John was surprised to find, upon waking late the next morning, that his hangover seemed not to be quite as devastating as he was dreading. He suspected, however, that it was probably because he was still a bit drunk.
He was not surprised to feel totally unrested and groggy. He knew that if he had actually managed to relax into Sherlock's firm, warm embrace, and empty his mind of deeply troubling thoughts, he would have had the best night's sleep he'd had for a long time.
He had, however, stayed tense in both mind and body, even as Sherlock had stopped talking to him at arse o' clock in the morning, and slipped into an enviably deep sleep behind him, complete with endearing, snuffling little snores.
As his mind began to unravel itself from the haze of tense sleep, he started to become aware of a few things. One, the small hairs on his lower abdomen were pulling sharply, as if they were stuck there (which made him shift uncomfortably as he remembered just what that reason was).
Two, the light filtering through his dank window was grey and too bright to be anything close to morning, which would mean he had little time to get ready for his afternoon shift at the surgery.
And three, his bed was devastatingly devoid of awkward, lanky warmth.
John would have been tempted to put it all down to a drunken subconscious fantasy, if it wasn't for the bittersweet scent of his flatmate, and two errant black curls on his other pillow. Because really...surely only his own depraved yearnings could dictate a line like "I think of you every time I come"? Sherlock must have been taking the piss.
But shit, what if he really did, though?
It was a stupid thing to even think of, even it stroked his ego in a way he didn't quite understand. He found himself shifting in the sheets, trying not to wince at another small tug on his abdomen. He needed a shower. He needed to wash away the remnants of something he couldn't wrap his head around. God, but the sounds that man made. It was sinful, and it did things to his insides it should never have done. Not really.
He was meandering in his own thoughts, slowly sitting up and trying to mentally prepare himself for what would likely be a slightly-too-cold shower. Pushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, he took a deep, fortifying breath, shivered a little in the chill of his empty bedroom, and promptly jumped at the sound of a loud thump downstairs. Immediately on the alert, he stood, poised and listening carefully. A muffled, deep-toned giggle, somewhere on the floor below.
Was Sherlock in another post-orgasmic bliss? He was definitely... animate, after climaxing, so he had a feeling that he would naturally end up downstairs in some kind of chaos.
Where Sherlock went, chaos followed.
He sighed heavily, before there was another giggle. This one was certainly louder, and as John moved to his bedroom door, his head peered around the cusp only to be taken aback by a loud cry.
"...said no."
John froze where he stood, because his brain was scrambling to catch up. That... was not Sherlock's voice.
He was in absolutely no doubt of the presence of two men, when Sherlock's giggles and Mr. Mystery's voice sounded in tandem. The stranger's voice had quietened a bit, but John heard random words.
"...wasn't in the...trust you?"
A soft, indulgent mewl (an apology?) from Sherlock, and a deafening smack, that seemed to ricochet through the cramped flat like a pistol shot.
John took a sharp intake of breath, stepping into the hallway before he could really help himself. Their next words were too quiet for him to make out anything coherent, but he did catch the long moan afterwards. Oh fuck, he thought quickly as there was another resounding crack.
"...you...huh? Not... playing fair, are we, Sherlock?"
He didn't know whether to storm downstairs and strangle Mr. Mystery for daring to hurt Sherlock, or for daring to be the one to spank his best friend.
"Yes..." came a muffled response, followed by another loud crack. Now he was closer to Sherlock's room, he could make out a little more. A few groans and harsh breaths.
"You think fucking another man is allowed, huh?" Another harsh slap. John felt his hands tighten into fists, straining to listen for Sherlock's reply.
"I like him...you do it all the time," Sherlock taunted, and John could hear the sarcastic, inflammatory tone he knew well.
There was a low, drawn out chuckle as well as three fleshy thuds. John was moving down the stairs before he could stop himself, but was drawn short at the long moan he recognised from Sherlock.
"I am allowed. You are not."
"Don't you think I've had enough?" Sherlock's strained, but still slightly belligerent voice entreated quietly.
John swallowed thickly, toeing down the stairs as lightly as he could. When he reached the living room, he was close to chewing off his lower lip.
"You can take far more."
"...Just...no more inside me, though. Please? I'm already..." Sherlock was sharply cut off by another whiplash-like crack.
"...But this one's so big..." The other man, who John had able to deduce practically nothing about (except that he had an unremarkable accent), sounded disappointed.
