"God damn it," Sherlock cursed, his ugly grimace almost audible in the cool evening light. He bared his teeth, then gave into a loud snarl, whacking a bony fist against the peeling kitchen wall in utter frustration. "FUCK!"
"Still at it?" John asked coolly from the doorway, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's dark scowl. "My answer is still no. But go ahead, give the walls a pounding."
Sherlock hissed in a furious, frankly-disturbing inhale through his teeth, pale eyes closing in surrender.
"Everything. Everything...bloody hurts, John," Sherlock seethed, losing his mind at the sensation of bruises on his thighs, arms and torso, the stinging cuts on his face, wrists, and ankles.
"Yeah, well it would. And you're making it worse storming around throwing a tantrum like a three year old. Sit down. Your body needs rest, not...whatever it is you're doing to it." John sat in his chair, levelling a stern look at the seething man across the room from him. "This is why I said you couldn't take the case-"
"John!" Sherlock collapsed dramatically into his own armchair.
"You're not well yet, Sherlock, and if running around the flat winds you so much how do you expect to run round a crime scene?"
Sherlock scooped a long hand, still hinting at debilitation, through his impossibly-mussed curls. He sagged in a feeble, lanky exhibition in his own armchair, eyes watering in the golden evening sun.
"…I hate to ask you for this," Sherlock suddenly murmured, swallowing audibly.
"Ask me for what?" John asked, switching from apathetic doctor into concerned lover in a split second.
"…Just leave me," Sherlock muttered, his eyes shimmering, mermaid-green. His beautiful, bruised face was lined, not by the dirty deep giggle that John adored, but in utter despondency.
John heaved a sigh, leveraging himself from the chair and taking the few steps to kneel in front of Sherlock. "I'm not going to leave you. No matter how much of a wanker you are." He smiled sadly. "You're still healing, love. You need to give your body time to fix what's wrong. And if you keep exerting yourself you'll only make it worse." Sherlock wrinkled his nose, disliking it when John was so calm and rational and hateful.
"I miss the work," he murmured, and John squeezed his knee. "…John, you know...it'll be easier for you if you leave now. You know...permanently. And you won't have the burden of further...worry, and grief, and...stuff," Sherlock shrugged, before wincing and grunting loudly in pain at the movement.
"Shut up, Sherlock." John said angrily. "You didn't leave me after this." He gestured at his stiff shoulder where he'd been stabbed. "Remember? You stuck around even when I couldn't do everything like usual. So no, I'm not leaving. Just get that thought out of your head. "
Sherlock sighed theatrically, though the deep purplish smudges under his eyes and his shivery fingers reminded John that his lover was, as usual, choosing intransigence over acceptance of his own deteriorated state. The detective swayed a little, one spidery hand gripping the arm of his leather armchair as he fought against the consistent throb of pain that plagued almost every part of him.
"How about a cup of tea? Biscuits? You could use the sugar." John winced as he got up, his knees popping loudly as he did so.
To his surprise, Sherlock arose too. He made his way in silence to his own bedroom, gently lowering himself with a soft, pained groan onto the pristine covers, after removing his dressing-gown. John followed him curiously. The curtains were drawn, the atmosphere heady, warm, and tense.
"Cream, please," the detective uttered authoritatively, flicking one hand weakly over his own shoulders to point at his own naked, bruised scapulae. John's brow furrowed, his teeth bit into his bottom lip, at the sight of the sore, chafed, red line that circled Sherlock's slim wrist.
John lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, worried at the slow way Sherlock's half-naked body was healing. He should have been healing faster- then again, he should have been bed-ridden the last few days while he'd insisted on being up and about. It was maddening.
"Cream. Cream!" Sherlock yowled petulantly, flinging his right hand, with its bracelet of red scarring, towards the tube of antiseptic cream on the table. He huffed and buried his face in the under-stuffed pillow, grumbling to himself.
John sank down onto the bed and gently, as tenderly as he could, spread the soothing, cool cream over Sherlock's wounds. Sherlock moaned gratefully, relaxing against the bed.
