Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me!
WARNING: This chapter gets explicit. And very detailed. This chapter is the only one so far I'd rate M, so I'm not changing the story's overall rating. Please enjoy if you're feeling brave! Reviews make me happy!
Chapter Fourteen
"As far as you want"
John lifted his head from his arm, realizing he'd fallen asleep sometime after eating the sandwich Mrs Hudson had made him. He was still at the table, and his back and neck were complaining loudly, telling him he'd been there for a while. The flat was quiet, a fire burning low in the hearth. Gentle pops and sizzles from the fire was the only noise, and Sherlock was no where in sight.
John lifted his arms and stretched up, his back popping, muscles loosening. Used to be not that long ago he could sleep anywhere and wake up refreshed, whether it be a sand dune in a frigid winter desert, or in a creepy morgue while Sherlock and Molly tore through evidence on a corpse. The last couple of years had been hard on him, his usual exercise chasing after criminals being in short supply. Catching the time on his old scratched up watch, John groaned. It was well past midnight; he'd slept at the table for a few hours. Wondering why Sherlock or Mrs Hudson hadn't woken him up, John stood unsteadily and went looking for his flatmate. Or his, well, boyfriend? significant other? Doesn't matter, figure it out later...
The lights were off in the front room, but the fire cast enough of it that he could see his bag was gone from the couch. Forehead crunching, he pondered where it went. Upstairs in his old room? Mrs Hudson putting his things away? He turned towards the door, intending to find out and hit the sack.
He got to the threshold before a faint sound caught his attention. Was it his name? It had come from down the hall, near Sherlock's room. There was a very faint glow coming from his bedroom, the door open partway but the light was too low to tell if it was Sherlock. It came again, and was definitely his name. Suddenly nervous, John wiped his hands on his trousers and waited, unsure of what to do. His head went from foggy with sleep to brilliantly clear, adrenaline coursing through him. He felt that nameless beast stir inside, a faint flick of heat catching him unawares.
"John, stop being ridiculous."
Definitely Sherlock. John felt stuck, his feet glued to the floor. He literally did not know what to do, let alone how to make his feet move. He thought he heard Sherlock sigh, as if exasperated. Which he most likely was. A shadow moved in the dim light, and he thought he saw Sherlock's silhouette briefly framed by the door. John swallowed, certain the other man could hear him. He found one foot lifting, then the other, until he was slowly moving towards that voice. Pulled to that voice.
Oh God... breathe John breathe! His lungs were burning; no, every inch of him was slowly burning, like the fire in the hearth. Blood rushing in his ears, fingers tingling, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. That nameless beast he was one day going to name lust growled in the depths of his soul, and it was if it reached out, and nudged the door open all the way.
The small desk lamp in the far corner of the room glowed dimly, casting enough light for him to see the layout of the room. The shadow he knew was Sherlock stood at the end of the bed, his shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets. John breathed deep, and held it briefly before letting it out. He stood there, and waited. He thought he was feeling terror, but his hands were steady, his body well-adjusted to it, even after the last few years of gentle living.
"Come to bed John." It was a snap of electricity across his synapses, ricocheting into his limbs, his heart. John found himself smiling, his fingers curling in, relaxing. He wanted his hands somewhere for certain, but he had enough of his faculties intact that he knew better than to rush anything. For both of them.
John stepped into the room, and silently shut the door behind him. There was a lock on it barely used, and he forced it shut, uncaring if he wouldn't be able to open it in the morning. He walked to the corner of the bed, stopping. He was within arm's reach of Sherlock now, and he could hear him breathing.
"Come to bed? Sleeping?" He asked quietly, needing to know what Sherlock wanted, what he intended. John's caution was warring with that fire beast called lust, and Sherlock's answer would determine who won.
Sherlock's answer was subtle, but very clear. He stepped to John, his hands finding their way to John's sides, running them down to his hips. His head came down, and John felt those very soft curls brush against the side of his face. Sherlock's voice whispered into his ear, his breath teasing, that deep voice making him shiver in response. "Sleeping...eventually." His lips found the soft skin below his ear, warm and firm.
