Yeah, so I know this one has taken ages as well, and I can only put it down to the fact that I have never been as busy as I have for the past couple of months. The run up to Christmas is the busiest season of the year for classical musicians, and it doesn't seem like I've stopped, so, needless to say, when I've had a night to myself, I've spent it sleeping or in front of the telly instead of writing.
But now, I have a week or so off, just got out of hospital for foot surgery, so I'm at home resting.
Um, this is basically porn. I would apologise, but no.
Enjoy.
Feel Chapter 3
The case at Chalk Farm tube station was solved quickly – one look at the hanging body and Sherlock told Lestrade exactly where the suspect worked and a brief description of the man. So that's how, ten minutes after arriving at the station, they are in another taxi heading back to Baker Street.
And Sherlock's hand is on John's thigh.
Hand. Thigh.
John's mind has to go over that a few times, because he can probably count on one hand the amount of times he's seen Sherlock willingly touch anyone, and yet here he is, in the back of a taxi, with his palm resting on the top of John's thigh, his long fingers curving inwards to brush against the seam on the inside.
And it's fucking fantastic.
John's mind hardly registers Sherlock reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, taking out his wallet and paying the cabbie, only really noticing the tightening of those lean fingers around his leg before Sherlock leans over him and pushes open the door of the taxi. John blinks and coughs before leaving the cab, stumbling slightly on his trip to the front door. Sherlock has the door open by the time John manages not to trip over the kerb, and the door is pushed shut behind him as soon as he is inside. John only just has time to exhale sharply before he is rammed up against chipped black paint, Sherlock's sharp pelvis jabbing into his slightly softer than he would have liked stomach.
"Wha-?" he starts to ask, but is cut off by that ever so beautiful, soft, fucking fantastic mouth on his once more.
John spends about two whole seconds wondering at the fact that the adjective soft can be applied to the same mouth that effectively cuts people to shreds on a daily basis, but, really, is there any other way to describe that sweeping, sucking thing Sherlock is currently doing? And then John's brain decides to turn off, because Sherlock's tongue has just made its debut into this conversation. It's tentative at first, and then, simultaneously, Sherlock sweeps his tongue into John's mouth, flicking the tip over his own and pushes one long fingered hand into the slightly longer strands of dusty blonde hair at the crown of John's head and tugs.
And that was not a whine. John will concede a moan, because yes, moaning is something that men do, but men definitely do not whine.
"Upstairs" Sherlock breathes onto John's lips when they part for air seconds later; hearing the unmistakable sounds of Mrs Hudson moving around in her quarters, and John reluctantly opened his eyes, putting space between himself and the detective.
"Oh God, yes" is John's only reply when he sees Sherlock's reddened mouth and blown eyes, moving past him to make his way up the stairs first, feeling the heat of the other man following him only a few inches behind.
This time, it is John who presses Sherlock up against the chipped black paint of 221B as soon as the door has shut behind them, and his hands immediately fly upwards, one delving into those curls he has been obsessed with for weeks while the other curls around the collar of that ridiculous coat, pulling him down to meet his mouth. Their tongues meet immediately, no hesitation this time, and they both groan in appreciation. Sherlock's long fingers come up to the lapels of John's jacket, pushing it from his shoulders, and neither of them care that it lands on the floor, or that it gets trampled on as they start to make their way to the sofa, all that matters is that there is one less layer of clothing between them.
Sherlock shrugs off his own coat when John finally releases his grip on the tweed, pushing the doctor down to sit on the sofa before straddling his lap, one knee on either side of him.
"What are we doing, Sh'lock?" John mumbles between kisses, sliding his hands between Jacket and shirt, catching the finely tailored wool as it fell from the even more finely tailored body (if he does say so) beneath it and tossing it over the arm of the sofa furthest away from them.
