AN:
This is kind-of-but-not-really a continuation of my story Blanket Fort. Continuation, in so far as it starts right where that one ended. Not-really, because they are completely different in tone and content.
You don't need to read the other story, just know, that they spent that story building a blanket fort and slept in it. Also, John lives with Mary and of course Sherlock's jealous. There, I just spared you three thousand words. Nice, ain't I?
With all his trademark theatrics Sherlock threw himself over John, pushing the air out of the other man's lungs as he did so and buried his face into the crook of his neck.
"Hey, hey, what's it?" John ran a soothing hand through the sleep-mussed curls that were tickling his ear and nose. They were slightly damp under his fingers.
"I want something that she can never have," Sherlock's voice was muffled and John had to strain himself to be able to hear it. "Something of you. And she must never have it." He lifted his head and stared down at John with eyes suddenly dark with menace and his jaw set square, defying John to ask what was wrong with him. But John only nodded.
"Anything," he whispered weakly. Sherlock took a moment to scrutinise his face before he bounded upwards and dashed out of the tent and presumably to the bathroom. John shifted and propped up on his elbows staring after the man confused. He was back before a minute had passed with a tube of cream in his hand and threw another dark gaze at John who looked back quizzically. John decided not to ask, his eyes never leaving Sherlock.
Sherlock knelt next to his thighs. He waited another ten seconds and John knew it was for his benefit. He let his eyes drop, only for a moment, to the cream still in Sherlock's hand and saw what it was. Sherlock noticed and also noticed his absent reluctance.
Reaching out his hand, he pushed at John's chest until the man took the hint and lay back down. Sherlock drew a deep breath, the first sign of nerves, and shut his eyes tightly just for the blink of an eye. John, reassuringly, brushed the side of his hand against Sherlock's thigh minutely. It gave Sherlock back his confidence.
He put his hands over the waistband of John's pants and tugged. When he came to the knees, John helped, bending them, shortening the way. When Sherlock grabbed one of the cushions to shove it under his hips and arse, John lifted himself up on his shoulders. Other than that, he stayed still, only his eyes moving as they followed Sherlock's every move.
Sherlock took the cream, which actually was lubricant, and poured a large bead onto his fingers. He pushed at one of John's legs until both lay spread before him and knelt between them. He bent forward and pushed the index finger of his right hand against John's anus. John hissed. The lube was cold and the brush too rough.
"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, "Sorry," he repeated quietly and worked to spread the lube around the opening, along the crack of his arse, and pushed in only slightly every now and then. Under his still dark glare John opened before him and soon his finger slid in easily and then a second alongside it. He watched his fingers disappear into his best friend and his fascination showed on his face. Sherlock lay down between John's legs to watch from a lesser distance.
His fingers became bolder, going deeper and experimented with what they could do in John. He spread them, at first barely, but then, encourage by John's quiet, wider, stretching him. The tips of his fingers felt the texture of him, cataloguing, groping and squirming. Accidentally he found John's prostate and John moaned above him. Reminding Sherlock there was a human being, his friend, attached to the hot hole he was exploring. He bit at John's thigh the turn of a head away.
"No!" John groaned, his voice even rougher than before, "No marks! Please, no marks," he begged and swallowed. His eyes were like glued shut. Sherlock conceded. That one wish he should be granted. Nothing else.
His sudden, inexplicable anger resurged and roughly he pulled his fingers from John. He got back up on his knees. John opened one eye to see what he was doing and he watched him push down his pants just below his balls and stroked his cock to hardness harshly. He used the lube again on himself and lined up with John's arse, shuffling closer on his knees. John shut his eye again. It was too soon, but he didn't say it. Sherlock knew.
Sherlock gripped his hips, mindful not to leave behind bruises and pulled John to him. His cock touched John's anus and John braced himself for the penetration, tensing, not making it easier. Sherlock felt it. He withdrew one hand and with it guided his dick to John's arsehole, grabbing it just under the head, steadying it, and pushed in nearly violently till the border that was his thumb. The ring of John's muscle clenched down hard around the crown, his body, after that first ring, pulling at him, pulling him in in waves and Sherlock stopped, relishing the pressure that was so tighter, so much tighter than ever before, so much hotter on the first inch than his hand has ever been, so very John, and it was good that he hadn't even been very aroused before because if he had he would have come now.
