. He felt first bursting spasms of his own release coming out from down his spine, hot waves of orgasm flooding through his body; eruption of endorphins made him feel light-headed, satisfied, his mind blank. He continued moving, however, until the last drops of his semen were milked out of his cock.
A couple of lazy moves more and John collapsed limply. Oh, fuck! That was marvellous.
Both men remained unmoving for a good five minutes.
Finally, John slipped his partially flaccid member out of Sherlock's arsehole and pressed a delicate kiss on his lover's sweaty temple. The detective smelled of his expensive aftershave and the hair products that he usually used, along with a hint of something inapprehensible, which created that characteristic, seductive scent of Sherlock Holmes.
The doctor nuzzled his head into the taller man's armpit. They embraced each other, eyes closed, their legs tangled, chests moving up and down, as if after a long and fatiguing run.
Both men drifted off for a while, eventually relaxed. John's breath soon became regular, a clear sign that the exhausted doctor fell asleep for good. He turned to his back and began snoring slightly with an open mouth.
However, Sherlock could not sleep; with his bright eyes wide opened, he was lying down still and quiet next to John–the detective's restless mind raging, thoughts rocketing–with a deep concern on his pensive face.
Sherlock's plan was fairly plain–he intended to seduce John Watson. As simple as that. He knew that John had been attracted to him from the very beginning, at first sight. There had been lots of obvious and apparent clues; no doubt his flatmate found him sexually attractive. Albeit, numerous times and on frequent occasions John had insisted he was not gay. Maybe the good doctor was right. However, he was not quite straight either–it was clear he would not have minded if Sherlock had pushed things a bit further. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that. Therefore, after John had moved back in their previously shared flat, the detective made up his mind and decided to take the risk. The risk of getting John Watson back. Sherlock had been pining for him long enough, his life becoming empty, old drug habits starting to raise their heads like a monster awaking from its slumber.
Sherlock had nothing to lose.
Another reason why he was brave enough to give it a try, was his friend's marriage; frankly speaking, it was not a great source of happiness. John's matrimonial problems somehow gave him the green light.
It was worth trying anyway. The detective realized bitterly that his lone existence was valueless; he felt miserable and wretched. The feeling was infuriating, Sherlock had lost his ability to think logically–and that, that was affecting his work. He could not afford it. His work had always counted most; it had given him the sense of uniqueness, which empowered him.
He knew that sexual acts played an important and vital role in John's life–unlike Sherlock, he craved it–thus the detective prepared a perfect sex scene, not forgetting about appropriately preparing himself too.
Last night was amazing; the detective would have never expected shagging to be so exciting and utterly mind-absorbing. He must have admitted, he had loved it.
At this point, John's first, clear-headed reaction to the events of last, crazy night was his only concern.
Sherlock shook his head and tried to focus on the tiny skin sample he was analyzing–he tried to adjust the microscope rings–but noticed his hands were shaking. He raised them up, clenching and unclenching his fingers for a few times. He took a deep, steadying breath. Calm. Just relax, ok? He stood up and took a gulp of mineral water directly from the bottle.
"I warned you not to get involved"–his brother's words came out of nowhere, hammering into his brain. He winced and shrugged, as in reply to Mycroft's imaginary statement.
After Sherlock heard John's steps approaching the kitchen, he tensed up; nervously awaiting for the doctor's reaction. All the expectations, hopes, fears fluttering in his over-stimulated mind were coming to the surface: it was maddening.
"What if this was too much for John?" he thought fearfully.
John came in, yawning, rubbing his forehead; his short hair dishevelled, wearing nothing but his blue plaid boxer shorts. Both men avoided each other's gaze and for a few awkward moments. They were unusually silent until Sherlock finally swallowed and managed to utter.
"How are you?"
John made a bit of an effort and looked his flatmate straight in the eyes. Let's face it, Watson.
"Surprisingly fine." He smiled broadly, winked meaningfully at the detective and reassuringly added, "Nothing to worry about, just having minor hangover." He went on lightly, "What about you?"
