"So, then he asks me if I know Sherlock Holmes!" Art's voice is mock outrage and his expression so humorous that we fall about laughing. Only Sherlock is looking serious, one eyebrow raised.
"You mean to say that, after spending the entire night with you he asked about me?" He shakes his head and I can't tell if it's in apology to Art or in astonishment at Andrew's manners. Art nods and rolls his eyes.
"He literally turned over and said," he lowers his eyebrows and does a fair impression of the tall surfer boy, "so, Art do you know Sherlock? What a bloody come down." Laura is still giggling as she tops up my glass.
"I did mention that he was a little obsessed Art. But you seemed a bit distracted."
"Distracted?" Art's eyebrows are practically in his hairline, he turns to me for support, "John, have you seen the man?" I nod, still laughing. "Well, there you go then. Distracted, yes miss, I bloody well was. Cock blind." I have just taken a sip of my drink and I fight not to spit it on the tablecloth at his last comment. Laura shrieks with laughter and Sherlock bangs me on the back.
"What did you do to him?" I ask Sherlock, my eyes wide. He frowns, he's thinking. Laura looks at me warningly, is he going to answer that?
"Nothing unusual," he begins, then stops, "well..." Laura interrupts and I'm grateful, my brain wasn't working quickly enough to stop him.
"I don't think he'd met anyone quite like you Sherlock," his head cocks on one side. "You're rather..." she trails off.
"Intense?" I offer and she smiles.
"Fucking intense?" says Art in a copy of my voice. We all laugh except for Sherlock. He's still frowning.
"And he's still interested in me? Even when I've told him?" he shakes his head again. We look at him and it all goes quiet. Then Art starts laughing again, almost unable to control himself.
"What?" Sherlock, Laura and I voice the question in unison. Art is giggling.
"I was just thinking... oh god, do you remember Laura...?" she frowns and looks at me. Art looks at me.
"He said he's not the jealous type." He tells her, I smirk.
"I actually said I wasn't sure but..." I sigh, "Go on." I'm guessing he'll tell the story anyway.
"Do you remember that party Laura? When that policeman called for Sherlock? And you thought it was that bondage guy and it was really a policeman?" he snorts and Laura is giggling, their humour is infectious, I am grinning, Sherlock's mouth is quirked at the side.
"And then he insisted you interrupt Sherlock?" he shakes his head like the story is too funny for him, Laura takes up the tale.
"So I go to the room which I know Sherlock's in and I knock." She is smiling.
"And Sherlock tells you to go away!" Art is banging the table.
"So I tell him there's a policeman. And the policeman," she grins.
"Who's' right behind you, looking over your shoulder," Art and Laura swap the tale about.
"Shouts, 'Holmes get your arse out here man!'" I look at Sherlock.
"Lestrade?" I ask, he nods once still sort of smiling. "And..."
"Sherlock opens the door with only his shorts on and just gets dressed as they walk down the corridor."
"Not before the policeman gets a proper eyeful of Andrew bent over the whipping bench, stark bollock naked!" Laura and Art slap hands and laugh hysterically. I laugh, I can just imagine Lestrade's face and, though I don't like the idea of Sherlock and Andrew, I hold on to what he said about our relationship not being an experiment. Sherlock winces.
"It wasn't an ideal situation really." He states bluntly. Laura can hardly breathe and Art is coughing.
"Not really," I agree and look at him with affection; he can be such a twit. I turn to Art, "so he slept with you to see if you knew Sherlock?" It seems extreme even though I've met the man.
"No sweetheart, he slept with me because I'm fucking gorgeous but he did want to know about the Brain." He grins and I chuckle at his nickname for Sherlock.
The conversation turns to other subjects, they discuss some people I don't know and it's interesting to hear Sherlock's analysis of some of their acquaintances.
"You do realise he has a wife at home?" he observes of a man they are discussing. Art looks horrified.