There was a loud gasp and John felt a rush of spiking anger run up his neck. Sherlock had said no more, and this fucker was pushing it? He had an image of some (annoyingly gorgeous and tanned) man hovering over Sherlock, forcing him to take more.
"Come on, one more..." purred Mystery.
John then heard a tinny, relentlessly-loud alarm beeping, and there was a tense vacuum of activity. If the...lovers were timing their trysts...perhaps that was the end of the session for Sherlock?
That made him wonder if he actually was paying for this. He'd never asked, therefore Sherlock had never denied it. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the sound had gotten louder.
Mumbled conversation behind the door, something dropping to the ground...It took John an embarrassingly-long time to recognise the sound as that of his own watch alarm, the volume increasing urgently every moment he ignored it.
He felt his eyes widen before he grabbed the face, squeezing the button at the top before padding quickly into the kitchen. He was stood close to the wall again, listening for any sign that the two men in the other room had heard the alarm.
"...Did I imagine that, or did that signal that the time for your pampering is over? Time for the rough stuff, Sherlock."
John bit his lower lip as he felt the cool surface of the wall against his cheek. That had been pampering?
"Don't start... with that one..."
Christ, he had to get ready for work. But...what was he supposed to do, just leave Sherlock here? The detective must have been aware that he was around. He hadn't asked for help, so presumably he was enjoying whatever was happening. Just...one noise, and he could be sure his best friend was in no danger.
The detective soon obliged. "Oh, it...mmh...deeper, just...Oh!"
John took a sharp breath, that voice in the throes of passion becoming alarmingly familiar. His body recognised it, too, and he had to turn his forehead to the cold wall.
"Look at you, spreading wide for me. You want more, don't you, Sherlock?" purred the stranger's voice, and John had to swallow thickly.
That was quite enough of that, Captain. If he didn't go to work and earn some money, how else was he going to keep his flatmate in obliging prostitutes and robust sex toys?
The jokey thought did nothing to comfort him.
There was another hearty moan and John found himself snapping to attention. They both obviously knew he was here - they would have fucking heard his watch, and they were still going. Therefore, he was trespassing, and he needed to stop. He took a step away from the wall, shaking his head, even as more words floating through the wall.
"Is that good?"
"...ng... yes!"
"Oh, no. No, you're not coming yet."
"Bu...ugh...need...please!" Sherlock's tight, wheezy begging was something extraordinary. The other man's voice was unbelievably calm and careless.
"No, the penalty for cheating is...one hour."
The sound that followed the blunt punishment could only have been described as strangled cry, mingled with frustration and disbelief. It made John's stomach knot unbearably.
Taking that as his cue (that, and his nearly full-mast erection), the doctor stoically straightened, and left the rampant couple to it. Not my boyfriend, Sherlock's voice reminded him gently.
It was almost easy for him to ignore the sounds emitting from the detective's bedroom, because they were being drowned out by the sickly, deafening buzz of his own arousal, shame, and anger. It was an acid-tasting concoction of emotions, a flavour almost too complex for his palate. But then, Sherlock was always insisting on opening him up to new experiences.
He was reluctant to go into the bathroom, but he knew he at least needed a wash. It would bring him closer to the other' room, of course, but he could pretend that the intermittent sighs, moans and slaps were simply figments of his imagination. He closed the door to the bathroom firmly, almost trying to make it clear he was here and the two of them should please stop making sounds that were burning a trail from toe to cheek.
I can't help it, John. I've tried to muffle myself for you.
Jesus, that was not helping. The day Sherlock took up residence as his inner-monologue narrator was the day he had officially started losing his mind.
He gave himself the most cursory of ablutions, slamming a few cupboards and his toothbrush cup. By the time he was done however, he had little chance of surpassing the detective's volume.
His movements were sharp, hard, and probably a bit too vigorous as he started to clean his teeth. The volume only increased and the doctor danced from foot to foot, glancing down at the bulge in his boxers. With a small growl (caused by a particularly high cry), John turned and slammed his hand to the shower, setting the spray to tepid, before finishing his teeth.
Just his luck that the boiler had decided to fuck up and make the water more 'cool' than tepid. Fuck, but that was not helping his mood. Nor were the small, sombre thoughts that were somehow getting heard amongst his righteous snarls of anger.
I bet he doesn't kiss Sherlock goodbye.
Even if he asks.
John shook off his boxers, his mind still fixated firmly on the antics next door.
He probably doesn't hold him.
"No! Ah...fuck."
