John really hadn't meant to check his phone. He really hadn't.
After the jam session, as they had laughingly called it, Sherlock had gone off to take a shower and John had decided that perhaps a cup of tea to prevent dehydration was a good idea for both of them. And then he'd seen the little light on his phone blinking where he'd left it on the coffee table. And he was curious. There was no other word for it. Curious to see what Sherlock's email had wrought.
He should have known better.
Sherlock comes out of the shower, towel around his hips, still rubbing his hair, glances at John and says, "Any good messages?"
"How did you… Oh, never mind."
Sherlock smirks, "I didn't know until just now, but I suspected from your guilty look."
"Fine. Your brother sends his regards and asks that you not hack into MI5 and MI6 for six months and he'll offer us some sort of island for vacation."
Sherlock glances up sharply, "Really? The island?"
John expels an unbidden image of Sherlock running through waves with someone else that makes him swallow hard and flinch a little inside. "Have you been there before?"
"No, just heard rumors. Mycroft must really be in trouble if he's offering the island. What else?"
"Sarah wants me in fit condition to work my shift."
Sherlock grins wickedly, "Depends on her definition of fit."
"And Greg says that the mental image of us romping has upset Scotland Yard."
"Good. They should have it in their heads. We look fantastic together!"
"What? We're the Brangelina of Baker Street?"
"What's that mean?"
"Never mind. You maybe, but not me."
Sherlock tosses the damp towel that he's been using to dry his hair onto the floor and crosses to take John in his arms. "You look like a soldier, like a very brave soldier. To me you are exquisite, and I don't know how other people don't just want to grab you in their arms and snuggle you all the time.
Snuggle? "Yes, but you look like a Greek sculpture."
"Weren't they rather more muscled than I?"
"Alright, you look like that Renaissance statue, David in a garden hat."
Sherlock pulls back, "What on earth are you talking about?"
"I don't remember much about it, but it was this statue I saw in the V&A and it made me and my mates giggle."
Sherlock's frowning now, "So you're saying my body makes you giggle. You really aren't helping your case here, John."
"No, no. I was ten and it's naked except for boots and this really funny hat. So, yes, it made me giggle then, but you don't make me giggle now—quite the opposite in fact; I'm saying you look like a perfect sculpture—unless you put on a lady's garden hat. Then I can't promise anything.
"Oh! I remember! It's by a Mutant Turtle!"
"Are you deliberately talking in riddles?"
"Teenage Mutant Turtles? No? Probably just as well. They're named after artists and it's one of them…not Da Vinci or Michelangelo…Donatello! Can't remember the other one."
Sherlock pulls John close again, leans down and murmurs in his ear, "Since I was punished all night for looking at my phone, I think you should have to pay a forfeit for looking at yours. Don't you think that's only fair? Especially since you are now blathering about turtles and garden hats and wasting valuable minutes of our 24 hours."
John shivers in the way that only Sherlock's voice can make him shiver. "How do you think I should pay this forfeit?"
"On your stomach."
"Ah…" is about all John can manage before Sherlock's pulling him back into the bedroom, pushing him onto the bed and onto his front.
He hears Sherlock fumble in a drawer for a moment, "The lube's right here, Sherlock."
"Not looking for the lube. Ah, here it is. I've been saving this."
Sherlock holds up a short leather strap with snaps. Oh, God. He really was in for it now. Sherlock strokes himself to get sufficiently hard and snaps the leather around his cock and balls. He looks thoughtful, as if he's considering the sensation.
"Tell me if it hurts at all, John. I will stop if you ask…but then I'll have to think of some other way to make you pay."
First Sherlock moves two pillows under John's hips. Next he kneels between John's legs, spreading them a bit and angles John's penis down so that it's pushing horizontally against the pillows instead of giving him blessed friction. With a little lube he slides a finger inside. He leans over and whispers, "You're still open and slick. I don't think I need to do anything else at all." And to prove his point he slides his cock inside in one smooth movement that makes John cry out, but not in pain, just in surprise and pleasure.
Definitely pleasure.
Sherlock pulls out almost all the way and then pushes back in fully, deeply. The cock ring makes him feel mind-blowingly hard. The harder he gets the tighter John feels. While he aches he knows that he won't come while the ring is on and that gives him the luxury of time. With varying thrusts, tiny pulses of just the head and then long, deep thrusts all the way in, he keeps John on the edge for nearly thirty minutes, adding lube as needed so that John's never in pain, just a state of anticipation right on the precipice of coming.
Whenever John tries to reach between his own legs to give himself some relief rather than just the pressure of being pushed into the pillow Sherlock stops him and then stops moving altogether, resting against John's sweaty back while he whispers, "No, love, not yet." And when John stops and relaxes, well as much as he can, slipping back from desperation to mere need, Sherlock will start to move again. He never gets to have John like this, completely at his mercy, and he intends to enjoy it fully. Sometimes he rests back on his knees, never pulling out all the way, just to take in John's slender but sturdy shoulders and back, waist and hips.
John's hair is damp around the hairline and at the scalp and he's resting on his elbows with his head fallen forward onto his hands. He's taking deep breaths to keep himself from crying out. He won't beg. He's a soldier and he's been through torture resistance training, but this isn't torture and Sherlock can tell that his resolve is slipping.
Sherlock unsnaps the leather strap and gasps as the electric shock of his own arousal hits him fully. He feels hard as steel and as liquid as mercury. He wraps himself over John's back, reaches down and grips John's cock. "Now, John."
John exhales in a sharp rush and with a guttural moan starts thrusting into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock doesn't even need to move as John's shoving forward and sliding back onto Sherlock's penis in a shaky rhythm. He lets John take control of the movement, of the timing and John's there in a few hard pushes that become faster and irregular as the delayed pleasure envelopes him, wrenching a frantic cry from his throat as he comes hard and would fall if not for Sherlock's arm around him.
The sounds John makes, the tightness, the unmerciful half an hour of anticipation brings Sherlock to his climax in a beat and it's shattering. He feels like he's being shot from an elastic band and he's falling over the edge into water and stars like blacking out, but he doesn't, just slumps over John, just managing to still hold them up long enough to pull free gently because he knows that John's going to be a little tender.
They fall together to the damp sheets.
"God," John sighs into his hands. "Are you planning on making that a regular feature?"
"Would you like me to?"
John chuckles and then winces a little before rolling, gingerly, onto his side to face Sherlock, "Perhaps, but only if we get to share it."
Sherlock grins back, "Sounds delicious. I can't wait. But for now, I want to see what Mrs. Hudson left us for lunch."
"Wait, how did you…? Oh, never mind."
Much later, lying on the bed with John's laptop after John's gone to take his own shower, Sherlock enters "Statue of David in a hat" into the search engine.
Hm…perhaps he should borrow one of Mrs. Hudson's hats and see what John would do.
FF won't let me put in the link, but literally, if you put in "Statue of David in a hat" or go to any page on Donatello, you will find it (which I will forever call David in a Garden Hat and it still makes me giggle)
Love this quote-that's our Sherlock: Naked, but for hat and shoes, David is both physically frail and strikingly effeminate. His physique, which Mary McCarthy called "a transvestite's and fetishist's dream of alluring ambiguity…"
The other Teenage Mutant Turtle is Raphael and I wrote this before seeing Framed last night on PBS (TMNT and Donatello is a plot point in the show).
And I don't think that Brangelina needs any explanation, except to Sherlock.