Thank you to Snogandagrope, who was able to beta with very little notice. I was in a hurry with this one, y'all! More smut, Dear Reader, so consider yourselves warned. Now. Have at it!
Shatter 18: Another Interlude
John begins to giggle as the front door latches behind Mycroft Holmes and his strangely distracted assistant. "Oh. My. God. Sherlock. Your nephew? He can't be real." He reels back into the living room and collapses in an armchair. "The British Government. Oh sweet Christ."
Sherlock's shoulders lower, making it clear that until now they've been up around his ears with stress. His eyes warm up and a slow, rare smile begins on one corner of his mouth, grows until he's transformed: light and happy. "Life has become very odd," he agrees.
John snorts with mirth, and buries his head in his hands, struggling for control. "Oh, god," he gasps. "The umbrella! MI5! CCTV. What is my life?!"
Sherlock laughs, too, and John finds it remarkable that it's the first time he's heard it. A deep, baritone rumble of delight. The sound fills him with warm honey and tingling bubbles, and his giggles die off as he sits, elbows planted on his knees, staring at the vision in front of him.
Sherlock's head is tipped to the side, tilted down, and his smile has drawn long arcs of happiness in the wrinkles of his skin from eyes to jaw, radiating to his temples. His mouth is open, chin pulled back, softening the angles of his face, rendering him younger, more innocent, less damaged. His plush lips curl away from his teeth in a charming bow and the exotic slant of his eyes crinkle, lashes dark, framing irises currently gleaming jade. The deep peal of his laugh trails into an inelegant choking snort. This sets John off again, pulled away from his absorption in the beauty now sprawled in the chair opposite.
As they wind down, each relaxed in his chair, having released an unacknowledged amount of tension, the room is lighter for it.
"So," John says. "I just met the family, then, yeah? I gotta say, your, uh, nephew, is-"
"A poncy git," Sherlock immediately supplies, grinning again. "Which isn't to say he can't be useful."
John nods somberly. "Bit poncy, yeah," he agrees. "Definite family resemblance," he teases.
Sherlock jerks back, offended. "Our only resemblance is that he bears the family ring and my brother's journal."
"Oh, come now," John laughs. "Same height, same build," Sherlock looks set to interrupt, but John hurries on, "You've both got connected ear lobes, and everyone knows that's genetic."
They are interrupted by a strident ringing, and John jumps up to run into the bedroom and collect his phone. His heart thumps with sudden fear, and he fully expects to see his sister's name on the caller ID. Instead, it is listed as Name Not Found. He swipes the connection and brings it to his ear. "Hello," he says cautiously, voice short and strong.
"Oh! It's the pet," croons an Irish lilt back at him. "With his own phone. Sherlock must have been teaching you tricks. Or, well, I guess in this case, it would be you teaching him, given that he's not acclimated to all this technology. Which explains why I have to go through you," the last sentence is said in a harsh growl, all the trill and laughter (crazy as it was) subsumed in a cold rage. "You have something of mine, Dr. Watson, and I want it back. This is the only warning you'll get."
"We're on to you, James Moriarty," John retorts, all cold steel. "We'll get the lamp back, and you're not getting Sherlock. We're not afraid of you."
"Oh, pish! Of course you are. Sherlock, at least, isn't a dribbling idiot. And even you have figured out who I am. You can't be a completely vacant," Moriarty retorts. "Make your wish, dog, because... well... it's so easy to put a dog down, isn't it? When they're no longer useful. Make your wish, Johnny-boy. I'm sure it'll be something entirely without use or imagination. Make it quickly," and here he takes on a childish, chilling singsong quality, "Daddy's getting impaaaatient!"
Dead air presses against his ear. The call has been disconnected. John lowers the phone and stares at it, noting the white-knuckled grip he has around the casing, the rapid, thunderous pounding of his heart. Outside, in the alley, it begins to snow.
Sherlock stands in the doorway, and John looks up at him, quelling the rage that's shaking him apart inside. "That would be Moriarty," he says.