"Perfect." Sherlock smirked, feeling much better now; the doctor seemed to act more or less naturally; then added insinuatingly, "Though, I might find sitting slightly uncomfortable for some time."
John burst into unrestrained laughter at those words. He was shaking and squeaking, holding his belly. Sherlock instantly felt how all his muscles were relaxing, his stomach not in knots anymore. Suddenly relieved, he chimed laughing hard, both men did not stop until tears streamed down from their eyes.
"Oh my God, Sherlock. What have we done?" John finally calmed down enough to formulate distinct words. "What are we now?" He questioned carefully, coming closer to Sherlock and hesitatingly put his right hand on the taller man's shoulder.
"I don't know," The detective replied slowly and thoughtfully, "but there's one thing I am sure of...I like it." He said in a deep, seductive voice and pulled John into a kiss.
Neither Sherlock nor John felt any urge to name their relationship, no labels were necessary. They were happy as it were, both of them avoided mentioning the future in the slightest. All past barriers between them fell down, as if they had never existed and the men simply basked in each other's presence. Time was passing by recklessly, gaily but, unfortunately, too fast.
There was one December evening that interrupted that bliss.
Chapter 5
John, wearing a warm, striped, terry bathrobe, was sitting on the sofa, sipping hot tea. Another steaming cup on the coffee table was waiting for Sherlock, who was taking a warming shower in the bathroom. The fireplace radiated pleasant warmth around, being the only source of the dim light in the room.
The boys had just come back from a long and rainy stroll through the windy alleys and courts of the city. They had got all wet and shivering, soaked to the bone, as the streets of London in December were not the most cosy and inviting place in the world.
Sherlock was on the case again–the case of Charles Augustus Magnussen. The detective endeavoured to reach the man and his vaults full of deadly secrets because he considered his first, unsuccessful attempt to outwit the media magnate as a sort of his personal failure. He had not revealed much of his plan to John, however; as usual, the doctor had not asked pointless questionsand simply followed Sherlock through the dark and misty streets of London. Substantial weight of the gun in his pocket had given the doctor that minimum sense of security, which was necessary for him. He always had to be there to protect his careless flatmate from danger, whatever happened during their investigation.
A few long hours spent on the foggy, wet and freezing streets turned out to be completely useless, however. Sherlock and John had been looking for people who could have given them some clues; people who could have been able to let the detective get to Magnussen somehow. Unfortunately, all their efforts occurred futile. Everyone seemed to be too afraid of Magnussen and they had rejected to talk to them. All the previously promising threads vanished in the dark mist of London.
John leaned back and lounged in the warmth of his fluffy robe; closing his eyes, he felt his entire body relaxing. His head became heavy, his tired limbs weighed and languid.
Temperature in the room was getting higher slowly. The fire was burning brightly, crackling merrily.
John must have drowsed away, because he did not hear Sherlock coming out from the bathroom. The first thing that brought him back to consciousness was a delicate touch on his cheek. Sherlock in his soft, caramel dressing gown was standing over him, his long curls damp, cheeks reddened from the hot shower, pink lips alluringly full.
"John," he said softly, "don't sleep here."
"Mmm, I'm not." The other man murmured. "Just dozed off for a moment." He glanced at Sherlock. "Have your tea before it gets cold."
The taller man sat down next to John, took a sip from the cup, set it back on the table; then leaned against the cushions and wrapped his long arm around the doctor's neck. He moved closer and nuzzled John's hair, pressing his mouth to the sensitive spot behind the shorter man's ear. He brushed his teeth against John's earlobe, swirling his tongue inside the concha. The doctor sighed, feeling suddenly completely awake and brisk. He could not help but react eagerly to the detective's caresses, Sherlock's touch was irresistible. A jolt of excitement went straight to his crotch, his cock jerked; John reflexively sprawled his thighs a bit. The flaps of his fluffy robe opened and he gripped his shaft–he had become hard in no time, but Sherlock pushed John's fingers aside gently.
"Let me," he gasped lustfully. "I'll take a good care of it." He took off his dressing gown and tossed it carelessly aside.
