21 - It's Getting a Little Hard
When John woke the next morning, he had already reached down to palm his morning erection…before he remembered his rash promise to Sherlock the day before.
They hadn't spoken to each other since the argument- Sherlock stalking around the flat with an angry expression and John silently fuming that Sherlock thought all he wanted him for was sex. Well. He was determined to win this argument, John thought savagely, jerking his hand away from his cock. He wasn't going to let Sherlock have the satisfaction of seeing him fail and inevitably gloat about it.
John, frustrated and angry, was knuckling his eyes sleepily when Sherlock, looking fresh as a daisy, but nowhere near as happy, appeared in the doorway and chucked his own mobile onto John's lap.
"Case." He announced curtly, before waltzing out again.
John picked up the phone and fought a grin at the screen. There was a message notification from Lestrade, but the background image was now one of Sherlock, naked in his armchair, head thrown back so just the tip of his nose, a plump bottom lip, and a firm Adam's apple were visible. His hands cupped his dignity teasingly.
Oh, so that was the way of it, was it? John enjoyed the view, biting his lip, before throwing off the covers and hurrying to the shower. He washed quickly, not taking the usual time he would to leisurely soap his genitals and maybe wank. It was worth it when he came out of the loo and saw Sherlock peeking around the door to the sitting room, wide eyes taking in John's body and widening when he found that John hadn't got himself off yet.
John felt a vindictive thrill course through him.
"So, new case? What are the details? Lestrade's message was a bit vague." John wandered into the kitchen, adjusting his dressing gown and tutting irritably when he noticed they were out of teabags.
"Nothing remarkable. Expect it will be solved in minutes but Lestrade wants me to take a look." Sherlock said, leaning in the doorway and watching John, his fingers teasing and caressing at the column of his neck as if in deep thought. He sighed, tipping his head back, and John's eyes were inexorably drawn to the sight- as Sherlock had known they would be.
John appreciated the display for a moment, as he was supposed to, before snorting with laughter. "You might want to cover that up." He nodded at the flourished, dark lovebite on Sherlock's neck, which had lingered longer on pale skin than John had anticipated. "Also, your razor needs replacing, and you've got a tiny bit of...brown sugar? Under your index fingernail." He deduced, relishing the look of wide-eyed bemusement that he received in return.
Sherlock looked wrong-footed and John took a sick pleasure in being able to surprise him. He nonchalantly turned back to the counter, making toast which they could eat on the way to the crime scene. He'd gone without sex - without getting off - before. Plenty of times. He could do it again and no little teases from Sherlock would affect him.
However, two could play at that game. This wasn't just about John, was it?
John carelessly shed his dressing gown as he left the kitchen, baring himself to kith and kin, and most importantly, to one very aroused consulting detective.
If Sherlock hadn't already been dressed, he would have wasted no time in out-doing John's performance with his own display of his physical...temptations.
As it was, Sherlock, clad in suit and shirt, watched John get dressed, feeling himself becoming more and more aroused by the sight of John's lean muscles stretching and bunching beneath his skin. The way the light reflected off his skin, his hairs caught the light. His narrow hips, cock and testicles hanging heavy and low between his legs. Sherlock swallowed heavily.
If they hadn't been fighting, he would have attempted a seduction. Even now, if he didn't push it too far, perhaps he could-
No, Sherlock sternly told himself. That was just what John wanted.
John was waiting for him to offer himself. Another willing vessel, which he would accept with apparent altruism. Sherlock couldn't give in. Not for one second.
John was going to crack, and Sherlock was determined to be there to see it.
He began to fortify the (comfortable, reassuring, beautiful, delicious) rooms in his Mind Palace marked 'John' with Mission Impossible-style laser beam traps and motion sensors.
By the time John was dressed and ready to go to the crime scene, Sherlock had his plan - and his defences - ready.
He was going to win.
They arrived at the fancy spa about midday and were forced to traverse multitudes of yellow police tape cordons and a gaggle of half-naked sauna, massage and alternative therapy customers who were being kept for routine questioning. John couldn't understand why these people would pay to wrinkle in the same wet heat that was available for free just outside the front door in the sweltering late-summer City heat...but apparently that sort of heat wasn't posh enough for those with means.
He knew it was widely touted as a health treatment, but looking around at the state of the towel-clad, confused-looking clients in the foyer, John doubted that it was doing any of them any good.
Well…except one or two.
When he turned around, Sherlock was staring at him, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. John raised his eyebrows, trying to look innocent.
"We're here to investigate a murder, John. Not for you to ogle the witnesses."
