A/N: This took longer than I expected, but I discovered Green Wing, which I can't quite discover why I'm so enchanted by but which has made me cry with laughter and also just cry.
Sherlock glanced up at his flatmate through his eyelashes, burying his nose coquettishly in his teacup. John, who had slouched carelessly against the opposite counter, smiled widely back at him, the arrogant and indulgent smile of someone incredibly confident of their own attraction, so much so that he didn't believe he needed to move at all in order to pick up a woman. It wasn't a good look on John at all.
He waited until he had finished his tea before sidling up to his friend, shyly keeping his eyes lowered until they were close enough to touch. "Want to buy me another?" he asked, tilting his mug in John's direction so that the doctor could see that it was empty and smiling disarmingly.
John grinned. "Why not," he replied airily, making a gesture towards where the barman might have been. They had agreed that someone such as the second victim - Charles Trent, his name had been, but it wasn't really important - probably would have frequented clubs more than the quiet bar Montgomery had been singled out at, and so John had found some kind of ridiculous music with a baseline that made Sherlock want to throw up and it was playing just on the safe side of too-loud so that the neighbours didn't get angry. "I'll buy you a drink if you dance with me," John negotiated, leaning forwards slightly as if to trap him against the bar.
Sherlock kept his ground, implying that he wouldn't mind being trapped against the bar by John. "It's a deal," he said. "I'd probably introduce myself about now," he added as they pushed away from the kitchen counter.
"Lovely to meet you," John replied as though he had introduced himself, managing to affect just enough of a careless air to suggest he had already forgotten the name. "I'm Charlie."
They moved into the only available space in the kitchen to dance, John crowding into Sherlock's personal space, gyrating his hips in time to the too-fast beat. Sherlock didn't dance like this. He froze for the barest of moments before adapting something in between mimicking John's movements and those that he had seen other people make at clubs in the past, his back to the doctor's front.
John chuckled. "You don't dance very often, do you," he commented. He used his own voice rather than the one he had been using against the counter, so Sherlock answered truthfully.
"Do I look like I frequented clubs as a teenager?" he replied sarcastically, trying to lean his head back against John's shoulder but not managing because of the difference in their heights.
He had turned his back on John to avoid letting the doctor feel that he had been half-hard with anticipation since they had left the cab, but John grabbed his hips and pulled him flush against his chest, pressing his groin into Sherlock's left buttock. He wasn't as aroused as Sherlock himself, but he was definitely interested. "Relax," he murmured, his voice back to the arrogant drawl he'd been using earlier. Sherlock let out a shaky breath and let himself feel the way John's body was moving instead of worrying about his own.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered after a moment. "You're far too short to play the man of the two of us in any kind of dance."
John snorted. "Well, you were the one who insisted on pretending to be the woman," he reminded him. "I'd say you have more in common with the grown-up child who thinks the world revolves around him, too, but there you go."
Sherlock mock-bristled at the comment. "Unfortunately my playing the man in this scenario would completely defeat the purpose of the exercise," he retorted idly, turning in John's grip until they were facing one another. "And I thought you were doing remarkably well in that role."
In reply, John let go of his hips in order to pull his head down into a harsh kiss. It was immediately obvious that he was in control of the kiss, and that he would not be letting it go. Sherlock relaxed into it, forcing himself back into the killer's persona and not allowing himself to imagine a life where John settled all their arguments with rough sex. He shuddered, pressing his body closer but not daring to move his hands, fluttering them uselessly by his sides until John grabbed one and wrapped it around his waist, replacing his own hand on Sherlock's buttock. They were still moving gently with the music as they kissed, and the movements created a tiny friction of their groins against each other's bodies until what they were doing wouldn't be considered appropriate dance-floor behaviour anywhere Sherlock had ever been. John didn't seem to notice.
Eventually he let go, his hands unwinding from the tight grip they had had on Sherlock's hair and bum. They didn't break apart; John merely gave Sherlock a moment to pant harshly into his scalp before fixing his lips against Sherlock's outstretched neck. Sherlock gasped, his body sagging into John's, forgetting the music and the dance. He let the less-than-gentle sucking and biting continue for a moment before pulling away, trying uneasily to resume the rotation of their hips. "Please don't leave marks - I have to work tomorrow."
John growled low in his throat, a noise that made Sherlock's stomach twinge uncomfortably. "I'll mark you if I want to," he whispered, standing on tiptoe so that his mouth was on Sherlock's ear. Sherlock waited until his face was out of view before allowing himself to smile at the height discrepancy. The smile faltered in favour of a helpless noise as John's teeth sank violently into his neck.