Sherlock steps closer, until he's able to put two elegant fingers on the screen of John's phone. "Of course it is." He pauses, and John is close enough to see a sweep of goosebumps flare and disappear over his skin, but he doesn't move, still as a mannequin. "Of course it is. How could I have ever thought I would be free of him. I just-. Just. Of course." Sherlock heaves a shuddering sigh.
John tosses the phone on the messy bed and slides his arms under Sherlock's, winding them around his shoulders and pulling himself close, until his head leans on Sherlock's chest. "He won't get to you," he promises. A stupid, naive promise that he does not have the ability to guarantee, but is certainly willing to die trying. "He won't. I won't let him."
Sherlock remains rigid in his arms. John strokes his fingers along the warm length of the nape of Sherlock's neck, calluses catching on the impossibly soft skin hidden under his curls. "Sherlock," he murmurs.
And Sherlock melts, no longer stone, his body again flexible and responsive, and his head droops down until his face is pressed against John's hair, breath warm and tickling against the crest of his ear. Long arms wrap hesitantly around his own shoulders, and Sherlock takes a deep breath.
John runs his hands down that long, bare back, gentle, mindful of the bruising, spreads his palms and fingers wide to maximize the heat exchange, trying to comfort and warm the cool skin against him. While Sherlock sighs and relaxes against him, he skims his hands up and down, over straight, narrow shoulders, down upper arms to sharp elbows, over the prominent plates of his scapulas, curving around his ribs, briskly rubbing the thin skin covering the sensual dip of his lower back, against the edge of the genie trousers, which are still damp from last night.
"You're cold," he says at last. Sherlock mumbles nothing and burrows closer into his hair, and John smiles a bit. "Go take a shower, you impossible angel. Warm up. I'll try to find something you can wear long enough to get to Oxfam."
He continues with the gentle hug, growing half hard in his trousers, and steadfastly ignoring it. Sherlock stirs after a moment, and pulls back. He looks at John, eyes clear and hard, face impassive; he has become remote again, losing the soft, wounded man he was for only a few brief moments earlier. John mourns the loss, but concedes that it's more useful to have someone with a fellow soldier mentality, here, on the brink of war as they are, so to speak. Sherlock spins around and heads for the small bathroom, and John's eyes linger on the dimples to either side of his spine, admires the prowling gait until he passes through the door.
John locks his arms behind his back and strides to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass, watching snow fall on the bins below in the alleyway. He sighs, and fog billows across the glass, following the path of his breath, before fading away. John pulls back. So much has happened in the past 24 hours that it feels as if days have passed, and John has yielded to it with the surreal acquiescence of a dream, but realizes he needs to process, and quickly, to get a plan together.
The inner wall groans and rumbles as the hot water is turned on, and the splash of water makes a soothing domestic background as he wanders to the kitchen and sets the kettle for fresh tea. Mrs. Hudson must be baking something downstairs, the warm aroma of pastries is curling through the vents, and John closes his eyes as his stomach growls. He needs to find a Tesco or something, and stock the pantry.
The first order of business must be finding Harry, of course. He settles into a straight-backed chair at the small table there and pulls up her number on his phone. There is no answer, nor rings either, before it goes straight to voicemail. It is probable, since this is a common scenario with his sister, that it has simply run out of juice. He groans in frustration. How is he to know if Harry's just being irresponsible, perhaps only now waking up in the house of the woman she'd picked up last night? Or if she's in danger, dead or kidnapped by Moriarty and his goons?
He's betting on the former, only because they've heard from Moriarty twice today, and his only mention of Harry was to tell John to go give her a hug. That didn't sound like code for ransom or anything.
John putters through a morning routine, soothed by it, and warily answers the door when Mrs. Hudson knocks, introducing herself with her characteristic gentle hoot. He smiles as he pulls it open, seeing her alone on the landing. She's holding a steaming plate, piled with scones, and John is sure they're cranberry. Melted glazing is dripping into small pools on the paper doily beneath them, and John's mouth waters; he feels sharp hunger. "Oh! Mrs. Hudson," he breathes in delight, grin huge. "You're a saint!"
