"It's settled, then. It was the lawyer's daughter, as you would have known ages ago if you'd ever learned to look at earringbacks, Anderson."
John returned to Lestrade's office from the loo just in time to catch his boyfriend, well, being himself.
"Sherlock," he murmured, tugging on the black coat sleeve. Sherlock glanced down at him.
"No, John, this is no time for your moral compassing; this case was so easy it was hardly fun. Not altogether unenjoyable of course, due to the fascinating method – twisting that restaurant fork directly between the ribs – " He caught sight of John's face, which was gazing imploringly at the victim's wife.
"That's enough, Sherlock, or we're going to find out what method the widow'd like to use on you," John muttered. Out loud, he turned to Lestrade and an infuriated Anderson. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. Always a – pleasure." John put a hand on the small of his boyfriend's back and steered him out the door.
"Honestly, though, if Anderson put half as much energy in his job as he does in glaring at me, they wouldn't have to call us down to Scotland Yard for cases that are so maddeningly dull." Sherlock snorted, walking briskly to the elevator. John had long since learned to keep up. "This day already seems like a waste. Thankfully I've got a bit of an experiment ready at home."
John still wasn't used to it, Sherlock calling 221B their home. He wasn't used to calling it their bedroom either. Bedroom, singular. That was new, too. Not all that new, as it'd been over a year since they'd been together and of course quite a few years since they'd been working together, but it never become commonplace, with Sherlock. Every morning John still couldn't believe that he got to wake up next to his man.
" – Wait. That's not what that box is in the fridge, isn't it?" John shook himself out of his reverie as Sherlock thumbed the elevator button. He kicked himself mentally. "For some reason, I thought you'd gotten dinner."
"Not unless you've a hankering for eardrums, no."
"I'll have to stop by the market then on the way home, shall I?" John heaved a long-suffering sigh, but he knew that if he was honest with himself, he never got tired of taking care of Sherlock. "Want to come with, or are you going to hurry to your eardrums?"
The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.
"I'm afraid I don't have time for groceries, John," said Sherlock, with a flounce of his dark curls. "I've made up my mind that this day must not be wasted."
"Yes, all right then."
Sherlock turned to him as the doors shut.
"You're disappointed?"
"Only a bit." John smiled. "I can go without seeing you for an hour or so, you know."
"Yes, but you don't like it."
"Neither do y—" Sherlock was cut off by the elevator shuddering violently to an abrupt halt. The lights flickered once, but stayed on. "Are you all right?" Sherlock said immediately, grabbing John by the shoulders.
"Yeah, I'm fine, I barely stumbled – "
"Are you all right? No headache? Spinal damage? Heart palpitations?"
John had to fight to stifle a smile. Sherlock's forehead was furrowed with sincere worry. An instant ago he had been bantering about earlobes, but the moment John might be in the slightest bit of trouble, his whole persona focuses. It's always like this, and it had never failed to make John feel so loved.
"I'm the doctor, remember?" he reminded his boyfriend gently. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"
"Yes, perfect, it hardly affected me. Now – we're stuck, then, are we?" Sherlock strode to the elevator doors. They were immobile. Though the main lights were on, the backlights to the buttons had shut off. Sherlock was about to press the assist button when Lestrade's voice came crackling through a small intercom.
"You boys all right in there?"
"Yes. When can you get us out?"
"Well, it seems like the rotor overheated, causing the car to get stuck between floors – "
"I can tell what happened. I asked when you could get us out?"
John pursed his lips. Of course.
"We'll get a mechanic here as soon as possible," Lestrade's tinny voice reassured them. "It's rush hour though, so it might be a while. We'll let you know when they're on their way. Glad you've got each other to keep you company, at least." The intercom clicked off.
"Well, this is a bit of an inconvenience then," John sighed. He checked his watch; it was nearing 18:00. Not only would that make the mechanic take longer, it meant that the market might be closed by the time they got out. "We might have to do with takeaway tonight, is that okay?" He looked up to find that Sherlock was staring at him. Curiously. Piercingly. "What are you – oi!"