"Steven? Steven has a wife? Sherlock, darling, the man is gayer than I am. And I'm gay, if you hadn't noticed." He says to me as though it's a confidential aside. I chuckle. Sherlock shakes his head.
"No, married I'm afraid." He says and Laura frowns.
"Wedding ring mark on his finger?" Sherlock smiles.
"Faintly, but that wasn't what gave it away." He waits until we are all agog; he's such a show off.
"So, Brain, come on, tell all." Art has no patience; I'd have let Sherlock stew a little longer.
"It's simple really. He has long blonde hairs stuck on the seat belt in his car and the mirror in the driver's side sun visor shows constant use. A woman uses his car often. Then, when he gets in it, he always adjusts the mirrors, it's a reflex, he's used to someone else driving his car, no one lets their friends drive their car all the time, so much that you have a habit of checking the mirrors' positions. It could be a long term girlfriend but I'm guessing wife."
Art and Laura raise their eyebrows at each other. I smile.
"Hang on, when've you been in his car?" Art asks. We look at Sherlock. He twists his mouth. My phone beeps. I flash a glance at Sherlock and leave the table.
Out in the hall my hand is shaking. I pull the phone from my pocket and tentatively unlock the screen. I have one message. It's from Lestrade. I sigh and realise I have been holding my breath.
"Freiman up to something. Spent today at dockyards. Think he'll be in touch soon." It reads. I stand for a minute and try to calm my heartbeat. I think, that for a moment, in the fun and laughter of Art and Laura's company I had forgotten the danger I am in. I go back into the summer room.
"Everything ok?" Laura asks me, she frowns in concern. I nod.
"Yeah, just a policeman for Sherlock." I grin, Sherlock's shoulders fall; I think he was actually looking forward to it being Freiman. Laura and Art laugh. Sherlock is watching me, gauging my mood.
"Disappointed John? Are you waiting for a call?" Art asks, I nod but say nothing.
"Maybe Sherlock can distract you for a bit?" Laura smiles at us both. I look at him; a grin is spreading across his face. I chuckle. He looks at his watch.
"7.34," he says, "plenty of time to get home and get those bars out." I don't know what to say and I presume my face communicates this because Laura and Art laugh.
"It might just be the preoccupation you need John." Art says, Laura and Sherlock nod as though we're discussing me taking up meditation. I shake my head laughing.
"You lot are so biased." I grin. Sherlock stands up and stretches like he's going to need his muscles. Bloody hell.
"I'll get that camera stuff you wanted." Laura smiles and stands up from the table. I look at Sherlock.
Sherlock lugs the heavy black camera back into the cab and I tell the driver where we're going. I'm trying not to think about the bag but the thing is huge, Sherlock props his feet on it as we set off.
"So, what did Lestrade say?" he asks me, fiddling with the handle of the bag which he has wrapped over his knee to stop it swinging about as we take corners. I take the phone out of my pocket and show him the text. He nods and looks out of the window. He's thinking.
"Do you think it means they've kidnapped someone else?" I ask, this has been eating away at me, my conscience picking at me while we ate and laughed tonight. He shrugs and wipes his hand over his face. We sit in silence, Sherlock intent on the city passing us by.
"Would CCTV be as much of a turn on as the video camera?" he asks me suddenly, turning those blue eyes on me and smiling. I gulp.
"God Sherlock. No, no. No way. No." I think I've made my point, he grins.
"But it's ok if we film ourselves?" it's my turn to look out of the window, it's dark and all I can see is my own face in the passing buildings. Is it ok I wonder? There's something forbidden about it, something which is like leaving on the lights and that turns me on. The mention of the idea is making my blood pound. I can imagine us on the bed, or maybe the sofa, or against the door. Come on John. And the camera watching us... I swallow. And I nod.
"And we can watch it afterwards right?" he's pushing it and he knows it. Can I do that? Can I sit there, in the picture in my head Sherlock and I have popcorn as we watch the film, and watch myself with him. Dear god, I think I can. I don't say anything and I nod again, a little more tentatively. He claps his hands. Jesus.
