Chapter 18
Rated M for… Oh, come on. You know, you really do know, don't you?
Okay, just in case... Rated M for inappropriate language and, I regret to say, smut (as in adults only please.)
Previously (at the end of Chapter 17): "NO! Upstairs!" ordered the handsome but unstable genius. His crazed steely blue eyes bore holes into John's brain. Oh God, he's probably a demon too, thought John.
John turned to make his escape down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, but the sexy mind-reading devil, in a dark bespoke suit. cut him off. John turned and fled up the stairs to the small, rather bare, third floor bedroom. The soldier slammed the door behind him and searched in vain for a lock.
Chapter 18
John thought about pushing the bed or the dresser in front of the door to block it, but really, that was a bit too romance novel-ish. And John was not a vapor-ish, Victorian virgin. No, he was Three Continents John Watson. He was a soldier, well, a former soldier.
Come to think of it, he wasn't actually certain that he even wanted to block the door. Well, that can't be right, of course John would want to block the door, to keep out the tall, dark madman. Right?
The former soldier sat heavily on the bed, trying to figure out why he just let a skinny little git chase him up the stairs. Bit embarrassing, that.
Of course, Sherlock did have six inches on him. And the devil seemed pretty damned muscular and strong last night. But still, John Watson was the soldier; he could certainly take Sherlock, if he wanted to. But, being an officer and gentleman, John simply didn't want to hurt the lanky git.
Anyway, John was might be a bit off his game, due to all the stress from the past week. And it had been a very stressful week, what with psychopaths who conscripted him into a life of crime and forced dating and all the kidnappings and then tonight's little adventures which were the icing on the cake.
And lets not forget that John fell in love this week. Yes, John was in love, finally, after all these years. And Cupid was clearly a twisted, cruel, little bastard with a sick sense of humor. Because psycho-Cupid had made John fall in love with a brilliant, erratic, devastatingly handsome madman who was now torturing a violin.
And check that out everyone, John is in love with another bloke. Hell, a week ago, John hadn't even known that he was gay. Or bi. Or whatever!
It was a bit hard to think with that horrid screeching going on downstairs.
Right, enough with the self-pity, it was time to move on. It was time to plan John Watson's Great Escape.
John pursed his lips and slowly made his way to the door. Maybe the coast was clear. Sherlock seemed to be busy, destroying an innocent musical instrument. John should be able to simply sneak down the stairs, get his clothes (leaving the lavender jumper behind), and then make his escape. Easy, assuming Mrs. Hudson hadn't locked her door.
The former soldier stuck his head out the door. The agonized screams coming from the violin were truly awful, but at least the madman was occupied…So once he has his clothes, figured the soldier, (and, if he was lucky, maybe his money and phone too). Well then, John would somehow get to Harry. They'd make a run for it together.
Wearing only Sherlock's blue silk dressing gown, John moved silently, slowly, stepping down on to the first step.
"Go to bed, John!" boomed a deep baritone voice.
The violin cried out again in pain. The sound was horrific, worse than nails on a chalkboard. God, it was like some new form of torture. John had bolted back to the bedroom and now leaned back against the door. He studied the bed. It was made up with soft clean sheets and not one, but two, fluffy pillows and two duvets.
The room might be plain, but the bed was really very comfortable. Soft, but not too soft. Much nicer than that cot in his bed-sit.
If only that infernal screeching would come to an end.
So, John could play along for tonight. Why not? In the morning, he would either be set free, or he would escape though the window. Or he'd mount a frontal attack, mow the lunatic down, acquire his clothes (except the lavender monstrosity) and then escape out the front door. Then he'd get Harry, and then they'd make their Great Escape together. Hopefully, Harry wouldn't be too hung over to make a quick getaway.
John drew the silk robe shut tightly and climbed into bed. He was still thirsty. Well, that was too bad, wasn't it? He wasn't going back out there with that crazy Sherlock Holmes. The mad detective would probably hit John with that damned violin.
The violin screeching came to an abrupt halt. Before John could breathe a sigh of relief, a tempestuous virtuoso performance began.
