X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-
The doctor had just finished cleaning his teeth when Sherlock's croaky, strained voice sounded from the living room.
"…John? Do you want a massage?"
John answered loudly from the bathroom as he tightened his dressing-gown ties, grimacing slightly and ruffling his short, ash-brown hair in the mirror, scrubbing his stubble. "You're offering?"
"I wouldn't mention it if I wasn't offering," Sherlock replied bluntly and voluminously from the front room. A violent exclamation soon followed.
"OH! Fuck…"
"…Sherl?"
"…Keith just stood on my penis."
John let out his high-pitched, unrestrained giggle and ventured out to see his detective. Sherlock had re-fastened his silky blue dressing-gown and squirmed a little on the sofa, nudging Keith from his lap and onto the floor. The detective discreetly adjusted himself before clearing his throat and vocalising.
"You need a massage. Your shoulder is clearly causing you discomfort after …after you…"
"After I stuck my tongue in your arse?"
Sherlock pulled a face that was half-grimace and half-smirk, his pale features crinkling delightfully, his sharp cheekbones stained a wonderful rosy pink.
"Your eloquence enthralls me," Sherlock murmured, opening his arms and grinning when John approached him, accepting the hug. His doctor straddled his lap and smooched the corner of his mouth affectionately. The brunette cuddled him tightly, running strong white fingers across John's scapulae and vertebrae.
"…It cost me twenty quid. It should be half decent," Sherlock muttered, nuzzling John's neck.
"…What did?" The doctor replied, bemused by his detective's non-sequitur.
"The massage oil. Anniversary present," Sherlock uttered in a tone that suggested he was bored of anything that would cause him to make excessive use of his vocal chords. He purred pleasurably when John suckled at his throat enthusiastically, birthing a dark, red bruise with his lips and tongue.
"Oh…God, John," Sherlock groaned, grinding his hips in utter delight as John directed his thin lips to his sharp jaw. The detective gritted his teeth and shuddered out a harsh sigh when his doctor took to nibbling gently at the corner of his cupid bow lips, playfully pulling back when Sherlock moved to meet his mouth to instigate a kiss.
"For God's sake, why don't you do me," Sherlock hissed, clenching his strong fingers around his doctors' biceps.
"It's fun to watch you suffer," John replied, flashing his bright grin, before licking his thin lips tantalisingly.
"And people call me a psychopath…" the detective groaned. "How much clearer do I have to make myself?"
"Trust me Sherlock, you are utterly transparent. I'm just choosing to be opaque." The doctor delivered a few teasing, chaste pecks to the brunette's plump lips, then paused as the sound of two unfamiliar cars pulling up in the street below, right outside 221B, alerted him to the real world. As he lifted his head, a stagnant, throat-coating London summer breeze pushed through the open window, bringing scents of deep-frying, exhaust fumes and the vague heaviness associated with an overcrowded, overbuilt city.
"John! Get on with it, put something inside me now," Sherlock snapped impatiently, pumping his hips up against his doctor a few times in a not-so-subtle reminder of his irritable arousal. "It's a taxi and a small van, ignore them."
Something clicked in John's head and he uttered, "Hang on, isn't Mrs. Hudson back soon? Did you text her? Tell her the…news?" Their landlady had been away in Dorset, staying with family for ten days.
Sherlock sighed massively, and then checked his watch in casual hyperbole. "I have told her nothing. If everything went to plan, and her travel was uneventful and punctual, then she'll be back in…six minutes. Ish. Although," he paused, narrowing his eyes and listening carefully to the faint voices from Baker Street, "…It seems she is early."
"Fuck, she'll probably be straight up here," John muttered, getting off of Sherlock's lap and chucking a cushion in the direction of his detective's crotch. "Don't tell her anything yet. And don't embarrass me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, obediently settling the Union Jack cushion over his visibly excited crotch. "I'll do my best," he murmured, winking fiendishly at his doctor.
"God help me, Sherl," John muttered, as he heard light feet pattering up the stairs, and ensuring his own dressing gown was fastened appropriately. Sherlock let out one last faint chuckle as there was a sharp knock on their door and a loud proclamation.
"Boys? Boys! I just got back, and there was a package for you, I met the parcel man outside."
