I own nothing. This is my first Slash fic, honestly, never thought I would write one, but what can ya do. I hope you enjoy!
Sherlock was incredibly bored. Having not had a case in weeks he had taken to conducting his days clad in his bed sheet. Today had been slightly productive; Lestrade had called to ask for advice. Sherlock dolled out said advice without much thought. After helping the Detective Inspector he couldn't help but wonder how the man kept his job. After that pseudo-distraction Sherlock wrapped himself tightly, like a crepe with legs, and wandered to his flat's window to gaze upon the bustling Baker Street below.
He watched as the world passed by, reading each person quickly and casually. There was an awkward teenage couple and a lost, but content looking, tourist. He gazed upon the sight of a stern woman walking next to though slightly ahead of a meek balding man. There was an American term for a man who behaved like that. But a cursory search of his mind palace yielded nothing. He shrugged absently and vowed to ask John when he came back from work. If anyone would know, something as trivial as that, it was John.
The day faded and still Sherlock watched the masses teem on Baker Street. Prostitutes and cab drivers, the world spun around the sun even if Sherlock didn't know, or care. He just continued observing like some toga clad Greek statue.
After what seemed ages, the day began to fade, signaling the close of the mundane work day. People began to return home, offering the king in his bed sheet slight amusement.
A cab pulled up in front of 221b and the familiar jumper clad John Watson clambered out, briefcase in hand. Sherlock watched as the small man paid the cabbie and turned toward their looming flat. Sherlock got a look at John's face when he glanced up at the window. Every line of his body read rage and annoyance, with something else mixed in. At this distance, though, even his expert eyes couldn't tell what that extra emotion was. John was looking at Sherlock in the window and huffed visibly when he realized his flatmate was wearing only a sheet. The doctor rolled his eyes and made for the front door. He succeeded in making a racket upon entering. Rage entered the flat, followed closely by John and his angry steps.
Sherlock simply turned to look at his small angry friend. John's appearance made Sherlock smirk. The little man was wearing an absurdly adorable jumper, as usual. Coupling the jumper with the look of nearly untethered rage on John face, Sherlock was put in mind of a very angry kitten. This thought caused Sherlock's smirk to become a grin; which, was the wrong thing to do in the presence of said raging kitten. John narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips together. The kitten is going to use its claws, Sherlock thought.
"Fucking hell Sherlock! Wipe that damned grin off your face, you git!" John seethed.
This only made it physically impossible for Sherlock to do so.
"Did you do anything more than stare out the window in that ridiculous sheet? This isn't Buckingham Palace and I'm not Mycroft!"
Sherlock was now desperately trying not to laugh. So, instead he chose to antagonize John further. "No, you most certainly are not Mycroft, thankfully. I've been quite bored and have done nothing of import, no." He stated simply, his smirk the only thing that was tell to his amusement.
John visibly began to grind his teeth together. Then he spoke, "I worked my arse off today! Back to back appointments, pregnant teenagers and old women with venereal disease! Wretched!" He finally tossed his briefcase on his armchair and stalked toward Sherlock. Rage, frustration and that as yet indefinable emotion etched his features.
Suddenly, John was inches from Sherlock, his narrowed eyes and pursed lips angled up to look at Sherlock's wide blue eyes and smirking lips. "Here you stand all day, not even bothering to dress! I'm not the bloody Queen!"
Sherlock couldn't contain it anymore, he laughed from deep in his gut.
As Sherlock laughed at the memory he continued to study John's face. In spite of his angrily narrowed eyes, his pupils were dilated. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched and his hands were fisted at his sides.
Sherlock let his laughter die slowly even though he had quickly realized what John's unidentifiable emotion was. That something had been rolling off of John along with his rage since he came into the room.
Lust. That was the extra something Sherlock saw in John. It also explained why John couldn't seem to find his own references to the Palace incident as amusing as he should. Sherlock's friend and flatmate was visibly angry and horny.
Sherlock glanced down to see his observations confirmed by the bulge in John's trousers.
Suddenly, the detective felt exposed and raw standing there in his sheet. It was as though he was a live nerve being prodded, oddly enough, by a doctor. He faced dead bodies with glee, nude women without so much as a blush, but an enraged and aroused John Watson had him tingling.
Sherlock's body betrayed him severely for the first time in his life. Though his face was schooled with cool amusement, his lower body responded. His cock strained against his sheet. He could acutely feel the warmth flowing from John. John's rage and lust suddenly made Sherlock as horny as a teenager.
It seemed John noticed too, as his features softened slightly. He reached toward Sherlock, then, around him to twitch shut the drapes. His hand came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. A wry smile suddenly creased his features.
"Are you wearing any pants under there?" he asked moving in closer.
"No," Sherlock stated.
"Good!" John shucked Sherlock's sheet off him as deftly as he would a pair of latex gloves.
Sherlock's smirk grew as John used his surprising strength to shove him against the shuttered window to the world.
One of John's arms found its way behind Sherlock's neck to pull him down into a heated kiss. The other wiggled its way into the small space between them to place a callused palm around the detective's cock.