"Oh, it's nothing, dear. I'm just so sorry to have had to interrupt you boys this morning," Mrs. Hudson waves off his thanks. "I'm so glad you and Sherlock have found each other. And now he has family! Just think. Now, mind you," she hands over the plate, "it is just this once." She smiles over her shoulder as she turns back down the stairs. "I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."
Sherlock enters the kitchen just as John is searching out some plates, dressed in the long satiny bathrobe that had hung on the back of the door. He has shaved, John notes, the faint dark stubble gone as if it had never been. His hair is weighted with water, curls longer, snakelike on his neck, wetting the collar of his robe. He hooks out a chair with his ankle and seats himself sedately. "Mrs. Hudson?" he asks, nodding at the scones.
"Mmm, yes, I'm in heaven," John says. He puts two on a plate and shoves it over. "Here. And I've got tea ready, too."
John steadily devours three heavy scones, having burned through quite a number of calories since last night, what with the dancing, the fighting, the terror and suspense, and the radical sex. Sherlock picks at his, generally disassembling it into crumbs rather than ingesting; but some makes it in. He licks a glistening spot of glaze from the sharp delineation between lip and philtrum, and John's stomach lurches with desire. He quickly looks back down at the table.
"What now-?" he begins, but is interrupted by yet another knock. John's eyes narrow and he mutters, as he heads for the door, something about it being Waterloo Station and having not had a single visitor for months and months, and now they're quite literally falling from the sky.
He's got his hand on the pistol, opens the door with caution, stepping well back once it's unlatched. The brunette PA is there, scrolling down her phone. She looks up with mild surprise, as if John's the one who visited her.
"Er. May I help you?" John asks, confused, alert, on the balls of his feet.
She switches the phone to one hand and offers him several shopping and garment bags that had been resting on the floor near her feet. "For Mr. Holmes," she says, then focuses her attention back on the screen and drifts down the stairs before John can think of what to say.
John stares after her, perplexed, garment bags with a very recognizable name from Savile Row draped over his arm.
"What did she deliver?" Sherlock asks over his shoulder, and John starts.
"Um. Clothes?" It's getting more and more surreal. He turns around, and Sherlock scoops the loot out of his arms with a considering hmmm, taking them off to the bedroom. John trails along, and watches in surprise as Sherlock shakes out several sharp suits and shirts, unpacks ties, shoes, socks and pants, vests and pyjamas.
He drops his robe with no sign of self-consciousness and immediately begins to dress. His body is curved like a question mark, henna bright against alabaster skin, and dark hair echoes that shape, curling down the long, arched neck. John is caught breathless at the stretch of his spine, the surprising bounty of his arse, the only part of Sherlock composed of bounce and sass. Lightly muscled thighs taper into shapely calves, raised now, one after another, as Sherlock covers narrow feet with long black socks.
His grace and balance are exquisite, and John is reminded viscerally of the club, and Sherlock's impromptu, and very erotic, belly dance. Recalls that body expressing rhythm and sensuality as one smooth, coordinated, glorious muscle: the twining, the weaving, bending and balance and talent. John runs his tongue around his teeth, so that he doesn't inadvertently leave it hanging out of his mouth in dumb, drooling desire. The trousers are next, sleek and expensive, and Sherlock pulls them on without preceding them with pants. He leaves the flies gaping, so that John can see, if he were so rude as to peek, the rich dark curls which fan out there.
John shifts his weight nervously from one foot to the other, as Sherlock stoops to grab a shirt. He is not sure if he should leave or stay. But the suits are amazing; like a magic trick, they had arrived unexpected and out of thin air. "So, this must be Mycroft's doing?"
"Naturally. I suppose he saw my lack and had his assistant fill it."