Desire defeating caution in the battle for John's choices, he reached for Sherlock in the dim light. Hands catching at the front of Sherlock's shirt, John held him tight, seeking out his mouth with his own. Their lips sealed together, tongues clashing. John heard a ripping noise, and felt tiny impacts on his chest... the buttons from Sherlock's shirt bouncing off him as it ripped. The temperature in the room was rising, building off the heat between them. Sherlock gasped as John touched his bare chest, skin jumping beneath his fingertips. John pulled at the shirt, ripping it further and yanking it off his lover's body. He didn't care where he threw it, as his hands were too busy rushing over lean muscles, tight smooth skin...
John was swimming in a dream of disbelief - that this was real, that it all felt so good. He felt like a fool for being afraid; he wanted more. Sherlock's hands, his fingers tugged lightly at John's own shirt, lifting it from the waistband of his trousers. Every move this man made drove him past the edge of sanity. He was more aroused than any other point in his entire adult life. Nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt, without Sherlock once taking his mouth from John's. It wasn't until the cooler air of the room hit his own naked torso that he drew in enough air to say "Slow... down."
Panting hard, Sherlock lifted his head, and whispered into John's mouth, "Why? Feels so good..." His lips went for John's throat, nipping and licking his way down to his shoulder.
"Too good... Sherlock!" John groaned, and caught at Sherlock's hands as the man zeroed in on the top button of his fly. "This will be over real quick if you keep this up!"
Sherlock stilled, his fingers pausing just as that first button popped free. Lifting his head from John's shoulder, he lightly kissed at John's mouth in tiny, easy kisses. His hands weren't moving, but they weren't leaving either. John struggled to slow down his heart rate, and lifted his hands away from Sherlock's.
"How far do you want this to go, Sherlock?" John struggled to speak, holding tight to his control. Sherlock stopped kissing him, lifting his head slightly. From the faint glow from the lamp, John could see his lover crinkle his brow, as if he was actually debating it.
"I don't understand. How far does this sort of thing usually go?" Sherlock asked. John wanted to scream. He is completely serious, dear God...
"Have you EVER done this before? With anyone? Male, female, whatever?" John had to know, it was driving him insane. Being this restrained was killing him; he hadn't felt passion like this since he was a very young man. And feeling it again on the shady side of forty was making him rue his self-restraint! He about lost his tenuous hold on it when he realized Sherlock was idly dipping his fingers in and out from behind his zipper. Close enough to touch, but not quite there...
"I know the mechanics of intercourse, if that's what's worrying you, but as for actually doing 'this'... No. Never." Sherlock's voice was hesitant. "Is that not good?"
John laughed, and reached for Sherlock, his arms going around the taller man's neck. "It's all good. This goes as far as you want, Sherlock. Tell me." He stood on his toes, kissing Sherlock's neck.
"I want to touch you...everywhere." John's whole body shook once, but Sherlock wasn't done. "I want to make you happy, John." Happy, oh I'm happy alright... ooooooooohhhh he means... John's heart rate exploded, and he absolutely couldn't find the air to breathe. All he could do was catch Sherlock's eye, and nod very slowly. Sherlock moved himself towards the bed, and sat on its edge. His fingers still had a grip on John's fly, and John moved with him, finding himself standing between the younger man's knees. He gulped in air, and he started to shake, shivers of abject terror, crazy disbelief, and overwhelming lust chasing each other across his whole body. It was intoxicating, and he lost all semblance of control the second Sherlock grabbed the zipper tab and started pulling. Yeesssss...