Sherlock pinned John against the elevator wall and kissed him. After a moment, John melted into the affection, kissing back playfully. He nipped at Sherlock's bottom lip, figuring they might as well have a bit of a snog while they were stuck. He grinned into the kiss, nuzzling his nose against his boyfriend's. Sherlock let him at first, but then he grew stern. He began grinding his hips against John's, letting his hands meander down John's body, running his long fingers through John's hair in a way that had only ever led to one thing.
"Erm – what are you doing?" John asked, not without a significant degree of apprehension.
"I'm fairly certain you don't need me to deduce that for you," Sherlock murmured, moving his lips to John's throat.
"You can't be serious. Not now, for Christ's sake!"
"Now."
"Sherlock – "
"Now."
Sherlock was already shrugging off his own coat, letting the rather expensive item fall to the floor carelessly. He pulled John's off as well before exploring his boyfriend's familiar body with his fingertips, toying with the hem of John's jumper.
"We are in Scotland Yard," John hissed, although his resistance – already frayed – was growing weaker.
"Yes, but you've wanted a shag all afternoon; you were planning on jumping me right after dinner." Sherlock pulled off the jumper but left the shirt alone – perhaps he felt at least some sort of reservation about being entirely naked in an elevator, much to John's relief. He had started instead to tickle John's waist just above his trousers with the pads of his long fingers, which he knew instantly sent blood straight into his boyfriend's groin. Sherlock had of course memorized every turn-on, every touch that even John himself hadn't registered as a stimulant. He knew which spots tickled too much and which ones hurt just enough. For someone who had been a complete virgin before encountering John, his impressive brain was not lacking when it set itself to the task of being an expert lover, which John had learned very quickly – to his great surprise, and no small degree of jubilation.
"I – I – well, after dinner! When we're home!" John was blushing slightly now. He hadn't actually thought he had been obvious, though of course he should've known that Sherlock could read his emotions like a children's book out of the corner of his eye. He had been planning on coaxing Sherlock to bed that evening – not that it was out of the norm. They had been having sex a few times a week ever since they began. Neither of them seemed to be able to want to stop, and they tended to only skip a night when a case ran all too late or when John was still rather sore. Today, though, not only was John raring to go, but Sherlock was wearing that shirt. The tight button-down purple one.
John could never resist it.
He had gotten the feeling that Sherlock probably knew this, since he had been wearing it with a bit more frequency than he used to, and it found its way into not only their wash, but occasionally Mrs. Hudson's, so that it could be worn more often than other shirts.
"It looks like we won't be home for a while, my love. Let me take care of you now." Sherlock kissed him again, and this time John was glad to be pinned so tightly between Sherlock's body and the elevator wall.
Because sometimes, Sherlock kissed him and it was chaste, a bookmark to remind him that he was indeed cared for, that he would be returned to when more attention could be spared. Sometimes Sherlock kissed him and it was lingering, a languished yet almost lazy expression of affection, and oftentimes possessiveness, when they were around others.
And sometimes, Sherlock kissed him and it was everything.
It was paralyzing, the intimacy of this man's tongue in his mouth, Sherlock's lips caressing his, the way he sucked John's tongue so gently, as if savoring the flavor.
