I changed the title because I found it more befitting now that I've figured out where the story is going. Hope you all enjoy. ;)
They sit across from each other in their respective chairs, Sherlock sitting with one leg crossed over the other and a newspaper resting in his lap. He seems focused on whatever he's reading, ignoring the clicking of keys as John sits across from him, typing away at his blog. Sherlock can only imagine what the blogger is typing, seeing as how he refuses to work any cases with him, and he makes a mental note to investigate John's laptop later when he's alone.
He figures his flat mate is already mad at him, he's got little to lose and only more glares to gain each time they're within general vicinity of each other. Even Lestrade is starting to wonder what's causing the domestic between the two, Sherlock seeming a little more testy on cases, not only telling Anderson to leave the room, but even physically pushing him out on two separate occasions.
He's tried to apologize, although he's not quite sure what he's apologizing for. John was clearly fantasizing about him, Sherlock watching him intently almost the whole time, trying to decide whether or not this was information that needed to find a place in his mind palace. After several moments he decided that it wouldn't hurt to have the information, and was about to make a move to alert John of his presence, but as he took a step forward John's breath caught in his throat and he was coming, his hands and Sherlock's bedroom floor becoming coated in his semen.
He figured he was doing the blogger a favor, making his fantasy a reality. He did seem to enjoy it immensely, if the considerable amount of semen Sherlock swallowed was anything to go by, or perhaps that was the problem after all. Perhaps John isn't keen on blow jobs; perhaps he was imagining something else. Hand job? With the things Sherlock has seen in John's search history, he hardly imagines the doctor being so vanilla about his sexual preferences. "So what is it?!"
Sherlock's last thought is verbalized rather aggressively before he can stop it, his gaze leaving his newspaper long enough to see John staring at him from a few feet away, his hands still hovering over the keyboard of the laptop as his eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"What is it?" Sherlock considers very briefly of ignoring his own sudden outburst but decides better of it, rather wanting an answer as to why John is so mad at him.
"What is what?"
"You were in my room rubbing one off to the thought of me, John. I gave you what you wanted, and you appeared to be very much enjoying yourself."
"You think I'm upset about you giving me a blowjob? Are you really so dense, Sherlock?!" Sherlock actually seems a little hurt by the remark, and John quickly realizes that Sherlock doesn't actually get it at all.
"The only reason you did it was so I would work a case with you!"
"Boys, neighbors!" The sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice breaks through the tension as she walks into the flat carrying a tray of tea and biscuits, setting it on the table between the two men before moving to stand near the fireplace.
"What is the domestic over this time?"
John can only imagine the field day the landlady would have knowing their domestic was over Sherlock giving him a blow job, although he imagines she already believes it's a regular occurrence what with the looks and comments she's always making about the two.
"It's nothing, Mrs. Hudson. I didn't mean to raise my voice. We're just having a bit of a tiff over a case." She looks between the two, John giving her a fake smile while Sherlock just glares at John, hardly noticing the presence of the woman in the room at all.
"Well, you two settle it, can't be having the neighbors complaining." And with that she's gone, leaving the door open behind her as usual.
"I didn't do it so you would work a case with me. You've worked plenty of cases without receiving sexual favors, why would I expect that was the criteria for your assistance now?"
John opens his mouth to respond but quickly realizes that Sherlock has a point. He looks away briefly, feeling guilty, and when he turns back he finds Sherlock's gaze focused back on the paper in his lap, knowing he's won.
The room is thrust back into silence, John staring at the screen of his laptop but not really focusing on it, occasionally stealing glances over at Sherlock who seems content now that he's got the answer to his question and has put John in his place. Each time he glances over at Sherlock he finds his gaze lingering a little longer on the detective's lips, his mind flickering back to the images of him on his knees in front of him.
John shifts the laptop in his lap, feeling himself starting to get aroused at the images he's pushed to the back of his mind, knowing that if he thought too long about them over the past few days he would forget that he was angry at Sherlock and beg for him to suck him off again, take every bit of him into his mouth.
"How did you do it?" The question fills the silence and Sherlock knows what John's asking without even looking up, his focus remaining on the newspaper as he asks, "What?"
"You know what I'm talking about. I'm fifteen centimeters-"
"Sixteen."
"What?"
"You're sixteen centimeters." Sherlock finally looks up from the paper to find John staring at him in disbelief, his attempts to hide his growing erection with the laptop failing miserably.
"Did you deduce the size of my cock?!"
"No, I sucked your cock. I deduced the amount of time it would take for you to come."
"Jesus Christ Sherlock, is everything always an experiment with you?"
Sherlock simply shrugs his shoulders, they both know the answer to that question, it's silly to even ask what with the human liver currently occupyingh the microwave and all.
"It is to your benefit, John, although I'm still gathering the data."
"Data, meaning…"
"Meaning in order to have an accurate set of data, multiple experiments need to be performed, variables changed."