John was enthralled. Amazing. Sherlock was an amazing violinist. He was bloody brilliant. Maybe the earlier screeching was really some new fangled way to tune a violin and not some devious ploy which violated the Geneva Convention.
John sighed, he had left the light on, and now he had to get out of bed just when his feet were finally getting warm.
John shut off the light. He checked the window, peeking around the lowered shade, to study the street. A figure lurked in a shadowy doorway across the street. Great, probably one of Moriarty's goons. Maybe it was just a common hoodlum, but John kept an eye on him.
John watched for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes. The suspicious character finally pulled up his jacket's hood and ambled on down the road. So just a common hoodlum then... maybe.
John should probably be concerned about his paranoia. Except there really were people out to get him.
John returned to the now inviting bed. He was chilled from standing at the window in nothing but a thin silk robe. The music from downstairs had changed again. Now it was hauntingly beautiful. It was heartbreaking. John did not feel like sleeping. Still, he tried to get comfortable. He cradled his head into his right arm, which was raised behind his head. He listened as the violin poured aching melodies of loss and despair. Perhaps John was still feeling a little self-pity after all.
John struck a desolate pose, with his left arm flung over his eyes and mourned the loss of his one true love. It was just like in Wuthering Heights. John was Heathcliff, destined to lose his mind over his unrequited love for Cathy. And this time, Sherlock could be the girl, a small smile formed briefly, as John imagined a sad, repentant Sherlock pining away for John.
The bed was too comfortable, that was why he couldn't sleep, thought John. That and the beautiful but poignant music that still filled the flat. John wondered how Mrs. Hudson ever got any sleep at night, what with that violin going at all hours of the night.
In between maudlin thoughts about his tragic romance, John devised five ways to escape from 221b Baker Street. Three of the ways allowed him to leave with clothes. One way allowed him to leave fully clothed after having popped the sexy git right in his stuck up nose. He devised three ways to disable an intruder based on the materials at hand, only one of which was likely to prove fatal. He devised two ways to kill himself to preserve his honor. Oddly, he wasn't entirely convinced that he would choose to defend his honor, although it seemed very unlikely that his honor would need defending, mores' the pity.
John sighed. Why couldn't he have fallen in love with someone nice like Janet or Chloë or even poor Mary? He had really, really liked Mary; they had so much in common. Why didn't he and Mary just run off together and get married? Then Mary would still be alive, and John would probably have grown to love her even more than he loved that Sherlock.
You know, it probably isn't even love, thought John, fluffing up his pillows and squirming around to get comfortable. I mean; I just met the man. It probably isn't love; it's just a crush. It's just lust. It's just a passing fancy. The man is just handsome and bit interesting.
John sighed. He definitely couldn't sleep, even with the lovely, soft sheets. Plus he was annoyed by all the sighing.
Okay, he was smitten, truly smitten with that lunatic. But he could get over it. He and Harry could run off to the Virgin Islands. That would be exotic and exciting. Yeah, living on the beach with his drunken sister. FUN. But maybe he could fall in love with a nice quiet girl. Someone kind and quiet and reliable…and dull.
NO STOP THAT! Maybe I can meet a nice, interesting girl…or a guy? Why not? A tall, dark, handsome man with a hard, muscled chest and broad shoulders and long clever hands that knew just how to touch John and strong masculine arms and glacial-blue eyes and a voice like thunder…ARGH!
Stop it, you fool!
John writhed like an eel in the horrid uncomfortable bed and kicked his covers off. It was definitely much too hot.
Okay, think about escape. Think about self-defense. You know, this duvet could become a weapon in the right hands…
Wait. It was quiet, too quiet. Other than a passing lorry, the flat echoed with the eerie silence.
Oh, the music had stopped. No wonder it was quiet. Well. Well then. Sherlock must have gone to bed, while John tried to think of a way to commit homicide with a duvet.
Well, even crazy geniuses have to sleep sometime. It was fine. It was better than fine; it was great. John was not disappointed, because, while he was smitten, he was not in love, and he didn't need to see Sherlock again.