"How on earth could he have gotten your size?" John wonders.
Sherlock buttons up a crisp, forest green shirt that fits over his skin like a glove and fastens the slate-colored trousers over his hips. He raises an eyebrow at John. "I was fairly exposed, John. I'd assume he took note of my dimensions while we spoke."
"What?" John stutters. "Who can do that?"
Sherlock looks at him with pity. "John," he says. "You see, but you do not observe. It is no great trick to determine measurements from a visual examination."
"Guess not in your gene pool," John grumps.
Sherlock slides on the jacket and sits to put on supple black shoes. John tries not to swallow his tongue. "Um," he says as Sherlock stands again, giving himself a once-over in the wardrobe mirror. "You look... very nice," which is a hideous understatement, and John's face begins to heat up. He quickly moves to the window, to look out and cool his face. "Looks like Mycroft did a bang-up job estimating your... measurements."
Sherlock is polished and cosmopolitan in his suit. He's spurned the tie, top two buttons left undone, highlighting the smooth white of his throat. The inviting hollow of his suprasternal notch is framed in dark green and curls. He's still wearing the earrings, jewels still scattered in his hair, and when John turns to look at him he grins. The juxtaposition of affluent urban male and sensual genie is both amusing and arousing.
John moves forward and puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "The, er, earrings go pretty well with the shirt, Sherlock, but-"
"Ah," is Sherlock's immediate response. "Of course." He swings to the mirror and removes the amber drops, and begins combing through his hair to pick out the jewels.
"Let me," John says, soft, and Sherlock darts a quick look at him before moving to sit on the bed.
"Thank you," he says.
John frowns at him, laughing. "I'm not that short, Sherlock. You don't have to sit."
Sherlock simply smirks and dips his head. "I am merely trying to make it more accessible for you, John," he murmurs.
John teases through the damp hair, pulling out cold stones as he goes, until there is a small pile in Sherlock's waiting palm. "Guess we should check the bathroom for strays," he says, frankly marveling that they aren't all in the bathtub drain. He gives a final check, and feels Sherlock's smothered laugh travel through his touch. Sherlock's other hand, resting on his knee, is still marked with henna, startling and exotic paired with the suit, and John smiles at the thought that this bit of his genie heritage cannot be erased, that he knows of. He folds Sherlock's fingers over the tiny jewels and rotates his arm to trace the detailed artwork on the back of his hand, until it crawls up his wrists and disappears under sharp cuffs.
"You look... very good," he says, only realizing once the words are out that he's now said it twice. Sherlock tilts his head back, smug expression on his face. They stare at eachother for a minute, and John gathers the courage to move between his knees, to stoop until his face hovers over Sherlock's upturned one, admiring the heavy curve of his brows, and the sharply angled planes of his cheek and jaw. John drifts lower still, until their lips are brushing, a warm connection of damp, sensitive skin.
Sherlock tosses his handful of stones into a curve of the duvet and wraps both hands hot around the backs of John's thighs, thumbs nudging boldly into the crease under his buttocks, holding him still for the kiss.
John sways closer, buzzing from the electricity generated by Sherlock's proximity; his nerves sing and his blood roars. His fingers slip into damp, cold hair, threading through it until they find the body-warmth below, massaging against parietal and occipital bones, directing Sherlock's head back to an angle which suits him.
Sherlock's lips are mobile against his own, never still, sipping at him with insistent demand, confident and accomplished. John lets himself fall, dizzied and winded, gulping for air between bouts of intense, clinging reciprocity. He licks messily at Sherlock, tracing the defined edge of his philtrum, tasting the sapid corners of his mouth, until Sherlock opens up to let him in. His tongue is slyly tempting, plays a coy game of hide and seek, and John pushes inside, questing and compelling. The wet heat is elemental, and John exults in that primal space, pushing against the twisting muscle that is Sherlock's tongue, claiming the contours and textures of his mouth.
