John Watson was in some bizarre combination of Heaven and Hell, and it was all his friend and flatmate Sherlock Holmes' fault. The man was irritating, frustrating, terrifyingly intelligent, and something John rarely noticed in other men: amazingly fucking sexy.
He could never pinpoint the exact moment his feelings for Sherlock had changed from friendship to love to physical attraction – well, they hadn't progressed from A to B to C so neatly, since he still felt the first two, with the third being a very confusing icing on the cake. Or torment, depending on John's mood.
Right now, it was the usual combination. Sherlock had been back from the dead for nearly six months and exactly two months ago the sexual tension John had been feeling had finally been relieved, as the two of them, immediately after successfully – and quite literally – running down a criminal and handing him off to Lestrade, had returned to their shared flat and somehow or other ended up in a passionate embrace.
Fast forward four months and John and Sherlock were involved in an exclusive sexual relationship...and John was completely knotted up inside. Oh, not so much because he'd acted on homosexual stirrings he'd never felt before – ever – and still didn't feel for any other man besides Sherlock, but because he missed having sex with women.
Not that sex with Sherlock wasn't fucking amazing – because it was – but John had always enjoyed oral sex, giving as well as receiving it, and missed that taste of pussy, sometimes to the point of distraction and at the most inconvenient times.
Like now, for instance, when he was sprawled out on the sofa in his and Sherlock's shared sitting room, naked, with Sherlock's head between his legs and his lovely mouth sucking on John's cock.
The man really was amazing at it, there were no two ways about it – that long, lovely throat of his swallowing down every inch of John's cock, taking in far deeper than any woman who'd ever put her mouth on him, his tongue darting out now and again to lick his bollocks – Christ, how could he even be thinking about anything else at a time like this?
The short answer, it appeared, was that he could. He could be in the middle of receiving a mind-blowing, er, blow job and still be wishing he was licking a woman's pussy at the same time. Not just any woman, either; no, John's fantasizing lately had become quite specific. Ever since Sherlock had admitted that Molly Hooper had aided him in faking his death – and once John had gotten over his very justified anger at the two of them – he'd realized she was more than just the quiet morgue mouse he'd once dismissed her as. That, coupled with the smashing figure she'd revealed that one Christmas he'd held a party at Baker Street, had somehow fueled a multitude of fantasies in his mind.
That thought ripped a groan from his throat as his fingers, which had been running through Sherlock's hair, tightened and dug into the other man's scalp. That in turn brought a growl of appreciation from Sherlock's throat, which only added to John's pleasure...and guilt.
He was pretty damned close to climaxing in spite of his mixed emotions – emotions he was too ashamed to share with Sherlock, the man who'd given up his much-ballyhooed virginity to his blogger and friend, the first man John had ever kissed let alone shagged. Close enough that he moaned out Sherlock's name, spreading his legs further apart and doing his best not to rut too hard into the other man's mouth.
Just as John felt the tell-tale tingling in his bollocks, he felt Sherlock withdraw himself and opened his eyes to see him leaning back on his heels, staring at him with a serious expression on his face.
Uh-oh. John eyed him warily; had Sherlock somehow read his ambiguity in his eyes, his body language, the way he groaned? Or was it something else entirely? Only one way to find out... "Sherlock? Something wrong?"
Unbelievably, Sherlock reached over and grabbed his mobile from the coffee table they'd pushed aside in their enthusiasm to start their long weekend together, a weekend with no cases (Lestrade was on a second or third or possibly fifth honeymoon with his wife), and no interruptions from Mrs. Hudson (off visiting her sister in Leeds). So why was Sherlock scowling at the mobile's screen as if he'd just receive a text he didn't want to read...oh God, John thought with an internal groan. "Not bloody Mycroft!" he muttered.
Sherlock shook his head, still looking irritated. "No, not Mycroft...not a text I've received, one I haven't received...Ah!"
His head swiveled to the flat's door, John automatically following Sherlock's gaze...and freezing at the sight of the knob turning. With a swear he went to jump to his feet and out of the room, only to be stopped Sherlock as he literally pounced on him, forcing him back onto the sofa with a startled "Oof!" and a great deal of flailing of various limbs as he attempted to extricate himself.
"Sherlock!" he hissed in a combination of mortification and exasperation. "Someone's coming!"
"I know! Isn't it fantastic? I thought she'd changed her mind, but clearly I was wrong!"
Sherlock was grinning broadly, raising John's suspicions. "She?" Who was "she," exactly? And why was "she" coming to the flat at this particular moment...and why the hell had Sherlock, who was clearly expecting her, whoever she was, arranged for the two of them to be interrupted like this?
As Sherlock continued to pin him to the sofa, lying across John's naked body, covering it with his own, equally naked, body, the door opened fully and the mystery woman was revealed to be...