In fact, John was glad. He was relieved that the posh, psychotic git was going to leave him alone.
Maybe, after he waited a while, he should try escape plan #3. He might have to hit the street wearing nothing but a silk robe, but it could be worse. And he could always take one of the duvets to keep him warm and possibly for use in combat.
Anyway, it was perfectly cleat that his dubious honor was not to be compromised tonight. Well, of course not, Sherlock Holmes could do a hell of a lot better than an old, disabled veteran…
His door cracked open, silently. John stopped breathing. A tall, dark shadow crept in quietly.
Oh. Oh my God. Maybe Sherlock Holmes is a psychopathic murderer, like that wretched police person said. Or, maybe he's not a murderer; maybe he's come to take advantage of me. John's nether regions instantly began to show some slight interest in the latter possibility.
John licked his lips. "Sherlock?"
"John," a deep, voice rumbled. "John, I brought you some water," said Sherlock, prosaically. He sat at the foot of the bed. "It is safe to put down your garrote now, John."
John pressed his lips together yet again and loosened his tight grip on the robe's belt. (Self-defense plan #1).
"It's not a garrote, it's just a belt," muttered John. Even in the dark, he could see the detective's eyes roll. He sat up and reached for the water. "Thanks," he whispered. Maybe this was some new kind of dom/sub thing. Well John didn't much care for that. Most of the time.
"You don't have to whisper, John," said the World's Only Consulting Detective. "I checked with my fat brother. There are no cameras in this room and, supposedly, no microphones anywhere in the flat. Of, course Mycroft's cameras remain in the sitting room and the kitchen."
"What about the lavatory?" demanded John.
"You have nothing to worry about there, John," reassured Sherlock. "Even if there was a camera in the lavatory, you look amazing after a shower."
"Bloody buggery fucking hell!" shouted John. "Are there or are there not cameras in the lavatory?"
"John I already explained all that…"
"Yes?" John's faced twisted, as if he was in actual pain, "Or, No?"
"No," said Sherlock, taken aback by the blond's vehemence.
"Fine," said John breathing heavily, but his head relaxed back against the headboard with a thump. "Good. That's good. And none in the bedrooms?"
"No."
"But there are cameras in the sitting room and kitchen?"
"Yes."
"Microphones?"
"No," said Sherlock absently. He was distracted by the play of light on his flatmate's panting chest. He looked up to see a very disgruntled flatmate. John's dark eyes glared under that expressive brow as he finished his water. "You have questions," said Sherlock.
"Too bloody right," muttered John, setting his cup aside.
Sherlock sat impassively, his face a mask as usual.
"Well, would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?" demanded John, pulling the slippery robe shut, again.
"You'll need to be more specific, John."
"For Chrissake! I mean all that 'we'll just be flatmates' and 'I'm supposed to not be gay' and then chasing me up to this bedroom and then the violin…
"Certainly, John, but first I need to clarify something," said the tall man. John huffed in exasperation. "Do you or do you not plan on sharing your bed with me tonight?"
John tried to bite back his excited little gasp. "I told you that it's too dangerous, Sherlock!" said John, his voice pitched high. "You could get…"
"John," said the detective with exaggerated patience. "Try to focus your tiny, little mind on the question. I shall rephrase it. Do you want to have sex with me? Tonight. Now."
"But Jim…" sputtered the soldier.
"But Jim!" mimicked the detective. "Honestly, John, you really haven't been paying attention."
Six foot of consulting detective suddenly climbed into John's lap. "First, and I will not repeat this again. There are no camera's or bugs in this room; what occurs in here will remain private. So Jim will never know."
