Oh, Dear Reader. My apologies for the long wait for this chapter. I had surgery last week, and I honestly thought I'd bounce back much quicker than I did. I have to say (somewhat bitterly) that my Muse is not inspired by narcotics, and I will register my complaints care of Percy Shelley and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Hopefully, however, it will be coherent and arousing nonetheless, and make up for the delay.
Thanks to my betas ScienceofObsession and Snogandagrope as always, and please note that I went back later and added some stuff, so if I wander or become disjointed, is is through no fault of theirs!
Without further ado:
Chapter 12: The Wharf
Outside the main room, and down a long, poorly lit hallway, are swinging double doors marked "Lounge". The music is much less obtrusive in this darkened room; as they enter, John thinks he recognizes Lyle Lovett. People are stretched out and piled up on chaise lounges, giant chairs and sofas upholstered in dirty crushed velvet and animal prints, long padded benches in the shadows along the walls. There are tables to one side, swamped in groups of people ranging from dark emo, sprawled silently in their angst, to those raucous with drink and celebration. Harry spies a high table with three tall stools, and hurries over to claim it.
Harry and Melissa sit, and John, feeling chivalrous, guides Sherlock toward the remaining seat, stealing the opportunity to place his hand around the lean resilience of those tantalizing oblique muscles. However, he rather immediately regrets seating the man, as Sherlock on the stool is several inches taller than he was before. Ah, well. Next time he'll plan on that. He turns to the unassuming woman at his side.
Her face is soft, features nondescript, and long hair is caught in a ponytail over her shoulder. She looks vaguely Mediterranean with minimal makeup, except for the orange-y lipstick that Sherlock had pointed out on Harry's collar the day before. She's taller than he, and heavy, made heavier by the bulky nature of her uniform. He can see the wear of active duty in the fabric and seams, and wonders how long she's been back from her tour. His eye catches on the patch bearing her name and he is surprised to read 'Watson'.
"Are you Melissa?" he asks politely, only having to raise his voice a bit, and not yell, thank god. He'll be hoarse before the night's out, if they stay in the other room. He hasn't shouted captain's orders all day for quite some time, and he's out of practice.
Melissa smiles and nods, sketching a salute. "Yes. Harry's told me so much about you."
John grins. "Ah. It's all lies, I swear."
There's an uncomfortable pause, while they both try to think of something to say. Harry smirks and waits, pulling on the pint in her hand. Sherlock appears to ignore them all, instead bright-eyed as he assesses and deconstructs the people around the room.
"So. You're a Watson, too, then?" John asks. Melissa looks at her name patch and blushes, florid and unattractive.
"Oh. Well. Um. I didn't want my real name visible, so I just made a. A. Um," she stutters, and scratches blunt fingers lightly on the patch. John notices now that it's just rough-cut fabric, written carefully in Sharpie and hastily sewn over the correct location.
Fucking hell. Poor lovestruck sod. John mentally shakes his head and prepares for a worse evening then he had anticipated. This pitiful, insecure girl. He gloomily predicts that Harry will chew her up and spit her out before midnight.
John is getting no help from either Sherlock or Harry, which is unsurprising. Dammit. Melissa is not hisdate, he shouldn't have to work this hard for conversation. "Been back long?"
Melissa nods again. "It's been 10 days, now," she says. "I have a month of leave. I met your sister right away." She moves her calf-eyed gaze to his sister. "She's been my rock, since I returned."
John nods, because he understands how unsettling returning to civilian life can be. Even without being devastatingly wounded. He flounders. "So. Ah. You much for dancing, then?"
Melissa shrugs, and that's the end of that conversation. Uncomfortable silence blooms again. John looks around, desperate for a topic. "Well, your adjustment should be helped by this table, seeing as how three quarters of it are in uniform." God, what a dumbarse thing to say.
Melissa laughs a little, and slightly oniony breath clouds around John. "Yes, we had it easy finding a costume, didn't we? I'm not big on dressing up, anyway. Your sister says you're a Captain in the RAMC?" Of course, she can see that on his uniform.
