Jerk
"You can't see yourself masturbating, that's why!" Sherlock said, at volume.
John was a moment from shushing his husband again when the drunk man waved a long arm dramatically, "Because if you could see yourself wanking, if you could see yourself stretched out on the bed and going at it you'd…you'd…you'd wank. I mean oh god that's sexy, John."
Sherlock paused to squint into the middle distance while John calmly met the eye of the four women and six men currently at the bar. Two of the women and one of the men licked their lips.
"Sherlock."
"The first time I watched you masturbate I think I had an aneurysm. You're a doctor. You know about aneurysms!"
The man and one of the women stood up and started to approach but became snarled in a little traffic jam on their way. They ended up distracted and snarling at one another.
"Sherlock."
"Seriously, it was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen. And I'm a consulting detective. I know about pretty!"
Everyone, including the horny bar patrons, stopped to mull that one over.
"Sherlock, you are drunk, I am about to be propositioned, and we are leaving."
John herded his husband off the bar stool, nodded curtly at the still-attentive bar patrons, did not slug anyone in the jaw when he felt a hand on his arse as they passed—mainly because he didn't know whose hand it was—and steered his inebriated sweetheart out into the spring night.
"I am too drunk—hey, why am I not lisping?—but that doesn't change anything about the pretty, pretty way you jerk-off, John." There, outside the nice little pub on a nice little Hampstead side street, Sherlock looked at his feet. "It's two point seven miles to Baker, John Watson-Holmes, and I don't think these large, imposing, manly feet are going to make it that far."
Why John looked down at Sherlock's feet along with Sherlock he couldn't say. And why Sherlock thought they were walking home when Sherlock complains about any mode of transit other than taxi John did not know, but both of those things occurred and then suddenly the consulting detective and his manly feet were heading south at a ferocious clip and John had to jog briskly to catch up.
Nothing much happened but a lot of walking for exactly two point one miles. Then the wildly inappropriate, possibly illegal, and really rather wonderful thing that happened that night started to happen, right there outside the shut-tight gates of Regent's Park.
First, let's pause and admit something here: John and Sherlock get up to a lot of shenanigans. They've been known to drink too much, eat too much, self-medicate, do their nails in an enclosed space, and in one memorable instance suffer dual concussions that made both of them giddy as sherry-drunk nuns. So the fact that now, at half past eight on a spring night, they both decided to trespass into the park by kind of flipping over the fence—it's not very high, a rugged child could scale the thing—and then noisily tip-toe through the dark…well it's not really that surprising, is it?
As a matter of fact, so unsurprising was the behavior, to both of them, that John didn't even grouse about it. He accepted it as par for the John-and-Sherlock course and as a matter of fact went about making things worse. Er, better. Um, it's all in the perspective really.
The point being, John amped it all up a couple gajillion notches and he didn't even have the excuse of being really, really sloshed. (Why was Sherlock drunk? Because once in awhile Doctor Watson prescribes that medication to this particular patient. It's only a few times a year, but when he senses it's needed, when he thinks it'll help, when he's sure getting rat-faced snockered will prevent something worse, he liquors Sherlock up like fucking woah-and-damn).
So, anyway. Regent's Park. Have you been?
Like Hyde Park it's got plenty of trees, but in Regent's most of them nestle around the park rim, leaving its center open, grassy, and green. Near the park's hub sits a lonely little building called, unironically, the Hub, and it was to that squat rise of metal and glass John pointed and to which the two men tromped.
The Hub itself was not their goal, actually, it was the addition being constructed beside it for which they aimed. Short, broad, and made of grey brick, it matched its mate in absolutely no particular and—if possible—made the ugly little structure twice as unsightly.
That's not the point actually. The point is they stood at the edge of that stocky new edifice and looked up at the inviting expanse of its flat roof and they got ideas. John's was simple: Could look at the stars up there. That'd be nice. Do a little snogging, maybe. That'd be nice.