"Second," said Sherlock, leaning down to brush John's stubbled cheek with his hand. "That farce downstairs was to support your earlier, public assertion that we are not a couple. Anyone watching should believe that we are flatmates and not lovers. Watchers will be convinced that you are alone in your bed, and I am alone in my bed. And that is how we shall proceed. The world will think that you are my assistant, colleague and flatmate. You will continue to assert to all and sundry that you are not gay, and we are not a couple. I will pretend indifference to you at all times. Jim will know nothing of our true relationship. This is only temporary, John; I will deal with Moriarty for you soon. In the meantime, when I can safely avoid the cameras in the dark, we will meet in this bed for as much sex as you can imagine."
Sherlock's face was only inches away from John. "I don't know, Sherlock. Like Han Solo, I can imagine quite a lot," said the blond soldier tipping his head to the side with a challenging little smile.
"I assume that is yet another one of your pointless references to popular culture," said Sherlock brushing his lips across John's forehead and wriggling in John's lap.
John moaned at the friction over his growing arousal. "If we become flatmates, you might have to watch some of those cultural references with me," said the shorter man somewhat breathlessly.
"How dull," said Sherlock, who had moved across John's jaw to kiss and nibble at his ear. "But if that is the social paradigm that I must follow as a flatmate, I shall attempt to comply." The detective's rich timber reverberated in John's ear, and his hot breath sent chills down John's spine.
"Yeah, okay," said John, who was a bit too distracted to keep up the witty repartee. The shorter man tilted his face up to kiss an unshaven chin. That was a very masculine chin and dear God, what a turn on. John flung his arms around Sherlock's long neck, pulling him in for a proper snog.
Lips pressed against lips with punishing force. Kissing Sherlock was quite unlike kissing any of the women John had ever been with. It was rougher and more demanding. But it also just felt so damned right.
The detective negligently brushed a hand over John's shoulder, and the robe slithered down the ex-army doctor's muscular arms, exposing even most of John Watson for Sherlock's delectation.
John reflexively tried to pull the robe up to cover the scar, but Sherlock would have none of that.
"Leave it be, John. I want to look at you. All of you," the pale face tilted in the dark as large hands caressed the soldier. "It only makes you more handsome, more manly," said the deep, husky baritone. "Will it hurt if I touch it?"
"Um, No...Actually yeah, it might hurt a bit unless…um...ah..."
"Unless I'm gentle?" asked Sherlock with a touch of asperity. "Christ, John, you can ask me to be gentle or careful, alright?"
"Um, right," agreed John. "It's just that I'm not used to being with, um, a man."
"Oh for the love of…"
"Well I don't know the proper etiquette of all this, okay?" snapped John defensively.
"John, I assure you I never concern myself with etiquette," Sherlock grinned like a schoolboy before dipping his head and attacking first John's neck and then his good shoulder with kisses, and not so gentle bites. Then he delivered a few, very gentle kisses to the war wound. He briefly stopped to grimace at the site of Jim's bite before traveling down to lave one of John's nipples with his clever, tricky tongue.
John drew his breath in sharply. No one had ever paid much attention to his chest before. He didn't realize until now that he liked that attention. He moaned and arched his back. And Sherlock drew the tingling, burning little nubbin into his mouth again and again, and then he did the same to the other side. John writhed with pleasure.
His little soldier was much more responsive than he had dared to hope. It seemed that every inch of John responded to Sherlock's touch. The detective's groin ached at the thought of how John might respond when Sherlock moved his mouth south.
The detective very nearly succeeded in turning John's mind to mush just from kissing him. However, John had maintained enough control to slowly unbutton and then remove Sherlock's shirt. The light creeping in around the shade dimly lit up the sculpted planes of the detective's neck, shoulders and chest. It was unbelievably erotic to feel muscle rippling under his lips and to hear the masculine rumble of the genius's voice. Planting kisses on Sherlock's neck, John moaned into it as he felt the muscles tense and relax under his fingertips.
John tried kissing Sherlock's nipples but was surprised when the younger man pulled away. Okay, Sherlock didn't like that, now what?
John slid his warm, dry, calloused hands over pale flesh from shoulders to hips. He was rewarded with a deep, growling groan that burrowed deep into John. He gently bit the flesh between the taller man's neck and shoulder. Sherlock began grinding and thrusting his hips into the soldier's lap.