John clenched his hands into the pillows and blankets everywhere, screwed up his face a bit.
"All right?" bellowed Sherlock. John nodded hastily. "John!" his voice raised.
"Yes, I'm okay," John yelled back without opening his eyes or relaxing his face. Sherlock didn't need that reassurance. Carefully and ruthlessly he pushed his hips forwards, sank into John another inch. He pulled back, pushed in, never leaving John, never leaving the heat that was John, spreading the lube deeper, feeling his insides, the texture, the wavelike surface that pulled him deeper, that pulled him inwards, waves of arousal washing through him and waves of John's skin dragging him further until Sherlock felt resistance, his hips met with the flesh of John's arse, and for the first time in his life he bemoaned not being bigger because it meant he couldn't get further into John. He fell forwards.
His palms found their way under John's shoulders and his face was drawn as if by magnets to the crook of his neck. His back was hunched to make up for the difference in length of their torsos and still he rutted his hips into John in short sharp thrusts, shaking him, shaking himself through John, sweating in the immobile heat of the blanket fort and dropping sweat pearls onto John. He grunted, rabidly, humping him like a dog. John raised his legs to his waist and crossed them behind his back at the ankles and Sherlock slid in deeper, gained another inch, howled, moaned, groaned, said John's name over and over again. John grabbed the back of his neck and prayed his lips wouldn't leave a mark and stopped thinking, meeting his thrusts one by one. Feeling the edge of an uncomfortable stretch and didn't care because he could smellhim.
The air filled with their smell, sweat and sex and come and the strange odourless odour of lube. Their grunts in harmony with the slap of flesh and the squelch of lube and come in an arse and the forgotten hint of London traffic. John's helpless whimpers when Sherlock accidentally brushed his prostate.
"I can't," Sherlock moaned, his hands itched, he wanted to claw into John, his teeth prickled, he wanted to bite. With no warning he sat back, drawing John with him, stretched out his legs and lay back on his hands, John impaled on him, it hurt John, the sudden movement, but he didn't voice it, he scrambled along, on, found a position that was very nearly comfortable. Sherlock's hand reached for his throat and pushed him back again until he, too, was reclined on his hands, his legs sprawled along the sides of Sherlock's body, Sherlock's legs beside his, the sole point of contact John's arse in Sherlock's lap, Sherlock's cock in his arse.
John raised himself, Sherlock almost slid out completely and pushed up, back in. John stayed in this position, hovered over him and Sherlock pushed up and fell down. Their heads thrown back. Their bodies in a wide-spread v. They fucked, it wasn't as deep as before and they cooled down a little and then they heated back up again and Sherlock drilled upwards and John started shaking in his arms from holding himself up for so long and then with a howl he fell down just as Sherlock spurted up and Sherlock groaned, too, and he hit John's prostate so hard and John saw white and he came. His insides clenched around Sherlock and then Sherlock dared a look at John's face and that was too, too much, he grabbed at the man and bodily pulled him against him and tried to bury himself into his tight hot body but he couldn't, Sherlock couldn't, and so he came because it was the next best thing and he mustn't leave marks but he could mark him from the inside and John would drip Sherlock for hours now.
Sherlock fell back, with John on top, against the walls of the blanket fort and tore it down. Around them pillars of books came tumbling down and every one missed them. The blankets fell on them, enveloped them, and John started laughing breathlessly. Sherlock pushed at his shoulders to press him flush against him and wanted to feel that laugh in his chest and he did, he felt it there. He laughed, too, and John brushed his sweaty damp hair out of Sherlock's face. Sherlock was still in him.
"Are you okay?" John, sweet gentle John, asked. He didn't look too worried, though. Sherlock nodded.
"Yes," he said.
"All right." John laid his head on his chest and tried to calm his breathing.
"We've set a date," John announced stepping into the kitchen.
"I don't follow." Bored.