John's hand tightens on his cane. He's barely used it all night, only for support on the more uncertain footing of the gravelled lot outside. He lifts it slightly, "Invalided out," he says. Norah Jones begins to croon Come away with meas John gulps half his gin.
Sherlock looks Harry over. "Why did youchoose to be a soldier?" he asks. "Is it a projection of your power? Have you had a secret longing to be in the wars? But no: that's obviously not a problem for females in this century. An effort at intimidation, perhaps?"
Harry pulls her shoulders back and snarls at him, but the anger is a facade. She's in the happy phase of being drunk. "Yeah, you git, why don't you tell mewhy you chose to be a blooming genie?"
"Because I amone." Sherlock replies calmly.
Harry falls off her stool laughing. She seems to think that Sherlock's comedic stylings cannot be topped, and leans against the table to toss back the remainder of her pint. "I'm for more. Anyone?" She doesn't wait for an answer, but wheels towards the smaller bar in the lounge. Then she turns back around and, catching Melissa by the shoulder, pulls her roughly down the few inches that separate them (Melissa squeaks) and snogs her crassly. She opens her eyes halfway through and looks at Sherlock.
John cringes and mutters, "Jesus, Harry."
Sherlock watches the display with interest, but his face remains blank. If the kiss is a challenge, it goes unanswered. When Harry leaves, Melissa looks away, face flaming. Sherlock leans down to John, and although the music doesn't dictate such a need, he still tugs him close and holds his jaw in one hand, mouth against his ear. "So this is... fine? Acceptable in this time? I know that sodomites are no longer felons, but I had no idea they could... Gather in these numbers. Be so obvious. Dress... like this." His eyes slide sideways to a man clad in outrageous eyewear and very little else in the way of clothing except for bodypaint and some very obnoxious and precarious boots.
"Surely even in yourday there were certain clubs?" John asks. As a doctor, he's very aware that nature will out, regardless of society's restrictions.
"Indeed, but they were very illegal, very small. Men wore masks."
John has to repress a shiver at the thought of an 18th century Sherlock, hair longer and in a queue (would he have worn it powdered?) Tight breeches and a mysterious silken mask across his eyes. Oh, fuck. Tension and heat snake up from the base of his spine, but he shelves the thought. Perhaps he'll pull it out later. In the upstairs bedroom. When he's alone.
"It's... still frowned upon by a lot of people," he answers. "There's a lot of prejudice and discrimination. But in most places, it's no longer outright illegal to be gay."
Sherlock nods, and goes back to people watching. An eyebrow lifts minutely when he sees Harry waiting at the bar, and John tracks the object of his gaze. His sister is talking to a very lushly-endowed ginger dressed as, well, John can't really tell. But there's a lot of skin showing. Harry laughs, and slings her arm around bare shoulders. Her hand quickly migrates southward until it's resting on the curve of the woman's arse. Her gesture is enthusiastically returned. Melissa sees it and looks down at the table, hunching over her drink.
"Here we go again," John mutters under his breath. He makes a rueful face at Melissa and waves vaguely towards the bar. "I'm sorry," he begins. "Harry-" There's really nowhere to go with that, so he trails off.
Melissa just shrugs. "I-. It's alright." She fiddles with her dogtags and shakes her head a bit, shrugs again. "It's alright. I'm just going to. If you- . I'm going to find the loos, ok?" And she slides off her stool and rather lumbers away, face averted.
John purses his lips. "Goddammit."
Sherlock leans towards him. "Are you surprised? Your sister shows all the signs of a serial adulterer. That would be why she's no longer with the woman who gave her the phone, right? Alcohol encourages her to wander. In a very indiscriminate and public way, I might add."
John runs his tongue across his teeth. "Yep. Bloody hell, and she has to do it again tonight. We shouldn't have come." He takes the last swallow of gin and pushes the cup away on the table. "This is going to be a disaster."