When we get back to Baker St he stops as he opens the door. He turns to me, hands still on the key in the lock.
"John am I in charge tonight?" his voice is dark and his expression serious. I bite the inside of my lip and nod. "Good." He blinks slowly and unlocks the door. He steps over the neglected post and makes for the stairs, unlocking our door and then swinging it open for me, stepping back as I go in. I reach for the light switch, it's a reflex but he has his hand over it and he closes the door and puts on one of the lamps. The soft amber glow of the shade makes the room seem warm.
I have my back to him and he spins me round slowly, his hands on my shoulders. He kisses me and he's gentle at first, becoming more impatient and demanding as my breathing becomes more erratic and my heart beats faster.
"Are you going to do as I say John?" he whispers to me, his voice is a turn on even in the most inopportune moments but like this its impact on my physical state is frightening. The intensity, the command in his words, makes my knees weak. I nod. "Then I think you should show me how much you want to make me happy," he pauses just long enough to have me wondering, "With your mouth please." That last word, so incongruous with his demanding tone has my mind spinning. I try not to think too much, to rationalise the game we are playing. After all, I've followed orders before; from men I had less respect for than I do for Sherlock. I drop to my knees obediently.
He doesn't say anything so I reach up and unfasten his trousers. He's already aroused and the feel of him through the fabric communicates itself to my own body and I feel myself harden. I stroke him through his shorts, listening to his long slow breathing in the rhythm of my hands. He moans languorously and leans back against the wall, pushing his hips forward. I can feel his impatience as he hisses through his teeth and I don't hurry my movements, wondering what he will do.
I don't have to wait long, his long fingers twine themselves in my hair and he pulls back, my neck muscles taut. It doesn't hurt me but I am surprised, I didn't expect it. With his free hand he pulls down his shorts hurriedly and pulls my mouth against him. His velvet smooth skin, hot and hard, brushes my lips and I give an involuntary groan. He uses the hand in my hair to pull me along the length of him, using my mouth for his pleasure. There's something wildly erotic at him using me, satisfying his needs with my body as though he has no regard for how I feel. And in the back of my head I know he knows this and he's doing it for me too. The idea is complex and confusing and is pushed from my mind as he pushes himself between my lips, using his fingers to open my mouth.
He swirls the head of his cock just inside my mouth, I taste him, salty on the tip of my tongue. I look up and his head is thrown back, his mouth open. He looks like he's enjoying himself and it makes me happy, proud that I can make him feel that way. He gives me just the tip, teasing my lips like a lip gloss and then, inch by inch, thrusting against me. The less he gives me the more I want.
I never imagined wanting to do this with a man, for a man, but Sherlock is not just anyone. I listen to him growling in his chest as he pulls away and then pushes back, right into me, filling my mouth with the taste of him and I relish it, this extraordinary lack of power inside which I have control over him. I can feel him getting closer to orgasm and I flick my tongue against him, making my lips tighter around him. The grip in my hair becomes sharper, more intense and this communicates itself to my actions.
He is bucking forward and I can hear him moaning my name when he pulls away. He leans against the wall, panting and he holds my head away from him. I can't look up so I look at his hard cock, slick and hard right in front of my eyes. It reminds me that my own erection is painfully confined in my jeans.
"Fireplace." he almost growls and I stand up, feeling my knees protesting at the injustice of my sudden movement. I walk to the fireplace but am unsure what he wants me to do. He pushes me so I face the wall and my hands come up to brace myself against the chimney breast. I feel like I've been arrested. He runs his hand down my front, over my nipples through the jumper kit and down to my cock. He teases and squeezes his way down until I am panting and desperate. His mouth is at my ear.