"Molly! You're late!" Sherlock barked out as she closed the door behind her, clinging to the handle as if she wasn't sure she was going to stay. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the two men tumbled together on the sofa, and John felt a momentary horror rise up in his mind; had Sherlock asked her over without telling her what she might walk in on?
Apparently – and thankfully, although no less confusingly – not. "Take off your clothes and get over here before John pushes me onto the floor!" Sherlock ordered, although he was grinning maniacally as he did so.
John, meanwhile, had finally stopped trying to push Sherlock off his body, too busy staring open-mouthed as Molly Hooper, the object of his very recent fantasies, unbuttoned her raincoat, revealing that she was wearing nothing beneath it but a very tiny, very see-through green silk thong and a pair of sheer thigh-high stockings. "Give me a second, Sherlock," she said crossly, fighting with the last button which seemed not to want to come undone. With a huff of exasperation she gave up, simply allowing the raincoat to slide off her arms and onto the floor.
While John and Sherlock watched, she stepped over it with far more grace than she usually demonstrated before kicking it aside with one rather high-heel-clad foot – shiny black patent leather, John noted approvingly as he ran his eyes up and down her body, not quite believing what he was seeing but liking it a great deal.
"You've been very good about not saying anything, John," he heard Sherlock murmur in his ear as the other man finally moved so he was no longer covering John completely but instead lying behind him with his back against the sofa cushions. "However, this is me you're involved with. As soon as I deduced the cause of your discomfort, I knew the perfect solution." He flashed a smile at Molly, who had continued into the room and now stood directly in front of the two men, hands on her hips as she looked down at them. She was licking her red-painted lips, John noted distractedly as Sherlock commenced stroking his flank and moving his hips against John's backside in a very subtle – but very arousing – manner.
The sight of Molly staring avidly down at him combined with the feel of his lover moving against him served to reignite John's flagging erection, bringing it back to full strength within seconds.
"I do hope you don't mind, John, but once I deduced that you not only missed having sex with women in general, but that your fantasies had centered on Molly, I knew this was the perfect solution," Sherlock said, speaking in a throaty murmur, his hand occasionally reaching over to brush against John's cock before returning to his flank. "If our relationship hadn't altered – and if Molly hadn't convinced me that you would expect monogamy from me – then the two of us would have rekindled what we shared right before I was forced to jump."
Before John could even begin to process what Sherlock was telling him, Molly spoke. "And I'm not just doing this to be close to Sherlock, John," she said as she sank to her knees and reached out to stroke his cheek in a tender, loving gesture that was well matched by the expression on her face. "I've loved you both for so long, I was so happy you found each other but sad for myself at the same time, because you had what I wanted: each other." She lowered her eyes shyly as she made this confession, and John found himself reaching out to capture her hand as she pulled it away from his face.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?" he asked curiously, trying to keep his gaze on her face rather than on her pert, lovely breasts – the same breasts that Sherlock had once disparaged as being too small. Which, for the record, they weren't. John had never thought so – well, perhaps when he first saw her, swimming in the baggy, shapeless jumpers she favored when working. No, they were perfectly shaped, just made to fit in the palm of man's hand.
He jerked his eyes back up as she answered his question. "Because you were happy together. Yes, Sherlock and I spent a few lovely nights with one another, but I could see your feelings for him had changed, that you didn't just love him as a friend, and I knew how he felt about you as well. There was no way I was coming between you two." She gave another shy smile. "Sherlock told me as soon as you two became lovers. He admitted he wanted me as well, but I told him that wouldn't be fair to you."
"What she didn't tell me – but I deduced it anyway," Sherlock said, taking up the thread of the explanation, "was that her feelings for you had changed during the two years I was away. She never fell out of love with me, but she'd begun to feel the same way about you. You were, however, busy drowning your sorrows in a string of one-night stands and short-term relationships so she kept her feelings to herself."
"I know you don't feel the same way about me," Molly continued when Sherlock fell silent. The two of them seemed determined to make John understand exactly what was being offered, and how it had come about, which was fine with him since he'd never even suspected that Molly had any interest in him outside of friendship. If he had, he reflected wryly, things might have been very different the two years Sherlock was away – very different, indeed. "But that's all right," Molly continued as his thoughts wandered. "You love Sherlock and I love Sherlock, and he wants to share us with each other, to give you what you need to make you completely happy. I know I'm not exactly a supermodel," she added with a self-deprecating shrug of her shoulders, "but now you know how I..."
Her rambling words were cut off as John reached out and pulled her to him for a heartfelt kiss. He was overwhelmed at what Sherlock and Molly were offering him, and even if this gift had selfish elements to it, well, he was being selfish too, wanting to have his cake and eat it...in the filthiest interpretation of that particular saying.