"Why?" Sherlock pushes away his own glass, still mostly full and glowing a ghostly blue under UV lights. "Her issues with her lover are no affair of ours." He looks thoughtfully at the double doors, as Melissa slumps her way through them. "That woman has no spirit. Your sister requires a submissive partner, yes. But one with pride. Not a feeble pudding such as that one."
Christ. John catches his breath at the frank tone in which Sherlock mentions submission, and envisions Sherlock, kneeling proud at his feet, of shadows and light striking off bowed neck, arrogant and strong. Another picture, more a feeling, slips in behind it, of himself in that role, and his stomach dips, and for a moment he's engulfed in the tingle and burn of arousal.
Sherlock slides off the stool, and runs an absent thumb down his sternum, watching John closely. "Let's go back to the other room and dance."
The short sentence echoes, a meaningless collection of syllables in John's head, obscured by his sudden, visceral fantasy. He blinks and licks his lips and replays Sherlock's last comment. Dancing. He gestures a little with the cane. "Oh. Ah. Sherlock. I don't really dance."
He gets a limpid look in response.
Sherlock's mouth twitches slightly to the left, his version of a smile, and says, "Well, then, you can just watch."
Buggering fuck.John looks back at the bar, where Harry is now snogging the ginger, wipes his hands on his pants as if wiping off responsibility, and follows that slinky dimpled spine out of the lounge and back into the thundering deluge of music that is the main body of the club.
Light dances across the heaving crowd within. They move almost as an entity, in surges and eddies, lit erratically in alien light, guided by thumping bass and hemmed in by by wailing treble and crooning vocals. Sherlock pauses for a moment, eyes darting around, finding a space that will accommodate them, and then pulls John behind him to occupy it.
John follows a bit reluctantly. He feels stiff, and for a moment philosophically ponders how he and Sherlock are physically represented through the fabrics in which they've covered (or uncovered) themselves. Sherlock's are ethereal, flowing, unbound by natural law, while John's khakis are stiff, protective, try to maintain their shape in spite of external force. He works his jaw and tries to loosen up. He really, really, doesn't want to look like an ass; like the old guy who forgot how to do this an eon ago. He cracks a wry smile as he briefly remembers which of the pair of them is actually the old guy, but loses it again as his nervousness kicks in. Two gins haven't relaxed him quite enough. He hooks his cane through a loop on his pants. It's in the way, but not enough to actually trip him up.
It's hot in here, and humid, surrounded by hundreds of vigorously dancing bodies, and John wipes his forehead. Sherlock whips off his vest, handing it to John with a questioning look. John rolls his eyes, but takes the proffered scrap of fabric. It folds up small enough to slip it inside a cargo pocket with room to spare. He unbuttons his own shirt, exposing the threadbare sleeveless undershirt and dog tags underneath, and sighs at the cooling relief.
Sherlock, apparently having conducted sufficient observation of the natives in their habitat, throws his head back and closes his eyes. The music is not too offensive, and Sherlock wiggles hips and shoulders in an excellent approximation of everyone else in the club. Except that he's shirtless, and light bounces off of him the same way the moon lays a path across still black water. Oh, god.
John needs to stop staring and start dancing. He bites his lip and tries to access Three Continents Watson. His moves may be a wee bit dated, but they're not too bad. It's hard to work out the stiffness of hips and spine after so many years of rigidity, though, and he focuses on himself for a time, trying to move to the rhythm, and smooth out the jerkiness of thrust and sway.
A song or two later, feeling more comfortable, even slightly smiling, he opens his eyes again to check for Sherlock. And oh, what a sight he is. His skin is blue, under UV lights, crawling with motion from the henna swirls and dots that squirm upon it, glowing yellow and surreal. Miles of opalescent flesh are stretched tightly over a frame of nothing but bone and muscle and sinew. John's riveted by his thinness, by the enormous personality which actually occupies barely a rubber band's worth of horizontal space. Except for his arms. Endless and boneless and more graceful than John could everimagine being. Sherlock extends them from his body, and they move through the air like the fanned, flirtatious tail of a fish; they stretch and curve, now over his head, now sweeping to the side, and his torso follows where they lead. He moves like the letter 'S', and for a man composed entirely of hardness and angles, he's sheer visual decadence and John slows, drinking him in.