"You can't go out on cases," John began, his conscience pricking at him, seeing Sherlock so vulnerable. "But maybe Lestrade can send everything to you."
"I have a few that just about warrant my attention. One based in a pet shop, in fact. Might be fun. You like cute furry things, right?"
John huffed a small, private laugh at the thought of Sherlock as any kind of animal - 'cute and furry' would not be the immediate adjectives.
"Ask Lestrade." John said, finishing up tending to Sherlock's wounds, letting him roll over with a wince. "He can send you all the relevant information and photographs...you can solve it from the sofa. Yeah?"
"What if they miss something crucial? You know how inept his team is."
John shrugged. "Photographs of the crime scenes too. Everything. You don't need to be there in person to solve it. You're smart enough."
"Flattery will get you nowhere John, I know you too well...oh...um..."
Sherlock quirked his brows in confusion, raising his head to look down at his doctor, who had dragged down his pyjama bottoms, and apparently abandoned his argument in order to manifest his mouth upon Sherlock's penis.
He shivered at the feel of John's mouth on his cock. John had been so annoyingly gentle with him, barely touching him at all since the hospital. Not touching him unless it was for healing or helping him from the bed or onto the sofa. It'd been highly irritating. But now, with John's mouth hovering around his cock, Sherlock's frustration was paying off.
Sherlock wasn't quite sure whether the sexually-invigorating words he had in mind would work, so he decided to carry on expounding his thoughts on the current case. He squinted and swallowed a few times before he could talk again.
"They have...have...tarantulas? But I think...Oh, crap," he hissed, grinding pale hips on the bed, tinted gold by the grubby late-evening London light.
John hollowed his cheeks, sucking back on Sherlock's cock, causing him to spasm on the bed, pushing his hips up greedily into John's mouth. Pleasure zinged through his body, up his spine, clouded his head and made it hard to think.
"It's the...it's the...Oh, God," Sherlock uttered, gritting his teeth, and planting long hands into John's short, ash-brown hair. "We need to go there…pet shop...because..." John gave a vindictively-deep suck and Sherlock's throat emitted a desperate, high-pitched noise that John hadn't heard before.
He smiled around his mouthful of cock, loving his ability to make Sherlock go breathless, stealing his words away with the smallest of licks.
The detective struggled through a few wheezy gasps, eyes on the smoke-mottled ceiling, lips parted. "...It's a...hybrid or...a...ugh," he groaned deliriously, long fingers massaging John's scalp with a mixture of fondness and greed.
Sherlock's phone pinged beside him on the bed and he whined, groping in the unmade sheets for the device. He fumbled at it, concentration slipping as John took his cock almost down his throat- but eventually managed to swipe the screen and read the message. Lestrade, about the case. Sherlock's vision sharpened as he scanned the new evidence and his cock, still in John's mouth, began to lag.
John felt him softening a little, and grunted a little in retaliation and determination. A few seconds later, Sherlock let out an unseemly yip as a warm fingertip traced between his buttocks, prodding experimentally.
"John!" He jerked, unwilling to look away from the screen as he scrolled.
"Mm-hm?" John questioned, mouth still stuffed with semi-interested cock. He shook his head obscenely, still humming randomly, letting the head of Sherlock's penis tap against the hot, wet sides of his mouth, grazing smooth teeth.
Sherlock's hips bucked up, pushing his cock into John's mouth, but he didn't take his eyes away from the screen. "Lestrade. He's...the suspect was caught on camera..."
"Mmmm," John replied, mouth full, eyebrows raised in exaggerated interest in whatever Sherlock was talking about. He deep-throated him for two brave swallows, then pushed his dry finger in suggestive little thrusts against the detective's perineum.
"John they might be...swapping...genetically mod...modified...spiders...Jesus...dozens...deadly," he panted, frowning in annoyance as he tried valiantly to text back with minimal typos.
"Mmhmm." John hummed around his cock and Sherlock's finger missed the button he was searching for, resulting in a text to Lestrade that was less than coherent. He cursed, debated on pushing John away, but a brilliant tongue at his tip put paid to that idea. He would just have to concentrate better.
