Sherlock didn't even get his Belstaff all the way off before John slammed him up against the wall of 221B, kicking the door closed behind him.
"You," John snarled, "were a fucking menace out there. Didn't hear a bloody word Lestrade said, did you?"
Since Lestrade had been prattling on about boring things and Sherlock had more or less tuned him out, the honest answer was no, not really. Sherlock was having a hard time saying that, though - in large part because John's menacing stance put his well-defined bicep within licking distance and all Sherlock wanted to do was to nose at that taut muscle. John had been exercising more - "trying to keep up with your bloody deficit in self-preservation," as he'd put it - and the result was a marked increase in the quality and quantity of sex between them. Partly because John was so eminently distracting and partly because he had finally realized that coitus was a surefire way to coax Sherlock out of a sulk. Tonight Sherlock had managed to put all thoughts of John's mouth and fingers and cock out of his head for most of the evening, although not without some real effort.
"Still not listening?" John leaned in, sheer presence making up for his diminutive size. "Shutting me out?"
Pulse is accelerated, Sherlock noted absently. Aroused or actually angry? Inconclusive-
John bit at Sherlock's mouth in a fierce attack of a kiss. "Better," he growled. "You've got some dickishness to atone for, though. Down on your knees."
Aroused, then. Thank God. Sherlock slid gracefully to a kneeling position, his back still flat against the wall, his body pinned by John's. "Coat the rest of the way off?" he asked innocently. Actually fluttering his eyelashes would have been pushing it, but he did shoot John a heavy-lidded glance that never failed to hurry the conclusion along. With predictable results, if John's sudden indrawn breath was any indication.
"Don't play coy," John murmured. "You think you're being clever, but I know exactly what you're trying to do. And I'm not in the fucking mood for it tonight. Get the bloody coat off, then slowly undo my flies. Eyes on my face. I want you fucking listening to me right now. Acknowledged?"
Sherlock nodded silently, then stripped the coat off and ran his hands up John's thighs until he could unbutton John's trousers. Even with the seasonably sturdy corduroys John was wearing, the smell of sweat (from the chase) and soap (from John's earlier shower) were still in clear abundance. John's cock pressed in stark relief against his cotton pants underneath. Sherlock slid his hands higher, hooking under the waistband of John's trousers and pants-
"Stop." John tucked one forefinger under Sherlock's chin and brought his face back up. "Eyes on mine, remember? I don't think you understand - tonight is about listening. I don't want you to move a single fucking muscle unless I tell you to. Nod once."
Sherlock nodded. It was a slightly odd, floaty feeling, like the rest of his body was no longer under his control. And perhaps it wasn't - for now, it was under John's. As amazing and intimidating as that sounded.
"No hands, now," John murmured. "Get my cock out of my pants using only your mouth. In fact, clasp your hands together behind your back. You won't need them unless I tell you."
Sherlock had to lean forward a bit to comply, but he did. His wrists rubbed against the damp heels of his shoes. Trace evidence of Baker Street, of the floor of the cab, of the crime scene. An evidentiary trail spelled out on all four limbs. Nothing yet on his tongue, though. Sherlock leaned in to take a deep inhale of John's scent, right where his cock and bollocks met, then set to attempting the impossible.
It would have been easier if John had been wearing boxers, but no - of course it was one of the pairs of gray cotton Y-fronts he insisted on buying in bulk from whatever store happened to have them on sale at the time. By the time Sherlock managed to nuzzle aside the flap and guide John's fully-erect length out, his mouth was dry from the cotton and there was a visible droplet shimmering on the very tip of John's cock.
"Good - so good, Sherlock. Open for me, now - and eyes on me. Let me see how much you enjoy this."
Sherlock did. He really, really did. He let his jaw drop open without a second thought, tongue cupping John's length as John guided it carefully into the welcoming hole before it. He was salty, already, salty and musky and slightly tangy and Sherlock actually had to fight to keep his eyes from drifting shut as John settled his weight further back on his heels (leaning one hand on the wall over Sherlock's head for balance and threading the other through Sherlock's curls) and started thrusting.