Right, thought John, that's better then.
Sherlock could not withstand much more of this. When John raised his head to breathe, Sherlock rocked backwards, stepping off the bed. He quickly removed his sleep trousers, releasing himself. He then tore the silk robe and sheets away from John.
John was at least as magnificent lying naked in bed, as he had been standing in mock surrender earlier. (Sherlock knew that the soldier could have taken Donovan at anytime. Despite John's charming embarrassment, the soldier had been very confident and unafraid, even while facing the barrel of a gun. Sherlock groaned at the memory and again at the sight of his very aroused lover who squirmed enticingly.
John froze when Sherlock stood in front of him nude and unabashed, like some kind of young Apollo. His erection preceded him. Oh fuck. Look at the size of that thing. This was it. This was the turning point. He was going to have gay sex with a sculpted Greek god who sported a massive dick. Well, fuck.
John swallowed hard and tried to tamp down his suddenly intense case of nerves. The young god gracefully climbed back up and straddled the prone ex-soldier. John trailed his hands from Sherlock's wrists and up his firm forearms. The fine hair on Sherlock's arms tickled the skin under John's arm. Heat built inside, as he slowly drew his arms up and down Sherlock's arms, his skin sliding over Sherlock's sensually, flowing like the silk of the dressing gown.
The detective's eyes glittered in the dark, his dark hair spilled across his fore head. And for the first time in at least sixteen years, John was uncertain what the hell to do next in bed. Should he grab Sherlock's member, grab his own, grab them both and rub them together like a nomad starting a fire?
That mental picture caused a high-pitched giggle to erupt from John's lips. He raised a trembling hand to cover his mouth as embarrassing sniggers struggled to escape his lips. Oh dear God in heaven. I'm blowing it, blowing it…wait, how about a blowjob? Maybe I should I give him a blowjob? John struggled to sit up.
The consulting detective sat back, unsure if he should take offense at John's bizarre giggling. This was alarmingly reminiscent of Victor's contemptuous laughter during their ill-fated affair. However, none of Sherlock's subsequent one-night stands had ever laughed at him. Indeed they were always overwhelmed with his prowess, he thought smugly.
The little blond was struggling to sit up. John's laughter had gone just as fast as it appeared. John's mouth set in a line of grim determination, and his brows lowered stubbornly. Sherlock prepared himself for the worst, as he noted former soldier's trembling left hand.
The John is agitated or, more likely, fearful. Oh God, I moved too fast. Now he's probably repulsed. I am an impatient fool, thought the genius.
How the fuck can I give Sherlock a blowjob if he's in my lap, wondered John? Well, I can't obviously; John was beginning to panic. Dear God, this was as bad as his first time with…with…Oh, God I can't remember her name, thought John frantically. And John's first time with what's her name had been clumsy and awkward as fuck, but at least the two of them had both been young and inexperinced together. And now John was here, with this posh, urbane genius, and John fucking it up, big time.
Stop it, John Watson. You are a grown man, a soldier; just grab his dick. Oh God don't, he might think I'm being too pushy. I know; I know…I'll buy time, thought Joh. I'll just put my hand on his goddam hip. Yeah! That's the ticket!
John's face was intent as he slapped his hand over Sherlock's hip, just as the tall man prepared to run off to his room. He looked at John's hand (His right hand was fixed to Sherlock's hip, John's left is tucked under his arm, in order to hide the trembling, which indicates emotional stress. John's face looks rather like a man about to be executed.)
"You are having second thoughts again and want me to leave," deduced the consulting detective with an icy cold sneer. No one need ever know of this rejection, thought Sherlock; I can just...
Shite and bloody hell, thought John.
"Bloody hell," squeaked John. He cleared his throat quickly. "I mean bloody hell," he said in a falsely lowered voice. "Shite, I know I sound like an idiot but I never had second thoughts the first time and I'm not having second thoughts for a first or second time either. Look, could you maybe…You know…"
"John you are blithering. And you look like a deer caught in the headlights, " said Sherlock scathingly.