" I thought that would be kind of obvious, John" the detective replies, raining kisses down the throat of the doctor beneath him, pulling at the neck of his wheat coloured cable knit jumper when it threatens to impede his path to John's clavicles. He skims his hands down to the bottom hem of John's jumper, pulling it up, smiling at the whine John gives when he catches his nipples with his fingernails on the way past. As soon as the jumper is free of John's body, he scoots forward on John's lap, pressing them together from lips to crotch, enjoying the groan it rips from John's lips and throat.
"I didn't think you would want-"John starts to explain, only to press his lips back to Sherlock's roughly, dipping his thumbs into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, situating them below the fabric of his silk blend shirt and rubbing maddening circles onto protruding hipbones, sweeping in every now and again to meet in the centre of a surprisingly toned stomach.
"Oh, I don't think I've ever wanted anything more" Sherlock murmurs in reply against John's lips, rocking his pelvis forward as if to prove a point, pressing his aching erection into that of his doctor's.
"Oh, fuck Sherlock. Get these fucking clothes off, now. I need to see you. Fuck" John swore, already fumbling with the bottom buttons on Sherlock's shirt as the detective worked on the ones at his throat, swearing himself when his trembling fingers – arousal and adrenaline – made the normally short task that much harder to accomplish. He inhaled sharply when their knuckles brushed together as they were each on their last button.
"Fuck, Sherlock, you're absolutely gorgeous" John mumbled out when the shirt was finally removed, before he leaned forward and placed a kiss to the mole on his neck. Sherlock groaned, tossing his head back to allow the other man more access, bringing his hands forward to grip onto the shoulders of his John for balance. John continued along Sherlock's neck, sucking on the tendons, paying particular attention to the point where neck met shoulder.
"F-fu-fuuuck" Sherlock breathed out when John moved upwards, sucking at the spot just behind his left ear before nipping at the lobe lightly, pulling at the flesh with his teeth before soothing the red marks with his tongue. Sherlock bucked his hips forward involuntarily, slotting his hard cock alongside the impressive feel of John's, and his shaking hands fell down to hold at the doctor's hips as he bent his head and scraped his teeth lightly along Sherlock's clavicle, his eyelashes fluttering against the detectives skin as he watched the reactions he was causing. "You're killing me here, John" he mumbled, running his thumbs along the skin just inside John's waistband before resting them on the button of his jeans. He simultaneously slipped the button through the buttonhole in the denim and sucked at the soft skin just underneath the corner of the doctor's jaw harshly after just a moment's hesitation, adding a swirl of tongue, making John slam his eyes shut and press his head back against the sofa, exposing the underneath of his jaw to more of Sherlock's ministrations.
"Jesus shit, Sherlock. That fucking mouth of yours is magical" he whimpered, bringing up a shaky hand to weave fingers through the curls on the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock's tongue on his neck had distracted John from his zipper being pulled down, but nothing in the known world could distract him from the feeling of Sherlock's fingers curling into both sides of his waistband at his hips and divesting him of his jeans and boxers in one go.
No, Sherlock thought before taking him in hand at the base, if anything was magical, it was John's cock.
He was slightly thicker and longer than the national average, and absolutely, completely, stunning. And Sherlock wanted to lick him. So he did. His knees had barely hit the floor in front of John before he had licked one long stripe from base to tip, humming slightly at the taste surrounding the head.
"Shit, Sherlock" John moaned again, tightening his grip on Sherlock's hair and tugging slightly to get the detective to look up at him. He did so, sticking out his tongue so that the movement of his head caused him to lick another stripe upwards, flattening his tongue over the slit at the tip and looking up at John through his eyelashes. He met John's eyes, blinking leisurely, and felt a shot of pride and arousal run through him at the look of him, red faced, pupils blown wide with lust, knuckles clenching rhythmically in Sherlock's hair. The feel of his fingernails occasionally grazing his scalp soon had Sherlock moaning around the head of John's cock where he had taken it into his mouth and started sucking lightly. "Shit, shit, shit" John mumbled, tugging harder on Sherlock's hair, and he took the hint, releasing John from his mouth with a slight pop and sliding back up to straddle his lap once more, where John immediately caught Sherlock's mouth with his own, hands falling to the belt around Sherlock's hips which was constricting his by now rather painful erection.