"If you're going to do that...hurry it up...if you're not finished in five minutes I'm going," Sherlock growled, unsure whether he was more frustrated at being delayed in the investigation, or at his own cock's less-than-ideal eagerness in the proceedings.
John pulled away and scowled up at Sherlock. "You could sound a bit more enthusiastic, you know."
"It's not that – Lestrade - he's needing my - Oh!" Sherlock's eyes flew open, wide and shocked, when John abruptly licked a hot stripe over his hole, tongue squirming the tiniest bit inside before he withdrew.
"Lestrade...what?" He asked innocently.
"John, you're lucky I love you," Sherlock uttered, his pale brow crinkling beautifully. "Are you intending to finish me off? If you're planning to tease for the next few minutes, know that I will forsake physiological pleasure in favour of mental invigoration. By that, I mean The Work."
"I know what you meant." John growled, irritated, and set back to work sucking Sherlock's cock. Only...the wanker kept looking at his phone, frowning at it as he scrolled, and despite John's best efforts, Sherlock's cock was growing softer and softer in his mouth.
"It looks as though the perpetrator is languishing in the fact that he hasn't been caught, or even suspected, thus far. His...seventh attack...he didn't even bother to wear the wig and contacts that he had been relying on. Complacency is the ultimate weakness."
John made a noise of agreement, taking it as a personal insult that Sherlock was more interested in the case than him sucking his cock. It should be the other way around.
Sherlock was starting to ease his semi-soft cock out of John's tight, hot mouth, ice-green eyes fixed intently on his phone screen. His doctor promptly scooped a hand under his backside and prodded his thumb against Sherlock's damp entrance unequivocally, uttering a reverberating, feral growl.
John wasn't one to give up easily, and he was insistent where he could be. There was enough saliva in his mouth to let drip down onto his index finger, liberally coating it and he nudged the slick digit against Sherlock's hole, slipping it inside to the first knuckle.
He lifted his free hand and snapped his fingers loudly and resolutely. Raising his dangerous gaze to Sherlock's somewhat-startled and flushed face, he wordlessly curled his fingers, beckoning the detective to hand him the troublesome phone.
Sherlock clutched it. "N-no. I...he's to send me another photograph. There was...unusual..." He trailed off, hips rolling as John's finger sank further into his arse, the burn of it heavily counteracted by the fresh pleasure which made his cock twitch.
At the same time as John curled his right index finger in Sherlock's line of sight, silently asking once more for the mobile, his left one did the exact same thing inside him, stroking his prostate affectionately, and the doctor couldn't help but chuckle deeply in his chest, eyes alight and fiendish.
The mobile was slapped into his hand and John tossed it away, the soft whump as it landed further down the bed sending relief coursing through him. He then devoted himself whole-heartedly to making Sherlock lose his mind with pleasure.
"Argh," Sherlock sobbed suddenly, frowning as if in pain, as John rubbed his prostate repeatedly, relentlessly, worshipping the innocuous little bump of nerves. Sherlock's passage clenched reflexively tight, creating the slight sensation of pins and needles in his finger, and John could practically feel his fingertip wrinkling in the pulsing, moist heat of Sherlock's core.
He sucked hard on Sherlock's cock, hollowing his cheeks and taking him in as far as he could. Sherlock was hard, fluid beading from his tip, and as he ceaselessly worked his prostate, John knew it would hardly be a minute before Sherlock was coming.
"John...John...slower...please," Sherlock beseeched breathlessly, face contorted awkwardly and stained bright pink with the exertion of arousal. John nearly sniggered to himself. Five minutes ago, Sherlock had been telling him to hurry up.
He gentled his motions, wanting to make this good for Sherlock, not only to tear an orgasm out of him - as delightful as that sounded. He tongued at the slit in Sherlock's cock, tasting salt and musk, and Sherlock sobbed, his legs spreading wider, offering himself to John like a tempting buffet of carnal sin.
"Can we do it...like a..." Sherlock tailed off, and John paused, pulling back for some air, and just lapping comfortingly under the warm head of his prick. The detective looked uncertain, and deeply embarrassed. "...Like a...dog?"
