12 – Revenge
Sherlock felt as if he were walking in a daze. Everything around him was fuzzy and indistinct, his eyes unable to focus on any one thing. His prick pulsed inside his trousers, half hard and leaking, buzzing in arousal, still waiting to be brought off.
People passed by he and John on the busy sidewalk, not even glancing at them- for which Sherlock was thankful. He clutched the weighty shopping bag tightly- and prudently- in front of his crotch, hoping no one noticed the bulge in the front of his tailored trousers and wondering how he felt about it if they did.
John was still angry over their encounter with Chaucer. Sherlock could tell it in the set of his jaw and the way he walked, stiff and silent, in front of him. John had vacated the shop before Sherlock, telling him to pick whatever else he saw fit to buy and Sherlock, weak-kneed and shaky from his denied orgasm, had hastily obtained a few extra items, wanting the shopping trip to be over and done with so he could meet up with John outside and relieve the achy tension swirling in his body.
He'd experienced an unforeseen discomfort, though, as he offered his credit card to Chaucer, realizing the sales assistant had heard his and John's entire exchange from the cocky, knowing smile on his face.
"Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?" He'd asked, eyes trailing down Sherlock's body and Sherlock nodded, flushing. "Well, it's a very lucky bloke you've purchased all these lovely things for." Chaucer winked and Sherlock had been glad John was outside and hadn't seen. "Your bit of rough has probably never handled silk before. Make sure he knows it needs to be treated…gently."
Sherlock had made a garbled reply, snatched back his card, and trotted from the store, vowing never to shop there again.
Now, the detective followed his doctor as casually as he could, hefting the bag in a position conducive to giving him some sort of dignity.
"John?" He asked, in a strained baritone. "Where are we going?"
"Just down the road." John replied, evasive, and Sherlock wanted to moan.
"Can't we take a cab?" He swallowed around thick desire that clogged his throat and made it hard to breathe. He didn't know how John was acting so casually, striding along without a care, while every shift of his own body sent little flares of pleasure skating along his over sensitized nerve endings. The fabric of his trousers was maddening, brushing again and again against his sensitive prick, making it throb even harder, demanding the orgasm he'd been denied.
The bright sunlight caused his pale eyes to squint painfully and he took a few deep, comforting, pollution-tasting breaths before speaking again. "I trust you're not so much of an idiot that you don't realise exactly what state I'm in right now?" He groaned uncomfortably and adjusted the decadent shopping bag over his extremely-happy, and very impatient erection.
Sherlock wanted to growl in frustration. Instead, he shook himself, trying to take back a modicum of control over himself. He was acting ridiculous. He'd gone six months before without so much as an erection, much less the need for an orgasm, and just because he'd been denied once didn't mean he had to go all to pieces. In broad daylight. In the middle of a crowded sidewalk.
"John...if I admit that I can't deduce your motivation in this instance, will you tell me what you're planning? If it's to do with Chaucer and your unreasonable jealousy, then you're storming off in the wrong direction."
"Unreasonable? When the man knows how big your prick is and drops hints about how thick you are...I don't think that's unreasonable." John halted and rounded on Sherlock. They were at the entrance of a lusciously green park, with multitudes of thick, healthy trees, beds of flowers which made the term 'rainbow' seem redundant, and a small lake inhabited by over-fed waterfowl.
Sherlock shrugged "That's his job. Clothes don't fit right unless all the appropriate measurements…"
John shook his head. Maybe it was Chaucer's job to dress Sherlock, to know the length of his cock and which side he favoured. And maybe it was his job to objectively and professionally know what Sherlock looked like naked…but John didn't like it. And it filled him with jealousy the likes of which he'd never, not once, felt for the women he'd dated.
Sherlock ylet out a delectable yelp when John seized his upper arms and stared up at him, his indigo eyes burning cold and dangerous in the grubby London sun.
"Sherlock," His voice was calm, yet impeccably threatening. "It's just you and me now. Yeah?"
"Of course." Sherlock frowned, not sure what John was getting at. He understood John was jealous of Chaucer but...surely he didn't think... "John..." Sherlock began hesitantly, but John had already seized his hand and was dragging him into the park.
John spared him the briefest of glances as he hauled Sherlock past picnicking families, students on bicycles, and tourists snapping photographs of the landscape. "I know you never shagged him, and never would. Fuck me, he's like Mr. Humphries," he sniggered. As they were talking, they passed under a series of sycamores, and a single leaf drifted down and landed, unnoticed, on John's ash-brown head. Sherlock plucked it up and pocketed it inconspicuously.
"I told you...you know I was a...that I didn't have any experience before you." Sherlock said awkwardly, hating to use the word "virgin" in relation to himself.
