Sometimes it's completely awesome when social engagements fall through. Why? Because then it's porntime, that's why. Woohoo! I wasn't expecting to be able to get this next chapter out so quickly, but the boys have kind of hijacked my brain. They've eaten all my unexpected free time. I'm not complaining. Just observing. : )
Disclaimer: I still don't own any of the characters, or anything of value to be sued for. Damnit.
Warnings: Detective on doctor action (they're both boys, gasp!), light BDSM, light breath play, a tiny bit of voyeurism and classical music references.
All Apologies, Pt 2.
John eyed his lean detective as he settled into the chair before him, smiling in appreciation at the slight flush that crept up the marble pale chest and neck to highlight those damnable cheekbones. Sherlock blushed further under the scrutiny, and busied himself righting his violin and bow, getting into a comfortable playing position.
"I'm assuming you're going to want me to play at some point?" His deep voice was colored with lust and a small amount of amusement. The blonde man before him nodded in response, standing and walking around to the back of Sherlock's chair. He carded his fingers through the detective's dark waves, leaning down to whisper into his ear.
"I think that'd be a good start, Sherlock." The raw lust in John's voice sent sparks of pleasure shooting down the detective's long spine. He could feel himself stirring under his robe in anticipation of whatever his doctor had planned.
"Do you have any requests?" Sherlock leaned into the broad hand in his hair, arching his neck like a cat. John pursed his lips in contemplation, concentrating for a moment before making a decision.
"Something by Paganini."
"Ah. A Caprice. Do you have a particular one in mind?" John ran his hands down Sherlock's shoulders, pushing off the blue robe that covered them. The detective shivered at the contact.
"Performer's choice. But Sherlock?" Moving one hand back up the taller man's long neck, John pressed his fingers against that perfect chin, turning Sherlock's face to the side, leaning over the back of the chair so he could meet his partner's icy blue gaze.
"Impress me." By the doctor's tone it was an order, not a request. Blue eyes flickered shut for a moment as Sherlock perused his music library. Finally setting on the right piece, he hummed a bit in satisfaction.
He turned his face away from John almost reluctantly, lowering his chin to his violin. Long fingers began to move on the strings, and he drew back his bow, the first notes of Caprice No. 11 echoing through the flat. The beginning was perfect for his mood; happy with a touch of anxious energy. John cocked his head, listening appreciatively for a moment before coming around to stand in front of Sherlock's chair.
"Don't stop playing." John's voice was warm and dark, his order to Sherlock full of implications. The detective kept his blue eyes shut, focusing on the music at hand. When those strong, familiar hands began to tug open his robe, though, he couldn't help but gasp. His bow skittered lightly across the strings, causing a discordant strain of notes to fill the parlor. Immediately the doctor withdrew his hands, instead moving one up to possessively cup the side of Sherlock's throat not currently occupied by his instrument. He gave a gentle but firm squeeze, and the lean detective almost let his head roll back in pleasure. Sherlock's electric eyes shot open at the contact.
"Focus, Sherlock. The performance is my apology from you." The dark haired man nodded, swallowing hard, gazing into the steel blue eyes measuring him. "You do want it to be a good apology, don't you?" Sherlock nodded again, and John's hand tightened just enough to make the taller man's breath begin to feel constricted.
" I asked you a direct question, Sherlock."
"Mm...ahh. Yes. Yes, John." His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and gasped, and John's hand tightened a little more around the pale column, pressing his fingers into the detective's windpipe. The edges of the detective's vision started to darken, and he felt his pulse hammering desperately in both his throat and his cock. Sherlock tried again, baritone rumbling against John's fingers, indicating that the jumble of words wasn't enough.
"I want to apologize to you properly." He managed to get the words out in the right order without dropping the melody. John gave one final, affectionate squeeze to Sherlock's lean throat.
"One more time," he whispered. Sherlock may have been the one with his breathing constrained, but John found himself lost in his own kind of delirious dizziness. The smells of the flat assailed his senses; tea and old books, with the undertone of something acidic and unidentifiable. He leaned forward, breathing Sherlock in. His detective smelled of his earthy shampoo and that indefinable essence that was simply Sherlock; part spice, part antiseptic, and part pure pheromonal lust.