John's arms fell to the sides submissively. He was going to enjoy every second of it. The younger man's promises were never disappointing.
Sherlock slipped down from the sofa and kneeled between the doctor's legs. John's powerful erection was jutting proudly in front of him. The detective feverishly caught the flaps of John's bathrobe, pushing them to the sides; he revealed the other man's bare chest, darker than his own. Then, he grabbed his lover's knees and pushed his thighs apart to spread them wider. He dived between them, reaching for his balls, then drew out the tip of his tongue and started licking them up and down, teasingly taking one ball after another to his mouth, sucking on them slightly. John hissed and pressed his fists into the cushions, his cock leaking generously, throbbing. He involuntarily bucked his hips up seeking some friction.
"Sherlock…ummm." He babbled. "Please…Le' me..."
"Wait," Sherlock whispered hoarsely, raising his head and passionately looking John in the eyes. His own pupils were utterly black, revealing undeniable arousal. His long dick was fully erect, protruding proudly from his slender body, jerking eagerly and pulling out long, thin streaks of pre-cum. His amazing lips were dark pink and glistening. The man looked irresistibly hot and desirable. "You won't regret it, I promise." Sitting on his heels he reached for his lover's manliness and took a hold of the doctor's thick shaft; soon he began lazily stroking John's dick up and down.
John tried to compose himself and wait patiently for whatever was going to come in fact, what he wanted to do most, was just clutch his hands in Sherlock's hair and fuck that gorgeous mouth relentlessly.
The detective started licking John's cock teasingly, swirling his swift and hot tongue around the glans, gently touching the wet slit with the tip and smearing the pre-ejaculate all around. He pressed his warm lips to the head of the shorter man's prick, opened his mouth slightly and, keeping it unbelievably tight, he took the whole length down his throat.
John hissed and closed his eyes. The sensation was wonderful, so pleasurable. Soon he began thrusting into the detective's warmness. Oh, God. Oh, yes.
Still working John's prick with his mouth, Sherlock slipped both his hands down, heading for the doctor's muscular arsechicks. He grabbed them with his bony, firm fingers, pressing the thumbs between slightly, into the crevasse; close to John's velvety hole. He started to move his thumbs delicately, circling the doctor's entrance. At the same time, he did not neglect sucking his lover's dick vigorously.
A new, never experienced before feeling made John freeze for a moment; he was not sure how to react. He lifted his eyelids and murmured vaguely, looking down at his flatmate.
"Sherlock?" He could not remove a trace of concern from his voice, he got a bit tense.
The detective stopped his actions for a moment, took a deep breath and replied reassuringly, "Relax, John." He blinked and added, "I'm not gonna do anything you wouldn't want." He continued. "Do you trust me, John?"
"Sure, I do. I do trust you." The other man answered, relaxing visibly. "Just...you know... I'm not actually…"
"Yes, I know." Came an immediate, flat reply. "Nothing you wouldn't want, okay?"
"Okay." John smiled and leaned his head against the cushions again. "Actually," he hesitated for a split second, "this was quite… surprisingly, ehm... nice." He half lay on the sofa, sprawling his knees wide, exposing his dick and balls fully, feeling absolutely wanton. He did not mind it in the slightest.
Sherlock smirked lasciviously and dived back between his lover's legs. He pulled John down slightly, spreading the doctor's buttocks apart. He drew out his tongue and began patting John's cock and testicles, tugging them lightly with one hand, holding the doctor's erection with the other and rhythmically applying some pressure to the glans.
That was utterly perfect. John felt dizzy, the sensation was awesome. He sighed deeply and opened his mouth; he was panting loud, his heartbeat jumped high. He felt Sherlock's delicate digits had left his balls and headed lower, followed by warm, wet lips. The detective's tongue was carefully working his scrotum now, while a long, slim finger started rubbing around the tight ring of muscles surrounding his anus. The intruding tongue moved a bit, getting closer to the locked entrance. Suddenly, the doctor felt a wave of hot air brushing against his sensitive skin down there. Then, a slight, almost impalpable touch. John ceased breathing. Jesus! This was hot. Unbelievably, fucking hot.