It was mobilizing, infuriatingly arousing, the way his whole body would create the kiss, his entire being performing the act, not merely his mouth. His chest and waist would press against John's. His knee would slip between John's thighs, his other leg moving to John's side to steady him. His slim hands would set their fingers everywhere, in John's hair, to cup his chin, around his neck, down his chest, on his waist, his stomach, his shoulders, his scar. Sometimes they'd brush against his ass or the bulge in his trousers, but only occasionally, because though this kiss often led to sex it wasn't meant to be foreplay, that would come later. This kiss was a sexual act all its own, entirely theirs. It was a kiss no one else could share. It belonged to Sherlock and John. Like every other facet of their relationship, it transcended physicality, labels, categorization, normalcy. It was a kiss that elevated them above lovers, indeed above boyfriends, though they had embraced that term for its convenience and playfulness, to a state that they both knew could only be called soul mates. This kiss was their act of expressing this state, the one in which they perpetually existed but was too intense to always address. This kiss was the embodiment of how John will always make Sherlock eat when he says he's not hungry, how Sherlock's real smiles are for John alone, how John doesn't have nightmares anymore, how Sherlock has them for the first time and they're about losing John.
It was with this kiss that Sherlock's lips graced John's now, and so John could hardly stand.
When Sherlock broke away – these kisses never lasted into the lovemaking, they were their own entity, unique and untainted by the separate, though occasionally equally poignant, act of coitus – his jaw was set, lips parted, a picture of intense arousal. But his eyes were soft, glistening emerald and sapphire melted into twin lagoons of fierce yet gentle passion. A look reserved for John and John only.
John forgot where they were. Or, more accurately, he let the public confined setting spur his ardor, reveling in the fact that he was Sherlock's and Sherlock was his, even if they weren't in the privacy of Baker Street. He kissed back, clawing at the buttons that damned purple shirt, though careful not to tear it. He pawed at his boyfriend's bare skin beneath, pulling Sherlock's body against his and tugging up his own shirt so he could feel the heat from the man's stomach, his heartbeat accelerated through his pale flesh.
Yet as Sherlock fumbled with the buttons on John's taut trousers, John forced himself to pause.
"We haven't got any – erm." He coughed slightly, hating that he had to even bring this up. The look on Sherlock's face said it was good that he did, however, since it was clear that Sherlock hadn't considered it. He knew Sherlock was always distracted when it came to lube, given that it was a step that came just before a far more important one. But it wasn't a step that could be deleted lightly.
"I'll make do," Sherlock said briskly. He tugged down his own trousers and pants in one motion, and John gulped. The sight of Sherlock's substantial manhood never ceased to impress and vaguely overwhelm him, but seeing it full for him here, in the familiar elevator they used so frequently, was something all the more exciting. Sex would no longer be something reserved for the bedroom, something clandestine. Sex wouldn't belong to 221B any more, it would belong to them, no matter where they were.
"I'll never be able to look at this elevator the same way again," John murmured honestly, as Sherlock pulled down his pants to reveal John's equally hard erection.
Sherlock smirked at this as he bent to kiss John again. He took both of their lengths in his large hand and jerked them slowly together, in time with the motions of his lips on John's. John moaned into Sherlock's mouth at the friction, at the feeling of his boyfriend's throbbing hardness on his. Sherlock's hand held the shafts close together and stroked them firmly, letting out a small gasp.
"Will you make me wet for you, John?" he whispered hoarsely. He glanced down at the bead of precum forming at the slit of his cock. "More."
John slid out of his grasp somewhat reluctantly, but once he was on his knees, he felt nothing but eagerness. As he lowered his mouth around Sherlock's cock, the man gave a rough moan and reached his arms out to lean against the elevator wall, steadying himself. Sherlock was fantastically loud during sex.
"Oi!" John said, pulling away momentarily. "This is still Scotland Yard!"
"No one's listening. You love it when I'm vocal."
"How do you know no one's listening?"
"You love it when I show you how much I love you sucking my cock."
John hesitated, then took the whole shaft in his mouth again. Sherlock let out a shuddering gasp that went straight to John's own erection, spurring him on to suck harder. He swallowed, contracting his muscles until the head pressed against the back of his throat, making his mouth fill with saliva. It coated the shaft as he sucked it, making it slick. He swept his tongue around the head, nudging the foreskin down to fully expose the sensitive glans. Sherlock moaned and threaded his fingers through John's hair, massaging his scalp as John bobbed between his legs.
