Thanks to ScienceofObsession and Snogandagrope, who are not only fantastic, reliable, and efficient betas, but also good friends.
Chapter 3: I Know What You're Up To
Sherlock planted both bare feet together, sides touching, toes aligned. He slumped forwards on an exhale, folding his body in half until his nose bumped his knees, twining his arms behind his thighs to brighten the stretch. He stared at the mosaic floor under him, a floral pattern beginning to shimmer as dawn broke and light crested the horizon. Sherlock straightened, lengthening his spine, arms rising gracefully until they were fully extended above his head, palms together, ribs lifting and expanding with his breath. He continued the extension, arching until he dipped fully back, making a bridge of his body, hands dropping to the floor behind his feet to support his weight.
A furtive glance towards the balcony showed an upside-down John, tea steaming in his hand, staring avidly as Sherlock went through his morning routine. Sherlock internalized a smirk, and did not reveal that he knew John was watching. He pushed off with his toes and flipped his legs over his body until he could stand once more.
Finished stretching, he bent to pick up one of John's canes, as he had brought none with him, and began to go through a series of choreographed forms. He had studied Bartitsu casually for 10 years now; first, at only eight years old, when Mycroft showed him at home, and later, when he was old enough, practicing in the club in London.
He flowed forward, weight remaining on his rear foot, reaching out with the cane to swing at an invisible enemy, free arm held close to his chest. Head tap. Body jab. Feint, step, trip. The motions were as graceful as dancing, and Sherlock didn't just practice, he performed, well aware of his attentive spectator.
Sweat gleamed on dawn-lit skin, and as the hour passed, trickled down his sides, the nape of his neck, pooled in the groove of his spine and dampened the thin white pajama bottoms which were the only thing he wore. When he was finished, he did his series of cool down stretches, making sure that the balcony always got the best angle of his body, spine curved, arms outstretched, every lean, slender, smooth-muscled line of him laid out for appreciation.
He walked over to the small table in the courtyard and picked up a pitcher of water, pouring himself a glass, which he drank in one go, head tilted back and throat bobbing. Half of what remained in the pitcher he poured over his face and chest, twitching minutely at the cool liquid on overheated skin. It washed away the sweat, and thoroughly wetted the front of his trousers, the flimsy fabric quickly becoming translucent, clinging to his skin. Although Sherlock didn't look, he knew it had molded around his cock, knew that the dark patch of hair was now visible.
He dumped the remainder of the water down his back, sluicing the heat off his shoulders and dousing the remainder of his trousers so that they lay over his buttocks, little more than a film adhering to rounded curves, shadowing the cleft in between.
Sherlock shook his head, dog-like, and sauntered back inside without checking to see if his audience remained on the balcony above.
John waited for him in the small kitchen, empty teacup still clutched between his hands. He, too, wore nothing more than pajama bottoms. His chest was softened by crisp hairs, emphasizing the hard mounds of his pectorals, the sharp bones framing his neck. A quick glance showed Sherlock the burgeoning tumescence between his legs, and his tongue was caught in the corner of his mouth. "Good morning, Sherlock," he said, voice gruff from either the early hour or arousal.
His eyes were glued to Sherlock's crotch, and Sherlock made sure to cock his head a little, to resettle John's eyes on his face before he smiled shyly back at him. "Good morning, sir," he said quietly. "You're up early."
He had been a guest in John's house for eight weeks now. He felt at ease wearing nothing but trousers, as John required, unless they left the dwelling to go to market, or explore the areas outside the city. He well understood the rules of their interaction now, both stated and inferred. Sex with John remained… amazing. Transcendent, even; and Sherlock would play with the bruises on his arms or hips during the lazy hours of late afternoon, poking to remember the provocative pain of being held down, being guided. Or simply to recreate the memory of being fucked through the mattress. Stubble burn on his face and neck, on the delicate skin of his inner thighs, could evoke the same feelings, and Sherlock's confidence in his body and seductive technique had grown by leaps and bounds.
He knew his morning exercise regime, which he had started back up after only a week in John's villa, was fascinating to John. But John had never mentioned that he watched, and Sherlock never let on that he knew, although his movements got more fluid and exhibitionistic as time went on. Wetting down his trousers was a new move, and Sherlock was curious to see how John would react.
