A/N: Written for the Let's Write Sherlock! challenge on Tumblr. Um. Shameless smut, PWP.
John sat in stony silence, fuming the entire cab ride back to 221B Baker Street. He ignored the waves of smugness emanating from the consulting detective sitting on the other side of the cab. Normally they sat closer together, but apparently even Sherlock couldn't ignore John's fury. The clear-headed part of him wondered absently if Sherlock even knew why he was angry. John doubted it. Finally the taxi stopped and John pushed roughly out of his side, leaving Sherlock to pay for the first time in months. Served the rat bastard right.
His key opened the lock easily and he walked upstairs. If it hadn't been in the middle of the night he would have stormed to show his displeasure, but he didn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson - the poor woman put up with enough as it was. Sherlock bounded up the stairs behind him, his long legs effortless in their ability to take two stairs at once. John silently opened the door to the flat and stalked inside like a tiger ready to pounce, just waiting for his prey. And then the prey sauntered in.
"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" John snarled. Quick as a bullet he grabbed Sherlock and pinned him to the wall. Not that it was difficult when he didn't even try to break free, his smug smirk on his face. "You fucking bastard. You nearly got Lestrade and I killed."
"Lestrade and me," Sherlock corrected. "Besides, you weren't really in that much danger." He winced when John thumped him against the wall none too gently.
"You are not to do that again, do you hear me?" John demanded. Sherlock snorted dismissively and attempted to break out of John's hold. He frowned when he realized he couldn't, struggling slightly under John's hands. "Oh, no you don't." John shifted closer, lifting up until his mouth was near Sherlock's ear. "Someone needs to be punished," he murmured, pitching his voice as low and rumbly as possible. He felt Sherlock jerk underneath him and when he pulled his head back, he was satisfied to see that Sherlock's pupils had expanded considerably. It was the reaction he had been hoping for. "Yes, that's right," he purred, pressing his body up against Sherlock's. "You know what I want." Slipping his hands down Sherlock's body so he could squeeze the globes of his perfectly formed arse, John released Sherlock and took a step back.
He watched as Sherlock darted to the front door, locked it, and then disappeared into his bedroom. Their bedroom, most nights. He gave Sherlock two minutes and then walked in, shutting the door carefully behind him. Sherlock had stripped and placed his hands flat on the wall, his arse jutting out towards John, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. Resting on the bed was his leather riding crop. John smirked and sauntered over to the bed. He shed his jacket and jumper, leaving his shirt and jeans on.
John looked Sherlock up and down appreciatively, his eyes lingering on the pale expanse of his back, the swell of his arse, the hardness between his legs. He could feel his cock stir in his jeans but ignored it for now. That would come later. "You deliberately defied me, Sherlock." John pitched his voice low, caressing the words as he picked up the crop. "You nearly got me killed." He held the end in one hand, fingering the leather tip. "I think we shall do seven. And you will count." Sherlock's low moan sent sparks flicking down John's spine, coiling in his lower belly and building in his cock. A sharp flick, the top of his left buttock. Sherlock jerked and moaned again. "What do you say?"
"Yes, John. Please," Sherlock begged, his voice low and needy.
"You look so good like this. You know that, don't you, Sherlock?" John trailed the tip of the crop up the back of one of Sherlock's legs, teasing it up the cleft of his arse to his lower back. "Legs further apart." Immediately Sherlock shifted so that his stance was wider. John smiled and then brought the crop down, a stinging tap, just underneath the swell of his left buttock. Sherlock choked back a cry of surprise.
"One," he murmured with a whimper, moving slightly. John trailed the crop up his spine, stroking the back of Sherlock's neck for a few moments.
"Head back." Sherlock tilted his head back and John slipped the triangle into his mouth. "Suck." John watched the clever mouth suckle the tip of the crop for a minute before he drew it out, tracing down the side of Sherlock's body this time. He followed up with a stinging slap to the underside of his right buttock, watching the skin redden under the touch.
"Two," Sherlock moaned, his hips rolling involuntarily as he searched for friction, anything.
"Keep your hands on the wall." Sherlock hunched his shoulders at the sound of John's voice, his hands pressing even tighter against the wall. "God, Sherlock. You look so fucking sexy like this, waiting for me to punish you..." John hit harder this time, aiming for the middle of Sherlock's left buttock. The taller man let out a strangled moan and jerked his hips forward.