Sherlock contests his possession, pressing up until their lips seem contused from the action, and the swelling lends sensual plushness to their osculatory scrimmage. John's hands curve under Sherlock's ears; he presses his fingertips against the points of Sherlock's jaw, digging into that sharp corner, holding Sherlock as motionless as he can, taking every advantage of the softness under his lips.
But Sherlock does not play passive: he tears his mouth away to bite at John's chin, rasps his teeth through echinated stubble. Then he becomes sidetracked, nibbling a bruise into the base of John's neck.
John gurgles an inhale, and his grip slides down to Sherlock's shoulders, closing strongly against the frail bone of his clavicle as he roils with the deep, discrete sensation of pain/pleasure. He briefly envisions the room as a photo with a shallow depth of field, Sherlock and himself in focus, and the rest of the world fuzzy and indistinct.
Sherlock leans back finally, dropping his head to stare at John through hooded eyes, blazing green. His cheeks are pink, his lips are shiny and debauched, delicate skin scratched and rosy from contact with John's morning beard.
"Sherlock," John says. And his voice is raspy and cracked with passion.
Sherlock rearranges his grip, fingers curling around John's waist, cool against his bare skin, and he loses his train of thought, bracing himself on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock nuzzles against the fur of his chest, nosing and licking into it while clever hands count his ribs, trace the fold of his belly, rise to caress the keloidal flesh of his shoulder, scratching around the starburst scar as he sucks little marks below it.
John follows the urging of Sherlock's hands, tipping forwards until he has to kneel one leg on the bed between Sherlock's thighs. He rubs his face in Sherlock's damp hair, and a frisson fragments his sigh of pleasure. "Sherlock," he gasps. "Wait. Sherlock. You've just got dressed."
And Sherlock huffs a small laugh, scoffing at him, verdigris gaze teasing and luminous. "So I shall get undressed. And dressed again. Certainly that should not confound me."
John helps, unbuttoning tiny buttons while Sherlock sheds his jacket and opens John's trousers. John stumbles back as his trousers and pants both slide from the lever of his cock and gracelessly shakes them off one, then the other leg. Naked and anticipatory, he watches hungrily as Sherlock lays shirt and jacket carefully across one corner of the bed. The leather cuffs and gold bracelets are still on him, and John nearly giggles at the thought of such whimsy under that sophisticated suit.
Sherlock arches back onto the bed, scooping his trousers, socks and shoes off as he goes, body a ripple of pale flesh and coiling muscle. Feline eyes glow at him as Sherlock wiggles to the top of the bed and lounges against the pillow. He watches John intently, and John flushes all the way to his ears, but can't force himself to look away.
Sherlock raises a knee, and drops his hand to his crotch, skirting around the darkened length of his erection, toying in the hairs curled provocatively around it. He strokes down his cock and gives a low, vibrating hum. His eyes are very dark, contrasting with the pallor of his skin, the abraded flush of his cheeks. His fingers are light, teasing the shaft, tracing a path from base to crown, pinching along the sides of the foreskin veil until it is retracted, revealing a lewdly shiny glans. He tugs a little, straightens himself out, and exhales sharply, giving a little grunt.
The overhead light is bright, and harsh, and John can see every pale freckle and dark, random mole. The henna over Sherlock's knuckles squirms as his hand gently moves. The musical clink of gold as his bracelets scrape across the hair around his navel is louder than their breathing. John takes a step forward, until his knees are jammed against the mattress, and sucks in air like an Olympic diver getting ready to jump.
"Come here, John," Sherlock's deep voice purrs, seductive and irresistible.
"I- Sherlock-" They just did this five hours ago. How can he need it again so badly?
"Come here, John," he says again. The leather band around his bicep flexes and jumps with the twists of his arm.
John places a knee on the bed, leans over, and over, and stretches, until he is propped, palm against the wall over Sherlock's shoulder, face a breath away. He can smell the fresh scent of shampoo, clinging to dark, tangling curls. He stares, tongue caught between his teeth.