"Who says I'm not just deducing?" John asked but Sherlock snorted.
"I should have known not getting off for one day would have made you so randy."
John glanced around briefly, judging the minuscule time-frame he would need, and pinched Sherlock's arse sharply. "You brought this upon yourself, Sherlock. Now be a good boy and go to work."
Sherlock gave John a venomous glare and stalked away, aware of the smaller man striding along behind him. He knew John was staring at the assembled people, probably playing some perverse game trying to decide who he would fuck.
He strode up to the manager of the spa, frowning irritably and the man wilted under his gaze.
"Tell me how exactly how you found her."
The manager began to describe the situation succinctly and Sherlock listening raptly while at the same time wondering which of the assembled witnesses John would prefer to him, jolted in shock when he recognised the familiar weight of Lestrade's hand on his arm.
"We've kept the crime scene intact for you. Thought you'd need to take a look."
"And you haven't allowed Anderson to trample all over it like normal?"
"You sound disappointed," Lestrade said tiredly. "I haven't got time for dramatics, Sherlock, if you can give me anything, do it quickly. This woman's a fucking Peer of the Realm and my superiors are breathing down my neck to get this wrapped up and solved."
After a few cursory questions for the staff, which seemed to John and Lestrade to be random and irrelevant, Sherlock swept into the crime scene. He had trouble concentrating on the body that laid on the therapy table, though, keeping one eye on John all the while. Observing the way he laughed with Lestrade at the periphery of the room, making plans with him for later in the week- pub, blah blah blah. Normal...but Sherlock was suddenly on edge. Would John try and have it off with Lestrade? If he weren't supplied with ample, vigorous, pleasing sex at home on a regular basis…would John seek it from the next likely source? Someone he worked with?
"Why do you bother to ask for my knowledge when you won't pay attention?!" Sherlock asked furiously, turning a searing glare upon John and Lestrade. "I know everything that happened here. If you would prefer to taunt me, please carry on, but don't expect me to placate you in your pathetic attempts at personal gratification. And John, don't trouble yourself about my possible physical reactions over the next few days. I'll force it away."
John's face turned a ruddy red and Lestrade looked torn over whether or not he should laugh or be embarrassed. He settled for chuckling awkwardly and rubbing at the back of his neck, which had turned a stunning shade of red.
"Called in the middle of a lover's quarrel, eh?" He asked, clearing his throat and avoiding looking at John. He paced toward Sherlock and away from a clearly simmering John. "Well? Tell me what we've missed."
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to keep ignoring me?"
"Sherlock. Just. Tell me what you know."
"First of all- John, I need you to confirm that her acupuncture treatment in this spa was in fact the last treatment she had before she died, and also that she had never received that particular treatment before. She comes here for relaxation and pampering, as opposed to actively seeking respite from any chronic pain or other physiological problems. The actual cause of death was asphyxiation, however there are no signs of manual strangulation, no evidence of water in the lungs, no bruising on her face which would suggest a pillow held over her face, and she was found relatively-peacefully after the acupuncturist completed the therapy. He left her alone for half an hour to rest. The causation was clearly chemical, then."
Sherlock took a deep breath, and continued without further pause.
"One compound can be easily extracted from a reasonably common plant, wolfsbane, which is also easy to cultivate in the Northern hemisphere, especially if you happen to be a degree-level horticulturalist who is employed by this woman to maintain her extensive acreage of land. She wouldn't recognise it; I doubt she would have known a nettle from a nasturtium. Long story short, the toxin collected from the plant was applied via the acupuncture needles. The therapist who gave her the treatment is looking distinctly awkward, but it's not fear or shock, it's guilt. I suspect that it's his partner, the gardener, who supplied the poison. Her heart suffered arrhythmia, and this soon led to asphyxia and death. I imagine the motive was money, she made an effort to bequeath substantial amounts to her loyal staff upon her demise. I suspect they couldn't wait any longer," Sherlock panted, clearing his throat with finality.
Lestrade, pen poised over his notepad, stared openly at Sherlock, looking dumbfounded, and John grinned.
"That's fantastic."
"Aren't you used to that by now?" Lestrade snapped out of his daze and stared from Sherlock to the body and back at his blank notepad. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at John's praise. Of course, if he could still dazzle and impress John he would always hold sway over him. He would always desire Sherlock so long as he was brilliant.
"Don't ever really get used to...that." John gestured at Sherlock, eyes doing a quick glance up and down his body- making Sherlock's skin flush hot all over- before snapping to attention again.