Sherlock's eyes open lazily, revealing fathomless pupils outlined by a vivid shining iris, locked on John. Now that Sherlock has ensnared his audience, his dance changes deliberately. His hips snap to one side, pause, and then the other. His fingers change, become a fringe on the end of his arms, and the man begins to belly dance to the driving, dark, industrial beat of the song. There are no vocals to compete with the show, and the strange juxtaposition of such a sinuous ancient dance with the foreboding gothic ambience of the song to which he twines brings John to a fixated standstill.
Sherlock holds his stare and dances: a saucy slave performing for his owner. His arms move, inundated with grace and expression, fingertips fluttering. Shadows dart like fishes as his torso undulates, rib bones appearing and vanishing as his chest and belly vie for ascendency. Sherlock tosses his head and twirls, weaving through the air as if the music were a solid thing, and he nothing more than deconstructed molecules, shifting and sliding through the space in between the throbbing beats, the tangible wall of sound. Sweat glistens across his body, limning it in glitter, and John's prurient absorption catches momentarily on the dark shape of hair dampened in tender armpits, just below the cuffs of leather on his upraised arms.
Goosebumps wash over John, followed by languid heat, and his cock hardens in spite of his best efforts, held tight and awkward in the stiff fabric of his army khakis. Sherlock dips and rolls, every movement beginning at his core, or his fingers, or his feet, and rippling through all the flesh and muscle and breathtaking beauty of him.
While John licks his lips and struggles with uneven breath, the music slows to a heartbeat, and Sherlock turns a spin into a backwards dip that has him arched into half a backbend, arms languidly above his head, wrists poised mere feet above the ground. A slim leg is braced behind him, curled toe of a velvet slipper softening a firmly planted foot, gold thread glittering in the flashing light. Glowing henna gleams across his taut, flat belly, framed in the curve of his bottom ribs, and John watches long muscles twitch and stretch beneath decorated skin, the jewel in Sherlock's navel glinting in a strobe of light. Sherlock's head is cocked up, and he eyes John down the length of his arced chest, and rises effortlessly, agonizingly slowly, back to standing, arms and shoulders moving, sliding, dancing as his hips begin a rapid jiggle, and he does a quick shuffle around, mouth barely quirked, stuttering hips causing the ripe curves of his arse to bounce and wiggle alluringly behind their diaphanous curtain.
A small crowd has formed around them, other dancers ceasing to move and circling the belly dancer in their midst. John is aware, peripherally, of laughing, clapping hands, wolf whistles and catcalls. He ignores it, until a discordant movement catches his eye, which he drags reluctantly from the show before him (the dance done for him, and no other, gleaming achromic eyes and subtle beckoning smirk broadcasting an unmistakable signal).
Before John can properly discern what's distracting him, a large man leans out of the admiring circle and grabs Sherlock around the waist, hands slipping and clawing over sweat-slicked skin. Sherlock's eyes widen impossibly in a frozen moment of distress, and John is moving before he even registers the fear flashing across that face, before his head is pulled to one side and the bungling bully begins to slobber on Sherlock's long neck, pulling his hips back into a boorish grind.
John takes two strides forwards, pushing forcibly to get through as the observers mill uncertainly, and breaches the space around the two struggling men. He grabs the back of the man's head, fingers getting a solid grip in his hair, and jerks back sharply, shifting his weight back at the same time, to pull the man off Sherlock. Sherlock ducks and spins at the same time, working himself out of a grip that has loosened from surprise. John wrenches the man down to his level and hisses, "Back off now, Jack, or I'm taking you down. Do you understand me?" And his dominant hand is wrapped hard around the man's throat, fingertips digging into his carotid hard enough to induce dizziness.