John is familiar with Sherlock's chest, as it's been on display since they met. Dusted with fine hairs and cut, it's sharp and unyielding in its beauty, like the rest of Sherlock. He broadens unexpectedly, given the slenderness of his hips and waist. John's eyes seek out his nipples, pinched into nubs, a dark pink, and he sucks in a lungful of air that feels too warm, hypoxic.
Sherlock hums and raises his arms, cock snapping back to his abdomen with a vulgar slap. He stretches sinuously, tilting his head back, the cords of his throat thrown into relief, framed by upstretched limbs wrapped in wide leather bands. The soft dark patches under his arms highlight the paleness of his skin, its fine texture. John can see blue veins lying under it.
Sherlock stares a cocky challenge at him, caresses his own chest, scraping luxuriously over his nipples with a tiny sigh, and then arrows his hands down to his hips.
John is frozen, tongue exposed.
Sherlock's long fingers angle off of impossibly slim hips, resting around the warm jut of iliac crest, and frame his groin. He is smooth and white except for the slender, pink column curved upwards against his belly.
John shakes himself back into his body, bypasses Sherlock's expectant face, and noses into his hair instead. He can feel the strands, soft and cool, pressing into forehead, cheek and chin. He turns his head to lip the crinkled edge of Sherlock's ear, exhaling gently into the whorl of it. He feels Sherlock shudder and gasp under him, although they aren't yet touching anywhere but at their heads.
Sherlock drawls, "Come on, John. You wish you had me like this, don't you? Press me down. Touch me however you like."
John can feel that wish, pushing behind his eyes, and he buries it firmly in the back of his brain. He licks the helix of Sherlock's ear. "No," he murmurs. "This morning, you-" he dips his tongue into the antihelical fold, tracing around the scapha; and Sherlock's ear tastes of soap and skin. "You want to be in control."
Sherlock keens under him, quiet, nearly imperceptible, and slithers down against the pillows, pulling John on top of him. "I want to feel your weight," he breathes. He writhes under John, gyrating his flat chest against John's, sighing in pleasure as the crips hairs there tease his own nipples. "Rub yourself on me," he says, eyes dark and colorless with carnality.
John cannot say no, climbs over the genie and hovers there push-up style, rocking back and forth to drag the hairs of his body across Sherlock's sensitive skin. Sherlock groans, and his spine rolls, and he twitches his hips up so that their cocks bump and shudder over each other as well, John's bollocks bouncing over Sherlock's twitching erection, drawing up from the tangled tickle of stiff pubic hair.
John is unabashedly panting, skin prickling and hot, less from sensation than from the idea that he's doing this to Sherlock, making him flushed and intoxicated, growling and gasping under the brush of John's body.
Sherlock's arm flashes up, catching John around the back of his neck, and pulls him into a fierce kiss, all invasive tongue and clashing teeth, saliva a hot pool on the flexing floor of his mouth. John lets his body fall, Sherlock responds with a guttural Oomph that trails into a stuttered fricative when John tears his mouth away, pressing down with his hips and chest.
He reaches desperately for the foil sachet on the nightstand, torn from the dawn, and hurriedly squeezes the remainder of the lubricant onto his hand. "Open your legs," he commands, so immersed in sensation that he forgets to consider Sherlocks peculiar sensitivities, forgets the conversation they'd shared.
Sherlock freezes, catalyzed into marble at John's thoughtless imperative, and his thighs clamp together tightly. John shuts his eyes to Sherlock's unguarded expression, grinds his teeth and silently castigates himself.
"I'm sorry. I"m sorry." He rolls to the side, on his back, head lower than Sherlock's on the pillow, deliberately aiming for submissive posture. "I didn't think. How about... you come over here, yeah?" He twists his head on the pillow and opens his eyes to see Sherlock looking at him sidelong. The first frost of shock has passed, leaving his eyes clouded in its wake, but he's still flushed, still trembling, lips parted as he seeks air.