He knew that the bite wouldn't actually mark him, but the fact that Charlie had done it when Sherlock had expressly asked him not to made him fight to keep the irritation off his face. Even in a dominant/submissive dynamic – he wouldn't call this any kind of relationship – there were things that one did not do, liberties one did not take, requests that one did not ignore. He completely agreed with John's assumption that Charles Trent wouldn't quite understand the difference between BDSM and sexual abuse, but that didn't mean he liked it. He smiled weakly at John nonetheless when he was set back on his feet, conveying submission as clearly as he could. "Charlie," he whispered.
The music changed to something slower, less frantic; John gave his speakers a tiny glance before smirking confidently at Sherlock. "How about that drink?" he asked.
Sherlock smiled back, lowering his eyes carefully. "Sounds lovely."
"So," John engaged as they skirted around the kitchen table, back to the bar and John's lukewarm half-cup of tea. "You must not come here very often."
He inflected the statement like a question; Sherlock smiled and looked out over an imaginary crowd. "I was here with a friend who wanted to make an ex jealous," he invented. "She left me the moment we walked in the door. She's probably already gone home with him."
John leaned forwards, his smile wide and predatory. "So no-one will miss you if I take you away, then?" he said lazily, running a hand up Sherlock's bare arm where he had rolled up his sleeve.
Sherlock smiled. "Not until tomorrow," he replied quietly, leaning forward so that John could hear him over the music. He let John see him breathe in deeply when he was there. The doctor still smelled of asphalt and synthetic leather from the cab, undercut with just a hint of the sweat that Sherlock could see dampening his skin, the smell of John that Sherlock would recognise from twenty feet away with his back turned. John took advantage of their closeness to lick the length of Sherlock's neck.
"Good," he whispered against his skin. "Because I might explode if I don't have you."
Sherlock affected a quiet giggle. His hand worked its way up John's neck, cupping his jaw with a light-hearted fondness. "We can't have that," he whispered back, allowing himself to be lured almost hypnotically closer to his friend's lips. John had thin, sharply-defined lips on which both smiles and disapproval were instantly obvious. Sherlock had loved them even before he had discovered what they felt like moving determinedly against his own.
John kissed him again. Today's kisses were somehow completely different from yesterday's, harder and more forceful, but with the same focussed, relentless command that made Sherlock's knees weak. Yesterday John would have cupped the back of his neck to hold his head steady as he plundered his mouth; today he had one hand firm between his shoulder-blades and the other holding him up against the bar, holding him efficiently in place. "Last chance to back out," John growled into his ear.
"Not a chance at all," Sherlock murmured, teasingly taking John's earlobe between his lips.
"Fuck," the doctor cursed, the hand on Sherlock's back clenching into a fist. "Let's go."
They repeated last night's ritual of donning their coats by the door and then doubling back to Sherlock's bedroom, John slamming him against the inside wall so hard Sherlock's ears rang and taking his mouth again, one hand sliding up his thigh as though lifting the hem of a dress. Sherlock leaned his head against the wall and panted as John's mouth slid wetly down his jaw and fixed on his still-sensitive neck while his hand travelled still further upwards until it rested over his pectoral muscle the way one might cup a woman's breast.
He wanted John's hands on his bare skin more than almost anything, but he did not dare suggest they remove their shirts, so he contented himself with the weight of his friend's body pushing him against the wall and the delicate feeling of his fingers tracing over his nipple, sending sparks down to his already-hard cock.
It's not real, he reminded himself, forcing out a desperate gasp of "Charlie!" to cement the knowledge. John paused to chuckle against his skin, his tongue just dipping into his suprasternal notch. "God," he gasped. "Take me, please." The doctor slid off Sherlock's coat, flicking it carelessly onto the floor. Sherlock's lips tightened instinctively at the gesture.
As soon as John stepped away from him Sherlock sank gracefully to his knees, keeping his eyes fixed on his friend's as they hit the floor. "Please, Charlie," he repeated, reaching for his hips. John allowed the touch, stepping forwards and smiling down at him. Sherlock stroked the zipper on his jeans as if pulling it down, smirking as the pressure of his fingers against the impressive bulge there made the doctor hiss.
John grabbed his chin, forcefully redirecting his head so that they looked each other squarely in the eyes. "Wipe that smirk off your face," he said sharply.
Sherlock tried to comply for the space of a few seconds before his face fell back into the smirk. "Why should I?" he asked cheekily.