"Fuck you," is the elegant, gasping response. He twitches for a minute, clearly deciding if it's worth the fight or not.
"Try me," John growls. Adrenaline is singing in his veins, arousal having quickly transformed, and he feels powerful enough to fly. He hopes this mountainous fool wants to fight, and he lets a manic grin rise, cold and fierce, as if to encourage his decision. The man is drunk and aggressive, but not suicidal, so he snarls and backs away, fighting his way through the jeering crowd until he disappears.
John turns back to Sherlock, sees him wiping at his neck with a shudder and frighteningly blank face. John steps up immediately and rubs the elegant contours of his neck with open palm, soothing and cleaning both. In his concern, he forgets to worry about boundaries, and presses closer to Sherlock, more or less embracing him, his other arm slipping around Sherlock's narrow back, stroking up and down his spine, pressing him close. Sherlock's head droops, and John presses his mouth to his ear. "You alright?" he asks. Sherlock quivers once, nods, and plasters himself to John, who has to shift a foot to brace himself so they don't stagger backwards.
For the remainder of the song they stay like that, tightly intertwined, swaying gently but not really dancing, ignoring the crowd around them, whose attention has dispersed now that the show is over. John can't keep his hands still. They roam over the back of the man he holds, bare and hot and so sweaty that callused fingers glide. He sweeps from neck to sacrum, fingers spread wide so as to catch it all, feeling furrows between ribs and the bump of a mole. With every stroke he urges Sherlock closer, and Sherlock hums against his ear. John clasps his neck, sharply bent to place his head so near John's, and massages the trapezius, running from shoulder to the smooth dent in the back of his skull.
The twitching of hips against his belly catch John's attention, and he can feel an answering erection prodding at him, only the fabric of his undershirt and the gauze of Sherlock's trousers between them. John imagines he can feel the heat of it. He holds his hand tighter on the back of Sherlock's head, turning it slightly to nuzzle in the damp hair behind his ear. "You alright?" he asks again. "Is this ok?"
"He only startled me," Sherlock rumbles. His voice is firm, but he makes no effort to move away, and his cheek rests against John's hair.
John begins scattering biting kisses down his neck, breathing fast, sucking in the heat and salted musk of him, the smell of exotic spices stronger than the astringent sting of atmospheric fog being pumped through the club. Each driven, licking kiss is meant to cover, to reclaim what he irrationally feels is his, what was violated by the brutish stranger only minutes before.
Sherlock fingers his chest, slips his hands up to his shoulders and into the sleeves of his overshirt, pushing it down his arms a bit, and then he just holds on, kneading his biceps as John sucks a mark above the sharp collarbone under his mouth. John is not above tensing those muscles to give Sherlock a better handhold; they are round and hard he's always been rather proud of them. Long fingers shape and caress and probe there with appreciation and characteristic focus.
Sherlock shifts, and then there's a long, hard thigh pressing between John's legs. He surges forward, helpless as the tide, canting his hips until the damp, heated muscle is firmly nestled under his bollocks, and he nudges back with hip and belly, rolling against the shaft he feels growing there, the physical reward doubled when he knows he shares it. The heat of the crowded dance floor is suddenly meaningless compared to the blaze rushing through his veins, and he presses his open mouth to a curl of henna, tracing up a rigid pectoral.
"Oh. God, Sherlock," John pants, and his hands drop to clasp Sherlock's waist, scooping upward, under his arms, spanning narrow ribs, still heaving from the effort of the dance. His thumbs dig into the hollow of armpits, which John finds himself unreasonably, well, fetishizing. "We have to stop." He shakes with need as he skims the tickle of fine hairs, and a droplet strikes the webbing between his fingers. He brings his hand to his mouth and licks it. It tasteslike Sherlock smells, hot and humid, salty and spicy and stimulating. A strange mixture of human with dusty, distant and foreign. He shudders.