"Mary and I. For the wedding." Sherlock didn't pay him the least bit of attention. John turned, faced the counter. The sound of a zip being opened and those of fabric being lowered filled the cold silence. Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes ablaze with something like furious indignation.
"What are you doing?" he said to John's naked arse.
"I just thought you'd want to claim what's yours now," John said just as acidly, not bothering with eye contact. Sherlock stood up and opened his own trousers as he walked over behind John. He palmed his cock to force blood into it. He cupped John's buttock almost reverently, grazing his fingertips over the flesh.
"Oh we both know I don't need to claim anything," he said dangerously calm and low, "If it already belongs to me." He forced his cock into the dry heat and John hissed in pain.
John was on his bed, on his knees. He was naked, it was dark. He was facing the door and, therefore, Sherlock.
Sherlock went over to him, not knowing what he was supposed to do and so was silent. John reached out a hand for him, but too low to want his hand in return. Sherlock stopped, John reached for his zip and took Sherlock out of his pants. His other hand poured lube over Sherlock's cock and John spread it stroking. Under his deft fingers Sherlock grew hard and filled out. When John deemed it enough, he stopped his strokes.
Sherlock walked around the bed, trying not to trip over his loosened trousers. He got onto the bed, knelt behind John. His hands reached around his chest, pushed his back against Sherlock's chest and his palms cupped John's nipples. Sherlock slid in.
John, gasping, was open but tight, Sherlock was hard. He slid in with very little hindrance, John once more gripping at him with his muscles. Welcoming him back to his heat.
Sherlock mouthed at his shoulder.
"Please," said John, reminding him quietly.
"I know," replied Sherlock and shut his mouth, lips closed at John's shoulder, tongue darting out now and then, painting a wide stripe from John's shoulder to his earlobe. John moaned.
"You're mine," Sherlock whispered into his ear.
"You're mine," he said as he pushed up.
"You're mine, you're mine, you're mine," he chanted, every thrust of his hips accompanied by the declaration.
"You're mine, you're mine, you're mine, you're mine, you're mine, you're mine," he sobbed.
"!'m yours," John affirmed into his mouth. He kissed Sherlock, doing with his tongue what Sherlock's cock did to his arse. A perfect copy.
"You're mine, you're mine," his voice broke. He came. He sank back on his heels, his body limp. John fucked himself on his slowly softening cock, wanking, and slumped forward to catch himself on his hands. He felt Sherlock's come running out of his arse.
Sometimes Sherlock fucked him with his fingers or sometimes with a dildo. He couldn't always get hard, but he could always fill John's arse with something. It was his to do with as he pleased and it needed filling and Sherlock always, always provided.
"Do you love me?" They were naked in bed. "Because I do. I love you." John felt the attempt was a futile one.
"No." The reply was immediate. Sherlock left it at that, offered no further explanation. John swallowed around the lump in his throat. He had tried, and predictably failed and it hurt nonetheless.
He took a moment to calm down over the rejection. He sat up, swung his legs out of the bed, not getting up or out. Just sat there, his back to Sherlock.
"You knew that," Sherlock said lowly.
"Half of the time you're not even aroused," John said over him. "I don't know what you get off of. It doesn't even hurt any more. I don't" A warm, gentle hand was placed on his shoulder, "understand," so incongruous with the words or the tone they were uttered in.
"I'll fuck you with my fingers if I have to, or a stick," they were, "But don't forget even for a minute that you're mine and I will have you whenever I want." A soft, warm kiss was pressed behind his ear, a hint of a tongue, and then the hand on his shoulder pulled and pushed until John was on his side, lying facing the wall and two fingers were shoved into his arse unceremoniously, still open and come-lubricated. Then three. It was only the position he lay in that made the penetration tight. Moans were forced from his throat when Sherlock brushed the tips of his fingers over his prostate. He was rough with John. Then the fingers withdrew and a drawer was opened and the hard cold unforgiving silicone of a dildo replaced the fingers and John groaned at the feeling of fullness.
"Don't you ever forget who you belong to," Sherlock's cold voice reminded him. He fucked John for an hour with the dildo until he was raw and begged for release or to be left alone and Sherlock replaced the plastic with his flesh and emptied himself into him a second time.