"Three." His voice was strangled, a barely-there whimper as he fought to keep his hips steady. John's smile was cat-like, predatory. This was his Sherlock, reduced to whimpers, shivers, groans, all because of him. Without preamble he hit his right arsecheek, matching the mark on his left. "Four," Sherlock forced out, soft whimpers escaping his throat now. He was starting to drip precome, his cock erect against his belly. He truly had a fantastic cock, John mused, able to see it as he stood at Sherlock's side. Long and slender and perfect, just like the rest of him. He shuddered and then forced himself to focus.
"You like this, don't you?" he asked conversationally, prowling about. The crop was constantly moving up and down Sherlock's back and sides, dragging slowly sometimes and teasing others. Sherlock shivered under the onslaught of sensations and John tilted it down, using it to tease the crease between his arse and thighs. "You've got the most fantastic arse, you know that? Especially when it's all pink and warm under my hands." Angling the crop he hit the sensitive spot behind Sherlock's balls. This time Sherlock had to fight to get himself under control before he was able to gasp out the fifth number. "Two more. You're doing so well," John said softly, reassuring.
This time he let the silence linger, watching Sherlock's arse redden from the earlier hits. Sherlock was doing his best to not rut into midair, soft gasps escaping and his hands clenching uselessly at the wall, unable to get purchase. It was gorgeous watching him. Another hit underneath the earlier marks on the left part of his arse and Sherlock's breath hitched. "Six," he whimpered. John was achingly hard in his jeans now. He palmed himself with his free hand, trying to relieve some of the pressure before he turned his attention back to Sherlock's waiting form.
"One more," he said soothingly. He trailed the riding crop up Sherlock's spine and then removed it. A sharp thwack and there was a matching mark on the right side, just underneath the second hit.
"Seven," Sherlock panted, his cheeks and the back of his neck red from the exertion of maintaining his control. John smiled.
"What do you want, Sherlock?" He trailed the soft, spit-soaked tip of the riding crop up the slightly-parted cleft of his arse. "Tell me."
"I want to suck your cock, John." Sherlock's hands clenched against the wall and a shudder raced down his body. "I want to feel you come down my throat, I want you to fuck my face until I can't feel my lips."
"Oh do you," John purred. "You're such a good little cock slut, Sherlock. You love the taste of my cock, love the feeling of me ramming it down your throat, don't you?" Sherlock nodded, his hair bouncing vigorously as he showed his agreement. "Down on your knees. Face me." Immediately Sherlock turned around, his erect cock bobbing against his stomach before he sank down onto his knees. John had picked the spot deliberately - there was extra cushioning on the floor in the rug. He knew the aches and pains that came from sitting crouched in one spot for a long period of time and he didn't want anything that would distract Sherlock from what was happening.
John stripped his clothes off carefully, placing them on top of a chair not far from their bed. The riding crop was placed on top of his clothes, retired for now. Sherlock watched him hungrily, his eyes darting to the throbbing cock hanging between his legs. He had left a large wet spot in his pants, leaking precome. "You may not touch yourself," he warned. Sherlock whimpered but stopped immediately when John lifted an eyebrow. The mass of hair moved as Sherlock nodded his agreement, his eyes on John's cock as he drew closer. John settled himself against the wall, bracing himself so that he could stand in the same spot for a long period of time.
Sherlock shifted closer until he had his nose an inch away from John's cock, his eyes hungry. He licked his lips, looking up at John for permission. Slowly John threaded a hand into Sherlock's hair, flexing slightly until he had a good grip. "What do you want, Sherlock?" Teasingly he edged Sherlock's mouth closer, until he was close enough that he could slip the tip into his mouth and tongue the slit before John tightened the grip and eased him off of his cock. Sherlock whined and whimpered, fighting John's grasp, trying to get his mouth back to John's cock.
"I want to suck your cock." Sherlock's voice was harsh, ragged, and his breathing came in sharply as he strained. "Please, please let me suck you, please, fuck my face, John. Please." He stifled small cries, sticking out his tongue in an attempt to get some form of contact with the cock bobbing in front of him. John let a sinful smile spread across his face and he let Sherlock drift closer, listening to the moan as Sherlock wrapped his cupid bow lips over the head of John's throbbing cock. Slowly John moved Sherlock's mouth up and down his cock, reveling in the wet heat surrounding him.
