Desk

Words: 998

Rating: M

Spoilers: N/A

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock, god—"

John couldn't breathe. Definitely couldn't breathe. Sherlock was naturally gifted at most everything he did—somehow blowjobs applied to that.

John's hand was weaved into Sherlock's dark locks, gripping like he would fly off the planet if he let go even fractionally.

"God, you're beautiful, you're amazing, you're—fuuuuck." He was babbling, because there weren't enough words in the English language to describe the ridiculous man between his legs who was currently deep-throating John like there was nothing he enjoyed more.

John remembered vaguely right about then that he had thought this was a bad idea. There was a reason for that. There was—

Sherlock did something exquisite with his tongue and John forgot how to think again.

Sherlock slowly, tantalisingly, came off John's cock, looking up with pleading eyes and dark, slightly swollen lips. "I need you inside me, John. Fuck me, now."

The ring of command in Sherlock's voice only made John more eager to obey somehow. He tugged Sherlock up from the ground by his hair and found that glorious mouth. He could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue, which was strange, but he could also taste Sherlock—who tasted just like John, since they had used the same toothpaste and eaten the same food and drank the same tea and there was something unendingly satisfying that he and Sherlock, in this one way, were exactly alike.

And then John remembered all at once why he had been a little wary of Sherlock's whole plan. He wasn't sure what reminded him—the distinctly not-home smell of the room or the cold door against his back.

But he pulled away.

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous," John reasoned. "Anyone could walk in."

"Precisely."

John was going to argue, but Sherlock leaned in and licked a steady line from John's collarbone to his ear and then began to nibble away at the lobe. John's cock was twitching and his mind was emptying and fuck Sherlock was so hot it should be illegal.

Then Sherlock was rubbing his cock against John's through their trousers and John's head fell back against the door with a dull thump and he gave a moan that was just a little too loud.

Which brought him back to reality.

"This is public indecency, Sherlock. And we're at Scotland Yard. Not to mention whose office this is. Are you not seeing how this is a bad idea?"

John expected Sherlock to get impatient, but surprisingly, he didn't. He leaned in close until his lips were just barely touching John's ear. "Let them see us, John. Let them see you take me."

Had Sherlock not breathed those words against him in the sexiest way possible, John might have rolled his eyes.

"Just because—" Sherlock was suckling at his ear again suddenly. John did have to pause, but he wouldn't be stopped, not this time. "I know you're all proud that you—ngghh—discovered another k-kink of—ah fuck—uh, of mine, but isn't this taking it a little f-f-fuck-far?"

John didn't know how Sherlock figured it out. Probably the dust on his shoe or the picture of he and Molly on his computer from Christmas, but Sherlock deduced—correctly, of course—that John had an exhibitionism kink.

But Sherlock wasn't done, and apparently was hearing none of John's arguments against the idea. He continued in John's ear, "Imagine if someone walked in and saw you with your cock inside my arse." John's eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Dirty words were nothing less than filthy when said in that silky baritone of Sherlock's. He only used them to drive John mad. "They would know that I'm yours, and they would see how lost you make me. God, John, I need you. Fuck me. Fuck me or I'll burst."

John knew the exact moment when all his resolve disintegrated. With a growl, he turned Sherlock around and shoved him onto the abandoned desk—Lestrade was out for lunch, you see. He yanked Sherlock's trousers down and could tell immediately that Sherlock prepared himself before they even left the flat—mischievous bastard.

But John was past caring. Without any ado whatsoever, he shoved inside, groaning his satisfaction at the feel of Sherlock around him.

"Yes," Sherlock said appreciatively. John knew Sherlock only spoke during sex because John liked it. Not because he'd ever said so, but because it was Sherlock and seemed the only possible explanation.

But that didn't make it any less sexy.

And John was moving. This was no session of love-making. This was desperate, quick rutting that would come to a quick completion. The desk was screeching against the floor and John was sure someone would hear, which only made him move faster.

The door knob jiggled.

John's very first instinct was to stop. But he couldn't, not now. So he kept on.

Sherlock had obviously thought to lock the door. But someone was out there, and was going to figure out what was happening soon enough.

Then Sherlock called out—with a satisfyingly breathless voice, mind you, "We'll only be another forty seven seconds. Off you go."

"Oh—god—you're fucking joking. Tell me you're joking."

God, John was getting close. He had started jerking Sherlock in time with his thrusts, but he didn't remember when.

"God, Sherlock." John didn't know if he said it as loud as he did on purpose or not.

When he came, it was a blast of white that rocked his whole body. Sherlock came soon after, as John was still thrusting to ride his own orgasm out.

They were breathing hard for a long moment. "Sherlock, Lestrade's gonna kill us." He didn't notice that he was laughing as he said it.

"No he won't."

John said with a grin, "And why not?"

"Because he's a voyeur. He won't admit it, but this'll be wanking material for weeks."

John gaped down at Sherlock. "You bastard."

Sherlock gave a wolfish grin. "Guilty as charged."