"John... I... want... to... properly... perform... for.. you.. as... aaaahhnnn... apology..." To his credit Sherlock managed a full, iif unsteady, sentence. John caught the slight hint of tobacco on his partner's breath, and let his broad fingers constrict again, pressing his thumb into the hollow at the base of Sherlock's aristocratic throat. He pushed up gently, pressing against the taller man's windpipe and holding pressure there for a moment before allowing his thumb to trail back down. The broad digit played against the divot of sensitive between those lovely, sweeping collarbones causing the dark haired man to shudder and tilt his head back slightly, exposing more of his vulnerable throat to his doctor in a gesture of submission.
"You've been smoking, I see. We've had words about this before Sherlock." Full lips parted as the detective sighed in apology, sounding more sorry for being caught than for actually indulging his addiction.
"I'll... ah...I'll make it up to you, John," that rich, deep register was full of promise. John felt the vibrations of the other man's throat travel through his arm, course through his chest, and tug at his groin.
With those words John's strong digits withdrew. Sherlock took a deep breath, desperate to gather what remained of his tattered concentration before continuing. It didn't help one bit that John's assault on his neck left him breathless from more than just the constriction. The detective could feel his blood rushing downward, making his cock stiffen in anticipation. Shaking his head to clear his mind as best he could, the raven haired man went back a few bars and started to play again, eyes closed once more and full lips set in a grim line of determination.
His doctor waited a few more moments before beginning again, deft hands undoing the belt of Sherlock's robe, pushing it open to pool against his milky white thighs. The contrast of dark blue fabric and pale skin made John lick his bottom lip in anticipation. Light and shadow; the two sides of Sherlock. He ran the calloused pads of his fingers along the inside of the detective's thighs, smiling to himself and he watched his lover's flesh jump under his touch.
As John caressed the insides of his thighs, the detective clenched his eyes shut even tighter, desperately focusing all his attention on the Caprice. Adroit ivory fingers kept his bow moving on the violin, melody ringing out through the flat. He found himself perilously close to the end of No. 11, and John hadn't given any indication that he was satisfied yet. It seemed logical to continue to go in order. As the last strains of 11 rang through the flat, he felt his doctor kneel down in front of the chair.
Shakily, he recalled the music for Caprice No. 12. The progression of notes nearly slipped his mind as John leaned down, letting his warm breath ghost against Sherlock's now exposed, quickly hardening length. One sweep of that skilled tongue up the underside of his cock was all it took to bring the detective fully to attention. John smirked as his partner's length danced in anticipation, and he began to steady his breathing, allowing each exhalation to caress over the sensitive skin.
"Keep going, Sherlock. I'm quite enjoying this tune." The dark haired detective could feel the blonde's lips brushing against his tip with every word, and it was all he could do not to simply toss his instrument down, take John's head in his hands, and beg him for more contact. Fingers shaking with effort, he continued to play, biting down on his bottom lip. The pain focused him, and for a single moment he almost forgot about the doctor kneeling before him. That was until John took the velvety smooth head of his cock into his mouth, running his tongue in circles against the sensitive glans.
The taller man's lean torso convulsed at the touch, as he fought desperately to keep proper time. It was too much information, overwhelming sensations washed over him as John continued to work just his head with his hot, wet tongue. Struggling to maintain his breathing, Sherlock noticed the sweeps of John's tongue danced in time with strains of music from his violin. The thought caused his hips to buck forward involuntarily; John sucking him off to this amazingly perverse symphony was almost too much to bear. Strong fingers pinched the soft flesh on the inside of his left thigh in admonition.
The sharp sensation caused his cock to throb painfully, and John's thumb began to trace small circles around the bit of tormented flesh in a soothing gesture. The detective let out a breath he didn't know he was holding only to suck it back in as John drew his mouth back, swiping his tongue back and forth across the detective's slitted opening, gathering the precum there. He put his lips against the very tip, and hummed in appreciation as Sherlock's whole body trembled in pleasure.
"You taste so fucking good," the blonde moaned, his mouth brushing against Sherlock's length with every syllable. The detective made a pleading sound in the back of his throat as John pulled back, taking in the full sight of his tormented lover.
Sherlock's brow glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, dark curls beginning to stick to his temples. His blue eyes were screwed shut in concentration, making the space between his eyebrows crinkle in exactly the way that John liked best. It was better than seeing Sherlock absorbed in a case. His detective was so intense, so focused, so completely involved in the moment. It made his heart swell to see Sherlock so devoted to pleasing him.