"COME IN!" Sherlock yelled at an unnecessarily deafening volume, before curling himself up on the sofa and snuggling the cushion against his crotch, smirking indulgently. John tutted and double-checked his attire as their landlady opened and peeked through their door with a sweet grin.
"Hello boys!" she exclaimed cheerily, waving through the semi-open door.
"Good to see you Mrs. Hudson. How was it?" John asked politely.
"Oh, it was fine dears, fine. I've bought far too much food from the little farm shops there, I got you both a few things. I'll pop by this evening with them. Oh, this is yours," she smiled, handing John the innocuously-branded white, heavy parcel.
Sherlock expounded bluntly, smiling. "Thanks Mrs. H. That would be the dildo John bought me."
"Sherlock! I swear to god, I will strangle you." John growled warningly, too far away from his detective to give him the reprimanding smack round the head that he deserved.
"Please, go ahead, you know very well that I enjoy a bit of erotic asphyxiation," Sherlock responded candidly, looking at his fingernails with a complete and almost totally-believable air of distraction.
His doctor was deeply flushed, his turbulent blue eyes fixated on his detective with a dark look. It suggested that Sherlock's shocking comment had cemented the fact that the brunette would pay dearly later.
"…I…" John turned, began and failed to elaborate on an apology to his long-suffering landlady, who stood, blushing but unoffended, and smiling.
"Play safe and try and keep the noise down, I'm going to take a nap. I'll bring the stuff round later," she said with a wink, before making her way downstairs, closing the door behind her.
"…Sherlock… I am going to fuck you till you go cry, die or go blind," John threatened in a quiet, intense murmur, dark blue eyes dangerously bright.
Sherlock sat up eagerly, grinning hopefully.
"…But not now," John said coolly, his demeanour suddenly relaxing, a casual smirk on his thin lips. "Go make me some toast. And I'll think about showing you this," he promised, waving the plain, heavy white box in front of Sherlock before hiding it behind his back with a teasing grin and walking away to sit on his armchair, the toy on his lap. He picked up the newspaper and flicked through with an air of intense interest, ignoring his detective, who was sitting up on the sofa, looking uncertain and sweetly frustrated.
"…Toast?"
"Toast. Now," John instructed distantly, not looking at Sherlock. He licked his left thumb and forefinger and turned the page of the paper, gaze intent.
"…But-"
"Now, Sherlock," came the quiet command.
Obediently, the detective stood, dropping the Union Jack cushion on the sofa, adjusting his dressing-gown ties again, and wandering into the kitchen, before tentatively rummaging in the breadbin, and inspecting the various appliances in there with some trepidation and doubt.
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Three minutes later, Sherlock emerged, with a plate that he pushed into John's line of sight.
John glanced at the uncooked, buttered slice of bread for half a second. "That's not toast, that's bread."
"Toast is bread."
"Yes, but bread is not toast."
"Ugh, details. Fine, burn your carbohydrates if you're so fussy. It won't do you any good."
"…Sherlock…"
"Burning bread forms acrylamide, a compound that has been linked to cancer and nerve damage in humans. I don't want it to be burnt. I'd rather you didn't die early. No more burnt bread for you."
"…That's sweet, really. Thankyou. But there's no proof of it. Studies have been circumstantial at best."
"How do you –"
"I'm a doctor, for God's sakes, I know these things."
"T-…" Sherlock stuttered, cleared his long, pale throat, and then tried again. "…Tell me more."
"My medical opinions on acrylamide would turn you on?"
"No, you do," Sherlock said simply, his grey-green eyes clear and ingenuous. "But your opinions on controversial science are certainly a boon."
John grinned his wide, bright grin and stood, pushing aside the plate and taking his detective gently by the hips. "Alright, enough messing around. I'm ready to take you apart in the best way imaginable. You ready?"
Sherlock swallowed deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing tantalisingly. "Oh god, yes."
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Okay, something that occurred to me, and I want to see if anyone else noticed it/agrees, or whether I'm just sad and seeing everything through powerful slash goggles XD
In A Scandal in Belgravia, when the guy turns up and passes out in their living room, after Mrs Hudson finds thumbs in the fridge…is it not fairly obvious that she yells upstairs (i.e. to John's room) "Boys, you've got another one!"
… What were they both doing up there? XD ;)
Comments make me happy :)
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X