"Stay right there." He moves to the side of me and switches off the lamp. Then he opens the camera box. Should I stop him, complain? I don't think I can. He sets the camera up, looking through the lens briefly when he's set it on the tripod. He nods to himself and presses a button. The machine begins to make a high shining sound. I turn my head away, what are you supposed to do? I hate cameras, photos at the best of times; this is not one of those. He crosses back to me via the sofa. He has a bar in his hands. He turns me around and kisses me, his hands under my jumper, nipping and caressing. Any nerves or concerns I had are chased away by the electricity flowing down my body at his touch. I keep forgetting about the camera. I realise that this is his plan. He steps back when he considers me warmed up.
"Take off your clothes." Nothing more than this line and I am trembling. His voice is dark and in it there is an element of command. This is less of a game than his kidnapping but more of a game because of the camera, the bar.
I pull off my jumper and drop it on the floor, then my t shirt. He is looking at me, appraising me like he is judging, assessing. It makes me shiver and he knows it. His mouth twists into a smirk. There is moment of tension; I don't take off my trousers. Some long buried rebel part of John Watson thinking what can he do if I don't comply.
"Take them off John." I bite my lip and look at him. He leaves a long minute. "Of course if you're saying you don't want me to fuck you, hard, with the bar and the camera on then..." he shrugs. Damn him. He has a double win. When I take these jeans off it's admitting that that is just what I want. I shake my head and unfasten my fly buttons. He smiles.
I pull my rousers down and kick them off. He raises his eyebrows and I know he's telling me the shorts have to go too. Damn. I sigh and push out a long breath and then I take them off. He looks me over. It's long stare, it makes me feel so much more exposed, not helped by my now painfully obvious erection.
"Nice." He nods and bites his lip, it's an expression I've seen him use on murder scenes which get his interest. I sigh. "Touch yourself." What? He has to be kidding, touch myself, with him watching, with the camera focussed on me? I frown and purse my lips. I shake my head a little, uncertain even myself if I am refusing. He cocks his head. His expression says it all. If I don't comply then... fine. We'll just do something else, watch TV or read a book or shoot the wall again. Fucking hell. The man is a monster.
Biting my kip and closing my eyes I run my hand over my hip, tentative and self conscious. It occurs to me that, if I imagine this to be his hand then this might not be so awful. I brush against my hard on, and I moan. God. Didn't mean to do that. After a moment of gentle, light touches I get bolder, made brave by the sensation flooding my body. I squeeze myself and moan again; maybe I even say his name. I am beyond caring. I imagine those long, tapering fingers flickering over my tormented skin.
"Open your eyes, look at me John." oh god. I can't.
"Look at me John." I grimace, screw up my face and open my eyes. His expression is almost feral and he watches me hungrily. I slow my hand and he shakes his head. I moan again as I increase the pressure of my fingers. I can feel the tightness in my lower stomach, the fizzing building of my orgasm. His eyes burn into me, he licks his lips slowly. I am going to come...
"Stop." I can't, I won't. "Stop John." he uses my name and it pulls me up short. I take my hands away quickly as though removing the temptation.
He comes towards me and runs a hand down my body. From my shoulder down to my hip his long fingers trace my skin, my scars. He watches my reaction and I realise his Dom persona is so different than mine. His control is all in the mind. It would be. The hand on my hip skims near the place I want him to touch me. He trails am lazy hand through the hair which curls between my legs; his fingers leave a path of fire over my skin. I can't help it, I moan, even to me it sounds abandoned, desperate. He smiles again.
"Turn around." I obey him, glad for a moment to be out of his direct line of sigh until I realise that my face is now towards the camera, the side angle of my body exposed. I feel him trace his hands down my legs and something wide and soft is clipped against my ankle. I look down and it's a cuff, a broad black leather cuff, with a silver loop. My heart starts to beat faster and my breathing is jumping about. The blood is pounding in me, centred between my legs. I feel him clip on the other cuff.
He runs his hands back up over my thighs as he stands behind me, I will him to touch me but he doesn't even go near. I am in an agony of suspense. He leans himself against me, pushing me against the wall. I feel him against my buttocks; he's kicked off his trousers and short and taken off his shirt. His skin scorches my flesh where he touches. I feel how hard he is, his breath on my neck. All this tension, this waiting has me in an ecstasy of longing. Just get on with it I want to plead. But I can't.