A comically-bemused expression crinkled Sherlock's features as he silently questioned John's implication. It might have been sexual, but...it was hard to say.
"I think we're practically done here," Sherlock managed, making to stride from the room but finding himself unwilling to try and traverse past John in the doorway, like a full-size dog irrationally unsettled by a little cat in its path.
"Call Donovan in on your way out." Lestrade said, scribbling for all he was worth. "And I'll be calling you later to check these facts."
Sherlock nodded and, squaring his shoulders, marched toward the door, expecting John to naturally move out of the way
He didn't.
Sherlock rather awkwardly brushed against John's front, and he huffed, irritated, feeling his own cheeks burn as he caught Lestrade's dark eyes on him.
"John, I-"
His mumble was cut short as John bestowed on him the kind of look which left Sherlock in no doubt of the smaller man's cheeky, lascivious intentions, and his genuine sexual interest.
Sherlock felt his body responding- right in the middle of a crime scene, a dead body not two yards from them- and he quickly slid the rest of the way past John, swinging his coat around him to hide his burgeoning erection. He hoped no one noticed and he tried to keep his face from showing how much he'd been affected.
A quick glance at John confirmed that he hadn't been affected by their contact. At all.
John was doing things on purpose. Sherlock was sure of it.
He was positive John didn't need to bend over like that in order to get something on the bottom shelf at Tesco. And he didn't need to wiggle his hips while he walked through the aisles. And Sherlock wanted to wipe that smug little smirk off John's face- preferably by sucking his cock until he was gasping and gone with pleasure and he swore he'd never smile at the petite brunette they passed near the bread ever again.
And the rub of it was, John seemed totally unaffected.
To be fair, Sherlock didn't need to be there at all, shopping with him. In fact, John was probably finding it slightly suspicious that he would even choose to accompany him on so mundane a mission when before he'd declared he never wanted to set foot in a store again. The noise. The crowd. The tediousness of it all.
But Sherlock's inner caveman instinct was, if not 'kicking in,' then certainly simmering vaguely...enough for him to want to defend his mate against potential usurpers.
John needed sex. Lots and lots of sex. If he wasn't having it, then he was thinking of it, and John's thinking of sex led to him wanking...and wanking led him to wanting sex. It was a cycle, one Sherlock had observed the entire time he and John had been flatmates. John had always been in the pursuit of women he wanted to sleep with.
Now that Sherlock had cut him off from sex, and by extension wanking...it only stood to reason he would be on the prowl.
If John was going to try it on with someone else, Sherlock wanted to be there to see it. Well...he didn't want to be there of course, and he didn't want to see it at all- the pain of John finding someone else to have giggly, rough sex with was too painful to contemplate-…but he wanted to be proved right.
Sherlock quietly admitted to himself that the only thing he would prefer to being proved right about, was if John stayed celibate for him.
But, as Sherlock watched John smile at a passing mother and her little boy, he doubted John would. He'd meant it when he said he didn't believe John could go without sex. He really didn't think he could.
Sherlock bit his tongue for a few seconds as John's smile widened at the woman, and he was secretly proud of his restraint that he didn't snap something rude and get them both thrown out of the store. He was less happy that his deep voice broke tellingly when he next addressed John, over the annoying, noisy bustle and chaos of the supermarket.
"Friend of yours?"
"Hmm? Her? No, just being polite." John said off-handedly, his attention already focused on trying to decide between a few different cereals. "Which one, Sherl? And not to experiment on - to eat." He held up two boxes that Sherlock didn't care anything about. He tried to sneak a glance at John's crotch to see if he were aroused by his contact with the woman.
John, however, was flaccid and Sherlock decided perhaps more time needed to pass before John broke.
John was roused, as had become the usual these last few weeks, by the faint but very telling noises of frustration which sounded from the man who had invited himself (permanently) into his bed after the roof in his room had been fixed, and who had been spooning him with a cocktail of possessiveness, lust, and frustration over the last three weeks.
John mentally thanked god that he had the day off. Five in the morning was no decent time to be forced into wakefulness by your intransigent lover. He instinctively rubbed his left shoulder, which was healing remarkably quickly, his arm working almost at full strength, though it twinged sharply with pain every now and then- and focused back to the problem at hand.
Sherlock was rutting against him, sleepily but with obvious purpose, his erection poking John in the back and little desperate grunts huffing into John's neck. Sherlock's fingers clutched at John's T-shirt, twisting the fabric and pulling John closer, whines starting to build up in his throat.
Used to this scenario by now, John eased himself away, before turning over and pecking the sleeping detective lightly on the tip of his nose, using his hands to gently shake him into a modicum of bleary consciousness.