The doctor slapped him, hard. Sherlock recoiled in shock, his hand automatically flying to his cheek as it reddened. John softened immediately, crouching to look. "I'm sorry!" he cried out, lifting a hand to attempt to pry Sherlock's away from the hot and stinging space on his cheek. "I should have warned you I might do that. I just thought he'd be the type to use physical force, given that he hit her instead of trying to stop her from strangling him –"
"No," Sherlock stopped, in his own voice. "No, I agree with you. I wasn't expecting it, that's all." He smiled at John until the doctor relaxed slightly, letting go of his face and standing back up. "Sorry about the smirk," he murmured.
"Sorry, sir," John corrected.
Something odd shot down Sherlock's stomach and settled in his balls. He breathed out shakily before obeying. "Sorry, sir," he repeated quietly. John smiled and let go of his chin, gesturing to continue. Sherlock slid his hands around to grope the doctor's arse opportunistically, bending his head to his groin. He could smell John's arousal from down here; his mouth started to water in anticipation and he had to steel himself not to touch.
I don't know if I can do this.
He sat back on his heels, opening his mouth, taking a deep breath to say something –
"I'd stop you before that went too far," John interrupted silkily. His hands were still awkwardly at his side, clenching and unclenching into fists as though he didn't know what to do with them. "I doubt Trent would care too much about giving you pleasure, but he was never short of lovers, so he must have done something right. Get on the bed," he ordered, tapping Sherlock's shoulder gently.
Sherlock scrambled to obey, climbing onto his bed on all fours, turning to throw John a terribly clichéd provocative look over his shoulder. The doctor snorted. "Don't tease," he commanded, delivering a sharp slap to Sherlock's rear that was dulled by the fabric of his trousers. No-one had ever tried to hit Sherlock in a sexual way before and he had never understood the point of pain-play. He wondered suddenly whether John, with his hitherto unexpected knowledge of BDSM techniques, might be able to explain it to him. "On your back," John continued. "Hands above your head. Keep your eyes on me."
John smiled with half of his mouth as he slid his coat off his shoulders and climbed between Sherlock's legs, bending over to kiss him again, rubbing their groins together languidly. Sherlock whimpered into the kiss; John was just as hard as he was. There was no way it was just the friction of what they had been doing that had made this happen. His lips turned up into a smile against John's.
Testing the waters, he moved his hands to John's back, feeling the warmth of his skin through his thick shirt. John growled, biting his lower lip harshly and slamming his hands back above his head, banging them hard against the bedposts as he did so. "Keep them here," he snarled harshly.
Sherlock pouted even as his eyes started to water from the stinging pain in the back of his hands. "Or what?" he asked pettily.
John grabbed his chin again. "Trust me," he whispered. "Don't find out."
The grip on his chin became painful. Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably underneath him as John gave him one last squeeze and then let go. "Now – I don't think Trent was generous enough to use his mouth on his submissives, but to have any kind of reputation he probably used his fingers." Sherlock quickly grabbed onto the railing that he had been tied to yesterday as John knelt up slightly and slid his hand up the inside of Sherlock's thigh.
He bit his lip to hold back any noises as John's hand found its way between his legs, his fingers gently probing down the seam of his trousers as the meat of his palm pressed firmly against his cock and a strong hand cupped his balls. John reached out with his other hand – the one with which he was holding himself up – and touched Sherlock's lips. "Don't," he said, his voice low. "Don't keep those noises from me." Sherlock could feel his cock throbbing against John's hand, and he knew John could feel it too. "God," John cursed, dipping his head into Sherlock's neck and pressing harder into his cock.
Sherlock moaned. He felt John's mouth curl into a smile against the tender skin of his neck; the doctor shifted his hand slightly, his fingers feeling delicately between Sherlock's legs until they whispered over his hole and Sherlock had to make another undignified noise. He could feel John's fingers, right there, and even though he knew there was no way they would ever go in through all the layers of trousers and pants the idea of it was so intoxicating that he moaned again, rescuing himself just before a j sound started to form.
John lifted his head from Sherlock's neck and smiled. "I would think you'd be ready by now, wouldn't you?"
"God, yes," Sherlock replied without thinking. "Charlie, please," he added hurriedly, squirming as John rubbed his hand slowly up and down Sherlock's penis and smirked.
"Don't move your hands," John reminded him quietly, letting go of his cock in order to kneel between his legs, his hands firm on Sherlock's hips. "Are you ready?"
Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, his hands white-knuckled on the bed-rail. "Of course," he huffed out desperately. "Please, just do – ah!"