Sherlock lifts his head, and his eyes are bright, his lips are wet and parted on broken breaths. "Oh. We. We should dance," he says, for the second time that night.
John realizes that their feet are firmly planted, although their hips are rocking to the thundering beat. He stills and huffs a strained, desperate laugh. "Youcan't go anywhere." He moves back a bit, to demonstrate to Sherlock his predicament. While John's combat uniform holds his cock more or less against his body, the loose, fragile fabric of Sherlock's trousers can do no such thing, and tent obscenely and obviously around a very vertical, bobbing erection. John looks down consideringly, suddenly aware that his mouth is actuallywatering, which he always thought was a figure of speech.
John begins to giggle.
Sherlock frowns. "Well. We'll be here for a bit, then," he says, deep voice cutting through the music. Then, to John's surprise, he is whipped around, and suddenly Sherlock is tight against his back. The voice says, in his ear, "So. Let's dance."
And then Sherlock begins to dance. Just as he had before, undulating and rippling, only this time John is held against him, and every roll of the hips behind him drags a cock against the small of his back. Sherlock's hands skim from his shoulders down to his wrists, and pull his arms away from his sides. "Like this," he breathes. And John gets the most intimate belly dancing lesson of his life. Briefly, insanely, he envisions Sherlock's stiff cock as a gear shift, upshifting too rapidly for him to acclimate, and he sinks back into the lean body behind him, allows both the lissome hips behind him, and the living thing that is the music, to fuse to his flesh; to influence his movement, the rhythms of his body, directing his heartbeat and the rush of his blood.
He grinds back with enthusiasm, and the deep darkness of the club makes it all okay, renders them private in a room with hundreds of people, and John can shed his inhibitions as easily as Sherlock's rhythmic swaying body is coaxing him to lose his stiffness and reserve. Until John is moving as smoothly as his partner, until they are a single organism, functioning in the noisy currents of ocean that makes the club around them.
Sherlock pulls John's overshirt off at the end of the song, dragging it down his arms and elbows, and stopping enticingly, with it caught around John's wrists. "Let's go have a seat," Sherlock whispers in a sudden vacuum of sound between songs. John tugs at his shirt, and after a millisecond, Sherlock lets him go, is left with John's shirt in his hands, which he holds strategically in front of his crotch. John has to laugh, and tows Sherlock behind him, hurrying gracelessly, stride wide-legged to accommodate the interference in his trousers, toward the hall that leads to the Lounge.
They spill into the room; so much more quiet in here except for the low murmur of voices and whatever crooning is floating from the speakers, competing with the rumbling vibrations of the disco area down the hall. Sherlock immediately guides him to the left, towards the darkest corner of the lounge, a place well-strewn with oversized, overstuffed furniture.
They wind up toppling onto a stained purple and black zebra patterned chaise with a high back and one rolled arm. It's back is to the middle of the room, and offers a very real sense of privacy, tucked as it is behind a column. John falls back and shoves his cane onto the floor when it pokes into his bum. He pulls Sherlock down on top of him. "Come 'ere," he mutters, and begins a kiss.
They're already as warmed up as they're going to get, and there's nothing teasing about the kiss, no slow exploration, no finesse. Their mouths meet, open and licking, teeth and tongue, cheeks hollowing for suction. John stretches back against the one arm of the chaise and wiggles beneath Sherlock, who is surprisingly heavy for such a reedy man; he shifts and aligns them, taking a moment to just enjoy the force and the feel. Sherlock drops John's shirt on top of the cane, and pulls a leg over John, so that he's straddling him, spread thighs perforce keeping John's shut tight.
John surges up beneath him, pushing, vying for control, refusing to submit, and Sherlock bites his lip sharply, surprising him into stillness, and rubs against his thigh, exhaling rich groans not heard but rather perceived as rumbling vibrations through the thin ribbed fabric that is all that's between them up top. John drags his nails down Sherlock's damp, naked back, jerks his head to the side to free his mouth and latches onto Sherlock's neck... that neck... made to be laved, and nibbled and worshipped. He explores the suprasternal notch, sucking in the tiny pool of sweat, tasting salt, and something that recalls the iron of the lamp, before kissing the prominent knobs of the clavicle to either side.