"Well…a little help?" suggested John, licking his lips nervously. "Um, so, what would you like, sexy?" he asked, trying to be suave and seductive, although his voice was as haggard as his face.
Hell, that stupid magazine in his therapist's office said you should ask your lover what she...he...wants, right? Right? Fuck this; John had never had to ask before though. No doubt about it, Sherlock would think John was an idiot.
Help? Why the devil does he want help? Oh. OH! "Idiot!" said Sherlock, confirming John's worst fears.
"John, are you nervous?" asked Sherlock cautiously.
"Me?" John squeaked once more, to his everlasting mortification. He began shaking his head. "No, no. I was just requesting some clarification or, um…" John ran out of steam, completely transfixed by those eyes gleaming demoniacally in that angelic face. He tightened his hold on the detective's thin hip, trying to hold the man in place until John's brain re-booted.
Sherlock's gaze softened. His lips parted and he leaned toward the wary soldier. "John, you are nervous. You giggle when you're nervous."
Deny everything, decided the proud soldier. "I don't giggle, ever, and I'm not nervous." John turned his eyes aside as he blatantly lied.
"So," said Sherlock briskly. Now that he had sufficient data to evaluate his soldier's behavior. John was nothing like Victor. The brave soldier was simply insecure and nervous. Trust issues, the consulting detective reminded himself. Sherlock was once again in control. "You are a very flighty little fellow, John. It's surprising that you make such a good sniper."
"I'm not flighty," said John affronted. "And, when I shoot, I tune everything out, but that wouldn't be very, umm, well it's not very romantic." He felt the heat rising in his face and was grateful for the dark. "Also, I am not little."
"I must confess, John," continued Sherlock ignoring John's protests, "that I forgot that you are somewhat virginal in this arena…"
"AND I'm not a virgin!" John announced loudly, his voice once again creeping into the higher registers.
His flighty soldier was becoming flightier. His little soldier required distraction and a firm, but subtle, hand.
"Kiss me, John," ordered Sherlock decisively. He leaned down keeping his eyes locked on the John's wide eyes.
John knew a direct order when he heard one. John also recognized a second chance when it stared him right in the face.
He raised his right hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, appreciating the rough, manly stubble. He tilted his head up and began kissing those soft lips again. Sherlock seemed satisfied to let John take the lead.
John was quickly lost in the sensations of lips sliding against lips, lips mashing into teeth, the biting and sucking. He tasted Sherlock again; already that combination of tea and cigarette was familiar and heady.
The blond pulled the six-foot lapful closer and they toppled down onto the bed. John assaulted that gorgeous long, white neck with bites and kisses.
John was truly focused on his snogging but he was still aware of the long, cool hand stroking his inner thigh. John tensed. The touch was soft and teasing. John relaxed and kept kissing and tasting Sherlock's neck, his shoulder, and moving to the sensitive skin above his clavicle.
Sherlock's wandering hand massaged John's thighs, sometimes teasingly, sometimes firmly.
Ohhh, maybe John should just try that on Sherlock?
The consulting detective felt the lightest, most tentative touch on his thigh. Oh, the little blond was finally catching on, good...excellent. Sherlock bent his leg and scooted up so that John's shorter arm could reach. Sherlock also felt John's hard-on beneath his own. The detective began to rock his hips slowly, rubbing himself against his soldier. John groaned and buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock moved his hand up to cup John's balls and received a deeper, more urgent groan. This one spiked the detective's arousal and he began frotting in earnest.
John had moved his hand, which no longer trembled, thank you very much, to cup Sherlock's balls. Touching lightly, rolling them and then tugging gently, extracting a deep, rumbling moan from the detective.
This was really something! John Watson was a doctor. He was passing familiar with the examination and treatment of men's genitalia, but he'd never been turned on by them. Well, of course not, you idiot, thought the army doctor, you've never had a male lover before.
John had a handful of heavy balls resting in his hand, and bloody hell, that was hot. He looked up to see Sherlock propped on one elbow staring at him, head cocked to the side in what John secretly called Sherlock's 'Genius at Work' pose. The lovely friction over his groin had stopped too.