"J-John?" Sherlock gasped, eyes blinking open, dark and full of want. His hips stuttered forward again, once, twice...and then John saw the moment Sherlock realized what he was doing…Why it was wrong of him to be doing it.
Sherlock blanched and jerked away from John, rolling over in their bed and turning his back to him- not before John saw the prominent erection tenting his pyjama bottoms and the wet spot he'd leaked onto the fabric.
"Morning, darling." He said cheerfully, smiling at Sherlock's rigid back. He received the faintest, disgruntled rumble in reply, and Sherlock sequestered himself deeply under the bedsheets. The late-summer mornings were currently unseasonably chilly, damp, and grey, and John shivered as his sleep-snared body rapidly became aware of the coolness of the bedroom.
"Sherlock, give me some covers."
"My need is greater." Sherlock hauled the covers tighter around him, refusing to relinquish them even when John tugged at them. He tried to quietly control his rapid breathing, his penis pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Sherlock knotted his fingers in the blanket to keep from reaching down and bringing himself off, the lurid dream from earlier parading through his mind and making it so much worse.
He hadn't come in 3 weeks. It was by far not the longest he'd ever gone without sexual pleasure. Not even close. He'd gone 6 months before without an orgasm and not even cared or noticed. But this was vastly different.
John was always there. Looking handsome. Stretching and groaning as his muscles pulled. Throwing Sherlock dirty looks. Licking his lips. Reminding Sherlock of all he could have if only he hadn't been so rash and started this stupid bet.
"Sherlock, I'm cold." John murmured. "If you're not going to give me the covers back…why don't you hold me...please?"
Oh, that voice. That request. Sherlock positively shuddered with want, able to imagine John's blue eyes, beseeching in the darkness.
"You're not cold." He stalled, not wanting to turn over and show John how aroused he still was.
"Yes, I am. Come on, Sherlock, it's 5 in the morning. Just...turn back over and hold me so we can both go to sleep."
There was no way he'd be able to sleep if he held John. Sherlock knew it…but he turned over just the same, bundling the covers in front of his crotch to conceal his erection. John, he noticed, was still soft.
John made a rather elaborate show of yanking up a handful of duvet and trying to pull it over himself, making a small noise of irritation when he felt resistance, and he tiredly pulled a few more times, before sighing in submission. "Don't know what you're doing but I'm cold. So, come on."
Sherlock growled. He felt as if he were burning up from the inside out with sexual frustration. He didn't understand it. John hadn't wanked or had sex in 3 weeks- a record for him as far as Sherlock knew- and he seemed totally...fine. Oh, he glanced at Sherlock's lips every now and then, but for the most part he was fine. Not like Sherlock. He sometimes felt as if a stiff breeze blowing in the right direction would make him come. He was aroused by the most random of things: the way John buttered his toast, when he bit his lip, tongue poking out as he read the newspaper, crossing his legs, sighing...
"I don't want to hold you." Sherlock said petulantly. "Why don't you hold me?"
John beamed and scooted closer, strong arms encompassing Sherlock. One scooped under his torso and nudging against the slightly-lumpy mattress, the other clasped possessively around his shoulders.
"Mm. This is nice. Still cold, though." John muttered, his breath tickling Sherlock's lips.
"Buy an electric blanket." Sherlock replied sourly, closing his eyes and willing himself to go to sleep and stop concentrating on the pulsing need between his legs. This wasn't like him.
"We need to be closer." John tugged Sherlock against him, wedging his cock between them. "To ensure maximum heat transfer."
"Enough, John," Sherlock stuttered, with an obvious, telling hitch in his deep voice. "I know exactly what you're doing. Stop it."
John made a thoughtful little noise and nuzzled Sherlock fondly. "And I know exactly what you need. When's the last time you climaxed, sweetheart?"
Sherlock swallowed heavily at the question, at the idea. "Th-three weeks." His cock jerked upward at the words, clamoring for more attention.
"How does it feel?" John asked, nosing at Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's pulse leaped at the contact. "...Is it driving you mad?"
"No." Sherlock lied. "I...hardly notice it. It's just my body, John. It's become used to regular orgasms, for the release. But I'm in control of myself. I...am perfectly fine."
"Hhm." John twitched his hips and his soft cock nudged against Sherlock.
Sherlock shuddered.
"Sherlock. Tell me honestly. Do you want to get off? You know…" John said slowly, "they say that every time you lie, somewhere, a bee dies."
"They do not." Sherlock protested, then looked up at John, worried. "Do they?"