The taller man's body was arched slightly in the chair, hips canted towards John even as his nimble fingers flew across the strings of his violin. Without the immediate stimulation of John's mouth his expression had softened some; that fine boned face looked positively angelic leaning against the warm curve of his instrument, in stark contrast with the wanton spread of his legs and hard, weeping length pushing up against his abdomen.
"Why Sherlock, I'm beginning to think that you really are sorry for keeping me in the dark." John reached forward, letting the back of his knuckles run up the underside of his detective's erection. The lanky violinist moaned something that might have been a 'yes', arching his hips toward the doctor's touch, seeking more contact.
"Steady, love." John's voice was firm, but Sherlock could hear the affection in it. His head spun, and stars danced behind his eyelids. God, the things John could do to him. Not just the physical sensations, but the feelings. It was deliriously disconcerting; but his heart fluttered in his chest at the sound of his doctor's approval.
He was approaching the end of Caprice no. 12, and he cracked his sapphire eyes open to gaze imploringly down at the stockier man in front of him. Surely John could feel how sorry he was, how badly he needed the absolution of release. But the doctor merely shook his blonde head.
"Keep going, Sherlock." A pained cry escaped the taller man's throat at the thought of continuing on under such heavenly vexation. John smiled, and ran one hand up and down Sherlock's thigh in a soothing gesture.
"You can do this." His doctor's words were strangely encouraging, almost comforting. If John said he could do it, he could do it. He took a deep breath and refocused, tearing the sheet music for the next piece from the haze in the back of his mind. After a moment's pause, those expert digits began to move, and the beginning strains of Caprice no. 13 began.
Sherlock's bow skipped across the strings, and he smiled to himself. Since meeting John it had become one of his favorites. The beginning of this piece had come to remind him of the first time he and John had laughed together, giggling like schoolgirls at their first crime scene together. As the melody became more complex, he saw John lean towards him him again, blue grey eyes sparkling with mischief.
Once more, that delicious mouth enveloped the head of his cock. Sherlock gasped as John quickly took him all the way in, tightening his lips and hollowing his cheeks, pulling back softly until just the head remained in the hot cavern of his mouth. The detective found that he was able to keep time with his own groans and gasps, desperately trying to keep his hips still and his fingerwork accurate.
His doctor repeated the tantalizing motion, grazing the base of his shaft oh-so-lightly with his teeth before pulling back again. John released Sherlock from his lips, causing a keening noise to emanate from the detective's pale throat. The good doctor replaced his mouth with his hand, making sure to work the head first, ensuring that he used the generous amount of precum Sherlock produced to further slick his aching length. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head, as his fingers practically moved on auto pilot. If he had a coherent thought to spare he would have thanked any deity he could think of for the wonders of muscle memory.
With John working him like that, it would have been impossible for him to stop playing. The sensation of his fingers moving across the strings seemed to be inexorably tied to the strong hand below him; and he desperately ached to keep John's hand going. The dark haired man reached the end of no. 13 and launched himself directly into no. 14.
Though it was normally a stately piece, the melody those dexterous fingers produced was nearly frantic. Sherlock could almost hear the pleading he was pouring into the tune. His fingers dashed through chords like a runaway train, crashing through note after note in desperation. Sherlock knew that he'd do whatever it took to keep his doctor's hand working at him like that. John worked in a few delightful twists, pulling the sensitive skin taut before resuming his strong, determined strokes.
The good doctor tightened his fist as he worked slowly down the detective's cock, loosening his grip as he moved his hand up, only to tighten again on the downstroke. Sherlock's voice had broken free from the tightness of his throat, and he gasped out meaningless fragments of words and incoherent syllables as that tormenting surgeon's hand increased its tempo.
Suddenly the sensation was gone; John withdrew his hand and the dark haired violinist released an animal growl. "John, please..." he managed to moan during an easier bit of the melody.
"If you insist. Don't stop playing." And with that he felt John lower that wicked mouth back down between his thighs, taking his overstimulated length back in to the root. The hand that had previously been wrapped around the detective's erection worked it's way between the navy dressing gown and the curvature of the taller man's posterior. Sherlock's hips jerked uncontrollably as a finger slicked with precum, sweat and saliva began lightly circling the taut ring of muscle.