And then they were fighting. Sherlock slapped him without bite. He cupped John's face, as ever gently, and studied the cold blue gaze that was directed at him unwaveringly.
"You're not afraid," he stated enthralled.
"Of course not, you idiot."
"Why not?"
"Because we said no marks and you'd leave a mark if you'd hurt me."
"Oh would I? And that's supposed to restrain me? Your silly little rule?" His hand clamped tighter. "Tell me, what exactly is it you would do if I marked you?" John's gaze was levelled and hard.
"I'd turn around and leave. That mark you'll have left will be the last thing you've seen of me for the rest of your pathetic life." It was a challenge and it would be taken as such.
Sherlock slapped him again, still too light to bruise. John hardly blinked an eye.
"You wouldn't," again it was a statement of fact. He slapped him harder to no reaction. He raised his hand for the fourth blow and John intercepted it. Twisting his arm to his back, he turned Sherlock around. He had to stand on the balls of his feet to whisper directly into the taller man's ear.
"Stop it, fucker," he breathed. "You need me just as much as I need you. I said stop it!" furious as Sherlock tried to twist free. John shoved him to the ground and Sherlock fell to his knees on the hard floor. He panted. He heard John's steps in the direction of the door.
"John," he shouted and John stopped dead in his tracks. Sherlock struggled to his feet, turned around.
"Don't you dare leave," he said menacingly. John's eyes shot daggers at him.
"You don't get to tell me what to do."
"I do!"
"No, I let you!" The angry words echoed through his head.
"I drew up a will today," John said, running his hand over his face. Sherlock didn't heed him. They were in his kitchen and he was reading something on his laptop. It struck John for a moment to see Sherlock on his own laptop for once.
"It was part of the prenuptial agreement, you know," he kept on explaining even though it was clear Sherlock wasn't interested no matter how uncomfortable John obviously was and how much he wanted to maybe talk about it.
"That's very interesting," Sherlock deadpanned.
"Yeah, well, just so you know, you're in it." Sherlock actually glanced up at John at that. "Just thought you'd like to know. So you'd actually show up at my funeral. In case," he ended pathetically.
"What do you have that you felt I would like enough to leave me?" Sherlock asked, and it was more than a little condescending, although there was a bit of interest mixed into it, too, if you looked closely.
"Yeah, as I said. You'd have to come to my funeral. To find out." Sherlock huffed in annoyance and turned his attention back to his laptop. "It's a good thing," it was John's last desperate attempt, "It belongs to you, anyway." Sherlock was decidedly not intrigued.
"Make me hard."
"You're that lazy now, are you?" John incredulously watched him sit down on the sofa. Lazily Sherlock pulled down his zip, unbuttoned his trousers and took out his limp cock. He stroked it a couple of times to almost no results.
"I want to fuck you," Sherlock spat at him. "With my cock," before John could say anything about the dildo in the bedroom. He pulled on his prick languidly. John stared at it. He licked his lips.
"It doesn't look like it," he tried before he knew he'd inevitably give in.
"Look again." He did. Still nothing there.
John took a step towards him. He was stopped almost directly.
"Lube," Sherlock chided. John swore under his breath and like a good pet he went to fetch it. "It's for your own good," Sherlock called after him.
He came back to Sherlock sprawled over the sofa and coffee table. His head on the cushions and his arse supported by the edge of the couch, feet on the table. John sat down on the table. He poured lube onto his left hand and warmed it up between his fingers. He started stroking Sherlock.
What Sherlock couldn't achieve, John could. He felt him grow hard under his fingers and after a while Sherlock began chanting a soft moan. It sounded like music. It turned John on.
"Show me how you prepare yourself," Sherlock ordered. John stood up, took off pants and trousers and shoes and socks.
"Shirt," Sherlock was always affected by John's nudity. He sounded breathless, had taken over what he thought of as John's job and pleasured himself with slow, long strokes, not rushing, enjoying. John stood naked.