After rubbing himself slowly against me, tormenting me with the hot touch of his flesh he kneels down and attaches the bar to the silver hoops. As he shifts the telescopic section of the bar I am forced to open my legs wide. This in turns pushes my upper body forward until I am resting my hands on the mantelpiece. It becomes obvious why he has chosen this spot. He won't have to bend or adjust his height to be inside me, the bar puts me in just the right position for him to gain entrance.
I feel so exposed, the bar and the camera combining to open me wide strip me down to my barest elements for his perusal. It's terrifying and utterly thrilling. I feel the cold slip of the lube over my skin, feel it dripping down my legs and how the angle of my body trails it along my cock and balls. He runs a hand over my buttocks.
"Oh John," his voice is that dark, seductive tone which make me tremble. "I'm going to enjoy this." There's something sensual, honest about his voice and I know he means it.
I feel him push against me and I grip the smooth surface of the mantelpiece. One hard thrust and he is in me, I pull back my head and cry out, my hand slips and ornaments, envelopes fall onto the floor. He is still; I feel my pulse around him, his hard flesh throbbing inside me. He is panting, his head hangs over my back and his hair brushes my skin.
He moves again, a slow pushing in and pulling out which has me moaning, mumbling his name. His hand is on my shoulder, the other on my hip. The bars spread me wide for him, he is deep inside me and I feel myself impaled on him. The hand on my hip slips to slide across my cock, I jerk forward, an involuntary movement which makes his push against me harder.
"John, oh god..." I am going to come. I tell him, barely getting the words out because the hand on my shoulder grabs my jaw and turns my face towards the camera.
"Open your eyes. Show me." he says fiercely. I can't do anything but what he tells me. I look into the black eye of the lense and I feel myself unravel. I scream his name; I promise him anything, I tell him he's a genius, that I belong to him, that I love him. I feel his thrusts become erratic, desperate and he shouts as he comes. A long, wild cry, wordless but full of emotion.
He moves away and clicks off the camera, hurrying back to touch me, reassure me with his hands. He holds me and then he unclips the bar. He sits down on the floor pulling the blanket from the armchair and wrapping us both in its folds. He kisses my forehead and notices I am shivering.
"Adrenaline come down." I grin, not feeling the embarrassment I had expected to feel but rather elation, like I have crossed a bridge, won a battle. He nods smiling.
"Tea? Biscuits?" he chuckles and unfolds himself from me, padding into the kitchen on those long, bare feet.
I watch him, naked, unselfconsciously rummaging in the biscuit tin, getting out tea bags. I realise how comfortable we are together and how I have never felt this way with anyone else. Across the room I hear a noise. It gets louder and louder and Sherlock turns and frowns. It's coming from my jeans. I pull them over to me and take out my phone. There is a text from Freiman.
"John, tomorrow night. 8pm, we'll pick you up. GF, be prepared for some real fun this time." I suddenly feel cold.
In don't know what's wrong with me but I felt bloody awful when I started this one too. I'd really appreciate some feedback on this because I think I'm finsing it hard to 'come down' off the high of those two big chapters. I basically wrote the sex to make myself feel better. Was it off kilter? Have I gone off track? Really guys am feeling mega insecure and I don't know why...
Thank goodness for The Baker St Irregulars! You guys have kept me going: PrincessNala(LOOKJOHNINTHESPREADERS!), Peachsilk (peachy you're an angel), Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2 (pep talker!), Tanya Zsa Zsa ,Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin (PLEASE SEE ABOVE COMMENT FOR NALA!) and Jazzysatindoll (see you at the Tate then)! You're all sweethearts.
I want to dedicate this and future chapters to Darmed who just found out her cancer has made a sneak attack. Can I ask you all to wish her well as a fellow Sherlock/John lover?
Love my OHOB and my darling Reggie, Cxx