He deepened the kiss as Molly melted into his embrace, reveling in the feel of her breasts mashed against his chest, her tongue in his mouth, even as he reveled at the feel of Sherlock's talented, clever fingers as they encircled his rock-hard cock and threaded themselves through his hair, both hands on his body feeling so delicious he couldn't help the moan that escaped his throat.
Molly was moaning as well, her tongue gliding over his, her lips molded to his mouth, her hands on his shoulders. He didn't want to break the three-way embrace, but his desire to taste her was rapidly overtaking his other thoughts, and he found himself pushing her down onto the Persian rug until she lay flat on her back, eyes half-closed and lips parted, her breath coming in short gasps as she raised her knees and spread herself open for him.
Sherlock had left off holding him and was instead pushing at John's body, recognizing his partner's growing desire to bury his head between Molly's legs and suck on her pussy until she was nothing but a limp, trembling mess.
In short order he achieved that goal, his hands digging into her hips and his nose resting at the top of her pubic mound, his tongue lapping eagerly at her juicy wetness.
Sherlock had joined them on the floor, lying next to Molly and alternating between sloppy kisses and sucking her nipples into hard nubs that drove John even wilder with desire every time he looked up and saw them.
Once she'd come ("like a freight train," she'd describe it to him later) and he'd licked up as much of her as he could take in, he moved to lie on her other side opposite Sherlock, leaning down to take up the nipple his partner wasn't currently licking, working her back up again when she'd barely had time to come down from her orgasmic high.
He removed his mouth from her breast when he felt Sherlock's hand on his cheek, and the two men leaned over Molly's sweat-soaked, shivering body to exchange kisses. It was incredibly exciting to know that Sherlock was tasting her on John's lips, just as exciting as it was when he swallowed down John's cum but left just a trace on his lips in order for the other man to taste himself, something he'd never expected to enjoy even in his raunchiest, filthiest teenaged fantasies.
No matter how much he was enjoying kissing Sherlock, however, John did not forget the marvelous woman lying between them, not for a second. It had been almost a year since he'd fucked a woman, and he was dying to do so while she went down on his best friend – and wasted no time in letting the others know which way his mind was currently trending (straight down the gutter, John Hamish Watson, and what a lovely descent it is).
"Oh God, that's perfect!" Molly gasped out as Sherlock helped her to her knees, immediately taking her place on the floor, lying flat on his back and eagerly spreading his legs as she lowered her head and began stroking his cock with her tongue. John felt a jolt of arousal that seemed to start somewhere in his toes and shiver through every pore in his body. Molly's lovely arse was raised up and ready for him, the thong long since vanished (he'd find it the next day under the sofa) and the strip of her delicious pussy just peeking between her legs. He licked a path down the cleft of her arse, rimming her lightly with his tongue while she moaned and writhed against his face.
He grinned as he inserted a single finger into her pussy, finding it as wet and ready for him as it had been when he'd put his mouth there. He pulsed it in and out of her in time with the movements of his tongue in her arse, shivering lightly every time he heard her moan and gasp – and every time he heard Sherlock's gasping breaths as well. Clearly this activity was doing as much for the consulting detective as it was for his pathologist and blogger.
Why oh why hadn't he paid closer attention to Molly before this? Oh, he knew the answer; he'd been too locked into his own feelings of grief and loss while Sherlock was "dead" to be able to notice much of anything else. The mindless sex he'd indulged in with woman after faceless woman during those two years was his way of coping; he'd never have even thought about treating Molly as nothing more than a fuck buddy the way those other women had been, no matter what his private fantasies in recent months.
Well, she was certainly more than that to him now, no matter how raunchy their current positions. Speaking of which, his cock was throbbing, reminding him that he had an incredibly sexy woman to fuck right now. He removed his mouth and fingers from her – when had he inserted a second one into her cunt? No matter, since both were about to be replaced by his cock.
He thrust into her as deeply as he could, sinking into her welcoming warmth right up to his bollocks, groaning deeply as he did so. God, he'd missed this, missed the feeling of a woman's pussy wrapped around his cock, a sensation no blow job could ever replace. Thank God Sherlock had divined his feelings and found such a fucking incredible way to answer it.
"God, Sherlock, you know I fucking love you for this, right?" he gasped out as he wrapped a hand around Molly's hair and tugged it lightly. His other hand was hard on her hip as he moved in and out of her at a steady pace. "I fucking love you both for this, you have no idea," he growled as he felt Molly bucking back against him. "God, this feels so fucking good..."
As a blogger he was conscientious about not reusing the same adjective over and over again in the same paragraph, but as a man who was shagging a woman from behind while she went down on his male lover, he could care less how repetitious and unimaginative he might sound.