John paused and drew away from Sherlock. "Like a what?"
"Is that not the right terminology? That's...how it's referred to, isn't it?"
"You mean..." John was reluctant to say the words, he realized, stunned. His mind stalled at the idea of saying that to Sherlock. "Um...doggie style?"
"That's what I said," Sherlock shrugged, trying and failing to look put-out. "…Can we?"
"Um..." John glanced at Sherlock's mobile, the screening lighting up with a new message. "What about the-"
"After." Sherlock licked his dry lips. "I want...this first."
John raised his eyebrows a little, absolutely not inclined to argue with his lover. He circled Sherlock's prostate one more time, then pulled out. No sooner had he done so, than Sherlock rolled onto his front and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. John stared open-mouthed as Sherlock, after a second's thought, placed one scarred, anchoring hand against the headboard in anticipation of getting fucked hard. John stripped himself completely in record time.
"Um.." John tried to remember what he had been going to say, a difficult task when Sherlock's arse was wriggling in his face. "Lube." He managed, rooting around, finding it, and opening it with shaking fingers. He liberally coated his fingers, gently opening Sherlock and smearing his passage with as much slick as he could, avoiding his prostate to keep Sherlock from being overstimulated and coming too soon.
He was momentarily side-tracked as Sherlock pulled his long palm from the headboard long enough to wipe it on the duvet, smoothing away the damp perspiration that was birthing there, and resumed bracing himself against the head of the bed. At this angle, John could see the sweet, tiny hint of his lower ribs with each excited inhale.
His own heart was racing as he finished and wiped his slick fingers on the sheets, mentally reminding himself to wash them later. He eyed the myriad, greenish bruises spread over Sherlock's' torso and legs, and hesitated.
"…Maybe we shouldn't –"
"John." The strained intonation was darkly warning.
Sighing in resignation, and promising silently to be a gentle as he could manage, he confirmed with Sherlock.
"Are you ready?"
Sherlock pushed back instead of answering, clearly impatient, and John took his own hard-as-diamonds cock in his hand, lining up with Sherlock's glistening hole...and pushed. They both moaned when the head popped past the first ring of Sherlock's muscles.
John had a dizzying thought as their size difference made it necessary for him to clamber up a little onto Sherlock's back, wrapping his arms tightly around his lover's chest - that they really must look like fucking animals. The idea didn't dampen his buzzing excitement.
If anything, it spurred him on, made what they were doing filthier and more illicit. When his testicles bumped against Sherlock's arse, his cock twitching hard inside his body, he allowed himself a shuddering sigh before humping against Sherlock, the slightest movement which dragged his cock against Sherlock's prostate beautifully.
He had no choice but to rest a lot of his weight upon Sherlock's lithe, healing back, which was radiating incredible amounts of heat. Calf muscles straining as his feet sought purchase on the bed, John started fucking him erratically.
He really did feel like an animal, unable to thrust properly and just gracelessly shoving his cock into Sherlock over and over, huffing and panting into his neck. Sherlock angled his arse up, offering himself more to John.
The pleasure scraped through John with agonising, heady slowness, his own short fingernails raking purchase on Sherlock's ribcage. He had never felt anything quite like it, and the sense of not-quite-enough was stinging him, forcing a litany of gasps and grunts and sobs from his gritted teeth. He had never been this consistently vocal, and he couldn't rein it in. He thudded his sore, hungry cock harder, more inelegantly, inside Sherlock.
Beneath him, Sherlock was falling apart, rutting his own hips wildly through the air, cock slapping wetly against his stomach and huffing through his mouth a series of grunts and moans which made John dizzy to hear.
John glanced down as Sherlock let out a long, pained wail, but the detective hadn't come, he was just reaching a state of delirium, so much so that he was almost laughing in between wet hisses of sex-scented air and guttural, deep-toned growls.
John picked up the pace, slamming his cock into Sherlock as much as he was able, the slick slap of his hips hitting Sherlock's skin loud and obscene and Sherlock's breath hitched again and again with every thrust. He set his teeth in a snarl, feeling sweat beading at his forehead, and his heart leaped in his chest as he pounded into his lover.