"You okay?" He heard a concerned whisper.
"I'm fine." He replied quickly and added, "Don't stop." In fact, the doctor was completely struck by the revelation of how much he was enjoying it. Jesus Christ! He loved his arsehole being licked by another man. His friend, to be exact.
He did not care at this point, however. John's whole world shrank to the sensual delight. His brain was flooded with endorphins–he wanted more of it. Pulling his thighs up to his chest, he gave his lover a better access to his butthole. Sherlock did not need any additional encouragement; without hesitation he attacked John's puckered, virgin hole with his tongue. At first, he circled it slowly with long, voluptuous motions, generously wetting the area; then he stiffened the tip of his tongue and became grazing John's hole. His actions were sending thrills of inexpressible pleasure right down the doctor's spine. The touches were feather-like but nevertheless made the good doctor shiver. Oh, my God. He almost cried. Oh, my God . How can this feel so good?
The detective slid his hands up along John's legs, grabbing the knees from underneath, he kept them spread apart.
Movements of Sherlock's tongue became more powerful and fast then, aiming directly at John's tightened arsehole. The tip of his tongue became stiff and rigid; Sherlock doubled his efforts in a passionate attempt to violate the doctor's entrance. Short, firm moves made the muscle finally relax; letting the intrusion in.
John was a writhing mess at that point–gasping and squirming in a desperate need to get more of it. He was whimpering; with his lavishly leaking cock trapped and squeezed between his stomach and thighs. Sherlock pressed his soft, swollen lips closely to the warm flesh, sucking up John's arsehole, embracing it with his hungry mouth. His impatient, hardened tongue slipped inside. Sliding movements, in and out, every time slightly deeper, caused John moan loudly. Sherlock sped up, literally fucking John with his tongue. They lasted for a few minutes like that. Moans and heavy breaths were the only sounds in the room. Eventually, the doctor opened his eyes and glanced at Sherlock.
From his angle he could see nothing more but the mop of detective's messy dark hair moving sensually. He felt Sherlock touching his most intimate parts. It was hot and obscene. It was entirely filthy and indecent. It was gorgeous... The doctor lost all remains of his conscious.
"Sherlock…" He grunted, "Finger me."
The taller man raised his head astonished; his piercing eyes swept over the doctor's face; he was trying to process what he had just heard.
"Are you sure?" He furrowed, staring at John intently. 'I thought, you were not…"
"Do it." An eager reply interrupted the detective's statement. "Please. I don't mind."
With no further questioning Sherlock stood up and crossed to his bedroom to grab the lube; coming back, he slicked his slender fingers generously. John stared at him with his eyes opened wide–they seemed all dark from arousal, the doctor cheeks were reddened, his breath still heavy and ragged..
"Relax, John." The detective murmured. "Just take it easy." He blinked and asked again, "Are you sure?"
The doctor was only able to nod impatiently. He was ready. He genuinely wanted Sherlock inside him; the very thought of being penetrated was making him mad. Somehow this felt like the most lewd, but at the same time, unbelievably alluring idea.
Sherlock did not wait any longer. He leaned over John and pressed a few soft and delicate kisses on his neck. He went down to the doctor's collar bone, grazing his teeth across them. That made John sigh and hold his breath. His abandoned cock jerked eagerly and the doctor drew his hand out trying to reach down there, only to meet Sherlock's fingers taking a firm grip of John's painfully erect member.
The detective lowered himself a bit, sliding down to John's chest; his hot lips continued their teasing dance–the touches of Sherlock's restless mouth were perfect: licks, sucks and subtle bites on the doctor's small, dark nipples made him hiss and buck his hips up, trying to get more pressure. Sherlock's hand was smoothly stroking his dick. However, he needed more of it. John began to writhe in a desperate need to get more stimulation. Sherlock's tongue was still heading south, teasing, stimulating, promising. He traced the outline of John's ribs, licked along his belly hairline, unexpectedly pressing a tip of the tongue to his belly button, which made the good doctor shiver and cry with excitement. Finally, the detective's mouth hovered over the crown of his lover's prick for a moment.