Molly was slurping desperately at Sherlock's cock; John could hear the sounds her mouth made as she frantically bobbed her head up and down the other man's shaft, just as he could hear the wet slapping sounds his body made as he sped up his own movements against her, reveling in the sounds they were making just as he'd reveled in the taste of her coming in his mouth. He was close, so fucking close, just a few more strokes and he was going to come inside her so hard, but he wanted to hold back, to let her come first, always be a gentleman his mother had admonished him although this wasn't exactly what she'd meant...
"It's OK, John," Molly gasped out as she felt him slowing down, forcing himself to ease back on his movements. She thrust against him for emphasis, taking Sherlock's shaft in her hand in order to look back over her shoulder at John. "Really, it's OK, God, it's better than OK, it's bloody fantastic, don't slow down, for God's sake, John, I want you to come, I want to feel it so bad, please, John..."
That did it. His hips sped up almost of their own accord before she finished speaking, both hands on her hips now as he reached the tipping point and tumbled over, pressing his body against hers and squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he came and came and came...
When he was able to think again, he found that he'd collapsed to the floor, and that Molly was now lying next to him, smiling dreamily at him while Sherlock busied himself between her legs, licking up John's cum before rising up to sit back on his heels, pulling Molly toward him as he did so. Her smile morphed into a gasp of surprise as Sherlock pressed his cock into her; she was going to be incredibly sore when this was over, John thought with the clinical portion of his mind; he'd have to run her a bath and throw in a liberal amount of Epson's salts once he and Sherlock were finished debauching her.
Sherlock was certainly doing his best to wear the poor girl out, giving her no time between John shagging her before putting her back to work, but judging by the avid expression on her face, it was work she was happy to be doing. Her thighs were on Sherlock's, their groins locked together as he leaned over her, resting on his hands over her body, stretching his head down to capture her lips in a hungry kiss. John decided he'd recovered enough to join in, reaching down to slide two fingers against her clit, feeling her buck and slide against him. He grinned and moved his other fingers to stroke against Sherlock's cock as it thrust in and out of Molly's cunt.
The two of them writhed and cried out as they achieved mutual orgasms not too many minutes later. John was impressed; unless Molly was faking it (and he'd seen enough Oscar-worthy performances from various women to recognize a fake orgasm when he saw one), then she'd just had her third climax in less than an hour. Pretty fucking amazing, and arousing; he felt a stirring in his dick as Sherlock pulled out of her and collapsed half on top of her, his arse raised up in a very inviting, very enticing position.
Oh, he had plans for that arse, lovely, wonderful plans that he couldn't wait to put into place. He grew steadily harder as he pictured Molly watching while he shagged Sherlock into an even limper mess than he already was at the moment.
The lubricant was sitting on the end table near his head; he grabbed it and positioned himself behind Sherlock, placing one hand on the other man's back as he made to raise himself up from his position half on top of Molly – who was watching John with wide eyes as he held up the tube of lubricant and untwisted the top, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time.
She licked her lips and gulped; John grinned, squirted the lubricant onto his fingers and smeared them across Sherlock's puckered opening. He heard the other man groan as he did so, and grinned; he'd never given him a dry orgasm and wondered if tonight, with Molly watching them, if he'd finally be able to manage it.
"Sherlock, tomorrow you're going to limp worse than I ever did," he whispered in his lover's ear, still watching Molly as he pressed his cock against Sherlock's hole, feeling the tip of it slide in and slowly but surely pressing himself deeper and deeper into the other man until he was fully seated inside him.
Molly seemed entranced, watching wide-eyed as John rocked against Sherlock, his hands caressing the other man's arse and hips. Sherlock's head was resting on Molly's chest, and her fingers were entangled in his sweat-dampened curls, clutching them tightly in a manner John knew from personal experience his friend found extremely arousing. He grinned to himself; good, maybe that dry orgasm was a real possibility after all. He positioned himself carefully, making sure to hit Sherlock's sweet spot over and over again until he obtained the result he wanted, hearing Sherlock cry out his name as his hands dug into Molly's arms and his mouth fastened on her nipple. That caused a bit of a ripple effect; Molly's hips bucked as if she, too were experiencing another orgasm, and that sight brought John shouting his own release far sooner than he'd expected to.
Somehow the three of them managed to disentangle themselves; somehow they made their way to Sherlock's bed and collapsed together in a heap, Molly in the middle, John snuggled up to her backside as she wound her arms around Sherlock's limp, exhausted form.
His last thought before drifting into sleep was that he was going to have to find some way of showing his gratitude and, yes, love, for the two amazing people lying next to him. Not that mind-blowing sex wasn't a fantastic way to express those feelings, but something a little more meaningful was called for.
Later. Right now all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Molly, feeling Sherlock's body against hers as he allowed sleep to claim him.