Sherlock's idea was slightly more complex and went something like this:
Plunging his hand into John's coat pocket, he fished around awhile, went "ah ha!" loudly, and tugged a small camera from the pocket's deep confines. He then said, "You're going to wank for me now, yes? And I'm going to—" Sherlock was going to burp. "—excuse me. I'm going to film you doing it and then I'm going to—" Sherlock was going to sway woozily, and burp again. "—oh my. I'm going to show you the video and I then I'm going to—" Sherlock belched noisily once more. "—well then. I'm then going to bet you a hundred pounds you'll get so turned on you get hard again."
Here's the thing. It was a Tuesday. About half past eight.
If it had been a Monday or a Friday or a Saturday none of this would have happened. John's got some shows he likes on telly on those nights, and on at least two of those evenings people tend to linger long in the park and maybe a few do the dogging thing in the denser patches of trees. But it was a Tuesday and there was nothing else going. No case to run home to (hence the get-Sherlock-drunk prescription), nothing on TV, and no one within a quarter kilometre of them to interrupt any proceedings.
So John huffed out a quick breath, lifted his chin to enjoy the unseasonably soft spring breeze, and he looked up at the almost-reachable edge of that low-lying roof and he said, "I kind of win either way, don't I?"
Sherlock happily burped his agreement.
"Well then, you giant, tall, drunken creature, give your husband a boost. And no inappropriate fondling while you do."
Sherlock nodded, burped again.
Only once John was on the roof of the squat little structure did he realize Sherlock was, you know, not. Or rather not able to give himself a boost up. That was when John learned something about his husband he did not know.
One.
Two.
Three.
All it took were three slightly protruding bricks and John's reaching hand and Sherlock was on the roof with him.
"I did a bit of indoor mountain climbing for a case a few years ago." Burp. "I've got very long, very strong toes for m'size they told me."
John was not at all surprised at this news, not even a little bit. He was, however, just a teensy bit sort of rock-hard all of a sudden.
"I have extra roots in two of my molars," the good doctor replied, feeling he had to somehow meet might with…well, molars apparently.
Sherlock thought about this with a soft huff. "Can I have them if they ever go bad?" He was drunk yes, but Sherlock would've asked the exact same question sober.
"Of course." John was sober, but he'd have given the exact same answer drunk.
Dear god does anyone currently living wonder why these two are a match made in heaven?
"Thank you. I'll come up with some interesting experiments for them." When discussing experiments, even a completely sloshed Sherlock suddenly has the crisp diction of a college professor. "S'now, you're going to wank for me John Hamish Watson-Holmes?" Aaaand then it was gone.
John thought about the answer briefly, then remembered it was Tuesday and they really had nothing going and what the hell, let's rack up another for the memory books, eh Captain?
"Yes, my espoused, I do believe I am."
And then John stood, dropped his trousers and his pants with something of a dramatic flourish, and to the sound of his husband's refined but sincere applause, he took a bow.
"I—" burp "—am not filming—" burp "—yet."
John was aware of that. He was also aware that the combination of a heroic number of chilies on his nachos and vast quantities of tonic with his vodka, had left Sherlock very, well, gassy. It was somehow endearing and possibly a turn on.
John frowned and did not even try to begin to get in the vague vicinity of the remote neighborhood of why this might be so.
Instead, standing tall, under cover of dark, John stepped out of pants and trousers. "Are you going to wank for me while I wank for you?"
Sherlock settled cross-legged on the flat roof, scratched his crotch solemnly and said, "My dick is staying in m'pants, John Watson. My dick is not coming out and, um, coming. Not for the duration of your—" Sherlock gestured erratically at John's crotch. "—of your duration."
John now realized why the burping had kind of turned him on. His subconscious recalled that it was one sign Sherlock was loaded right on up to the eyeballs and that when thus impaired he was inclined to let his inner John Watson have free run of his mouth. This apparently turned John Watson on. John was not even going to begin to get in the vague vicinity of the remote neighborhood of why this might be so. Okay? Okay.