"Sherlock…" the doctor moaned. "Suck on me." He was burning inside, his whole over-stimulated body was heat. He felt every touch as if it was a flame of fire ready to incinerate him to ashes. Yet, it felt unbeatably gorgeous. "Please, please…" Desperate, incoherent groans left his lips.
In reply, Sherlock swallowed John's cock in one swift move, so deep that the tip of his nose got buried in the doctor's pubic hair.
Oh, that was incredible, John had never got that kind of feeling before. The blow job performed by Sherlock was unmatched. The bastard knew how to please a man. The tightness and wet warmth of the other man's throat was utter perfection. Sliding his dick up and down, he felt an odd pressure at his butthole. A long, slim finger slipped a tip inside. John felt strangely filled but that fullness was not unpleasant. On the contrary, his arousal jumped up to the point which had seemed impossible a moment before. When the second finger joined the first in its sensual movements, reasonable thinking abandoned the good doctor's mind. His brain's logical functions shut down, only bodily responses remaining intact and fully active. His whole universe consisted of Sherlock's hot lips wrapped around his cock and the mind-blowing sensation at his lower parts.
John had not even noticed when a third digit entered his hole. The only coherent thought that his mind was able to produce was: Fuck. Oh, God. Fuck, it feels so good.The doctor could not have imagined how much he would like to be penetrated like that, but he did, and not only like that.
"Sherlock," he managed to gasp in a strangled voice, "Give me more."
The detective gagged a little, still working John's cock vigorously. A sudden thought struck him and he briskly raised his head, looking at his lover's face.
"You mean…?" He swallowed, staring at John in complete bewilderment. "You want me to…"
"Yes." Came a quick but firm reply. "I want you to fuck me."
"You're sure?" Sherlock could not believe his ears literally. There had been rare moments during their so-called relationship when he was considering such a possibility but he rejected the concept as absolutely improbable. He knew that John was a typical top, so he did not preoccupy himself with the idea of fucking John "not gay" Watson, as he would sarcastically call him from time to time. Not that he had anything against it. No. Not at all. The idea of John bottoming was appealing and such a huge turn on. Sherlock was ready and did not need any more incentive.
The detective slowly withdrew his long fingers and quickly positioned himself in order to attack the doctor's stretched and needy hole.
John was still lying on the couch, with his legs up in the air, prepared to take Sherlock in, waiting for it.
The taller man pressed a generous amount of the lube onto his own cock, smearing also some more all over John's loose entrance and pressed the head of his pulsing dick against it. His erect penis slid effortlessly inside.
He stopped hesitantly, however and asked. "Okay?"
"Go on. I'm fine." A breathy answer, together with John's hands pulling his hips gave him the green light. Sherlock started to push stronger, rocking his body back and forth. His moves became harder and deeper. He changed an angle of his thrusts, trying to hit the right spot.
"Oh, oh!" A sudden, passionate cry ensured the detective that he finally found John's prostate, so he doubled his actions, pounding John into the cushions.
A lengthy hiss and some strangled swearing told him he was doing well. The detective focused on the sensual pleasure that his usually despised body was giving him; that was so intense and overwhelming that his brain almost switched off.
The world could have as well ended at that exact moment and none of them would even notice.
John was close. Very close. Balancing on the verge of orgasm he kept his eyes closed tight. He felt his painfully stiff cock hitting his belly rhythmically; burning waves of unspeakable pleasure were flowing through his whole body, having their start in its bottom parts.
"John," the doctor heard Sherlock's voice, "Look at me."
John opened his eyes and in the warm ambient light he saw his magnificent lover leaning over him, slender arms tensed, muscled, slim body glistening with sweat, eyes sparkling brightly. The two men connected their gaze and stared intensely at each other.
That was all John needed: the sight of Sherlock carnally linked to him sent him over the edge. He spasmed and came hard, squirting long streaks of warm ejaculate all around.