No. 14 came to a close, and Sherlock transitioned seamlessly into the next Caprice. No. 15 was difficult under the best of circumstances, but with John's mouth bobbing up and down on his cock as he mercilessly teased his opening, it was almost beyond the detective's talents. Sherlock dropped a few notes, and he tensed until he realized that John hadn't noticed at all. Somewhere in the back of his already overwhelmed mind he knew that Jim was watching, and the imperfection would bother him immensely. Somehow, the thought simply made him harder.
A deep moan reverberated through the parlor as the doctor pushed his finger in, stopping at the second knuckle to give his detective some time to relax around the rapturous intrusion. Waves of desire ripped through Sherlock's nervous system, and his mouth went dry with the effort of continuing his performance. His entire pale body trembled, stress of the endeavor tightening every muscle and making his breath come in shallow, uneven gasps.
The dark haired man felt John suppress a smile as he worked his digit slowly in and out of the violinist a few times before pulling back and adding another finger. Those deftly cunning digits began to scissor and stretch, kneading gently against the taller man's prostate. Desperately, Sherlock's hand tightened on his bow, grasping for something solid and real to anchor him to the music as his stocky partner's ministrations threatened to carry him away from conscious thought completely. No. 15 transitioned into No 16, and it was only the change in music that kept him from spiraling over the edge.
Hooking them in the particular way he knew Sherlock went mad for, John pressed directly against the taut bundle of nerves and held the pressure there for just a second before releasing. The lean detective murmured something unintelligible as his body shuddered, waves of pleasure coursing through his very being at the touch.
John repeated the motion, pressing up against his detective's sweet spot. He couldn't help it, the way that Sherlock sounded when he touched him roused him beyond his wildest imagining. It was as if each dulcet, baritone moan was a string attached directly to the blonde man's cock. With each whimper Sherlock produced he could feel his erection strain forward, jumping in time with each tremulous gasp that escaped from those perfect, full lips.
He was achingly hard, straining against the front of his jeans as if he hadn't just reached culmination not twenty minutes before. Sherlock Holmes made him as horny as a damn teenager, with those long white legs splayed out, grinding himself back onto John's strong hand as his own dexterous fingers fought to keep playing as his doctor had demanded.
The melody started to stutter as Sherlock began to drop notes, and John finally had pity on his tormented partner. He released the detective's throbbing length from his lips, but kept his fingers working inside him. Using his free hand, he reached up and laid his hand atop Sherlock's, stilling the frantic movements of his bow.
"That," he gasped, surprised at how thick his voice was with lust, "was an amazing performance. Sherlock. You can stop now. Let me do the rest." He pried the bow from alabaster fingers and set it aside, then gently took the violin and laid it on the coffee table with reverence, all while still working his hand inside Sherlock. Once the instrument had been taken from him, Sherlock seemed to sink into a complete state of nearly-catatonic bliss, head rolling back on sculpted shoulders as if he no longer possessed the strength to hold it up. That rich baritone moaned John's name over and over again like a prayer or a plea. It was one that the good doctor was more than happy to oblige.
John bent his arm, still thrusting strong fingers into the taller man in a relentless rhythm. He brought his lips to Sherlock's chest, placing one single kiss over the writhing detective's heart before lowering his head back down to take his turgid length back into his mouth.
Sherlock nearly screamed as wetness and heat of John wrapped around him. Without the performance to distract him, he could feel every meticulous motion of John's tongue and lips against his cock. It was too much, he was too close. He had reached the very end of his limits, and John's sweet mouth dangled him over a bottomless precipice, yet still denied him the release that was his only salvation. Finally, the dark haired detective felt the head of his cock hit the back of John's throat, and the soft impact knocked the last of his self control from his grasp.
John's strong hands steadied Sherlock's hips as they began to oscillate wildly, any sense of rhythm abandoned in the sheer carnal act of thrusting into his doctor's mouth. Softly, the blonde began to hum around the heated thickness in his mouth, sending jolts and vibrations crashing through Sherlock's groin. The violinist felt the familiar, astounding pressure building at the base of his spine, white hot lines of firey of pleasure coursing through his abdomen. He felt all the burning threads meet at the base of his cock, fire rushing through his vein, and he as he felt his scrotum tighten as his hips danced along with the exacting strokes of his partner's mouth With a startling cry his narrow hips bucked again, stuttering uncontrollably as the detective shuddered into orgasm. Blissful white washed over his vision as full lips parted, singing John's name as he emptied himself into his partner's willing throat.