John's hands tightened without warning and he yanked Sherlock down the bed, his entire body sliding across the covers until their groins met, hard and slightly painful, but Sherlock could feel John's erection hot and hard and throbbing in the cleft of his arse, and John circled his hips hard against him and groaned. He had lost his grip on the headboard when John pulled him flush against his cock, so he grabbed two handfuls of the pillow instead, letting out a shout. John set up a fast, relentless pace almost immediately, not withdrawing but rubbing himself up and down the seam of Sherlock's trousers, so that when he thrust the friction against Sherlock's balls and the base of his cock increased until it was almost unbearable, until his sobs with each thrust almost completely stopped being fake.
"Charlie," he called out, throwing his head back against the bed, "harder, please, Charlie!"
John obliged, leaning forwards over Sherlock in order to get a greater purchase against the foot of the bed with his feet and thrust himself harder against Sherlock's groin, making him shout out again, and he was suddenly grateful that Mrs Hudson was out or there would be some interesting questions later that he wouldn't even be able to answer the way that he wanted to. John was making noises too, grunts of effort as Sherlock met his thrusts, trying to guide them lower and away from his cock, because if he came there was no way he would be able to hide it from John and pass it off as good acting.
Then John stopped. "Sherlock," he growled, his voice rough. A strangled sort of noise bubbled out of Sherlock's throat before he realised that John's thrust were slowing and stopping. He sat up. "Sherlock, I've got to stop."
"What?" Sherlock asked, moving his hands in order to prop himself up on his elbows.
The doctor looked decidedly uncomfortable. "I have to… I'm sorry, but if I keep going then I'll…" he gestured to his groin.
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, his eyes following John's. "Go on, then," he said quietly. "I don't mind. I need to see her strangling him as well, I'll need you here."
John gaped at him. "You… you'd rather I rut against you until I come than leave the room for a minute and disrupt your role-play?"
He shrugged. "Lives may be at stake, John," he bluffed. It was possible John hadn't realised it yet, but it was so incredibly unlikely that this role-play was going to cause the breakthrough that solved the case.
There was a long pause. John looked as though he was fighting with himself, as though a part of him desperately wanted this but there was a part of him that knew it wasn't a good idea. A part of Sherlock knew that, too, but he wanted to see John come more than he cared about the sense of doing so.
"All right," John said finally, breathing out slowly and putting his hands back on Sherlock's hips. He tried not to look to ecstatic about the decision, falling back into his lying-down position and replacing his hands above his head.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, and the atmosphere quickly became thick with tension and the sound of John's still-laboured breathing. Sherlock realised quickly that the tangible awkwardness of the moment would most likely remove John's apparently overwhelming need to come, so he hooked his legs around the doctor's upper thighs and pulled them flush together. "Charlie," he sighed, trying to remove the pressure of the moment. It's not real, he reminded the both of them silently.
John sighed and gently began to roll his hips again, but the angle was different this time; his shift in position had meant that he was leaning over Sherlock, and his groin was rubbing almost directly against Sherlock's. A particularly sharp thrust made him gasp helplessly; could he pass off coming when John did as the simple physicality of the act, even when John apparently thought of him as cold and uninterested? He tried to shift his hips to reduce the pressure a little, sure he could not keep the sound of John's name out of the shout he would make when he came.
He started up his slightly over-the-top series of quiet groans and pleas of harder or faster once more, clutching handfuls of pillow so tightly he worried about ripping it. John's harsh exhales sped up incrementally, developing into tiny noises that were almost moans but not quite, and Sherlock had never been able to imagine John making noises during sex without them being hugely unrealistic but this worked somehow. He gave a drawn-out moan, rolling his own hips in time with the thrusts against them so that they neatly missed the most sensitive parts of his groin, closing his eyes to give John the privacy he suspected the doctor would need to let go.
His friend bent right over him so that his lips brushed Sherlock's neck, damp and hot, parted slightly to let hot breath invade Sherlock's skin. This had the slight disadvantage for Sherlock of leaving their bodies pressed entirely together from groin to chest, and when John thrust frantic and erratic against him he could feel it along the whole length of his cock.
It wasn't a worry for long before John gasped, shuddered, and gave two desperate, short groans. Sherlock could feel his groin throbbing and pulsing against his own, and the feeling and the knowledge of it shot him so close to his own edge that he could feel it sneaking up on him, hanging just beyond his reach. A few more moments of desperate rutting and he would be there.
