Boys fucking boys is my third favourite thing. So, yeah. Here's the first chapter of what will be an ongoing Johnlock fic. I want your suggestions people.
Violins
So, there's that convention. Of your ordinary run-of-the-mill-it-was-an-office-romance relationship. It says, you might be aware my dearest reader, that the sex (ahem) comes (geddit?) on the third date.
Yet, you do sometimes find that relationship that hangs precariously over the edge of this most seductive of cliff tops. Especially amongst your Army Doctors and the occasional Consulting Detective, you'll find it teetering unceremoniously on this edge; which is after all where the fun happens.
So, it had been a month of whatever this was now; nobody, neither John nor Sherlock, had dared to categorise the vigorous eye fucking going on within the walls of 221b. Yet the reasonably un-brash nature of the current goings on paled in insignificance once you considered the god damned sex of it all. The tension – the bloody tension and how it wrapped itself around the hinges and sockets and handles of 221b, flooding carpets with sex, painting the walls in sex and hanging sex from the curtain rails.
It was getting too much for Sherlock.
But maybe not what you're thinking, sweetie. See, we know that man hasn't exactly confessed his sins to The British Government, and why would we ever expect him to? And sins indeed, as it were.
But now, Sherlock Holmes couldn't bare it much longer. He was in every way possible, on his knees for John Watson to get the hell on with the deed. But to no avail.
Our poor John, he was so caring, too caring, and far less the solider when it came to his love. He, as supposedly the more experienced of the two, had no desire to fluster the brilliant man who had proclaimed his trust in John. This did not however, stop John picturing the moments and minutes he would get to spend beside Sherlock's naked body (or rather the minutes that Sherlock would spend sucking on John's glorious cock) when, finally, Sherlock knew exactly what John wanted to do to him.
And boy did Sherlock know. Sherlock was a man who knew many things, if you're just catching on. And one thing he could be sure to know for a good long time yet, was what John wanted to do to him, and what John wanted him to do in return.
And so Sherlock set about solving the problem.
John was feeling numb; with spring wind, and the dull normality that followed him around at the surgery. Luckily, he crossed the threshold of 221b at exactly the right moment.
Sherlock felt the cool air and the anticipation on his bare chest as he picked up the bow, caressed it sweetly and placed it against the strings of his violin. His brain filled with the heat, and the song and the sound of the door clinking open as he thumbed the thin strings.
John heard his second favourite sound falling down the stairs and onto the floor of the hall. He heard each note clearly, and heard the meaning behind every single one. Slowly, he began the climb to the top of the stairs.
Dragging the melody out perfectly, Sherlock stood feet apart, smirking.
John licked his lips and stuck his tongue out as he reached the penultimate stair.
Sherlock maintained the rhythm, slow, unheeding, low and soft and simple. The air moved quicker around him.
John reached the top. He turned toward the sound and his eyes fell onto a vision of delight.
The detective stood silhouetted by the red light in the window, arms cradling violin. The light found his sharp features, ran down over stiff, pale shoulder blades, over the straights of his taught back and to shivering hips. The man's arse was already that of legend in John's mind. Firm and sweet and giving way to the beauty that was to be found in Sherlock's legs. The length of muscular limbs that found the floor with soft precision liquidised any hope John may have held to go the day without a throbbing erection. The every inch and degree that John's eyes stole over the man's body, every twitch of his mouth, his trousers became splendidly tighter and tighter and tighter.
Sherlock slowly worked at his violin, oblivious and wholly aware of John's shaking presence. John could have started wanking right there.
The minutes passed with sweet godlike tension, and Sherlock waited, dragging the piece as far as it would be dragged, and blissfully, tauntingly, finished his tune.
John breathed. So did Sherlock. Then the detective smiled at the still moving air and turned gracefully toward John, who breathed again, let his mouth fall open, and reached out a hot palm to the wall.
'Holy Mary'
Sherlock's eyes flashed and John winced as his trousers became too tight for movement. He felt the need now to be rid of them for fucking, and too if he wanted to remain upright. Sherlock stood there another minute, saint like with the fading sun behind him, to let his darling trace his shoulders, and smooth chest, and welling cock, and shagable mouth, with desiring eyes.
And oh, how John did.
Sherlock bent slightly to place the violin in the arm chair. John bent slightly to check that blood was still heading further south than his sizeable erection, which was clearly and totally visible through his jeans.
'John' hummed Sherlock
'Bloody hell, Sherlock,' was the response.
'Take off your trousers, John'
'Umm,' John looked at the floor, shrugged his shoulders, and swiftly left his trousers behind him on the floor. Striding forward. Pulling the detectives face to his and kissing him for all that he was worth. Hand met arse, one erection, another. Sherlock pulled John into him, arms entangled with his, and they toppled sideways onto the sofa. John's lips parted and Sherlock's tongue fucked John's mouth. The still partially clothed John hurriedly stripped. Sherlock helped him, unbuttoning the shirt, and lightly kissing the man's chest, before he was consumed in another fiery, deep and lasting kiss.
Sherlock, who had found himself underneath, pushed his legs open and let John settle between them. His knees bent, John's head level with his own collar bones, and their two erections greedily shoved together. The two men groaned into each other blissfully. Then they began grinding into the other ferociously and on each occasion John's head fell into Sherlock's neck and he sucked, and Sherlock's head fell back, eyes buzzing wildly and mouth hanging open.
And then 'John, do you want me to suck you now?'
John was confused, the blood had left his brain a long time ago and it took him a minute to realise Sherlock was now talking about the only functioning organ John had left.
'Sherlock, love, don't do anything,' John wanted to be reassuring. He wanted to be the one in control.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed. He didn't hear what John said, but it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. He stopped his lips in mid syllable, pressed tongue against tongue, and then lifted himself from beneath John.
John considered things. Sherlock wanted to do it. It was okay. John couldn't deny that he was about to experience the most erotic moment of his life (until then). So he left it at that, and took more deep breaths.
John found himself sitting, Sherlock at his knees on the floor, arms resting on John's thighs. Sherlock smirked and John giggled. And no more was said.
Sherlock took John's cock in one hand and licked it, like a cat. John simmered. Then Sherlock abruptly took the head of John's throbbing cock into his mouth and sucked. John gasped, as Sherlock began to lick the underside, up and down its length. He slowed, and licked some more, and John groaned, and he liked it. He looked upward and into his lovers eye's. This felt right. Using both hands, he slowly pressed John's cock into his mouth, ignoring his gag reflex and taking John in entirely, until his nose met skin, and his lips fully caught John's raging penis. Then he began bobbing and he felt John grow a little more inside his mouth.
John rocked back and forth into Sherlock's mouth, fucking him slowly. He placed his hands in Sherlock's curls and vowed to return the favour once he knew how to stand and talk and think properly again. John hissed as Sherlock began sucking religiously, pumping his hips into Sherlock's mouth regardless.
John's cock was in between Sherlock's lips. John thrust deeply into Sherlock's throat, and the taller man hummed.
John widened his legs, sunk his cock further into his lover's throat and rocked some more.
Until 'Dear God, Sherlock,' and John fell silent and Sherlock held on for dear life as John rode out the aftershocks of a violent orgasm.
I want your feedback! What do you want next? Tell me all your secrets... Umm, so. Reviews! Please review. I love reviews.