A/N:So, I don't know where this came from at all, but my internet has been driving me mad and refusing to work and apparently this is how I chose to amuse myself, but staying up much later than I intended to writing my first attempt at smut. I don't know if this is any good, but if you enjoy, do let me know. I've got an exam the day after tomorrow and reviews would really cheer me up. Also, con-crit would be great! Thanks for reading.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters and receive no profit from this story. All credit goes to Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss and to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the original characters.
God, it was glorious.
There was a hand in his hair that felt about a millimetre away from pulling out a clump of much-cherished curls, there were blunt fingernails digging into his scalp causing the most delicious undercurrent to the sharp pain of the pull on his hair follicles and he was pretty sure he was starting to get carpet burn on his cheek from where his head was being pushed so roughly into the floor beneath him, the cheap synthetic fibres coarse against his delicate skin as he rubbed back and forth against them with each punishing thrust. But Sherlock was in heaven and God, he never wanted this moment to end.
xXx
It all started, as do most things in 221B Baker Street, with a case. Not a particularly important case, nor a particularly interesting one, just a case to stave off the mind-rotting boredom that had descended since Moriarty's disappearance from the swimming pool where Carl Powers had died all those years ago, where Sherlock had finally come tête-à-tête with his real nemesis, had finally met his match, where John had been rigged up like a human explosive, but NO, no, no, don't think about that!
So Sherlock had taken the first case to come along, brought to him by some insipid city boy, and it was all terribly dull. Granted, it got a little bit more interesting when his investigations uncovered a drug-ring, covering the better part of the Greater London area, operating out of the back of a bookmakers and, of course, drug dealing and small firearms seem to go hand in hand these days, so it got marginally more interesting still when he and John had to duck for cover while waiting for the police to arrive, but after that, it was all giving statements and going over the story again and again for different officers, each more tedious than the last, and, basically, Sherlock had been bored again before they'd even gotten into a taxi.
John, on the other hand, seemed to be seething. He sat as far away as possible in the somewhat cramped space of the taxi, his back completely turned to Sherlock, staring resolutely out the window while rhythmically clenching and unclenching his fists in time with the grinding of his teeth and emitting a general aura of being completely pissed off. But, then again, John had been in a mood all week and while Sherlock had been hoping a good adrenaline rush would get him out of his strop, he supposed he'd just have to put up with it for a while longer. It was probably just something to do with his most recent girlfriend anyway, although the detective hadn't seen any strange women around the flat lately – or even just heard any, for that matter. Maybe that was the problem in itself, he supposed.
Pulling himself from his pondering of his flatmate's foul mood, Sherlock threw open the door to the taxi the second it pulled up outside the flat, barely registering John's grumbling as he left him to pay the fare and instead focussing on getting into 221B and throwing himself on the sofa as soon as possible. He bolted up the seventeen steps, removing his coat and scarf as he went and throwing them haphazardly across the back of John's chair, preparing to launch into a monologue on how the case had hardly been worth leaving the flat, when suddenly the air was whooshed out of his lungs as he found himself slammed up against the wall beside the doorway to the kitchen, staring into the determined eyes of one ex-army doctor.
"If you say one word – one word, Sherlock – about how dull, or boring, or tedious, or bloody mundane the whole world is being just to personally aggravate you, I swear to God I'm going to gag you."
And this is where it really started, after all, with John pressing Sherlock up against the wall, one hand fisted in the front of his (he was noticing for the first time) ridiculously silky shirt, as Sherlock's surprisingly inventive imagination came up with a multitude of images of him bound, gagged, strung up, anything he asked for, for John; completely at the mercy of this man who hid his real strength from so many people, from everyone really, except Sherlock. And you'd have to have been an idiot to have missed the way Sherlock's breath stuttered on the inhale and his pupils dilated so quickly it's lucky the room was dim or he might've done some serious damage to his retina. And John is no idiot, he passed a medical degree, after all and he keeps up well enough with the "world's only" consulting detective. But just in case John was feeling particularly slow, Sherlock decided to help him by groaning out just two words, his usual baritone shattered and gravelly and bloody sexy beyond belief:
"Yes, please."
And he watched John's eyes flit over him, a quick assessment, doctor's eyes more trained to pick up on small bodily cues than Sherlock would like to admit, and then his skull connected with the god-awful wallpaper as John's mouth devoured his. There was no gentleness, no easing into it, no tentative 'are we really sure we should be doing this?' There was just that hidden strength, the confidence that John Watson knew exactly what he was doing and he was bloody well going to do a good job of it.
Sherlock lost himself in the kiss, barely registered the hands slipping from his shirtfront, one travelling upwards to clench in his hair, the other travelling down, down, oh God, all the way down to grab a handful of surprisingly plump arse and pull their increasingly interested groins together. A ragged moan escaped, swallowed immediately by John's ravenous mouth, at the feel of the doctor's semi-hard cock pressed up against his own, at the realisation that he had been pulled and manipulated into exactly the position that John wanted without even realising he'd moved. If this was what it was like to concede to another person, to let go of the control he'd been carefully cultivating for all of his adult life, he was beginning to think he'd wasted an awful lot of time.
He pulled in a ragged gulp of breath as John pulled away, whining on the inhale at the loss of those lips against his, but he needn't have missed them for long. They were on his throat within seconds, joined by their enamelled neighbours in sucking and bruising and marking the pale column of flesh, over and over, John being as efficient in giving love bites, apparently, as he is at stitching a wound. But that's okay, because Sherlock has always enjoyed John's efficiency, he just didn't realise quite how much he could enjoy it.