He didn't have long to wait. John set the cup down with a clatter and with two quick steps was in Sherlock's space, staring pointedly down. "You're all wet," he commented, curling warm fingers around Sherlock's hip.
Sherlock ducked his head, acting shy again. "Yes, sir," he answered the unspoken question. "I was exercising out in the courtyard. I'll go-"
John cut him off, grabbing both his hips, thumbs digging into the hollows formed by each jutting bone. "No," he said, almost absently. "No need for that…" he trailed off, and continued to stare. "Let me…" his grip tightened and then he suddenly lifted Sherlock onto the heavy wooden table behind him. Surprised, Sherlock lurched forward and snatched at both John's shoulders, fingers brushing against his raised scar.
John caught Sherlock's hands and then trapped them, palm-down against the tabletop, pressing hard against knuckles and wrists. Sherlock deliquesed, familiar warmth languorously filling his body as John leaned into his space, dragged his nose against Sherlock's damp clavicles, licked at the sweat collected in the hollow of his throat. Sherlock dropped his head back, letting his moan become a noise of encouragement for John.
John's fingers pinched the frangible bones of his hands together, and his teeth closed over the muscle of Sherlock's throat when he deliberately exposed it to John's view. "God, Sherlock," John growled into his skin. "You taste extraordinary."
Sherlock smirked and hooked a ladder-backed chair over with one dexterous ankle, positioning it behind John so that he could rest both feet on the back of it, caging John between his legs, thighs tight against John's ribs up under his arms. He groaned and began to pant softly as John moved, biting sharply on the lobe of Sherlock's ear before surging up to take a kiss.
Sherlock opened his mouth to him with a small sound, body relaxing further against John's. When John's tongue stabbed in, Sherlock caught it deftly in his teeth, biting enough to hold it there, laving the bumps of his tastebuds, the silky smooth texture of its underside, before begining a rhythmic suckling that had John's hips jerking echoing the action. Sherlock pulled him closer with clenched thighs.
When they broke apart for breath, Sherlock made sure to pant "John, John" sounding mindless and bewildered. He rubbed his rigid, zealous cock against John's abdomen, curling himself around the man.
John pulled back for a moment, grinning, blue eyes alight with wicked amusement. "Good morning, my boy. God, it's going to be a good morning, isn't it? You're so. fucking. eager, aren't you. Do you want it? Want me? Want my cock in your arse?"
Sherlock twisted down and bit at the sharp corner of John's jaw, running his tongue over spiny bristles which had not yet been shaved away. "Oh, yes, sir," he stuttered. "Yes. Please. Want you to-" he tugged at his hands and John let him free, immediately transferring his grip to the globes of Sherlock's arse, short fingers sliding around where it met the table, burrowing along the crack, trying to get far enough under to reach his anus. Sherlock wiggled forward to accommodate him, hooking his arms around John's shoulders, running greedy fingers through his soft hair, gripping his shoulders, digging fingernails into the muscles of his back, making him grunt into Sherlock's chest.
"Bed. Bed," Sherlock gasped, keeping it breathy and desperate. "Come on, John. I need-" He jerked his hips into John again, the friction against his cock so tortuously satisfying that it surprised an honest, drawn out moan from him. John took the opportunity to find the locale he'd been questing for, one arm wrapped strongly around Sherlock's waist, the other fingers seeking his entrance through damp cloth, pushing warmed fabric roughly against that sensitive area.
Sherlock jerked and tightened his grip around John, winding his legs around John's waist, clinging like one of the monkeys he'd seen in the bazaar. He pushed back against the finger, dropping his head over John's shoulder, back deeply hunched to fit himself to John's shorter stature.
"Mmmm, good, yeesss." Sherlock's voice had dropped two registers, and it was due to arousal rather than scheming this time.
"I want this," John's voice was rough, and he curved down to bite into the meat just next to Sherlock's armpit: sensitive skin which made Sherlock twitch and groan again, dragging his focus momentarily from the two fingers pushing against his center. "I want to fill your arse, I want you on my bed, want your arse high in the air, opened just for me," John's tenor was gravelly enough to make Sherlock shiver, skin stippling as a wave of heat was quickly chased by a wave of ice.