"That's it," John whispered. "You're listening to me now, aren't you? You're being so good for me. Deeper now - that's it." He drew back, until Sherlock's lips were barely circling the head of John's cock, then thrust back in so deep Sherlock had to fight the urge to cough. John just groaned at the way Sherlock's throat spasmed, though, holding himself there for a moment longer before allowing Sherlock another breath. "So gorgeous," he murmured.
Sherlock kept his eyes wide and his jaw loose and tried to pour all his appreciation into his gaze.
"Going to come on your face, Sherlock," John announced. "You're listening so well and I'm so proud of you. I'm going to pull out and come on your face and you're going to stay perfectly still with your mouth open just like that so you can lick as much of it up as you can. And then when you're debauched and looking thoroughly used, then I will tell you what you may do so you can come. Hold still, now."
Sherlock held still. He held his mouth open, his head tilted slightly upward, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes on his flatmate-blogger-friend-lover-John. True to his word, John pulled out a minute or so later and tugged at his own cock frantically, spilling with a jerk and a curse all over Sherlock's jaw and neck and throat and face. Sherlock kept his mouth open and chased the taste of John's come off every surface he could reach with his tongue. He was almost painfully hard inside his own trousers, but John hadn't given him permission to move yet so he didn't. Finally, John stopped shuddering and pushed himself back up to standing straight. He never broke eye contact.
"You want to stroke yourself off, don't you," he said. "Listening to directions get you hard?"
"Listening to you," Sherlock admitted.
John leaned down, so their foreheads were almost touching. "Good," he growled.
God, that voice. Sherlock never could think straight when John got all serious and commanding like that.
"Up on your knees," John ordered. "Pants and trousers down as far as you can get them without moving. One hand on your cock, one finger teasing your hole. Use what's left of my come as lube. Don't slow down, don't stop, and don't look away from my face. You got that?"
It took Sherlock two tries to make a noise. "Yes," he croaked out, and hastened to comply. The first touch of his hand against his cock - just a brush, really, as he tugged down his boxers - was glorious. He swiped a palm through the mess still on his throat, then transferred enough to his left index finger to provide at least a little glide. He didn't breach his hole, not entirely, but he did trace around the rim and try to pretend his finger was John's. Which it was, because John was in control of his body now. Not him. Just John.
"Greedy," John murmured. "You want more, don't you? You want to come right now. Before I tell you to. Don't lie to me; I know you too well. Nod."
Sherlock nodded. He wasn't entirely sure what he was agreeing to. His palm glided smoothly over his cock, his own precome mixing with John's semen in a combination which only the better quality forensics technicians would be able to separate apart. The fingertip against his hole twitched, prodded, teased. John.
"Here," John said, and without warning, slid two fingers into Sherlock's lax mouth. He didn't shove deep, but he did press down firmly on Sherlock's tongue - taking away even the need to be silent, to not speak. Sherlock didn't mean to cry out, but a muffled moan escaped anyway. He stroked faster.
"Now," John commanded. "Eyes on me. That's it. You can come now, Sherlock. You're listening so well - come now."
Sherlock nearly doubled over as he came. It took all he had not to close his eyes, to shy away from the uncomfortable pressure on his tongue, but he managed. Even as his mind clouded and tears appeared on his cheeks, he kept his eyes on John's the entire time.
"That's it," John whispered. He was smiling. "Deep breaths now. You see the benefit of listening?"
Sherlock let himself go boneless, slumping forward against John's thigh. His hands and trousers and neck and face were all sticky but John wouldn't care. When it's you, John, he thought hazily, I'm always listening.
Hey all! Had this porny little short bouncing around in my head for a while. I'm at DragonCon this weekend - which is SO MUCH FUN and also really exhausting, but I brought my laptop so I can write smut when I'm feeling inspired :-) If you're here too and want to say hi, I'm crashing the BritTrack's fanfiction panel tomorrow (Saturday) at 11:30 PM, and I'll be at the "Solve for X Science Variety Show" Sunday at 10 PM (which I PROMISE YOU will be the funniest thing you will have seen all con. Seriously, it's just that good.)
I'm on the DragonCon app as Wendy Qualls and on Twitter as wendyqualls - come find me and say hi!