But then he noticed the mouth was gone again, and he thought maybe he could hear some sort of sound beyond the rushing in his ears. So Sherlock forced open his eyes and looked at John. He still looked as determined as ever but was obviously trying to maintain a clear mind for some reason and dear God, they were going to have to talk about this now, weren't they? Couldn't they just carry on? Sherlock had thought it was going swimmingly.
"Sherlock."
He heard it clearly this time, drawing his full attention to John's voice rather than what else he might be using his mouth for if he'd just get on with it.
"Sherlock," he started again, an edge of steel to his voice that reverberated all the way to Sherlock's cock, "you've got three seconds to tell me 'no' if you want this to stop, or I'm going to fuck you over the coffee table."
The last syllable was barely out before Sherlock had launched himself at John, his cloudy mind struggling to coordinate his lanky limbs and leading them both to a tumble onto the floor, just barely missing smacking either of their heads on the coffee table and wouldn't that be such a shame when it had a much more promising use in store?
The detective clung to John like a life raft, but then people who are drowning don't usually grind themselves against life rafts quite so enthusiastically, he supposed, so maybe he needed a better metaphor. Not right now though, that could wait until after. Again, he was too distracted to notice John's hands moving until he felt his shirt slipping over his shoulders and got the first feel of flesh on flesh, the doctor's rough, calloused palms rubbing immediately across his nipples on a path to his lithe waist. But this time he was very aware of them travelling further, to the waistband of his trousers, the button and the zip, across the swell of his arse as his naked skin was exposed to the cool air of the room. His trousers and underwear pooled initially at his knees, out of John's reach and, he supposed, out of John's way as far as he was concerned, but instinct made Sherlock squirm rather delightfully against his flatmate's denim-clad legs to shuck them all the way off and suddenly he was naked against a fully-clothed John Watson, one who was leering at him with eyes full of such an intense hunger it was almost concerning, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care because he'd made himself completely vulnerable to John (John who looked after him, John who he trusted, John who apparently wanted him) and it was the best feeling in the world.
But then John sat up, forcing Sherlock onto his knees and he almost thought it was ending and he didn't know why, what had he done wrong? But John kept moving forward, kept pushing Sherlock back and down until his spine brushed against the rough carpet and John was looming above him and is this the effect that looming has on people, he thought he was being intimidating, not mind-blowingly arousing, but if it got the information out of people, he supposed it didn't really matter.
John leant down and kissed him again, just once, deeply but almost chaste in comparison to their previous activities and when he stopped, he moved away just far enough to speak, his lips still brushing Sherlock's plump heart-shaped mouth as he did:
"Hands and knees, now."
And God, Sherlock never obeys orders, but this was Captain Watson and apparently not even Sherlock Holmes can ignore Captain Watson. So he waited, resting his weight on his palms, his arse presented to any and all who cared to see it, and listened to the sounds of John taking off his clothes. There was a rummaging he couldn't identify and then a gentle hand resting on his hip followed shortly by one blunt, slicked finger probing at his entrance and of course wonderful, resourceful, always prepared John Watson carries lube with him at all times, Sherlock could kiss him (again) if he wasn't enjoying the current attention quite so thoroughly.
There was nothing perfunctory about the way in which John prepared him. He took it slowly, careful never to push too hard, too soon, but by the time a short fingernail brushed across his prostate and Sherlock cried, high-pitched and foreign and God, John, what are you doing to me? neither of them could wait any longer. John plunged in, sheathing himself right to the hilt in one fluid motion, filling Sherlock so decadently that his all of his neurons seemed to be screaming in pleasure and his arms gave way beneath him. And as John started to move, as Sherlock babbled and begged, one hand slipped back into his hair, pulling and pushing in equal measure and Sherlock was pinned to the floor by the doctor's hand and by his cock and God, it was glorious.
"All week you've been driving me mad," John started, his voice surprisingly level for someone partaking of some pretty vigorous fucking, "flouncing around the flat in your bloody dressing gown, or that fucking sheet, bemoaning the lack of a crime like some personal insult. If I'd known this was all it'd take to get you to shut up, I'd have offered straight away."
"Please-" Sherlock began, his voice cut off when a moan was torn from his throat as John's prick dragged across his already sensitive prostrate, "Please do feel free to offer again." He finished, trying to maintain his usual dignity of speech and utterly failing.
"Don't worry," John leant down to mutter directly in his ear, "we'll definitely be doing this again. I promised you the coffee table."
And as John's teeth sunk into the soft flesh at the junction of neck and shoulder, Sherlock cried out and came, cock untouched, striping the floor of their living room with strings of ejaculate, groaning John's name like an entreaty.
John followed shortly after, shouting out his release into Sherlock's sweat-glistened back before collapsing on top of the limp detective. They lay there for a while, Sherlock eventually becoming uncomfortable with laying belly-down in a pool of his own come so shifting to lie belly-down on top of John instead, who just chuckled good-naturedly, wrapped his arms around his flatmate and used surprisingly dextrous toes to pull Sherlock's belstaff from its perch on his armchair to cover their rapidly cooling bodies. Sherlock's mind filled with images of other things those toes could be doing, surprising himself with the sudden and unexpected urge to suck each one of them individually. But he was too tired and content to do anything other than cuddle up to John more snugly.
There was always tomorrow. After all, John did promise him the coffee table.