"Yes, of course, yes, dammit," he hissed in return. He dropped his head back until it hung uncomfortably behind his shoulders, no support. John closed his lips around the point of Sherlock's Adam's apple and sucked, tongue hot and wet and filthy, flat all over his skin. His fingers seemed determined to enter Sherlock in spite of the damp linen barrier, and Sherlock rolled his hips into the stinging pleasure of the abrasion. "John. John."
John pulled him off the counter, nonchalant - held him steady in unassumingly strong arms. Sherlock braced himself on straining biceps, enjoying the contracted muscle, the bountiful mounded shape filling his palms. John lowered him fractionally as he strode towards the stairs, allowing their cocks to abut and grind together; and his hands were surely leaving delicious bruises on Sherlock's waist.
Sherlock closed his eyes and thrust his hips, impatiently taking his pleasure and leaving their transportation to John, who had to look around his shoulder in order to see the steps, to lurch down the hall.
He pried Sherlock beside the bed and took several steps back, staring up at him with darkened eyes. His expression was a bizarre mixture of fond amusement and possessive lust.
Sherlock stepped forward but John held up his hand. "No, Sherlock. Stay there. I want to watch you undress."
There were only the pajamas to remove, held up by a drawstring alone. Sherlock quickly undid the bow, but the sodden linen did not drop, plastered to his skin. John ran his hand distractedly across his chest and watched while Sherlock peeled himself out of his clothes, enjoying the power implicit in John's avid gaze. He folded himself in half again (which was harder to do with an erection) as he pulled the recalcitrant linen from his skin, bringing the dripping mass slowly down the length of his legs, running the arch of his foot through the curve of his fingers in a kind of caress as he stripped them off at last, tossing them carelessly aside.
John released a sound that was half rumble of approval, half laugh as Sherlock slowly straightened back up, raising pale arms to tousle his curls, turned slightly sideways to John so that the silhouette of his body could be appreciated in the deeply slanted morning light: the curved handle of his erection balancing the voluptuous swell of his bottom, the jut of his shoulder, the strong length of his leg. A drop of water slid from his neck past his belly, tracing a protracted, glittering trail along his skin until it vanished in crisp, dark hair.
John dropped his own trousers and then just stood there watching, naked, fingers looped around his cock as if to still its eager flex. After a brief moment, the two frozen like mannequins in a lewd wax museum, John stepped free of his trousers, widening his stance, and stroked himself slowly, shoulders broad, body trim, confident and forceful, even under his smile.
"Look at you," he crooned. "Such an exhibitionist you've become. What kind of monster have I created, mmm? You like it when I watch, don't you?"
Sherlock was startled. He had not expected John to catch on, and certainly had not expected this amusement as a response. His body lost its contrived pose as he turned a little more towards John. He could feel a flush bloom under his skin, racing from his cheeks to his ears and spilling down his chest. He dropped his eyes to John's hands, one casually tugging at his bollocks as the other squeezed the rubicund head between lazy fingers.
"I like it," John reassured, grinning and lascivious. "I want to watch you, Sherlock. Want to watch you feeling good, making yourself feel good. Show me what you'd like."
Sherlock caught his breath on the order, delivered in such an oddly indulgent fashion.
"Go on," John urged. "Give me a show, Sherlock."
There was no option for refusal.
Sherlock let his eyes sweep down. He could do this. He had been doing this, actually, honing his skill over the past few weeks, testing to see how responsive John was to his manipulation. Having John aware that he was performing should not make him as self-conscious as he was feeling.
He ran his fingers lightly up his sides, drawing them together across his chest, fluttering through the sparse hairs there and pinching across small pink nipples. He looked at John through his lashes, pulling lightly at himself. John's mouth had dropped open a bit, tongue sweeping across thin lips. His own hands had stilled, simply holding his cock and bollocks, attention riveted on Sherlock.
Sherlock shivered, and then… blossomed under the scrutiny. He angled himself back into the mote-filled spill of sunshine from the balcony doors, turning so that shadows gathered in the secret places on his body and the golden light warmed his pale skin. He tipped his head back, eyes were half-closed and fixed on John, colorless and blown. He slid one hand up to his neck, spanning it across his throat, and then clamped down, enough to cut off some air, enough to to add an innervating film to his sight, to send electrifying frissons up and down his body.