"Oh God... Sherlock." John's head fell back, and he closed his eyes. His hands went to Sherlock's shoulders, and held on for dear life. Any thought of anything ever going slow from that point on didn't exist. Sherlock was pulling down that zipper, and each tooth releasing was a pleasure and a torment all in one. He was heavily aroused, straining to break free, and his fingers dug into Sherlock's lean shoulders. Finally, his erection was freed, Sherlock tugging his underwear out-of-the-way. Long, strong fingers ghosted around his groin, coming close then flirting away before touching him directly. John moaned, the cool air of the room a harsh contrast against the heat pouring off of him. Sherlock leaned forward, and kissed just below his navel. John wanted to cry, he literally wanted to cry in that moment. Sherlock's hands drifted closer, closer, then like a dream slipped around him. Both of his hands gripped, gently at first, then tighter, making John jump. At that same second, Sherlock kissed him again, a little lower.
John let his hands drift up, and dug deep into Sherlock's hair. He just barely managed to keep his grip from being too tight before Sherlock kissed him just above his groin, tongue licking out between his lips. He began to move his hands, hesitantly at first, then as John moved with him, with more confidence. Up and back down, tight then loose, Sherlock quickly learned what got the best reaction from his doctor. It wasn't until Sherlock's mouth was right there fuck yes there! that John screamed, strangling the sound behind clenched teeth. Sherlock moved his mouth, his hot wet mouth right over the head of his cock, and sucked gently once before lifting away. His hands worked that perfect rhythm he'd found so easily, making John cry out softly each time he started over. His mouth, his tongue would randomly appear, wrap themselves around his length, sucking him in deeper each time. Sherlock tormented him like this for an eternity, or so it seemed. It could have been minutes, or hours, John couldn't tell, nor care. John was so close, this perfection he was experiencing dragging him to the edge, his climax was there!
His climax exploded behind his eyes like a supernova, his hips jerking, and he came in a great wave, letting it wash from the opposite ends of his body to crash together in his center, spilling forth from him in long, deep spurts across Sherlock's hands and arms. John's legs lost all ability to support him, and he leaned what was left of himself on Sherlock. Gasping for air, body deprived of oxygen, sparks of pleasure erupting inside his brain, John Watson was utterly slain by this man who held him up, smiling against his bare stomach.
John didn't know how long Sherlock held him up, one arm wrapped tightly around his hips. He came back to reality slowly, and he realized Sherlock was wiping them both off with the remains of his shirt. "Oh God, Sherlock..." He leaned down, and lightly kissed him on the top of his head.
"You keep confusing us, John. Understandable, I suppose." Sherlock sounded smug, like he'd just solved the world's toughest case and then shown off on national television making the NSY look idiotic.
John laughed, and gingerly stepped out of his trousers and underwear. He scooped them off the floor, and tossed them towards the hamper.
"What about you, Mr Holmes?" John asked, totally uncaring he was standing bare-assed naked in front of Sherlock. Well, he had socks on, but the floors were cold. Sherlock was staring at him, and John felt a frisson of response, much to his delight and surprise.
"Time to sleep, yes? Isn't that what usually happens after an orgasm?" John couldn't figure out if Sherlock was being serious or not.
"Ummmm, usually both partners have one of those, you know." John was swaying on his feet, and exhaustion was dragging at his brain, making him want to giggle. It was so surreal, having a conversation about sex with Sherlock, especially after Sherlock had just put his hands and mouth all over him...
"Well, considering you're about to pass out on your feet, my dear doctor, let's worry about me tomorrow. Come here." Sherlock snagged his hand, and he stood, reaching behind him to drag down the covers.
"What? Oh." Sherlock tugged, and a very unresisting John fell into the warm softness of Sherlock's bed. He crawled until he found a pillow, realising in the back of his brain that Sherlock must have put new sheets on the bed while he was sleeping in the kitchen. The light clicked off in the corner of the room, and he heard drawers opening and shutting somewhere nearby. Then he felt the weight of Sherlock laying down, the blankets floating over them both. The last thing he remembered before sleep snatched him under was the weight of a strong arm wrapping itself around his hips, and a brief kiss on his forehead.