That did it. Sherlock gave up his sardonic façade and melted into John's embrace. He wrapped his arms around John slowly. All the while their tongues danced together to the beat of their rapid pulses. John continued to roughly tug Sherlock's erection. John's strong hands had him in a positively maddening situation. He dug his fingers into John's jumper, wrinkled his nose and snorted. He pulled away and moved his hands to hem of the offending garment and yanked it over John's head. Unfortunately, this detached John's hands from his hot cock. They looked into one and others eyes, John's were all pupil.
Before John could make another move, Sherlock had his hands at the button of John's tented trousers. He made quick work of the button and zipper. Slowly, he pulled both trousers and undergarments down, as he did so he lowered himself to his knees. He was now facing John's rock hard and straining cock. Sherlock stared at it as John kicked off the rest of his clothes completely.
When John stood still again Sherlock put his hands on John's hips and took his length into his mouth. He looked up as he gently bobbed on John's cock. The shorter mans eyes were closed in ecstasy. Sherlock smiled around the genital in his mouth. He bobbed back to the tip of John's cock and swirled his tongue around its engorged head. John grunted and grasped Sherlock's head, curling his fingers in the soft dark hair.
John made Sherlock take his cock ever more rapidly, bucking his hips wildly. Sherlock's long fingered hands still had a tight but sensuous grip on John's hips.
Just as Sherlock thought his aching jaw could take no more John arched his back, shoving himself deep in Sherlock's throat and came. Sherlock felt the warm cum slide down his gullet. He willingly took it all. John's body began to relax and his cock softened in Sherlock's mouth. Still, John held the dark haired man in thrall. Finally, John let go of Sherlock's head and pulled out. As he stood, Sherlock looked at his newly satisfied and surprisingly calm friend.
A wicked grin spread across John's face as they looked at each other. Once again, John pulled Sherlock into a passionate kiss. He could taste himself on Sherlock's lips. John's soldier hands went back to working on Sherlock's still hard cock.
Just as Sherlock was beginning to crest, John stopped. Sherlock's pleasure closed eyes snapped open just as John began to kneel to finish him off with his mouth.
The moment John's warm wet mouth closed on his cock, Sherlock came with a shudder that shocked him to the core. Wanking was one thing, but this was a physical plane Sherlock didn't know existed; until John's mouth embraced his cock.
John stood and wiping droplets of Sherlock's cum from his lips and chin. He stared into Sherlock's sex drugged eyes. John imagined his looked quite the same.
Sherlock staggered over to the sofa beneath the bullet riddled wall and stretched out languidly.
John followed. "Shove over big spoon," he stated. Sherlock's eyebrows rose. His usual sardonic attitude was manifesting again.
He snorted, "Big spoon." All the same, he moved to allow John to join him. He fit well, his naked backside nestled pleasantly against Sherlock's crotch.
Sherlock draped an arm over John's chest and rested his head on the other. John yawned and his stomach rumbled. Apparently, rage filled sex made John sleepy and ravenous.
Sherlock laughed, his body shaking his little spoon.
"And you laugh at me again?!" John grunted.
"Oh, come off it John! You started talking about sheets in the Palace earlier. What is it people say 'fond memories'? As for just now, your stomach rumbling made me laugh," Sherlock said, his breath warm on John's neck.
"Fair enough," John said, and fell silent.
Sherlock thought he had drifted off to sleep like a contented kitten when he suddenly spoke, "You're still a twat waffle."
"Excuse me? A 'twat waffle'?"
"Humm, I meant you're a twat. I was, however, thinking how hungry I am and how waffles sounded lovely."
"Twat waf-," Sherlock cut himself off mid-word. "Ha!" He sat up abruptly dumping John on the floor. "The information is still there!"
"What are you on about?" John complained from his unceremonious resting place.
"This morning, while I was watching people pass by the flat, I saw a rather dejected looking man following a stern woman. I knew there was an American slang term for men like him. I thought I deleted the information, but its still there. He was 'pussy whipped."
John just stared at Sherlock astonished. What? He mouthed.
"Completely and utterly cowed by his woman, John."
"I know what it means Sherlock," John said standing. "Good thing I'm not a woman." John gestured to his cock. He was getting annoyed again. Sherlock could practically see it coming off him in waves.
The shorter man began picking up his clothes and putting them back on. It was a shame to have John's flesh concealed by his jumper again. Sherlock's face betrayed nothing though, his moment of emotional laxity gone.
"Where are you going?" he asked casually from his position on the sofa.
"For waffles, I said I was hungry."
"Oh, is that so?" Sherlock steepled his hands to his chin and watched John dress.
When John finished dressing he looked Sherlock in the eye and said, "Well, get your sheet, you git." Sherlock stood and went to his room for proper clothes instead.
As he came back out his thoughts came out unbidden, "You know you're like an angry kitten, right?"
"Oh, is that so?" John mimicked Sherlock's previous statement and turned toward the door to their flat. "Then perhaps you are a bit pussy whipped," John tossed over his shoulder as he strode through the door.
Sherlock followed his friend, and first lover, allowing himself to smile widely knowing no one could see. He knew John could feel it all the same.