Too soon, Sherlock pulled back. His cock was engorged and wet with saliva and precum, but John didn't think it was quite wet enough for what was coming next.
"Let me – "
"Let me," said Sherlock, in a throaty undertone. Before John knew what he meant, Sherlock had pulled him to his feet and turned him so he was facing the wall, ass outward. Sherlock lowered himself to his knees, and then John realized.
"Wait – no!" he protested, flushing bright red.
"Why not?" Sherlock was honestly confused, and the sight of him kneeling so readily, cock slick and even harder at the sight of John's ass, made this even more difficult.
"It's just – not here," John said weakly.
"What makes it different here?"
"The – the lights," John replied, somewhat lamely.
"The lights." Sherlock's brows furrowed in concentration, forming that maddeningly sexy deduction face that made John shut his eyes in frustration. John knew he was perhaps being silly, but the prospect of Sherlock doing that in the harsh fluorescents of the elevator was just bloody awkward. A moment later – of course – Sherlock understood. He stood and pulled John to face him. "This is why you always have the lights dim when I'm doing this to you?" He stroked John's cheek fondly. "I always figured it was just along your criteria for romance."
"Well, that too. But. I mean. It's just – just – "
"Hush. You're the most scintillatingly handsome man I've ever met. You know I love you; now don't be ridiculous." He smiled his special John-smile. "I won't if you don't want me to. But – please?"
Sherlock saying please in any context was just about the most erection-inducing sound there was, and in this particular context, it made John's already hard cock throb almost painfully.
"All – all right," John begrudged. As he turned to face the wall, Sherlock seized his face and placed a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth – not the kiss, but something close, and John relaxed.
He tensed again almost instantly when he felt Sherlock's deft fingers spread the cheeks of his buttocks. He couldn't help but stare at his hands and see every wrinkle in the flesh, every hair and imperfection in the unforgiving elevator glare, and he felt his face grow hot as he fought not to imagine what Sherlock was seeing.
Sherlock stroked the inside of his thigh, reaching up to caress the flesh between John's entrance and his balls. He kissed the swell of John's ass, and the familiar touch of Sherlock's lips on his body made John relax again. The lips moved delicately to the cleft, and those fingers spread him wider. Before John could stiffen with embarrassment, Sherlock's tongue was already there. It swirled around John's entrance slowly, lavishing, savoring. The wet muscle applied just enough pressure to make John relax even more, to make him open. Sherlock's tongue prodded inside, just far enough to make John's body ache for the firmness of his cock. Sherlock slid a finger in, and John groaned, biting his lip hard in a futile attempt to keep quiet as Sherlock toyed with his prostate, kissing firmly just underneath his entrance. Sherlock began to alternate his finger with his tongue, massaging John's prostate and then pulling back and licking hungrily at his asshole, until John was bucking backwards, unashamedly pushing his ass harder on Sherlock's finger, rutting it against Sherlock's tongue.
"That's – haa – enough!"
"You want my cock now?"
"I want your cock now."
"Are you sure? I mean, John. The lights."
"You prick, come on, damn it, give it to me!"
"My prick? Well, all right then."
"Oh shut u—" but John cut himself off in favor of a sharp exhale as he felt Sherlock's still-moist cock positioning at his desperate entrance.
"Tell me if it still hurts too much," Sherlock muttered, his voice low and velvety in John's ear. He pushed in much more gradually than usual. They had had sex with saliva as a substitute for lube before, but only a couple times, and it had of course been in the comfort of the bedroom. Still, as the swollen length pushed through the first ring of muscle, John's moan was entirely out of pleasure. Sherlock's finger and tongue had done their job very well, and the slight pain only made the sensation more raw, and almost more real. It suited the harsh environment and lighting of the elevator very well.