John hummed, the tenor of his voice higher pitched than usual, but did not move.
Keeping his hand gripped around his airway, Sherlock lifted one leg with concentrated grace, resting it on the sideboard of the great bed. His free hand he raised to his mouth, opened slowly, tongue emerging with ceremony, laving his lips before dragging across his palm. Sherlock sucked on his own fingers, tasting salt and skin. His cock jerked hard, slapping his belly, when the persistent suction from his busy mouth fired into his brain. He licked, and sucked, keeping it wet and messy with carefully calculated moans and gasps in between.
John was buying it. Buying it indiscriminately. His own tongue was out in a mirroring gesture. But Sherlock didn't smirk, he was becoming too lost in his own sensations.
Harsh, strained breathing filled the room, but Sherlock refused to let go of his neck. He spit a little on his fingers, spearing John with his gaze, and then rubbed it into the emerging head of his cock. The excess he spread around, dragging his finger around the boundary of his foreskin, tucking the tip of it underneath, groaning at the stretch and the fire.
He only toyed with it for a moment before he had to fall to the mattress, the room beyond John's face greyed from lack of oxygen. He arched his back, ribs high, stomach stretched flat and long, only his arse and his shoulders touching the bed, and squeezed along his shaft, keeping the angle of his arm and wrist graceful, rhythmic and lengthened. He beckoned with his other hand, wheezing a little at the resurgence of air. "Make it wet, John."
John immediately approached, bed dipping under his knee. He took up Sherlock's arm in both his hands, thumbs pressed against his palm while he sucked long fingers into a shockingly hot mouth. John scraped his teeth down Sherlock's fingers, tongue probing the webbing between each one, and narrow strands of saliva dribbled down the back of Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock held tight to the base of his erection, staving off orgasm while John feasted on his fingers, sucking hard and growling.
Sherlock languidly rolled his head to the side, arching his neck and staring up at John, who leered back through eyes blackened by desire. "Good," Sherlock murmured, and his voice was like honey-drizzled rust. "Let me-" he tugged and John let him draw away, seek out the space he created by pulling his heels up to the sideboard of the bed. He reached immediately for his arsehole, rubbing his thoroughly wet fingers around deliberately before they had even had a chance to cool. John made a choked off sound, and slithered from the bed to his knees, holding Sherlock's calves apart, watching as Sherlock jammed two fingers deep inside himself with no other preparation.
Sherlock's toes curled, his penis jolted, his feet slipped from their perch and were seamlessly transferred to John's shoulders. "Go on," John encouraged in a raspy tone. "Feels good, yeah? I bet you're throbbing in there, wet and soft; pushing back against your fingers." He leaned forward, perforce pushing Sherlock's knees higher, and nibbled the plump flesh near where Sherlock was thrusting, allowed saliva to trickle from his mouth to the pistoning action, lubricated it even more.
Sherlock held tighter to his cock, damming the tide of semen which was so close to bursting forth. He whined, pulling out long enough to add a third finger, and John's tongue was everywhere when he pushed back inside.
John was right. It was velvety soft within, still smooth from last night's oil. Sherlock rubbed around the yielding wall of his passage, seeking the spot which made him jump and ignite. There, there. Yes.
He gave a garbled sob, pressing little circles into his prostate, when John added his own fingers to the action, stretching Sherlock in what should have been pain but was only registering as deep and dangerous pleasure. John tugged at him, opening a space to slip his tongue inside, flickering softly against the walls of his rectum, the major knuckles of both their hands, and Sherlock didn't think he'd ever been spread so wide. "Ung. Ha-. John…" he interrupted himself, slim chest heaving with abrupt, vocalized gasps. "More."
And John did, pushing in more fingers with a cold smile, before he busied his mouth again at Sherlock's exceedingly stretched entrance. Sherlock cried out and released his cock, instantly spasming in an overwhelming torrent of shivers, spattering hot ejaculate from his belly to his chin, pulling and pushing against John's face and hand, growling and choking, heels digging deep against John's implacable shoulders. Two scalding tears fell unnoticed into the bed covering.