Sherlock began to keen desperately, damp palms seeking purchase on the headboard and luxuriant bedclothes respectively.
"Oh...Christ...Sherlo-" John uttered, scrabbling at the detective's ribs, soothing the vicious purplish bruises at his scapulae with messy, wet kisses. "Oh, fuck, honey..."
"T-touch me. please, Jo-ohn...touch me," Sherlock whimpered, shuddering visibly beneath John and he felt Sherlock's passage flutter around him, signalling the other man was close.
"Oh, God," John hissed, suckling mindlessly at the base of his lover's neck, relishing the tickle of soft, damp, near-black curls against his face. He nudged a shaky hand from Sherlock's heaving, blood-hot ribcage to his cock, which bobbed happily, as if glad to see him.
The angle was a bit wrong to stroke Sherlock off properly but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. John's hand was wrapped around his cock and that was good enough for him. He heaved his hips forward, fucking himself on John's cock while dragging his own cock through the circle of John's hand, breaths panted and labored as he tried to do both at once, nearly incoherent with pleasure.
John was rapidly nearing exhaustion, forcing himself inside his lover as hard as he could, the crushing release of orgasm bitterly distant and seemingly unattainable. He groaned in frustration, and Sherlock felt dizzy with excitement at the sound of John beginning to chant non-stop, his nonsensical words wheezy and hot against his spine.
"Sherl…yes…more…God…fuck…baby…ugh…"
He suddenly had a brilliant idea. Reaching back, he raked his nails down John's sweaty thigh, hearing his lover hiss at the pain.
"I..I l-like the way you fuck me." Sherlock stuttered, trying his hand at dirty talk. "It...your cock feels so big inside me."
John let out a gruff, breathy noise and reflexively tightened his damp, bear-hug grip around Sherlock's lean chest, inadvertently forcing sharp pressure on his bruises. The detective sobbed in pain at the resultant throb of damaged tissue, even as John keened excitedly, taking the sound for one of ecstasy. "Yes, Sherlock, that's it!..Just...bit...more," he heaved, forcing himself into a wild, reckless, deafening assault, sensing imminent release like a sticky, hot sweet at the back of his tongue.
Sherlock grit his teeth, determined to let John have this, to not let him know he was being hurt and John sobbed a few breaths, hips shuddering as he thrust inside Sherlock.
"Feels...so amazing...I - I love it." Sherlock whispered and John groaned, his cock swelling even larger in Sherlock as he neared his release.
Absolutely lost, transmuted to a burning, shaking bubble of desperation, John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's crisp dark curls and held tight as he blessedly began to orgasm. Ear-splitting, hoarse cries punched their way from his sore throat, before he submitted to the rolling, dizzying shocks of climax, sobbing and whining, mouthing wetly at his lover's back, saliva dampening his chin, and Sherlock's blood-hot skin.
Sherlock shuddered beneath John, the pain from his injuries eclipsing any pleasure he thought he could have had. He didn't want John to know, though. He knew John would then feel badly, and that had to be avoided at all costs.
He listening to John's liquid, noisy exhales that steamed against his back, and acted quickly whilst the doctor was still languid and hazy, coming down from what had sounded like a spectacular orgasm. With a faint twinge of irritation and frustration, and pained by the angry pulsing of his many half-healed bruises and cuts, he tensed himself around John's semi-hard shaft in what he hoped would pass as pleasurable spasms. Biting his lip theatrically, he groaned and gasped, jolting his hips forward a few shuddering times as if in climax.
John waited for him to stop moving, and palmed at his softening cock. He a noise of sleepy inquiry, to which Sherlock nodded.
"Yes..." He whispered, managing to collapse onto his side with John still inside him. He felt inordinately shattered, drained, and he shivered from over-exertion. With one shaky hand, he plucked a tissue from the bedside table and pretended to clean himself of non-existent ejaculate.
"Fuck...give me a minute love...and then we'll go to the crime scene." John huffed tiredly against his shoulderblades. Sherlock heard his phone ping, and craned his neck to see where it was.