Oh fuck, I've overstepped some line, because I don't know the damned etiquette, though John.
"What?" asked John defensively, still holding Sherlock's jewels reverently in his hand.
"Is everything alright, John?" asked Sherlock. "You suddenly stopped moving or even breathing? I thought…"
"Sorry, I just…" John was unsure of the protocol. Should he just drop the precious jewels? That seemed rather rude. "I mean that, no… I should say…" John's index finger slid over a roundish ball, skimming across the lightly haired sac, which really, really turned him on. It was hot, really fucking hot.
"It's just really fucking hot!" admitted John honestly. "I mean, your balls! I…they…I never felt anyone…that way. I mean, I am a doctor but, um, well it's hot."
"You're adorable," said Sherlock smirking in the dark.
"Excuse me?" questioned John stiffly.
"You heard me, I will not repeat myself all night," said Sherlock arrogantly.
"Well, Christ, Sherlock! It's just that you have balls," explained John. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Oh my God, I am so fucking stupid!
"Well, yes John, I do. So do you, in fact," added Sherlock, his teeth glowing inside his broad grin.
John wanted to drop those balls now like a couple of hot potatoes, but he didn't want to seem ill-mannered. "Fine. Fine," Oh good, now my voice is squeaking again. "Fine. Christ, Sherlock! It's just that…It's hot, okay? You're hot! AND you're a man. And I've never felt this…these, you. Oh, bloody hell!" Now he knows I'm an idiot, a stupid idiot, thought John.
"I take it back, John. I shall repeat myself. You are adorable," said Sherlock, his voice low and raspy. He kissed his adorable lover. You are terribly, addictively adorable when you get all flustered, thought Sherlock, sucking on John's neck.
John was preparing his intelligent rebuttal to the accusation of being adorable, when a large hand caressed his balls again, distracting him. John returned his attention to the weighty jewels, which he still held in his hand.
The detective was nuzzling his neck and shoulder and his now slick hand traversed north, to the base of John's arousal. When had Sherlock acquired the lube? Oh God, that man was bloody brilliant. Oh God, that hand was teasing him, barely touching him. John's hips began to rock on their own.
The soldier gently released the captive jewels, after a last tug and a caress. Following the detective's example, John's hand trailed through the thick mat of curly hair to the base of a still impressive erection, despite that earlier distracting conversation.
Sherlock's lube filled palm, caressed John's hand, filling it with the lubricant. Brilliant. Amazing!
John's slick fingertips explored Sherlock's hot shaft, and it twitched with a life of its own. John encircled the member and slowly stroked its very impressive length. It was alive and on fire and so thick and heavy and different from John's and yet so similar. John's hand began to caress it, as if it was his own…but it wasn't and that was bloody hot, too hot because someone else was stroking him off.
John gasped and made a keening sound in the back of his throat, and he didn't bloody well care who heard it.
John keened again, his free hand clamping down on Sherlock's shoulder. The feel of Sherlock in his hand was like…like a gun, heavy and dangerous and ready to go off.
John threw his head back into the pillow that was already pushed halfway off the bed. John's eyes clamped tightly shut. He was groaning, "Oh…Gawd! Oh, no, no…Ohhahhh…Gawd."
Sherlock had rarely felt this turned on with any of his partners. He slipped his hand around both of them, stroking firmly, his fingers touching John's hand. John felt so hot and so hard, as he thrust up against his erection and into their hands.
Fuck, even though John was new to man on man and even though the detective had to demonstrate the steps, Sherlock had never felt this turned on. He was going to come before John. He couldn't help himself, because John was bucking wildly and groaning his name, his fucking name…
"Oh God…Shhher-lock, Sherl…God, oh, ohhh, God….Shherl."
Sherlock felt the burning in his center, his blood was pounding and he let out a massive moan into John's chest. He thrust into their hands, sliding against John's length, releasing into their shared clasp, after several thrusts; his weight collapsed onto his lover.
