They'd taken the curtains off Sherlock's bedroom windows a long time ago. At night the streetlamp across the way cast enough light to wash the room in perfect blue shadow.
Yet even as they stood in that soft, dim glow John could see his lover's tall, thin body shaking, shaking so beautifully—and it gave him a sudden, simple idea. "I have a condition tonight, love," he whispered. "Just one."
Sherlock's erotic imagination tried gleefully to guess what that condition might be, but the sexual experience it had to draw from—one sorry incident at fifteen; the last two months with John—gave it precious little to work with.
"I'll do anything to you," John said, his voice soft as a kiss, "but for everything I do, you have to—"
John slid his tongue over his lips until Sherlock mirrored him, a beguiled cobra, "—well, you have to—"
Sherlock started to breath faster. Harder. He looked down at the riding crop pressed against the doctor's leg.
"You have to…eat a meal."
The whippet-lean detective pulled in his tongue, opened his mouth, and got ready to argue—he was good at arguing, he always won—but John clasped his hands behind his back and the riding crop disappeared from view.
"One meal," purred the good doctor. "For every mark."
Sherlock said nothing. He thought he did nothing too, but apparently his body communicated a keening yeeeeessss so clearly that John murmured, "Good." Then, tapping the riding crop softly against his leg he said, "Look out the window."
Sherlock obeyed like an over-large puppy.
At first he thought he was meant to see something in the street below. Then he felt John's body heat, then fingers sliding up his neck—goosebumps all over, everywhere; a hot chill centered at my groin—and into his hair. When fingernails scraped across his scalp Sherlock cataloged those sensations too—larger goosebumps; a feeling that I need to—but something new distracted him. John pulling, pulling until Sherlock's neck arched.
"Yes," the doctor said—joy; need—looking at that pale, thin throat in the blue light. He'd never been a particularly oral man before, but that skin, that long neck, it really did beg for biting, didn't it? John tugged again, harder, until the tall man understood, and went to his knees.
At last the one to tower, John leaned down, kissed a pulse-point on the side of Sherlock's throat softly, then softer still, until that tiny patch of skin was hyper sensitive, the center of his lover's world…then John bit so hard they both moaned.
If Sherlock hadn't already been on his knees he'd have gone to them then and there. Instead his cock went so hard, so fast, he moaned again, then again when John growled—mine—in his ear and bit even harder.
Teeth scraped skin—ice; fire; pain; pleasure—and Sherlock knew there would be a mark on his neck tomorrow, a fiery red beacon, a badge. "Yeeees," he hissed, leaning against John's chest, spreading his arms, opening his hands, a willing sacrifice.
That vulnerability nearly sent John to his knees, but instead he held tight to Sherlock's hair, kissed the other side of his lover's neck. For a moment he nibbled there, licked, tasted sweat, London grime, bow rosin, possibly gunpowder. Then he bit into the tender flesh as if ravenous.
Sherlock's back arched and he grabbed blindly at John's legs, scoring skin even through pants. The unexpected pain made the doctor moan, bite harder, and—to his great surprise—caused his cock to go rock hard.
Learn something new every day.
Suddenly Sherlock was overwhelmed with the smell of John: Sweat, pre-cum, saliva, breath, it was all there and it reeked of desire, need, sex.
Still on his knees he turned, grabbed the back of John's thighs and yanked him toward his mouth. He bit hard enough to feel John's erection through jeans, might have bitten even harder but for a sudden, stinging pain against his thigh.
Now why would an army doctor be so skilled with a horsewhip that he can wield it perfectly, and in silence?
A little deductive reasoning would surely unearth the answer to that, but you know what? Right now Sherlock didn't know. And he certainly didn't care.
He slid his arms around John's waist, pressed cheek against chest, let the sound of John's heart flow through him like a drug. "More," he murmured. "More."
John stroked his lover's sweaty brow, tugged back his head, and smiled down at him in the half-light. "Get up love. And get ready."
Okay, there are two erections in the room, and some sexy goings-on, yet it's not quite…sex is it? Damn. Trying. To. Write. Faster. (Comments help wit that. They sure do…)