A/N: This part is definitely more steamy; warning, mild smut will ensue. Also language... but hey, it's rated M for a reason/reasons.
Remember; reviews are like chocolate to me! They make me very happy and also make my tummy hurt (in a really great, so-excited-I-want-to-barf type way) :D
Jealousy; Part 2
"…Fuck, Sherlock."
The detective had attacked John's throat before the doctor had time to even set down his tea. The tea that was now seeping into the floor.
Long, dexterous fingers grasped tanned hips and that sharp tongue was now licking a long trail up to John's ear to nibble there suggestively. He could feel the vibrating deepness as Sherlock said, "I'm going to mark you." The confident lips nipped at the sensitive spot below John's ear. "So everyone knows…" there was a moan and John could have cared less whose voice it was; he just never wanted this wonderful aching, the utter bliss he was slipping into, to stop. "…You're mine."
The mug fell to the floor unnoticed as hands were lost in dark curls.
John gasped as Sherlock bit the base of his neck, hard. God, that was good, it was brilliant; the slight pain of teeth breaking blood vessels was incredibly hot, causing a friction, a shiver on the nerves hiding inside him. The same nerves which were transmitting trembles and shivers straight down to his growing erection.
With a gentle hum, the bowed lips sucked at the reddening spot, kissing the marks which teeth had left on skin.
Twice more he repeated the process and twice more it resulted in the blooming of lovely purple and red splotches; they looked fascinatingly like splattered blood. Which they essentially were, in retrospect.
With wet, open mouthed kisses Sherlock plotted a map on those corded muscles, feeling his blogger whimper as teeth tugged at jawline. He was the only cartographer allowed to study this terrain.
With another suck on the neck of his companion, he was satisfied; the detective leaned back on his heels and smiled proudly. "That should do nicely," and with a congenial pat to John's knee, he twirled away in a flurry of dark curls and dressing gown flaps.
Still breathing heavily, John blinked in confusion before he realized no, Sherlock wasn't joking and they were really done. Closing his eyes tightly, – repeating silently that strangling his flat mate was indeed a bad idea – he tried desperately to push the arousal down, stuff it in a corner and forget about it… but the dull sting of his neck was fucking hot.
He needed a bloody wank.
Almost jogging to the bathroom, John closed the door tightly, stripping out of his trouser and his now damp pants. As he ran the water and waited for it to heat, he glanced into the mirror and saw three small, circle bruises now spotting a line down his neck. Gingerly, he lifted his hand to outline one, feeling the heat of the blood, the hard pulsing of his heart. It was incredibly erotic, to have been territorially possessed and marked for the world to see…
Then John thought of the infinite amount of eyes the bruises would draw to him tomorrow, the gossip they would spark, while at work. Though he supposed it was the point of the whole thing, he was more than a bit peeved at Sherlock. He admitted to himself secretly that a good percent of that anger was due to sexual frustration.
"Three, Sherlock?" He yelled, "Was three of these really necessary?"
Out in the kitchen, Sherlock smiled and rubbed a hand over his own growing erection; he was positive John hadn't retreated into the bathroom for just an innocent shower. He thought longingly of that muscular frame, the movement of strength under his fingers as he kissed his way down his lover's chest… Closing his eyes with a deep breath, he began stroking his aching cock.
Sherlock replied on a trembling whisper, "It's a three patch problem."