There was nothing the man wasn't good at - besides remembering to take care of himself, that was. John let a moan escape and he tilted his head back, the pace increasing fractionally. The night had been rough prior to them getting home and he was achingly hard from punishing his lover. It wouldn't take long for him to orgasm. Sherlock did something particularly clever with his tongue (a little wiggle underneath the foreskin, bunching it up, pressing his tongue into the slit) and John groaned. "God, Sherlock. Those lips on my cock. You were born for it, and you like it, like a good little cock whore. You like sucking my cock." Sherlock moaned his agreement, his lips and tongue working to drive John maddeningly close to the edge.
Fingers questioningly touched his balls and he nodded. "Slowly." Deft, long fingers started playing with his heavy bollocks, tugging and rolling them torturously slow. John bit back another groan, his hips starting to thrust into Sherlock's mouth as he tugged his head further down on his cock. Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and John moaned, drawing eager, encouraging whimpers from the consulting detective as he sucked harder. "Fuck, your mouth," John said breathlessly, his hips pumping harder into the hot wetness of the eager mouth. Sherlock bobbed his head slightly in a nod, his fingers more insistent, the movements slow and tortuous and oh god John was close.
Bracing one hand against the wall and tightening his grip in Sherlock's hair, John felt the other man's jaw loosen up in response. He started pumping his cock faster into Sherlock's mouth, shifting positions so that he could ram it right down his throat. Soft whimpers and moans signaled Sherlock's encouragement and John leaned harder against the wall, his fist spasming as he attempted to gain purchase. A long hand guided it into Sherlock's hair and he twined it softly into the curls, stroking Sherlock's forehead gently in thanks. Sherlock had his eyes mostly closed, his mouth stretched around the thickness of John's saliva-wet cock.
Looking down at Sherlock, John smiled. He increased his pace, marveling at how Sherlock was able to lick and suck despite the fact his head was controlled by John's hands. "Oh god," he swore when Sherlock swallowed with John's cock all the way down his throat. The throat muscles constricting about the head of his cock - it was nearly as good as the times he had fucked Sherlock. "Your mouth, your sinful, delicious mouth, fuck, Sherlock..." Fingers played rapidly with his balls, tugging and stroking and cupping and he swallowed again and he sucked and he could press down deeper this way, straight into his throat and...
John came with a strangled shout, his hips pumping his come straight down Sherlock's throat as he cried Sherlock's name. Sherlock stayed quiet, soft whimpers of encouragement coming out around John's cock, the humming prolonging the aftershocks of his orgasm. Finally John pulled Sherlock's head off of his cock. The man's lips were red and wet with saliva from the sucking and mouth-fucking and he looked positively debauched. "Come here, love." Sherlock stood immediately, standing and looking at John. John smiled at him and then looked down, noting the large wet patch of precome on Sherlock's stomach. Not quite strong enough to stand on his own, he reached up and grabbed Sherlock's head with a hand, drawing him in for a bruising kiss, teeth and tongues fighting for dominance. Sherlock moaned into the kiss, his hips rutting forward, his cock seeking purchase for its own release.
His free hand snaked around to grab Sherlock's cock and the taller man groaned and whimpered as John took him in hand. It didn't take long - the crop combined with John's release had Sherlock achingly hard and some sharp, twisting strokes later, Sherlock spilled into John's hand, sobbing his orgasm into John's mouth as they kissed until both men were boneless. John grabbed a nearby box of tissues and cleaned them off, his hands wobbling from post-orgasm exhaustion. "Bed," the military doctor murmured, trying to guide them there without both collapsing.
Somehow they made it to Sherlock's bed, Sherlock laying on his stomach and John grabbing for the aloe vera on the night stand. One sleepy hand rubbed some soothing cream gently into Sherlock's backside, making sure that they would not sting badly in the morning. "There you go, love." John said, his voice soft and tender. Sherlock tugged sleepily on his arm, turning onto his side. John laid down next to him and scooted into Sherlock's embrace, feeling an arm drape about his middle.
Sherlock nuzzled the back of his neck, pressed as close to John as possible. His breathing was slow and languid, his long fingers stroking the soft skin of John's abdomen. "I love you," Sherlock said suddenly.
John smiled and squeezed Sherlock's forearm, reassuring. "I love you too. Now get some sleep."