"Afterward then?"
Sherlock grunted as if withholding a burp, then burped. "Then I'll do anything you tell me to John Watson-Holmes." And with that Sherlock Holmes-Watson started the camera.
Let it be said that John's never had an orgasm while standing up in his life. To the good doctor, being vertical is the exact opposite of orgasms. It's rigid and tense and distracting and yet apparently John was going to go right ahead and jerk off standing up because, without even a by-your-leave, his hand was already sliding along his cock as Sherlock said that little "do anything" thing and then Sherlock kept talking and so John kept stroking.
"I'll take off my clothes for you John," intoned the drunken husband of the sober man. "I will take them off with exsk—ek—exsqu—with great, slow, sexy care."
John nodded there in the dark, star light, moonlight, and who knows, perhaps pheromones providing just enough illumination to let consulting spouses see the encouragement of wanking ones.
"After you—" Sherlock's filming hand was steady, but the rest of him swayed, "—after you do this pretty, pretty thing…I'll…" Sherlock let his mouth drift open in unabashed oral desire. "…oh my but I'll get on my knees for you, John. And right after you come and come, while your cock is still…mmmmm, throbbing…while you're still rocking and dripping and it's all still running warm over your hand…" Sherlock groaned prettily. "…before you've even had a chance to catch your breathe or open your eyes…"
John opened his eyes. Like a posh public school boy slumming with the rough lads, Sherlock was sitting there on that roof with his fancy trousers undone and his hand shoved down his expensive pants and still that camera hand was stock-still and steady.
"…I'll crawl to you John, on my knees I'll crawl, slow and slower, doing this. Still. Doing. This."
This was pushing, cupping, pressing, and then lifting his hand to his mouth and licking his slick palm bare of pre-come.
John's not Sherlock. He doesn't drag out the sex every chance he gets. Sometimes he just wants to get there, be there, be done. So he can be something else. So he can be Sherlock's something else.
"Wait," sighed Sherlock, "Not yet."
John took a quick breath, held it long. He stopped stroking his very lovely erection and then Sherlock did it, he rose to his knees, left hand holding that camera, right tented on the rooftop, and he crawled carefully toward John, in slow and steady inches.
When he lifted his chin, looked up, smiled and opened his mouth that was it.
John's knees wanted to give out, tried to give out, did not give out, but they buckled and he stumbled as the pleasure washed through cold and sharp and all of it there, just there, where cock met hand.
He didn't even know he was moaning until he heard Sherlock too, low and deep and breathless.
When he opened his eyes his husband was watching him stroke, milk, pull, that lush mouth still open, chin gently darning the air as if with each lift and dip he was there being filled, sucking, feeding.
"Oh god, Sherlock…"
"Mmmmmm," said the man with that name, waiting, waiting for his husband to steady, to breathe, and then he whispered, "Time time time to bring that here."
John looked down. He'd unconsciously cupped his palm over his cock as the orgasm took him, and even now as he stroked softly, he caught the last drops of come before they fell. He laughed a little and at last let trembling legs fold under him.
Sherlock hummed again, pursed his lips, then decided if the doctor was not going to bring it here, he would get it there.
He crawled a few feet more and then—
"Sher—!"
—pushed John over onto his back with a soft butt of a hard detective head. Only once the good doctor was on his back on the roof did Sherlock tumble down beside him with a lusty "Oof!", a loud giggle, and a small camera.
"I still have the camera!" snickered the sloshed sleuth. "Wanna watch a movie?"
Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, but did take a few moments to prepare the scene. And by prepare we mean push his trousers and pants down to his calves and then whisper, "Can I have it?"
'It' was already cold. 'It,' as usual, was not exactly John's favorite thing this long after the pleasure. 'It' was cold come and it was still carefully cupped in John's broad hand.
