It's been ages, but life keeps getting in the way of my Johnlock. Here's some pure sex to celebrate the birth of Christ. I love reviews.


Elongated sounds floated through 221b. Dear Mrs Hudson had unceremoniously popped out to pick up some shopping as soon as she heard the sounds of all-to-often sex, upstairs.

'Those boys!' she'd simmer as she headed out, eyes on continual roll.

'Sherlock!'

'John…'

'Oh, Jesus,'

John, clamped between his lovers legs, groaned. Sherlock, perched above the doctor, blinked - still not use to this constant, regular loss of blood to his brain.

'Good god, Sherlock…'

Delight pooling inside him, the Detective slowly rutted against John, skin and sweat and heat clouding his sight.

John, hands against Sherlock's lower thighs, kissed Sherlock when he bobbed into reach, grabbing his dark curls and pulling his lips close enough to taste the salt on them.

Everything, all their heat and desire concentrated south, John swimming in a trance of thoughtlessness and sex.

'Holy Mary…'

With a sweet pleasurable lick placed upon Sherlock's chest and a deep kiss scattered on his lover's neck came low and throaty groans.

John's throbbing penis filled Sherlock with astonishing results. Pumping slowly into the silk-skinned man, John swore repeatedly, surprised his lips could stop shaking and form sounds other than those of savage delight.

Sherlock felt the base of his lover's cock meet the skin of his glorious arse. The hot completion coursing through his body stole only a few more seconds of death-like euphoria.

Later, after a shared shower, a mop over the kitchen floor and six nicotine patches more than usual, Sherlock found himself laying legs crossed, on the worn-from-sex sofa, with a despicable idea in mind.

The flat was warmer than usual, there was no draft to be heard falling in through a left-open window or door, and the radiators were working overtime. Sherlock's Doctor sat in Sherlock's chair, laptop atop lap. Silently, with an ingrained knowledge of unreliable floorboards, Sherlock danced across the room, and fell into place behind John, chin on shoulder, arms around neck, fingers sneaking past button holes.

Smiling, John turned his head so his lips met Sherlock's cheek.

'Love?' John's simple curiosity brought Sherlock's mind to its knees.

'Oh, if you insist…' Sherlock began kissing John's shirted shoulder, moving fingers further into shirt.

'Sherlock, I hate to stop you-' laughing, the Doctor entered useless pleas.

'Shhhh,' Sherlock continued more rapidly, unbuttoning John's shirt.

'Wait, maybe not here Sherlock…'

John's protests were becoming unreasonable. A man who would happily let Sherlock sink his raging member into him in a London taxi, a public park and department store changing room hardly had a good argument in the matters of appropriate location.

'I wasn't thinking here, John,' Sherlock's tongue found John's ear, and momentarily he fell silent.

'Mmmm, Sherlooock…'

'I was thinking…the dining table…'

'I… Sherlock! I don't-' John's words were stifled by a rather exploitative kiss.

'Come on,'

Sherlock, surprisingly, pulled John from his chair and headed out the door, grabbing John's and his own coat. Watching Sherlock (and his inviting arse) walk away, John realised he had little choice but to follow, for his curiosity often overtook his sense of, well, common sense these days - especially when it came to Sherlock (and that arse).

There were stairs, the warming skies of Baker Street and London's lacy buildings with glass and granite. There were roads and roads and then leafy suburbs with high fences. The boys' taxi stopped outside a particularly high fence. The driver was inconspicuously paid, and John Watson was dragged inside the home of the British Government.

Have you guessed yet? See, Sherlock's not one for authority, especially when Mycroft Holmes is authority. And now, with a blushing Doctor by his side, he felt an urgent need to defile…things, in …places.

John had asked all sorts of endearing, but rather fragile questions.

'Are you telling me that whilst we were having sex, you were thinking about your brother?'

Sherlock had laughed.

'But…Sherlock, what if someone walks in on us, while we're, you know…?'

Sherlock had smirked and said; 'Then, my darling, we will carry on,'

Even John, the ever present figure of solidarity and morality couldn't deny that this turned over his stomach in something like lust - the thought of the elder Holmes walking in on his little brother 'defiling' John, on his dining table of all places, was enticing, although terrifying.

But without as much hesitation as you might expect, John had watched Sherlock remove his trousers, jacket and shirt, haphazardly throwing them across the ornate room. He watched, as sitting against the polished wood, Sherlock took off shoes and socks quickly. He stood and walked toward his Doctor, who had his arms really very crossed and was trying to look at the daintily painted ceiling and not the truly sizeable bulge in Sherlock's pants, or the wet, slightly parted lips hovering three inches above his own.

Sherlock moved so close to John that a bank note could not pass between them. He felt heat behind John's own trousers and smirked into the smaller man's neck.

'I will not do this Sherlock,' He lied.

Moving his hands to cover John's, Sherlock began to hum, blissfully, as if every motion, every breath was painstakingly planned in his head, as if he were following a path drawn on a map, that map being John and the path being him.

John shivered.

Sherlock's hands gently unfolded John's arms, a miracle in itself. He took John's hands and placed them either side of his substantially more sizeable bulge. Slowly he took down his pants, leaving John's hands behind.

'Fuck, Sherlock.'

Sherlock laughed, pushing himself against John.

'Bloody hell,' John couldn't even hold out for the time it took Sherlock to part his legs.

'Well done John, that wasn't too hard, was it?' chirped the Detective.

'Shut up you prat!' barked John as his hands slowly worked at Sherlock, Sherlock hummed and John's head filled with images of him and Sherlock shagging on the shiny walnut, the banging of table legs and floorboards.

Then, Sherlock backed away.

He perched on the edge of the table, before majestically lounging back, and beginning to stroke a delicious erection. 'Strip and I'm all yours,' he taunted, opening his legs a little.

Glancing out of a towering window to see a gardener offering a cigarette to a gloved, scarfed dog walker, John took his chances.

Shirt, trousers, shoes found their way to the floor and the Doctor enthusiastically climbed aboard. Pinning Sherlock down, he swore violently, promising he'd settle the score if Mycroft found them, to which Sherlock said it would be his pleasure.

It was five minutes before the antique legs of the antique table began to hit against the floor, over and over again. If you were listening for the utterly orgasmic groans of two men fucking on a table worth more than the contents of the average house then you may have heard the sounds through the dining room door. If you are Mycroft Holmes, aware that your darling younger brother and his male 'friend' jumped the side fence and snuck in though the pavilion doors, and very aware of how said younger brother may treat the five century old polished walnut where you often entertain the highest in the land, you will in all probability be listening for the sounds of two men fucking on your dinner table.

As the door opened, one of the boys noticed and was delighted by the realisation; another didn't and was therefore ashamed enough to talk only of the weather on his next meeting with the British Government. And I expect you can match our heroes to their respective reaction. As Mycroft entered he saw a sight of utter defilation if there was one.

Sherlock was suspended an inch above John, violently crashing into his arse with erratic cock. John, whose legs bent up and over Sherlock's shoulders, had his backside on full display, thighs in the air gloriously. Sherlock licked the older man's neck on each inward pound, and Mycroft's jaw dropped and far as John's mouth opened and Sherlock cackled madly as a thunderous orgasm charged through himself and John. Resigned to the madness in his younger brother, Mycroft said 'Well, do put the chairs back where they were on your way out,' and closed the door.

The boys did. Pick up he fallen chairs I mean. Once Sherlock had removed his penis from john and kissed his honour better. They went out the front door and Sherlock had to keep John from asking the gardener for a spare cigarette, as he cackled madly at his brother's expense.


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