The First Time…John Gave Sherlock a Blow Job in Public
John knows Sherlock's body better than Sherlock does.
"I told you to keep your hands off those mould spores."
For example, the good doctor knows his lover is a festival of recessive traits, from the attached ear lobes to the ginger beard, from pale sloe eyes to lofty height. Yes, yes, Sherlock knows he has those features, but that, when combined all in one person, they are rare to the point of statistical absurdity, of that he has no clue.
"Because you're not impenetrable, you know. You're not Superman."
The good doctor also knows that when Sherlock gets nine hours of sleep he works better, thinks better, eats better, hell he even comes better. Don't mention this to Sherlock—who's been sleeping ten hours every night for the last month—because right now the good doctor is so spectacularly well-shagged he would rather eat live bugs than upset this particular apple cart.
"No, maybe you are Superman. And those spores are your Kryptonite."
John knows that Sherlock's heart beats unusually slowly—fifty-two beats per minute instead of the more common sixty-five or seventy. He also knows that one reason Sherlock reacts so strongly to noxious substances—caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, mould spores—is the slow tick of that heart.
"I've worked with them before John," the man in question whispered. "Thisss always happensss."
Which goes far toward explaining why Sherlock was right now standing next to him in museum dark, fidgeting, panting lowly, muscles so tense against expected pain that his body was just about vibrating.
"The guard probably won't be back round for another—" John checked his watch. "—twenty-two minutes, you need to sit down and breathe, love."
Of course Sherlock didn't sit, and everyone knows how he feels about breathing. And of course not two hours previous he'd gone ahead and put his hands all over those mould spores John had warned him about. Spores he'd apparently known would trigger a migraine due to, you know, mildly poisoning him.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock pressed his back harder against the pillar behind which they hid, peered around it briefly, and in lieu of answering his lover he grunted plaintively.
The good doctor grunted back in a general bad ass way, pressed two fingers to Sherlock's throat, felt a thrumming, reedy pulse. "That's it, we're going home. We can—"
"No, John. I'm fine. I'm fine. It's—" Sherlock clenched and unclenched his hands so hard his trembling could be seen even in the half-light. "—good. It hasn't started yet, it's—we just need to catch her in the act and then we can go."
John, it has possibly been said to the point of distraction, is a tiny tyrant. If he decides to brook no argument he will damn well brook no argument. It is not, however, a super power he uses lightly. And while right now John wanted to issue a directive so hard he was ready to bite something, he didn't.
Because, as we said, John knows Sherlock's body better than Sherlock does.
So the good doctor stepped in front of his lover and whispered, "Stay still, love."
Of course Sherlock did the opposite. He poked his head round the pillar again, he fretted, he wriggled. While the consulting detective can shrug off being choked half to death, while he can blithely cope with cuts and burns, while he can completely take bruises, sprains, and strains in his long-legged stride, there is one assault upon his person Sherlock can't deal with at all. Not even a little bit.
Headaches.
"Sherlock, be still."
The first push of pressure, the first dreaded glimmer of an aura, the first delicate bloom of pain and he becomes a frightened, fretting, fidgetingchild. (Well wouldn't you if just about everything you value about yourself was in your head?)
"Still!"
Sherlock stopped moving.
John pressed a hand briefly to his sweetheart's cheek, then reached for his lover's belt. "Trust me, okay?"
Sherlock frowned down at his doctor and whispered, "John, what are you doing?"
The belt buckle made a high, faint tinkling sound.
"John?"
Button.
"John?"
Hook.
"John?"
Zipper.
"Why are you doing that?"
Trousers were pushed to thighs.
"Well my sweet, when an army doctor loves a consulting detective very, very much…"
Pants followed trousers.
"…he's willing to personally administer one of the best drugs there is for derailing a migraine before it starts."
John dropped to his knees—Sherlock winced hearing bones meet marble—licked his lips.
"An orgasm."
John glanced up at Sherlock. He thought about waiting for a reply. Thought about asking for permission. Then he thought better of those thoughts and he simply shoved Sherlock's dick in his mouth.
There. Problem solved.
Well, almost.
Because yes, John knows Sherlock's body better than Sherlock does, but the man wasn't going to make this easy. Because he really was a little frantic, a little afraid. So he kept up that damn fidgeting and wriggling. He said John's name in short bursts, then groaned himself silent. He rested his hands on John's head, then clenched those hands into fists until John squinched his eyes shut.
But that was fine. It was all fine. John just held on tighter. Mostly in the mouth region.
Meanwhile, off in the distance a security guard paced slowly, almost silently. Ready, in seventeen minutes, to not secure the building from one very slick thief.
Maybe.
In the meantime she would not return to the Asian antiquities wing of the Aberdon Museum for precisely sixteen and one half minutes.
Maybe.
Which was definitely on John's mind, because John (he insists) is not really the public sex type.
Except.
Sherlock's restless squirming? His agitation and something very like panic? They were transmissible. But the transmission wasn't perfect, for those characteristics morphed on their way to John, turning into eagerness, arousal, and an all-purpose sense of fuck-yes-and-damn-the-torpedoes.
Which was interesting.
Because John's emotions? They were transmissible. And the transmission was perfect. So Sherlock's fidgeting and panting soon became eagerness, arousal, and a fast-growing hard-on.
However.
It wasn't long before Sherlock's fidgeting returned. Yet judging from the piston-like pumping of his hips this now had nothing to do with expected pain.
"John, John, John…"
The good doctor responded to his name first with a low and throaty growl, then pulled his mouth off Sherlock's cock and looked up. And more than he will ever admit Sherlock really, really, really loves looking down at John when his lover is on his knees and looking up at him.
Sliding one hand to the back of Sherlock's thigh and another around his cock, John is quite happy to admit how much he loves looking at an unraveling Sherlock, loves watching what he can do to his sweetheart with just the skill of one talented hand.
"Help me, baby."
Sherlock grunted with pleasure at the diminutive, slid long pale fingers over John's, wrapped them around the other man's fist, until they were jerking him together.
"Yes," John said, fingers digging into Sherlock's thigh, "Yes."
Sherlock grunted again, tightening his grip over John's hand, both of them stroking faster.
John's tongue snaked round his mouth briefly, then found itself something to do, lapping with hot, slow strokes at precome.
"John…"
The good doctor swiped his tongue one more time across the head of Sherlock's cock, then rose on his knees. "Harder," he whispered.
Sherlock obeyed, watching John face. Oh god that expression, his expression, every time Sherlock sees that look on his lover's face, that hungry look, his desire is so sudden, so sharp it hurts.
"Come," John sighed, then leaned in close and opened his mouth. And that's when Sherlock finally listened to his lover, doing exactly as John commanded.
Both of them groaned softly, for quite awhile.
And that is the story of how John gave Sherlock his first blow job in public.
(Oh, and by the way, they caught the security guard and the thief in the act.)
(With two and a half minutes to spare, even.)
(Oh, and Lestrade was the only one who noticed that Sherlock's zipper was half undone.)
(He very nicely didn't say anything, though.)
(Well, not then, anyway.)
This was actually the first story I wrote for "The First Time…" and it was inspired by those gifs that roared through Tumblr a few weeks ago (seem my atlinmerrick. tumblr. com (they also explain why Sherlock's fidgeting so much in the story) and MarieLikesToDraw's demand that I write something for them. I need to get her a unicorn because already I love the possibilities of this series more than, um, unicorns. Any first times you'd like to see, for any of the characters?