John was overwhelmed. Muscular legs clamped his hips in place, and that huge hand was jerking both of them off, his puny little hand just enjoyed the ride, luxuriating in the slide over burning flesh.
He shuddered when that obscene moan reverberated into his very bones, somehow he got even harder. He was so hard, it hurt, and a man was coming all over John. Sherlock was making the dirtiest, most wonderful sounds and Sherlock's surprisingly heavy body was smearing his cum all over John.
Now oversensitive, Sherlock slipped out of their joined hands. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself together. He tightened his hold on the bucking doctor and stroked faster. John gripped the bed sheets desperately.
His adorable lover squeaked again, "God" "Ohhh" "ohhh…god…sherrrrllock" John was lifting himself and Sherlock up off the bed in his frantic thrashing, and he was cuming. He was cumming for Sherlock, into his hand. Sherlock gradually slowed his hand, breathing into John's ear as he whispered unforgivably ridiculous sentiments that seemed to calm and please the former soldier.
The blond pressed his ear against Sherlock's soft, warm mouth. John's breath hitched, once, twice like a hiccup. He stilled, not even breathing, his body reveling in the glow of ecstasy.
Finally, John whispered, "Sherrrlll," like a prayer.
"Shhh," whispered the lips, blowing gently into his ear.
Strong arms wrapped around Sherlock, pulling him against John's muscular chest.
"Sherlock, sherlock, sherl, sherl…" murmured John.
Sherlock tried to rise to clean up and return to his bedroom like always, but John tightened his grip. Sherlock was wet and sticky and should be disgusted, but Sherlock was, in fact, comfortable and quite content resting on John's chest. He settled his weight, next to John's right side but kept his head on his soldier's chest.
John kissed those slightly sweaty, black curls, brushing them off Sherlock's pale forehead. He muttered vague and nearly incoherent praises.
Sherlock greedily soaked up John's frank adoration. He stayed wrapped around his new lover, watching him breathe and snuffle and sleep for a couple of hours. Just when the night began to first fade into purple morning, Sherlock untangled himself from his warm refuge and snuck back to his cold, lonely bed to dream about a small, blond, fiercely adorable soldier.
A/N Sorry for the long delay, I simply have too much going on and no time to do it. (Like you never heard that one, right?). I wish I had one of those time changing thingy-bobs like Hermione Granger had in The Prisoner of Azkaban. Damn! That would be truly useful.
Oh well, thank you to everyone who has stuck with me so far, in spite of the delays. I promise to keep updating although it might be every other week…. (I was very silly to think that I could do two fics at once-NEVER AGAIN. I definitely don't have the time to do justice to two at the same time; so it's one week for one, and then the next the other, and then I get so confused-like the time I posted the wrong chapter in the wrong fic JEESH!).
Special thanks to everyone who has listed this fic in as one of their favorites. You are all very sweet.
More extra-special thanks to everyone who has reviewed this fic. My thanks go out to everyone who reviewed Chapter 17, including dana-san, Wicked Winter, InuChimera7410, SamuelE8688. EJ12212012, Quiet time, TheSherlockianGodess (and why didn't I think of that name first!), foxeeflame, power0girl, anyrei1, Kyuubigurl. Consulting smartass (another name I should have thought of!), guest (always a favorite, lol), Ray and OnceInaBlueMoon (hopefully I will update more often than that LOL). THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR REVIEWS!
BTW SamuelE8688 has given me an incredible honor by translating my first ficlet, He's a Pirate, into German. I myself cannot read German, but it is so cool to try to read my story in another language. Sam is one of those amazing people who can read and write in more than one language (there are quite a few of you out there and I am always impressed with your bilingual abilities-and a touch jealous too :D). I am truly humbled and thankful for all the work that she is putting into the translation. SOOO….if you are also one of those brilliant people who are bilingual or multilingual, stop and visit her translation under her own name SamuelE8688 at fanfic. Thank you, Sam :D
Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock but I'd be willing to take them if the BBC is tired of them. Just a suggestion. :D