He slowly ruts, hands firm on Sherlock's hips, lost in a heady sea of sensation, inelegantly marking the smooth skin of Sherlock's neck with the day's stubble, having lost the ability to coordinate anything more discriminating.
Sherlock props himself up on his arms and arches his back, lifts his hips so that his buttocks roll upward, canted at a ridiculously sensual angle to his body, and it's an invitation John won't, can't, refuse. He grabs that succulent flesh, squeezing and rubbing, raw and vulgar, just following the barbarous dictates of his body, crying out to possess, to revel. He uses his double handfuls of arse to put Sherlock where he wants him, tugging and pulling until their cocks are aligned, and John, whose instinct is to spread his legs, has to make do with squeezing them together instead, which surprisingly heightens the sensations in his groin. And the swooping desire in his belly stings, filling his gut, hot and sharp-edged; painful and dangerous and addictive.
"Sherlock," he groans, pushing up his knees so that Sherlock has to curl to keep his mouth on John's neck, where he's assiduously sucking love bites. "Sherlock-" Sherlock breaths in his ear, hot tongue folding the lobe into his mouth, and the fine hairs on John's body lift in an electric salute. Mouth open, John shivers under the delirious onslaught, his mind staggering back to stare at the pair of them squirming on the couch, at himself grunting and bucking, at Sherlock, lean muscles flexing under sweaty skin, spine rolling in abandoned pleasure. And he is grateful, with almost blasphemous ecstasy, to be allowed to hold this beautiful manifestation of all his fantasies.
Now Sherlock, as if to prove himself gritty and real, rotates his arse in lazy circles, so that John's fingers are worked lower and lower, until they press the sheer fabric into the seam between his cheeks, until his fingers burn with a more intimate heat; and he explores for budded resistance. When he encounters it, small and sinful, Sherlock gasps loudly and tosses his head.
And this is the moment when John expects for it to end. Sherlock's had a distinctive and unbroken pattern in the week they've known each other. Like a waltz, two steps forward, one step back, and John thinks now he'll break away, skin flushed and eyes blown, but break away nonetheless, pull back and shut down. And jesus fuck but John doesn't want that to happen.
He tries harder, plunges his forefinger further down that crack, and rubs indelicately against the smooth skin that separates scrotum and anus, pressing hard, seeking to stimulate the prostate externally (he knows these things, he's a doctor) and a small part of his brain lectures him like a mother, telling him to stop, back off, to let Sherlock take this at whatever pace he needs.
But John needs, too.
John needs, and the demanding fire shivering under his skin is incandescent, and thank god Sherlock is pliant and willing, gyrating and rolling on top of him like a fucking porn star. John's cock is trapped in the middle, swollen and twitching, throbbingagainst the ever-dancing hips of his genie, whose eyes are closed, now, head dropped until their foreheads touch, lips brushing and catching on teeth, but nothing so polished as kissing is happening any more. Only the hot wash of breath between them, vocalized with murmurs and profanity.
John grinds against him again, finger a metronome in the center of Sherlock's bum, and fuck me he can feelthe pucker become a divot, smoothing out into an inviting little hollow. And so John rubs, mapping the unfurling margins; a hundred screaming Afghanis couldn't tear him away. It's hypnotic, and he's in flameshe wants to stick something into that slowly developing hole so badly he'd trade anything in his possession for it. But don't wish. Don't you fucking wish, John Watson. Because you can have what you want, I know it... Without a wish. Without losing him.
There is the rough abrasion of fabric scraping across his cock as Sherlock smears his hips over John's, dragging him to the edge before he's ready. He reaches up to wet Sherlock's lips with his tongue, because his own are dry with panting, and gets a shattered sigh for his trouble. How does he have this? How did he get this? His right hand keeps gliding along Sherlock's side, so slippery with sweat he could be oiled. But his left hand...