"Sherlock, I – I feel so full of you," John panted, fingertips pressing hard against the wall. He thought he could feel every vein in Sherlock's cock, where the foreskin ended, where the head began. He could feel how Sherlock was hard for him, testicles full and taut, nudging lightly at John's own when Sherlock buried himself all the way.
"Is it too much?
"It's sodding amazing."
At this, Sherlock began to fuck him at last. He lined his body up to John's and pinned him to the wall again. He moved slower than usual but harder, almost more focused. In the light of the elevator, everything seemed sharper, more deliberate and raw. Sherlock's rough breathing in his ear, Sherlock's teeth grazing his throat, Sherlock's hands roaming his body through his shirt until they found his cock, all of it was amplified and vivid. With each thrust, the entire elevator car shook, rocking back and forth. The vague fear of actually breaking a Scotland Yard elevator due to raucous fucking made John even more present, even more aware – and also more than a little bit pleased with himself. The rocking of the elevator made each thrust at least feel deeper, rougher.
"Bend over," Sherlock growled. John did, bending almost double with his hands pressed against the wall. He cried out as this new position enabled Sherlock to hit his prostate hard, as well as allowing Sherlock to engulf John's cock in his palm. Sherlock moved quicker now, and the intensity of the new experience paired with that talented hand jerking his cock made John hyperaware of something they had forgotten to take into consideration.
"Wait – where am I supposed to – ?" he managed to rasp out. There was nothing but the tidy (albeit shaking) metal floor of the elevator in front of him. Already the heat was pooling low in his stomach, and Sherlock's cock was relentless.
Sherlock did not seem to have any sympathy when he realized what John was on about, and instead grabbed John's hips with his free hand and fucked him harder, breathing heavily on John's throat.
"I'm so close," he whispered in John's ear, "I'm so close to filling you up, my love, can you wait? I'll finish you with my mouth when I'm done."
John grunted in frustration but nodded, focusing on trying to hold back.
Suddenly Sherlock closed his mouth on John's neck, sucking hard on one of those places that always pushed John over the edge, and began thrusting harder. He tightened his grip on John's cock, stroking it in the inconceivably erotic way only he knew how, and let his other arm slide up John's shirt, holding him tight while his fingers teased a pert nipple. He sunk himself deep into John's ass over and over again, his hard cock ready to burst as it pressed against John's prostate.
"You bastard," John moaned frantically as he felt his body tense, and he heard his boyfriend chuckle, satisfied, just before he couldn't hold on any longer.
Spectacularly over-stimulated, John felt the orgasm crash over him like a wave. He watched in helpless ecstasy as Sherlock milked his cock through it, jets of white release pulsing onto the floor. Sherlock came an instant later, nails digging into John's chest as he did. The cum was hot and thick, filling John's ass completely, and as John was coming down from his orgasm, he felt a sense of pride. He did that. He made Sherlock cum that hard. All of that cum belonged to him and no one else now, buried deep in his ass.
Sherlock pulled out and slunk to the floor on the opposite side of the car as it stilled, opening his arms. John was about to follow him, when he looked down.
"Well, fuck." Cum was steadily dripping down his thigh from his softening prick. Cum was also trickling out of his ass. There was no way he'd get his clothes on unstained. "I like these trousers," he sighed, "and now they're going to get all horrible."
Sherlock grinned, still breathing heavily. He brushed his hair back from his face and beckoned to John to come closer.
He held John's legs and, gazing into his boyfriend's eyes, began to lick the cum off his thighs. He smiled at the taste and sucked gently at the skin. John managed to stay in control until Sherlock spun him around and began to lick his own cum from John's ass.
John was facing the inside of an empty elevator car in Scotland Yard, trousers around his ankles, and Sherlock was, quite amicably, eating his own cum from John's asshole.