For a short stretch they're just stationary, breathing; and Sherlock passes the time by reading John's mind through his irises.
John lies flat and unthreatening, lubed hand lifted off the duvet while Sherlock decides what to do about it.
At latst, Sherlock blinks, pink tongue wetting his lips, and breathes, "I said I wanted your weight on me, John."
"You sure?" John has to ask, although everything in him is screaming to leap on top of the man now, to take until he owns him all, until every piece of him is branded with John, John's body printed on him in ink as indelible as the henna seems to be.
Sherlock turns and grabs John's far hip, tugging him over, and that is enough for John. He fits himself to Sherlock's body more carefully this time, aware that Sherlock's cocked one leg to the side, and he nestles into the space made for him. He brushes his lips to the round resilience of the deltoid muscle over Sherlock's shoulder, tongues the skin there, makes a low humming in his throat, meant to soothe. He seduces a path across sharp clavicles, licks the suprasternal notch, sucks gently at the throb of the carotid pulse.
Sherlock jerks his hips impatiently. "John. I am not made of glass."
John grins and bites harder. "No," he agrees. He skims his right hand down Sherlock's arm, tangles their fingers together and raises them up by Sherlock's head, pressing their hands down into the pillow. His left hand he works in between them, gliding between heated skin and fluttering muscle until he can wrap it around both cocks. He is startled at the intimate comparison he can make between them, his own ruddy and rude, Sherlock's delicate and bewitching. The greased glide of the pair through his fist is almost as enchanting as the sensations registered through his own, comparably boorish, cock.
Sherlock groans, deep and velvety, free hand flying to the small of John's back, stroking the dip there, massaging over the humps of his buttocks, pulling him close as he grinds upwards into John's busy hand. John's anus twinges, still a bit raw from before, and he pushes into the discomfort, relishing the memory.
They blunder together in a blind kiss, mouths open in a metaphor for the link between their bodies and their minds, tongues darting back and forth without discernment or finesse. John tucks his nose beside Sherlock's, gasping, and gives up on his mouth, just breathing in Sherlock's short huffs of breath, skin tingling at sharing something so primordial.
He releases their erections, to Sherlock's frustrated growl (long fingers dig punishingly into the dents of his vertebrae), but only to explore the crease of an outflung thigh, to wiggle behind drawn bollocks, to work between the calescent globes of that deliciously rounded arse, rubbing at the smooth seam between his legs until he finds the hole that breaks it.
"Ung, John," Sherlock's eyes fly open, and his dazed stare is cast towards John's intent face.
"Is this ok?" John asks tightly, straining for control.
Sherlock nods, moves his body, opening his legs wider, and pushes himself into John's fingers.
"Yes. Oh, yes. I'm gonna make you feel so good," John croons, mouth on autopilot as he deliriously focuses on his fingers, pushing against Sherlock's opening, rubbing smooth the wrinkles there.
"Yes. Gods. Ok, John. It's good," and if Sherlock sounds surprised, then John is in no condition to register that, and has to file it away for later. He sinks in a finger, still slick with lube, and Sherlock is torrid and stretched around it, velvety walls of his anus soft against the skin of John's finger, as plush and slick as the interior of his mouth. He works it in and out, finding a rhythm that works for his hips as well, pushing with his toes to maintain the cadence while his middle finger joins his first.
Sherlock arches and gasps, hand scrabbling up John's back and wrapping around the ball of his shoulder. "John. Oh!"
John drops his head to the hollow of Sherlock's neck, breathing air warmed by his skin. Sherlock's jaw is smooth against his temple. He cannot reach Sherlock's prostate from this position, but that is not the point. He pushes his fingers in and out, rubs his cock over Sherlock's, feels the feathery slide of his bollocks, and slowly increases his pace.
Sherlock scratches through his hair, damp with sweat, and their skin glides as if they've oiled more than just their cocks. The sucking pop of air pockets created and smoothed out are a counterpoint to the slap of John's hips, the groans and hisses of them both as they chase release.