"I know. It's just...more the idea..." John muttered, still walking, his legs pumping and Sherlock strode along behind, wondering where they were going and what John had in mind. He staggered through a few brambles and soggy, bare areas of mud as John led him purposefully towards an unwelcoming looking thicket of vegetation in the distance. A group of kids were playing frisbee nearby the little copse, their parents overseeing the proceedings and cooing congratulations loudly with every toss.
"John- what?" Sherlock protested as John entered the little wood, dragging him along behind. Sherlock's shirt snared on a branch and he struggled to free himself before he heard a delicate ripping sound. Then another. He huffed, his best clothes, ruined by nature.
"Shut up, Sherl."
"I didn't -"
"You were going to. I'll get you another fucking shirt. We could always ask your good friend Chaucer." He quipped, grinning bitterly, before protectively hooking his left arm around Sherlock's shoulder blades, his hand cupping the back of the detective's skull, and tugging gently at the luscious, black curls. In the same few seconds, John's right arm hugged Sherlock's narrow hips, and the doctor tackled him to the hard ground.
All the breath whooshed from Sherlock's lungs as he landed on his back on the ground, John a heavy but wonderful weight on top of him. He was surrounded by stimuli- the scent of fresh cut grass, the shouts of children not far off, laughter and happy screams, the hard, compact earth beneath him, smelling of dead leaves and a rich, dark smell he couldn't place. The sunlight speared through the foliage overhead, dappling all around them, turning John's hair wheat gold by turns. John's erection dug into Sherlock's hip, his own nestled snugly against John's thigh, finally able to seek the relief he craved.
Taking a few seconds to ensure Sherlock wasn't hurt by the gentle tackle in any way, John, panting with restrained excitement, smirked down at his partner.
"I don't like knowing he's had his hands all over you." He breathed, making their impromptu bower seem even more secretive and intimate. "I don't like knowing you didn't even realize what he was doing the whole time you've been going there."
"What?"
"Plotting how to get you naked. Watching you strip. Fucking memorizing every curve." John's hands raked down Sherlock's body, possessive and demanding. "And then wanking that night when he went home, imagining the way you looked that day, fantasizing about you wearing whatever it was you'd bought..."
John sounded so confident, Sherlock almost believed him for a split-second. "You don't know that's what he did." He muttered, then whined sweetly when John's hand brushed over his crotch.
"That's what I would have done." John confessed and Sherlock gasped, eyes closing as he thought of John in place of Chaucer. Giving him those looks which Sherlock had always dismissed as teasing, not flirty. On John, it was decidedly flirty. When Chaucer-turned-John followed Sherlock into the dressing room to make sure he got the measurements right, to make sure the fit was comfortable, adjusting the way the clothing draped over his body to check, telling Sherlock he was a professional, this was what he did…Sherlock writhed, moaning. Maybe...maybe John had a point.
"John...this isn't the right place to...Ugh!" He yelped, loudly, as John flicked open his trousers with mind-boggling speed and skill, and shoved his hands into Sherlock's underwear. Sherlock winced with pleasure, but mostly with the realisation that John now had a few fingers' worth of copious, lukewarm pre-come on his hands.
"Do you want me to stop?" John asked, his voice a low purr in Sherlock's ear. "Do you want me to stop, Sherlock? I will. I'll let you do up your trousers again and we'll walk all the way back to the hotel."
At the idea of walking anywhere with his straining erection, Sherlock whimpered.
"John…We can't!" He whispered beseechingly, breathlessly, tensing when he heard a group of Japanese tourists walk past the thicket not thirty feet away and a couple of gleeful screeches from the group of kids.
"Yes we can." John whispered back, thumb rubbing teasingly over the glans of Sherlock's prick, spreading the collecting pre-come there over the head. He lifted his hand from Sherlock's crotch and twirled strings of translucent pre-come from his fingers like a slick, disgusting cat's-cradle The detective gritted his imperfect teeth in embarrassment.
Holding Sherlock's eyes with his own, John stuck his fingers in his mouth, licking off the traces of pre-come showily. "I can tell you like it, Sherlock. You loved it back at the shop, knowing we were in public... And now, knowing anyone could walk over and see us..." John loosely gripped Sherlock's erection and gave it a few soft strokes, not nearly enough of what Sherlock needed. "They could find us at any second...you, spread out on your back like a whore…begging for it..."
Sherlock's breath caught in his throat at the images John was putting in his head, his prick jerking.
"John...if you don't...shut up, I'm gonna..."
"What are you going to do?" John's hand sped up, jacking Sherlock ruthlessly. "Are you going to come, Sherlock? Come with people less than ten yards from us? You can hear them, can't you? Talking, laughing...not aware that we're here..."