"Can't you ever just be, I don't know. Not bizarrely and infuriatingly sensual. For like, one day." John was rather pleased with himself that he'd found that word on his tongue; it worked so well. It was sensual, not sexual, and not just because there was no way John's cock could get hard again for at least a few hours after that particular dalliance. It was sensual because that's how Sherlock was intending it to be. Earlier, his tongue had been a tool of sex and stimulation, but now it was loving – not that they were mutually exclusive. It's just that it was almost parental, like a mother cat cleaning a kitten. Terribly awkward as that thought should have been, John accepted it the moment it came into his head. Their affection transcended labels, always. Sherlock was a brother and a lover and a father and a child all at once, and for them, it just made sense.
As Sherlock licked up the last of it, he pulled up John's pants and trousers and fastened them.
"There. A bit sticky from saliva, but it's better than the ejaculate. Your trousers will survive. I'm not licking the floor, though, that can kip for the janitors." He pulled John into his arms and planted a kiss on his cheek. "And no, I can't, apparently. You should know that by now."
John found himself suddenly exhausted and cold. He settled into Sherlock's arms and closed his eyes.
"I love you," he mumbled. Now that the excitement had past, his stomach growled. Sherlock tensed.
"What has that mechanic been up to? Bloody Anderson better not be holding them up, I swear. It's past seven PM already." He tightened his embrace around John. "And I love you too, of course."
They lay there for only a bit longer, in the warmth of each other. At some point John felt Sherlock twitch slightly and he knew he was in his mind palace. John smiled and snuggled close.
Presently, there came a clanging at the doors. Sherlock's arms tightened reflexively around John as the car jolted upwards. The doors opened to reveal a bright young mechanic cheerily prodding behind the elevator button, a horrified Anderson, a Sally Donovan with something like disgust and self-loathing interest on her face, and Lestrade with his head in his hands.
John opened his mouth to ask what was wrong and then. Saw. The. Security camera.
"I'd like a copy of that, would you, Lestrade," said Sherlock nonchalantly, "and do delete the original before Anderson blackmails me." John gaped, openmouthed. He could not remember a time when he had been a brighter red. He followed Sherlock out of the elevator, trying to hide behind his coat.
"Oi, Dr. Watson!" called the mechanic. "I love your blog! There'd better be a post about this, all right?" She laughed merrily as Lestrade heaved a great sigh.
John was mumbling sorry, sorry, oh Jesus sorry right up until they'd actually gotten in the cab.
"You knew it was there all along?" he demanded. "You never even asked me if it was all right to film us, why did you think you needed to trick me?" He paused. "You didn't – break the elevator yourself, did you?"
Sherlock smiled.
"No, although it wouldn't've been a bad idea. And I'm assuming this means you would have been amenable to being filmed? Knowingly?"
"Well – it's something we could've at least talked about!" John exclaimed, praying the cabbie had headphones on.
"Honestly, John, I'd never considered it. I approached you in the elevator because we had time and we both wanted it. I knew the camera was there but I didn't care; asking for the tape was an afterthought. And don't worry, they didn't watch the whole thing. The security fellow called Lestrade in and Anderson and Donovan heard. They only caught a glimpse before Lestrade turned the monitor off."
John breathed a sigh. At least that was a relief. He didn't need to know how Sherlock knew this; he trusted him. "Hang on – why didn't Lestrade use the intercom and tell us to quit it, then?"
Sherlock's smile broadened.
"Because he likes you, I'm presuming."
John flushed again, but leaned against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock took his hand and squeezed it – then he gave a small snort of laughter.
"I do pity the night janitor though. Oh my."
John shoved him, trying not to think about the gift he'd left the custodians that was currently drying on the floor of the elevator.
Later that night, they were curled up on the sofa with Chinese takeaway boxes scattered on the table. Sherlock was lying sideways, his legs draped over John's lap. John's hand idly stroked them as the telly chattered on.
"Well," said Sherlock. John was pleased to hear the drowsiness in his voice; it was always a healthy sign when Sherlock was sleepy. "The day ended up not being wasted, after all."
END