The feel of John's hands flickering across his stomach as he undid the belt buckle and popped open the button on the top of Sherlock's trousers was divine, truly divine. Too light a touch to truly please, but in no way was the sensation a tickle. Sherlock loved John's hands, the complete juxtaposition of them. He loved that they could just as easily handle a Sig as they could a fine needle and thread. He loved that they were always warm, and always ready to care. The softness of his doctor's hands had surprised Sherlock the first time that he had stitched up an open wound on his calf, but now, now the softness of John's hands as he dipped them inside Sherlock's trousers to grasp his aching cock was absolutely stunning.
Sherlock slid forward on John's legs and brought them hip to hip, and this time, the feel of their cocks lining up next to each other was perfect. Sherlock had never expected to ever feel like this, like the bottom was falling out of his brain, but here he was, canting his hips up against John's and sliding their cocks together within his firm grasp. The sensation was quickly overwhelming, and it was only a couple of minutes before they were panting into each other's mouths more than actually kissing, whines coming from both of their throats.
"John" Sherlock whimpered, "John, it's – it's –" his head fell forward onto John's collarbone, and the feel of hot breath as Sherlock panted against the sensitive skin there quickly overtook John.
"Shh, it's alright. Me too." John moaned, placing a kiss to the top of his head, tangling his free hand in the hairs at the nape of Sherlock's neck and pressing a fingertip into the hollow under the occipital bone. Sherlock went boneless against him, and merely the sight of the detective's climax sent John over the edge too, cum flowing out onto his already soaked hands. He panted in exertion, resting his head on top of Sherlock's to try and get his breath back.
It was a good few minutes before either of them moved much more than breathing, and however much John didn't want to interrupt Sherlock's nuzzling of his neck, he was feeling the distinct need to wash his hands and remove his clothes.
"Come on, Sherlock, we need to move" he said, nudging him in the forehead with his chin, and Sherlock looked up at John with wide eyes and red cheeks.
"Where? Why"
"Bed. Come on, we can cuddle and chat there."
The detective nodded, moving back from John and grimacing at the tacky feel of his stomach. "Bathroom first?" he asked, standing and holding out a hand for John. When the doctor nodded, he started off towards the bathroom, pulling John along by their joined hands. Once inside, they quickly shucked what was left of their clothes and Sherlock grabbed a flannel, running it under the hot tap before wiping down John's stomach and hands, followed by his own.
"Enough" he said, flinging the soiled cloth at the sink. "Bed now."
John smiled, taking his outstretched hand and following Sherlock to his bedroom, standing awkwardly in the doorway as he watched the other man pull down the covers on his bed and slide himself inside. The room was dark, Sherlock had his blinds drawn, and only faint beams of light allowed John to see Sherlock settling himself under the duvet before turning to see John still stood in the entrance to the room with a puzzled frown.
"Why aren't you here?" he asked, patting the sheet in invitation, and John smiled, making his way across the room to situate himself next to Sherlock, who immediately curled around him, tucking his face into the side of John's neck, resting his chin on the bullet wound scar. "Better" he stated in his rumbling voice, flinging an arm across his chest and a leg over his hips.
John hummed in reply, and his fingers once again found the hollow just under Sherlock's occipital bone. He applied slight pressure, smiling to himself as the detective relaxed completely, placing a kiss on John's clavicle. "Sleep, Sherlock, I'll be here when you wake up." He mumbled, feeling himself drifting off. The last thing he heard before sleep took him was a mumble from the detective, something along the lines of 'like you, John.'
So yeah, there it is. Sorry again it took so long, life is a bitch at the mo.