"So you want to…" John knows what Sherlock is saying, his cock knows what he's saying, but he needs to hear the words straight forward from the detective's mouth, not shrouded in scientific jargon.
"I want to suck your cock, John."
With that the laptop that John had completely forgotten about clatters to the floor, his tongue reaching out to lick his suddenly dry lips, his cock twitching in his trousers. Sherlock takes it as an open invitation, folding the newspaper and setting it on the arm of his chair as he gets up and crosses the short distance between them, sinking to his knees between John's legs that part with no hesitation.
John feels almost frozen in his spot, Sherlock making quick work of his hands as they slip the button from its confines and slide the zipper down. John lifts his hips far enough for his trousers and pants to be pulled just past his erection, Sherlock grabbing his hips and pulling him forward in the chair.
"Sherlock, the door is open, someone might come up."
"Variables, John."
The thought causes John's erection to twitch with increased arousal, Sherlock's hand grabbing him at the base and squeezing hard enough that John can't tell if the strangled cry escaping his lips is from pleasure or pain. He reminds himself to be quiet, to not attract attention to their activities, but he knows it's going to be hard, watching the look of concentration on Sherlock's face as he pushes John's erection up against the fabric of the bloggers shirt, his tongue tracing the underside of the sensitive skin until he reaches the head.
Though John doesn't have a mind palace, he's starting to think now would be a good time to create one, somewhere to catalog the images of Sherlock and that tongue, those lips, those hands. The way Sherlock keeps his eyes open, watches with his own fascination the responses John's body makes with each little touch, each flick of the tongue.
John refrains from bucking his hips up when Sherlock travels back down the underside of his shaft, his nose brushing the sensitive skin every so lightly before he finally reaches his scrotum, Sherlock making a mental note of the amount of time John has obviously spent making sure the area is neatly trimmed.
He continues to hold John's cock against his stomach as he spends little time in the area, John struggling to keep his eyes open and on the detective as Sherlock slowly begins to slide his hand up and down the shaft, the movements painfully slow but the mixture of the sensations being caused by the simultaneous touch of his hand and tongue making his breath catch in his throat.
After a moment Sherlock pulls his mouth away, hand still in place as John groans from the loss, using the brief moment to take several deep breaths when he sees Sherlock eyeing the tip of his cock. The detective moistens his lips, pulling John's cock away from his stomach as he suddenly takes the tip into his mouth, his tongue fucking the slit slowly, causing John's eyes to roll back and a strangled moan of the detective's name to leave his lips.
His whole body feels like it's on fire with arousal, his fingers turning pale white as he grips the arm rests of the chair, knowing if he were to grab Sherlock's head like before he may very well hurt him.
There's a wet popping sound when Sherlock pulls back, releasing John's cock head from his mouth, and the blogger feels like he can come instantly when Sherlock lets his gaze travel from his crotch to meet his eyes, John realizing that this is the first time they've actually looked at each other.
The moment is fleeting, lasting only seconds before John watches his cock disappear into that skilled mouth again, Sherlock taking in a deep breath through his nose as the tip touches the back of his throat.
When Sherlock swallows, John feels the contractions of his throat around him, unintelligible words leaving his lips as his head falls back onto the chair, his eyes closing tightly as his breath catches in his throat. He feels like he's going to pass out, waves of pleasure coursing through his body, igniting every nerve ending. He's trying to hold out but finds it hard as Sherlock hums a tune that he typically plays on the violin, the vibrations reverberating up the shaft of John's cock.
He wants to tell Sherlock to stop, to keep going, to move something other than his vocal cords, but the ability to form words have been lost to him. Sherlock doesn't need to be told though, he can read John's body movements, feel the amount of restraint he's putting into not completely puncturing the back of his throat.
When he begins to slowly pull back, when the movement around his cock suddenly changes, John can't handle it anymore, the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue as he bites back screaming Sherlock's name, some faint voice in the back of his head reminding him of the open door.
Sherlock doesn't swallow this time, his hand replacing his mouth around John's cock as he wanks him. The amount of semen is definitely more than he remembers swallowing, coming out in what feels like endless spurts, coating his hand as well as John's thigh and shirt. His free hand moves to push the shirt out of the way, his palm resting against his now bare abdomen as the muscles contract with his orgasm.
When he finally rides out the orgasm, John remains half sitting and half laying in the chair, his body limp with fatigue as he feels Sherlock cleaning him up with a serviette that was left behind by Mrs. Hudson on the tray with the tea and biscuits. He finds the smallest amount of energy to lift his hips when he feels Sherlock pulling his trousers back up, opening his eyes to see the detective focused on his task as he cleans up, disappearing into the kitchen behind John to wash his hands.
When he returns he grabs a cup of tea, returning to his chair and taking a seat as if nothing happened. John finally manages to pull himself back into a proper sitting position, his hands shaking ever so lightly as he reaches to grab his laptop off the floor, the forgotten computer reminding him of the conversation topic previously being discussed.
"You still didn't tell me how you do it."