The doctor continued to work him throughout his orgasm, carefully milking every last drop of fluid from his detective as if he could suck all the words right out of Sherlock through his dick along with his semen. Guessing by his partner's speechlessness, perhaps he had succeeded. He released the taller man from his lips, resting his head against the pale flesh of Sherlock's thigh as he caught his own breath. He could hear the dark haired man's heartbeat as it thundered through his arteries, finally carrying blood back up to that beautiful, complicated brain. After a few moments of laying together in silence, Sherlock finally found his voice again.
"Good?" There was such vulnerability in the question. John's heart battered against his ribcage, swelling with affection. It was a wonder that nobody (well, hardly nobody) else got to see this side of his detective. Underneath the veneer of his ego and accomplishments, there were still the cracks of uncertainty left over from years of being outcast. The thought of the taunts Sherlock must have suffered, still suffered, made John's vision temporarily haze over with crimson. How could those fucking idiots even known what they had missed? The kindness, the dedication, the unyielding friendship that his detective had to offer. He almost lost himself down that twisted path of anger and accusation, until Sherlock's voice brought him back from his contemplation.
"John?" He opened his eyes and looked up into the fine boned face above him. The sweet, nearly fragile smile that Sherlock gave him was too much. He climbed up into the chair with the taller man, snuggling tightly against him.
"Very good," John confirmed, nuzzling his head into the curvature of where Sherlock's elegant neck and sculpted shoulder met. A flurry of light kisses graced the pillar of marble skin, and John savored the salty taste of Sherlock's sweat as traced his tongue along the taller man's jugular. Dear Sherlock had really poured everything he had into his performance. Strong fingers stroked dark curls, sweeping them gently off Sherlock's forehead and out of his beautiful eyes.
"Very, very good. Apology accepted, love." he murmured, continuing to twine his fingers in the raven halo of the detective's unruly waves.
"Does that mean you'll be taking care of this yourself?" that deep baritone was rich with lust and a small amount of satisfaction. Long, pale fingers reached down between his doctor's legs to caress the prominent bulge in Watson's jeans, causing the other man's compact body to arch forward into his touch.
"Aah." John moaned and smiled at the same time, nipping lightly at Sherlock's neck in admonition. "That was just your apology. Now we move on to the makeup sex." Raven waves bobbed as the detective nodded in agreement, temporarily pulling himself away from his doctor to grab the mobile sitting on the table.
Long fingers flickered over the screen, turning it on. Unsurprisingly, a video image of a rather disheveled Jim smiled back at him.
"So good to see you enjoying yourself, truly." Sherlock's voice was dry, but his lips still curved in an actual smile. Jim had no pithy reply; the detective had caught him mid gasp in an effort to catch his breath, black pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed with satisfaction.
"Still, the good doctor and I would like a moment of privacy, if you don't mind." Moriarty nodded and smiled a toothy grin that held only the merest hints of foreboding.
"I do recall telling you that once I finished my dinner I'd do something so dastardly that you wouldn't be bored for weeks." Jim's breath was heavy against the phone speaker, lilt coming across in whispers and static. "Are you still bored, Detective?"
John chuckled and rolled his eyes, and Sherlock merely smiled. Jim had indeed warned him, but this hadn't even crossed his mind as an option when the madman casually mentioned his plan. Jim quirked a dark eyebrow at the laughing couple on the other end of the screen.
"Off you go boys, off you go. I'll catch you later."
"I'm sure you will," Sherlock rumbled. With that he turned the phone off, tossing it across the room, turning his face towards John. His doctor met him with a deep kiss, tracing his tongue over Sherlock's teeth before pulling back, standing up, and offering the detective his hand.
"Let's go upstairs, shall we?"
For anyone interested, you can hear the start of Sherlock's violin performance by going to YouTube and searching for Paganini, Niccolo; Caprice No. 11. There should be a video result for Caprices no. 11, 12, 13 & 14, op. 1 as performed by Rudolf Koelman. The music is breathtaking (though there is some rather jarring applause noise after the first Caprice, which... hmm... public performances... ). If you crave the rest, I recommend following up with Caprices No. 15, 16, 17 & 18.
Soo... what to do now? Should I write Jim's reaction to watching John and Sherlock's performance, or should I simply dive right into the 'makeup' sex?! Decisions, decisions. Suggestions are always welcome, so feel free to hit me with your opinion, demand, or request and I'll see what I can concoct. I'll try to get the next part out sometime mid-next-week-ish. Until next we meet, my smutty darlings!
Mazi