"Depends if you tell the truth or not. At this very moment, somewhere in the country, a bee is in its final death throes-"
"John-"
"Struggling for air, wings fluttering feebly-"
"Yes! I was lying!" Sherlock burst out quickly, knowing John was putting him on but unable to think of a poor bee in such pain. "I was lying, John. I want to get off. But.." He sighed. "That wasn't what was supposed to happen. It will just be proving me right that you can't go without sex."
"Not exactly." John's hand glided down Sherlock's stomach, stopping just short of his cock. "If I get you off, that doesn't mean I have to get off."
"That hardly seems fair, John."
"It's fair, love. I'm still going without sex and I'm still proving a point. But just because I'm going without…doesn't mean you have to." John's hand moved another inch closer to Sherlock's cock, a spurt of pre-come weeping from the tip.
Sherlock very quickly made up his mind.
"Oh, Christ," He shivered, gulping audibly. "Can I...can I have anything I want?"
"Of course, love." John promised, moving closer and voice pitching lower in excitement. "Anything."
"Do you think you could...talk to me?" Sherlock asked, hesitantly and awkwardly. "And kiss me a bit? And just...tell me things? It won't take much." He confessed shame-facedly, feeling a steady, cooling trickle of liquid from his own turgid shaft dribble down his balls.
John surged forward, fervently kissing Sherlock and he moaned into John's mouth. They hadn't kissed like this in the past three weeks. Little pecks, a few longer kisses, but nothing...nothing like this. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head when John's tongue invaded his mouth and he clutched John's body to him, rutting against his hip.
Sherlock's pyjama bottoms were becoming unpleasantly sticky as more and more precome spooled from his top, but he didn't dare attempt to remove or even adjust them lest he distracted John and snapped him out of the glorious, deep, penetrating snog he was receiving. He couldn't, however, restrain the small, breathless exhales that were noisily exposing his true desperation in the otherwise-silent pre-dawn gloom.
"Missed you. Missed this." John confessed, breaking their kiss, whispering against Sherlock's lips. "Can't wait to see you come, Sherl. You're always so gorgeous when you come."
John's cock was finally responding. Sherlock could feel it fattening up against his thigh but John wasn't moving to give himself more stimulus, didn't start rubbing himself against Sherlock. He seemed to be ignoring it.
Overcome, Sherlock huffed a hot, silent laugh against John's mouth. "It's quite nice, this, isn't it?" He felt giddy, drunk on John's kisses and his growing orgasm.
"Yes." John breathed, sounding sincere, nipping at Sherlock's jaw as he pawed at his back, his arse, hands greedy and possessive. Sherlock's hips stuttered and he tensed, ready to come.
"John, I wish you would come too." He admitted, groaning as his orgasm began to crest, muscles locking in preparation,…and then it ebbed away tauntingly. Sherlock panted desperately. "John..."
"I'll be fine." John kissed Sherlock, tugging at his lip. "I'll be fine. Come on, Sherlock, come on, love." He wedged a hand down between their bodies and cupped a hand over Sherlock's erection, massaging at it forcefully. "Let it all out."
Grunting, gritting his teeth in concentration, Sherlock writhed on the utter brink of orgasm. "Just...bit...m...more." He pleaded without conscious shame and John moaned, the first noise Sherlock had been able to tear from him in three weeks. He stroked at Sherlock's clothed cock, breath shuddering against Sherlock's cheek. John's cock was trapped between them, rock hard, and Sherlock could feel him restraining his hips which jerked forward minutely before he stopped them, groaning.
Sherlock took two huge breaths, tensing all over, whimpering as his orgasm loomed closer and closer- and then it crashed over him. His cock jerked beneath John's hand, semen spurting out and coating the inside of his bottoms, soaking into the material and onto John's hand, a thick, wet heat and refreshing pleasure that made Sherlock groan as if he were dying.
Sherlock rode out his long-overdue climax with little dignity, emitting a few sharp cries at the perfect peak, and then sinking his teeth thoughtlessly into John's throat as he rode out the aftershocks inelegantly with trembling shudders.
"How was that?" John asked, soothingly scratching at his scalp as Sherlock slumped against him.
"Mmph." Sherlock moaned, rolling his head up to gaze at John through bleary eyes. "Mmhmm." He glanced down between them where John was still hard, his red erection in stark contrast to Sherlock's semen-stained crotch. "You...didn't come." He mumbled, sleep tugging at his eyes.
"I told you, Sherlock. I'm fine. Now get some rest, love." John kissed his forehead. "I'll wake you for breakfast."