"Sherlock. Ah fuck. You're so-" John mutters into Sherlock's skin, feeling the pressure build, and his vision's gone, no point in opening his eyes, they'd be rolling all around in his head. "Sherlock. You're fucking glorious-" and he loses all sense of rhythm, is just jamming his body hard against Sherlock, shoving his fingers inside him as deeply as he can, feeling the shudder and pulse against him; the smell of sweat and soap and musk is going to drown him.
And Sherlock gives a cry, and there's the obscene sensation of slippery heat, surging scalding between their bellies; and Sherlock arches and shakes under his body, fingers closing hard around his hand, head tossing against the pillow. And all John needs is one last push, one push through the viscous soup between them, a hedonistic roll of his hips, smearing his dick through that fluid, Sherlock's cock still twitching alongside it, twisting his fingers between willing, opened legs, and
John comes.
And collapses. Shaking and vague. He gently pulls his fingers free and wipes them carelessly on the sheets. Tremors are still shocking though Sherlock, who turns his head to bury his face in John's hair.
When John catches his breath and regains control, he lets go of Sherlock's hand, hauling his wobbly body up onto his elbows with a grin. "Well," he says fondly, "I guess you'll need another shower."
Sherlock's eyes are still soft, he looks relaxed and well-worn. John feels intense protectiveness run through his veins, stiffen his resolve like iron, and he dips his head for a slow kiss. The flash of a gem catches his eye, and when he looks around, he can see the tiny stones, strewn among the tangled bedclothes, and he laughs. "That may be the most decadent thing I've ever done... I've never had sex in a literal bed of precious stones! You're brilliant, Sherlock. Shamefully beautiful."
John eventually sits up, flushed and happy and satisfyingly sated. He grins at Sherlock. "I've gotta go shower, too." He rubs his thumb across Sherlock's swollen bottom lip, continues along the line of his jaw and circles his ear.
"Yes," Sherlock agrees, rather insultingly. But John doesn't object to the honest assessment, not pretending to himself that he smells fresh, by any means, having not bathed since before going to the club the night before. Stale smoke and sweat are still clinging like oil to his hair, and his skin is itching from stubble, and semen gums up the hollow of his navel, plasters his hair to his belly.
The phone is ringing when they step out of the steam. John hurries into the bedroom to answer it, still toweling his hair and patting his face. Sherlock looks consideringly on as he swipes it. The number is again not recognized. "Hello?" John braces himself for another conversation with Moriarty.
"Johnny! It's Harry. God, please, you have to help me!"
"Harry?" he asks. "Harry! Are you alright? Where are you? What happened?" He doesn't even have it in him to be angry about last night, he's so relieved to hear from her.
Sherlock wraps his arm around John and holds him pinned to his hip. His head is bent down to hear what Harry says, and soft hair brushes against John's face, warm breath puffing against his neck.
John is only momentarily distracted by that casual, possessive hold.
"They've got me in the fucking stir, John! Sod it all these bloody, mother-fucking goat cocks say I'm being held for bloody murder."
Considering the context, John thinks, indecorously and ghoulishly hysterical, that she should have chosen a less appropriate adjective for that last noun. But the morgue humor only lasts for a second.
"What? Murder? The hell you say. Harry are you sure? Are you talking about Melissa?" His posture stiffens as his voice drops into the familiar cadence of command.
Sherlock casts him an avid look and then presses his head still closer, standing behind John now, with both hands trapping his hips, fingers hooked tightly into the iliac crests. Although he has no idea why, John tilts the phone slightly away from his ear, so that Sherlock can better hear. The fingers spasm briefly on his hips in what 'might' be a thanks.
"Fuck it all, Johnny. Murder! Murder. They say Melissa's dead." Harry's aggression suddenly dissolves into tears, and she snivels and chokes incomprehensibly into her end for several beats.
"Harry," John says again. "Harry, stop crying. Just. Tell me where you are and I'll come over, and we'll sort this out, yeah?"