Sherlock lifts again, pressing against John's fingers, legs spreading wider, arse cocked up so far John would worry for the integrity of his spine if he had any blood left in his brain at all. But he doesn't, it's all roaring on the surface of his skin and clamoring in his cock. And his finger sinks in. Actually sinks in, through the layer of fabric. Just a bit. But John knows, he can tell. And Sherlock makes a mewling noise, pushing upward so that his nipple nears John's mouth, who leans up to catch it in his teeth, debauched in the taste of Sherlock, of sweat, the feel of the pert nub against tongue and lip.
Sherlock gyrates again, and John sucks hard, head tilted to the side, to give himself the luxury of nosing his armpit, feeling the tremble in Sherlock's arms as he begins to lose control; and he can hear Sherlock's panting given voice, unh unh unhoh Johnand his hand moves to Sherlocks ribs in time to feel a sudden outbreak of goosebumps...
and Sherlock is shivering and gasping into his neck, arms like noodles, convulsing against an orgasm, and John can feel the pulsing of his arsehole against his fingertips, through the filmy fabric he's got shoved just inside the rim;
and he spreads his knees and comes like a fucking jet, the painful zings of semen sizzling through his cock and searing his belly under the fabric of his trousers, and at that moment there is nothing around him except for Sherlock, trembling and panting in his arms, the writhing weight of him, and the flood of heat and release and euphoria in his body.
"Yes, fuck yes, Sherlock, jesus, how did you. You. You're amazing. You gorgeous fucking thing. Sherlock. Oh." And John shudders with aftershocks, continuing to stroke and push against the cleft of Sherlock's arse, the juddering pulse of his heart felt as strongly there as he can feel it through their chests, through the twitching cocks that separate their abdomens.
The torrid breath at his neck morphs into a kind of a laugh, after a few minutes of lying there, and Sherlock nuzzles under his ear like a demanding cat. John rearranges Sherlock's trousers and begins to stroke his back in long, calming sweeps, enjoying the dip and curve of his spine, the sharp jut of shoulderblades.
John fidgets a bit against cooling, sticky semen. "I can't believe we just did that," he laughs incredulously. He lifts his head and looks around. To his relief, there are no voyeurs, and no one seems to have taken any notice of the couple who just thoroughly surpassed the boundaries of snogging on a sofa. He moves a little, and slides his hand between them, feeling the sodden bits on Sherlock's trousers, and against his skin, gently curling his fingers around a softening cock. "We're a mess," he says, eyes bright. "Too bad you can't get a change of clothes from the lamp."
Sherlock frowns, but it's just for show. "Ha-" His voice cracks, and he has to stop and clear a gravelly throat. John waits, grinning. "Hand me my vest," he says at last. John pulls it out of his pocket, with a lot of extraneous squirming, just to watch Sherlock's face twitch in response, and hands it over. Sherlock lifts his hips and scrubs the wet spot.
"Alright," he sits back, and John rises up onto his elbows. "It'll do." He shivers, suddenly, the aftermath leaving him chilled, and reaches down for John's overshirt. "I'll wear this." He doesn't wait for permission, but appropriates the thing, rolling the ridiculously short sleeves up a couple turns. John can see that it will go down at least to his hips, and cover the worst of the come stain. He doesn't mind. His own indiscretion will be well concealed by the camouflage pattern of his uniform.
He pulls Sherlock back down, with a slurred "C'mere" and kisses him again. Now that the sharp edge of rampant desire is sated, he can kiss they way he wants to. He breathes on Sherlock's lips, giving light sipping sucks to each in turn. "You're wonderful," he whispers, and slips in his tongue, seeking out Sherlock's, now taking the time for lazy exploration.
On the other side of the sofa, voices escalate jarringly from background murmur to a grating cacophony, and he hears the sharp crack of breaking glass. A familiar voice rises in a screeched curse, and John's romantic interlude for the evening is cut short.