For the tiniest of split seconds, he considered it, considered parting his lips and saying please, John, I need to come, considered succumbing to it with John's weight pressing him into the bed and John's smell in his nose. But John had stopped moving now, still barely holding himself up so that he didn't collapse on top of Sherlock, and after the moment it took Sherlock to decide John had caught his breath already and was lifting himself back onto his elbows and knees.
The whole point of the exercise had been to simulate the events leading up to Trent's murder, so Sherlock pushed his arousal to the back of his mind and fastened his hands around John's neck.
John tried to gasp in surprise, obviously having forgotten that this was coming, but Sherlock tightened his fingers incrementally and he stopped. He wasn't holding John's neck tightly enough to actually cut off his air supply, but it was enough that it couldn't be comfortable, and John struggled instinctively, shifting his weight onto his legs in order to lift his hands to clutch at Sherlock's fingers.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to tell John to leave his hands alone, but John was already eyeing him critically and the next thing he knew John was slapping him again. Really it was quite remarkable that he could get that much power behind a slap from that angle, Sherlock couldn't help but think, before both of John's fists were pummelling his face and neck lightly. They were just the shadows of actual hits, not hard enough to leave bruises but still hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make holding on challenging. Impressive that she had managed to keep holding on and supporting a fair amount of his weight; Sherlock would be tempted to consider alternate explanations if he were not routinely surprised by the things people were capable of in near-death situations. John had laughed and said something about someone called Doctor No when he had last mentioned it.
After a few moments, John gave up on trying to hit his face and started on his arms instead. Sherlock frowned thoughtfully at the gesture. Surely Trent would have been strong enough to do some serious damage to her arms, but wouldn't she have dropped him if her arms had given way? Unless he was already too weak from lack of oxygen by the time he thought of it.
"I would probably have asphyxiated by now," John rasped finally, dropping his hands.
Sherlock chuckled and gently eased his hands away from the doctor's neck, allowing John to gradually take his weight back onto his legs. "In all likelihood, yes," he agreed. He sighed as John climbed out from between his legs and sat down on the bed, awkwardly tugging at the damp fabric around his groin. "It's a ridiculous position to attempt to strangle someone from," he commented, not trying to sit up himself, "but I imagine her disgust at his different approach to domination would have made her want to get her hands around his throat as soon as possible."
John hummed agreement. "I've never really understood the appeal of that approach to domination myself. Not that I'm claiming to be an expert, but I had a girlfriend who liked it once and it really didn't work between us."
"I see," Sherlock said uncomfortably. Now that the analytic mindset that had been necessary while he was strangling John had faded his erection had returned to the fore; though the strangulation had calmed it down somewhat, he could still tell that it wouldn't be going anywhere without help. He shifted awkwardly, one hand drifting automatically towards the waistline of his trousers.
Naturally, John's eyes followed it. "Did you… er… need a hand with that?"
Sherlock froze. John also seemed to realise all of a sudden what he had said and flushed scarlet. "It will be fine, thank you, John," he replied quietly. This time there wasn't even a ridiculously flimsy excuse for John to stay and 'give him a hand', and he just knew he wasn't ready to have the conversation that would lead to that situation not being horribly awkward.
John nodded sharply. Sherlock was gratified to notice that he looked a little disappointed.
"Right," the doctor said after another slightly awkward moment. "Well, I'll go and… change my pants, I suppose," he said, leaving the room in a great flurry.
Knowing that John was leaving mainly for the purpose of giving him privacy, Sherlock yanked the zipper on his trousers down the moment the door shut behind him, pulling himself out of his pants and frantically stroking himself with a shuddering gasp. John had offered – John had wanted to make him come. Now the only thing that remained was to work out exactly how to let the doctor know that Sherlock wanted that too, desperately, desperately, and not just because they needed release at that particular moment, not under the guise of helping out a friend.
John had come pressed right up against him. Sherlock had felt it, felt his friend's body shuddering and his chest heaving, heard the tiny abortive moans he had made, almost come himself at the knowledge that he had done that, he had made John feel like that –
Sherlock came, gasping out John's name as he spurted into a tissue held at the ready, his entire body spasming in helpless pleasure. He couldn't remember the last time he'd come that hard; it seemed to last for an unnaturally long time, before he eventually shook his way into a panting, trembling mess on his bed, residual images of John's brief post-coital smile flittering through his mind, imagining what it would be like to be able to roll over and have John's naked and sweaty body to roll into and curl up against, to drift in and out of a light doze until one of them had to do something.
He sighed and crumpled the tissue into the overflowing wastepaper bin by the bed, listening to the groaning of the pipes as the shower started up overhead, and pulled a pillow close to curl up against instead.