"Um, okay." With solemn focus the two men made the exchange, John wincing as the chilly fluid kind of oozed into his sweetheart's waiting palm. "This is really rather gro—"
"Shhhhh," shushed Sherlock, teeth gleaming in the faint light. "This is really rather…oooooooh yeeeessss."
John would say that's when it started, the um, feelings down below. Later Sherlock would insist they surely began after he slicked himself up with John's come. John would maintain that no, it was really about the time Sherlock arched his back and spread his legs that it started. Later Sherlock would aver, saying it was actually when he held the camera up between them and pressed play and John Watson-Holmes watched himself fill up that tiny screen, that that's when those feelings began.
Doesn't actually matter. What did matter was Sherlock breathing softly, "Look." He huffed-hummed, giddy, drunk and stroking himself with his right hand while his left stayed so very still. "Do you see? Do you see how pretty you are John, how perfect?"
John kind of saw. And didn't. He didn't look as awkward as he'd feared, not awkward at all actually, he looked kind of sexy…but it wasn't really the sight of himself wanking that rushed blood south again. It was the sight of Sherlock watching that little movie, it was hearing Sherlock groaning low and steady, it was Sherlock damn well using John's come to help him masturbate.
No one needs to be told Sherlock took his time, watching that little two and a half minute video twice and still not coming. And no one needs to be told that the usually noisy man was even noisier—and therefore fucking epically sexy—while drunk. But maybe everyone does need to be told that half way through Sherlock watching the little film a third time John said, "Fuck it," and climbed aboard.
Sherlock didn't stop watching the video, but now he held the camera with both hands as John lubed up (once in a great while John is prepared for things like this; rarely, but today was one of those blue-moon days), reached behind him, grabbed hold of Sherlock's nice hot, hard prick, aimed, lowered, groaned, "oh dear god in his merciful heaven yes a thousand times yes," and started to rock.
And maybe we also need to tell you that Sherlock got very quiet suddenly and closed his eyes because he needed to hear it, really hear it, the tiny sweet sound of a tiny filmed John moaning, and the real and beautiful sound of the real man on top of him doing precisely same.
John, he almost said, pressing that tiny camera to his ear. John, John heard, bending over and whisper-moaning into the other ear.
And thus, now magnificently stereo-enhanced, we can happily tell you that Sherlock arched his back, clutched at John's shirt, and may have come through one whole additional repeat of the video or maybe it just felt that way.
Even after the orgasms were a pretty memory the two men did not dismount—from each other or that roof. And before blushes could fade or skin cool, while they were still sweaty and breathless and smiling, Sherlock wriggled his hand between them and fumbled a feel between John's legs.
"John Watthon-Holmth," he lisped in starry dark, "you owe me a hundred poundth."
At the sudden appearance of the drunken lisp John groaned, sucked hard on Sherlock's earlobe, and replied, "Hold…that…thought, love."
Then he plucked the camera from Sherlock's hand, sat up, pointed that little device down, where long-fingered hand met nascent erection and said, "You were saying?"
Over the next couple months Sherlock watched the second video—it was twenty minutes long because, well, sometimes it can take awhile to get going again, but it can, you know, go—one hundred and eighteen times.
It was when Sherlock woke him—again—wanking to minutes eleven through thirteen—again—that John mumbled, "About that hundred pounds, love. I think we're even." John yawned, then sleepily wriggled under the blankets and headed south. "Mmmm yeah, I think we are…"
The Hub at the center of Regent's Park exists, of course, but I totally made up the little brick building attached to it, because when Mereydd said that Sherlock "seems like the sort to make a video of himself jerking off and watch it to...well, jerk off," part of me agreed, but apparently part also figured it wasn't Sherlock being recorded, it was John, and who knows why everything has to switch itself around in my brain or grow fake buildings, but it does and it did and so here we are. Now if you'll excuse me I need to be temporarily indisposed.
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