He sat down on the table and shifted forward until his arse hung over the edge. Again he poured a generous amount of lube into his hand and put his fingers to his hole. Sherlock propped higher, his eyes unblinking on John's hand between his legs. He watched his fingers disappear in John, imagining it was his cock, a pleasant thrill shooting through him because in a minute it would be.
Two fingers. Three. Sherlock became impatient.
"Enough," he hissed. John stopped.
"Come here," he ordered. John sat down on his cock. With the lube and preparation he slid on comfortably. He threw back his head, breaking the eye contact. Sherlock stared at his face greedily. He needed to see every emotion on it.
"Move, damn it," he growled when John was still for far too long and gave a sharp thrust with his hips.
"Lazy arse," John muttered but started bobbing up and down on his cock. He worked up a rhythm and took his own cock in hand to jerk at the same time. Sherlock watched everything, fascinated. He leaned forward when John climaxed to cup his face.
"You're amazing," he whispered fervently, unheard by John in the throes of his passion. Sherlock threw them on the sofa, with him on top, and plunged down, picking up the pace until his hips were a blur.
Obviously, Mary found out. For all that Sherlock didn't leave marks, he knew it was only a matter of time until they became too blatant. Maybe it was the come in his pants, Sherlock thought, but no, John was too careful for that. How wasn't important, either way.
"Keep your hands off my husband," Mary spit. She had never looked so ugly, Sherlock noted unfazed.
"He's not your husband yet," he said. She arched an eyebrow in silent challenge. "Is this a threat? Because you have nothing to threaten me with," he informed her. She came very close.
"You can give him nothing, nothing, that I can't give him as well," she said uncomfortably close to his face. "Nothing that I cannot do with my fingers or, or a dildo. He only comes to you for sex!" She tilted her head, attacked Sherlock from the other side.
"He doesn't love you," she continued. "If he did he weren't going to marry me." She hissed the last word into this face, blowing the fringe out of his face. Mary raised her eyebrows as if she were sure she had dealt her death blow. Sherlock couldn't stand to see her uncorrected. He closed the distance between them.
"Oh he will marry you, but don't think for a second it's because he chose you when the truth is it's because I told him to." Her eyes widened in uncertainty. "And then, when you'll stand beside him at the altar, know that I will have fucked him an hour before, right there at the church, and the only reason my come isn't running down his legs is because I will have stuffed a plug in his arse so it won't ruin his suit and so he will stay open for me. When he says I do, he will wish you were me. And when you lose sight of him that day, even just for five minutes, know he'll be on my cock then, riding it and loving every second. He won't be able to walk straight after I will have had my way with him and he will tell you it's because he's drunk too much, even though you will be able to smell me on him." Mary stared at him speechless, shocked and disgusted.
"Oh, and also?" he asked. "It occurs to me you have never read his will, either." Mary fell a step back. She looked terrified.
"His will?" she asked not able to make out its importance. "I know his will, he leaves everything to me and our children." She tried to sound sure.
"I don't care about money or petty possessions," Sherlock said. He glared at her, swept his eyes up and down her face, then swirled around to fetch a piece of paper from his desk drawer. It was one page.
"I've a copy, if you're interested," nonchalantly he handed it to her. He had procured the copy from John's lawyer. It wasn't, strictly speaking, acquired legally, but that had never stopped Sherlock before, either. Mary read it. She spoke after the first lines.
"Everything, he leaves everything to me," she said and had regained a little of her confidence.
"For God's sake, read on, woman," Sherlock barked impatiently. She did, hurriedly, frightened. When she came to the relevant part, she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.
"I don't understand," she confessed. Sherlock loomed over her, straightened his back even further and tilted his chin up to look down at her from over his nose.
"No, of course you don't. I asked him to give me something, something that you could never have. Do you know what he said to me?" he asked, knowing full well she couldn't possibly, because John would rather die before he told her, quite literally. "He said it had belonged to me all along." It was his death blow and contrary to hers, it hit its target. Mary gasped and let the sheet of paper drop. She stared at Sherlock, hatred hot in her eyes, and stormed out of his flat, banging the doors behind her loudly. Sherlock smirked.
He will keep it in formaldehyde and place it next to the skull on the mantle. Not that he planned outliving John, at the very least not for long.