Before the aftershocks had even begun John rose, letting Sherlock's legs fall open to either side of him, thudding gracelessly to the floor. John swept a hand down Sherlock's torso, scooping up come that was still warm; withdrawing his fingers unceremoniously from Sherlock's body. He pushed at Sherlock's limp form, "Get up… on the bed now! Arse up." He sounded desperate. Ragged.
Sherlock moved, still dazed and mindless with release. He flopped over and crawled to the other side of the bed before collapsing on face and shoulders, legs spread to make room for John, arse up as commanded. John followed him closely, delivered two stinging, echoing slaps to his bottom before perfunctorily rubbing his gathered handful of emissions around Sherlock's gaping, twitching hole and his own cock.
"Gonna fuck you now," John muttered. "Jesus, look at your fucking arse." His cockhead was pushing inside before Sherlock had a chance to even groan, and there was no resistance at all, they'd opened him up so acutely. John began a driving rhythm immediately, hard and jackrabbit fast, fingers hooked around the crest of Sherlock's hips, slamming him back into each forward thrust.
Sherlock lay lax, arms loose behind him, not fighting the rocking motion that had his head sliding back and forth along the covers. His eyes were scarcely cracked open, mouth parted on a sustained, serrated moan. John felt like fire, blowing him apart, igniting him from inside, and Sherlock thought his flesh could literally melt off, his skin was so fragile and sensitive. The bristle of John's pubic hair poked and chafed at his already stubble-burned arse, and Sherlock's belly was clenching again, bollocks wildly swinging, colliding with John's, tightening for another round. With monumental effort, he flipped his wrists and scrabbled at the blanket, letting John do all the work, shuddering with the potential.
John leaned forward, humping ferociously over Sherlock's back, and scraped blunt fingernails down Sherlock's chest, catching deliberately on a budded nipple before continuing to claim his still hardened cock. The other hand twisted in his hair and jerked his head back, straining his neck, sharp pain piquant in the soup of arousal that was his body. "Don't come before I do," John growled.
And then he jerked ungently at Sherlock's cock and he tightened a grip around to Sherlock's throat, squeezing hard, relentlessly choking off his air.
Sherlock twitched and floated, buzzing and wild, thinking Hold on, hold back until even thought had receded. He felt John ram harder, pull harder, felt the shudders that meant he was climaxing, the fervent wail as he did so, the prolonged tremors that confirmed what the spurts of heat deep inside him signaled.
Sherlock barely waited for John's ground out, "Go, go, Sherlock, come for me-" before he convulsed, silent, mouth wide to seek air he couldn't acquire past John's unrepentantly choking grip. He felt like the birth of the universe, explosive and expanding, recklessly spinning in the darkness, filled with an overwhelming ecstasy that would not end. It wouldn't end, and his cock throbbed and spurted in an exquisite, dazzling agony.
Sherlock was heedless of his body dropping, pressed under John's weight, he was thrumming in the ether, stretched taut between heaven and hell, a reverberating conduit for current. He hardly noticed John laying him flat, briefly confirming his breathing before lunging down to lick at his hole, slurping and hot and messy; cleaning him out with soft and agile tongue, lapping languidly at last, lazy stroking, tongue flicking inside to smooth around the velvet enclosure, nose cool against the cleft of his buttocks.
He rolled passively when John turned him, eyes open but glazed, dazedly watching John's face, haloed by hair made golden by the sun. John vanished for a moment, but reappeared with a warm wet cloth, reverently bathing Sherlock's skin, soft and comforting across his strained and swollen neck, pressing gently against bruises and abrasions, sweeping down his come-crusted belly, delving into every crevice.
Sherlock reveled in the pampering, thinking of it as a service; thinking that while he hadn't kept control throughout, he yet had the potential for it. Control of himself and control of John.
All he needed was time.
I will listen hard to your tuition,
You will see it come to its fruition.
Note: Arthur Conan Doyle accidentally wrote (in the Empty House) that Sherlock studied the martial art of Baritsu, when actually the name was Bartitsu. Go to my Tumblr blog and put "bartitsu" in the search window to find links to videos about it.