Sherlock nodded, hips beginning to weakly thrust into John's hand, heart speeding so fast it felt as if it were about to beat out of his chest. He felt hot and his mind zeroed in on the people he could hear nearby, amplifying the sounds, enhancing the feeling of being in public, of almost getting caught.
"You've done this before." Sherlock uttered in a strangled tone, abdomen and thighs clenched with the painful imminence of ecstasy. He winced, as he felt humiliating amounts of pre-ejaculate leaking from him, coating John's already soaked, sticky hand.
"I'm doing it now, with you." John replied, giving his stokes a little twist at the end, swirling over the head of Sherlock's prick, using the wetness to his advantage. "Christ...you're like a broken faucet."
"Don't laugh at me." Sherlock said with a stern (if watery) glare, shuddering again, long fingers scrabbling in dead leaves and grit, insect casings and damp soil.
"Not laughing at you." John panted quietly, glancing around, making sure they were still alone and the movement drove a spike of white hot arousal through Sherlock's core. He arched, muffling his choked, high-pitched cry, as he came, semen spattering down onto the front of his trousers in thick globs.
John grinned in pure delight at seeing his partner writhe and gasp, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed tight, hands scrabbling through leaf litter in desperation. He swooped down, engulfing Sherlock's cock in his mouth, cleaning him with firm sucks.
Sherlock hissed at the sensitivity, becoming aware, in the afterglow, of sticks digging into his back, dirt gritting beneath his fingernails, and his cock, sticky with semen, being efficiently cleaned. Finally, he could take no more and frantically patted John on the head to encourage him to pull off. John obeyed, with a smug smirk, and Sherlock slumped against the ground in relief.
Boneless and exhausted from his draining orgasm, he slowly, and awkwardly, pulled up his underwear and trousers, zipping up with shaky fingers, shivering with little aftershocks.
"Enjoyed that?" John asked, wholly unnecessarily. It was obvious Sherlock had. He nodded just the same, glancing around. They were still alone.
"Now you." He nodded at the front of John's jeans, tented and strained against the bulge of his erection.
"Now I…what?" John nipped on his own bottom lip with a devilish grin. The smaller man rummaged inelegantly, and hypnotically, at his own crotch, grunting faintly as his palm nudged against his swollen cock.
"Now you...g-get off." Sherlock swallowed, glancing around them again, wondering if he should drop to his knees and suck John off (a pleasing idea, especially as he heard someone laugh, sounding much too close) or pull John out of his trousers and wank him, keeping one eye trained around them to make sure they didn't get caught.
In the end, John chose for him- unzipping his fly and taking himself in hand, pulling Sherlock closer and kissing him as his hand worked frantically at his cock.
The kiss was sloppy, wet, delicious. Loathe as he was to break it, Sherlock pulled back, his eyes hazy and deepened to a satisfied deep-green. "What should I do?"
"Fuck- just kiss me." John choked, his breath speeding up as he tugged at himself and Sherlock quickly obliged, licking inelegantly into his mouth and tangling their tongues together. John huffed against his cheek, his arms beginning to shake, hips pumping steadily as he got closer to orgasm.
Sherlock sensed every telling twitch, every stutter of breath, every muscle jolt, and he tried to move away, aware that John was going to come. John's hand shot out, pulling Sherlock's body flush against John's own, John's cock trapped between them as he pumped his hand in the narrow space, tensing-
John muffled his cry against Sherlock's shoulder, shivering as he came, semen splattering against the front of Sherlock's trousers and seeping into the fabric, mingling with the creamy stains already there.
Sherlock groaned, watching John tremble and sigh, and dazedly stared down at the complete and utter mess that constituted his trousers. A mess John made worse when he rubbed at the come covering Sherlock's groin, spreading it around and into the fabric with parted lips. Then he blinked and glanced up at Sherlock, looking the slightest bit worried.
"I'm...god, was that too much? I'm sorry I don't know what I was...look, you can hold the bag in front of you until we get a cab and I-"
Sherlock cut off his apologetic speech, staring at the white mess decorating him. The idea- walking back through the park and down the busy sidewalks until they got to the hotel, then walking through the lobby and up the stairs to their room...all the while covered in evidence of what he and John had done...
It almost made him woozy.
It definitely sparked a sizzle of lust in the pit of his stomach. He would need to sort that feeling out later.
"You have nothing to apologize for." He murmured, glancing coyly at John. "I think I'd prefer to walk, if it's all the same to you."
"Bad man." John grinned. "Are they salvageable?" He asked, nodding at the undoubtedly painfully-expensive trousers.
"No." Sherlock grinned and John grinned back, chuckling.
"Fine, I owe you new trousers." John paused for a brief reflection, and then laughed, suddenly and sweetly. "This could become an expensive habit."
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