That, in turn, was an ultimate stimulus for Sherlock. John climaxing because of him, of what he was doing. Just two or three pushes more and the detective felt the first signs of his own finale coming. His movements became more erratic, his thrusts harder, his breath hoarse and loud. The detective's mind went happily blank. He was shouting John's name, not even realizing he was doing so.
Sherlock kept moving, slowing down gradually, until the last drops of his cum were milked out. He collapsed then, as his shaky limbs gave in on supporting him anymore.
The two men lay down quietly for a few wonderfully languid moments. They felt totally sated and complete. They were utterly happy and wanted that moment to last forever.
Eventually, Sherlock moved and took his flaccid penis out of John's arsehole, still full of his semen that immediately started to leak out.
Still a bit out of breathe he said, "John, there's something I should say…I've meant to say..."
"Mmm…" John murmured drowsily. "I'm all ears."
"I…" Sherlock's mobile buzzing sounded like a cannon shot.
"Oh, for God's sake!" He cried impatiently. "Who wants me now?"
"Answer it." said John and added, "It may be something important."
Sherlock stood up reluctantly, crossed to the coffee table and grabbed the phone, still ringing. He rolled his eyes, looking at the screen.
"Yes?" He said trying to hide his annoyance and exasperation, "I am busy!"
The detective listened to the caller for like one minute and said only, "Yes, I will. Bye, bye." And disconnected the call abruptly.
He stayed motionless for a while, staring at one point but evidently not seeing anything.
John turned his concerned face towards Sherlock who came to the sofa slowly, picked up his caramel robe from the floor and put it on, wrapping himself tight.
"This wasn't Lestrade, was it?"
"No."
"So…" John started carefully, "Who was it?"
"My mum." Came an instant, flat reply. "She invited me for Christmas dinner."
"That's good, right?" John could not understand why Sherlock looked so worried.
"Not really." The younger man answered quickly. "She invited us both."
"What?!" John's jaw dropped open. "How?" He felt confused and shocked. Do Sherlock's parents suspect them being a ... couple?
"Do they know that we…" He made a vague gesture with his left hand, pointing the space between them.
Sherlock glanced at him, narrowing his eyes but did not say a word, as if waiting for the doctor's words.
"That we are..." John cleared his throat and finished quietly, "...ehm, together?" He rapidly breathed the air into his lungs.
"No, they don't."
John exhaled with a visible relief.
Still not ready to come out. Sherlock assumed a bit bitterly. John's position made him sad, he hoped... Oh, whatever. "Don't get involved, involved, involved…" Mycroft's words echoed relentlessly in his head. He inhaled instantly and said, "The invitation is for me, Mycroft, you and…", he stopped and added hesitantly, "...Mary."
"What?!" John cried and abruptly jumped to his feet; he could not process the information. He thought he misheard it.
"Why?" He asked the taller man, staring at him helplessly, waiting for an explanation, as if the detective was some know-it-all oracle.
"For obvious reasons." Sherlock shrugged and said dryly. "Because you are my friend and she is your wife."
John froze, not knowing how to react to the news.
"They're traditional people." Sherlock sighed, " Family gathering, Christmas dinner, roast turkey, mince pies, you know. All this sort of conventional stuff"
"Are we going?" The doctor asked uncertainly.
"We should, for the case's sake at least." Sherlock was thinking quickly. "Mycroft can't suspect anything before I get to Magnussen. Clearly, he would, if we all don't show up."
John nodded his head. Slowly the implications of the whole situation began to reach his previously numb mind.
The holiday is over. He thought with bitterness and a sudden sorrow.
Both men looked at each other in silence. The long stare could all but express the number of thoughts that crossed their minds, let alone the depths of the feelings they had never revealed. There were so many words unspoken. They realized that time was not on their side.
Yet, from the very beginning, they had been absolutely aware that it was not supposed to last forever.
Their honeymoon was over.
~the end~
Post scriptum.
We all know what happened later, during this memorable Christmas.
What will the future bring for John and Sherlock?