John ground his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Or show him any fucking mercy at all. Prick.
Then again, maybe Sherlock doesn't go to him for mercy. Maybe mercy's not what he needs.
John's eyes widened slightly.
Sherlock might need to be controlled... dominated.
But…he also wants to be kissed. He says he tried intimacy, but was rejected. He calls it 'making love.'
As ever, the man was the ultimate conundrum.
He supposed, if this kind of sex was all Sherlock had ever known, he might have craved the other side (even though it sounded as though he was enjoying this side quite a fucking lot). There was a high pitched wail, accompanied by another sharp smack, and John practically jumped under the spray. It made him gasp, the cold droplets running over his overheated skin.
Still...this was, if Sherlock was to be believed, his one and only partner, ever. Under what possible circumstances had they met? Why had they started having sex? If this...aggression was the only kind of sex Sherlock knew, then maybe he really didn't understand the term 'making love.' Unless Mr. Mystery had told him that this was what intimate, loving sex was like.
John had no problem with BDSM, he had himself indulged in it, and it could of course be as loving and intimate as any other kind of sex. But he was having serious doubts as to the kind of man Sherlock's 'friend' was. If he was taking advantage of him, using him, damaging him in any way for his own sick kicks, then there would be hell to pay.
John would make sure of it. He would find this guy, and teach him what it meant to -
To what? To give Sherlock what he'd apparently asked for? To give Sherlock the release he craved, even if it was completely backwards?
He didn't think he'd ever felt so torn and frustrated, and the soft little mewls coming from the other room was not helping anything. He stepped further under the spray, putting both hands to the cold tiles so that he couldn't be tempted to bring any more attention to his lower half than he deserved.
When it came down to it, it was really none his business who Sherlock shagged, or how. But it was his business to make sure he was safe. To protect him.
Sherlock claimed that John knew his lover, but Sherlock had an eidetic memory, and for all he knew the mystery man was a cashier John glanced at in a bank queue once, and should obviously remember forever.
One thing was for sure - first chance he got, he was going to discover who this guy was, and check him out.
Sherlock couldn't be sure exactly how long it took for the steady hum of the shower to stop, and the resounding thump of the front door as it sounded closed. The detective finally let out a long breath, the searing lines striping over his back still pulsing strongly as the stinging started to lose its edge.
He nudged the back of his hand over the burning, hot-to-the-touch slaps on his left cheek, and marvelled at the numb pain that seemed to have settled over his whole body. He frowned at his fully-clothed room-mate indignantly when he tasted blood on his bottom lip.
The other man met his glance, and shrugged. "Sorry. You started yelling, your teeth caught it. Didn't mean to."
Sherlock let his bland expression hold the other's soft brown gaze for a little longer, causing the other to shift slightly before Sherlock gathered his risen and rosy limbs, slinking off the bed with all the grace he could muster in his semi-exhausted state.
"I assume the rate we agreed on before is still sufficient?"
"It's your call." The other man checked his mobile, before stretching and standing, hands in his pockets.
"Two hundred and fifty it is, then."
Sherlock's voice felt scratchy from exertion, his body raw and inflamed, but overall his mood was peaked. He turned his bare body towards his discarded trousers, bending to swipe his wallet with only the briefest grimaces on his face.
He handed over a handful of pink fifties, and tried not to smirk as a memory resurfaced to tickle him. The first time John had been in his wallet grumpily looking for Sherlock's National Insurance card (even though he had insisted he didn't need one, and hence, didn't have one), he had sworn creatively at seeing the notes therein. He had proceeded to complain that he couldn't remember the last time he had seen a fifty-pound note, and hadn't seen so much pink since he'd help paint his baby sister's bedroom.
Thinking of John in this moment, as pleasant as it was, did not fit within his negotiations. He turned to the well-built, dark blond in front of him and held out his hand impatiently.
"Your services were adequate, if a little ambitious."
The detective felt the corners of his lips twist, ever so slightly, as the young man unwound from his tight pose and let a long, predatory grin spread over his features.
Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped back.
"...Anyway...I'm sure you have...other things to attend to," Sherlock deflected. The other man approached him, money still shamelessly clutched in hand, and ruffled the detective's hair.
Sherlock jerked his head back, incredulous, only to gain a smooth chuckle from his companion.
"See you around, Sherl. Call me next time you need a good scream, eh?"
The brunette rolled his eyes dramatically, and then startled in shock as the slightly-shorter man attempted to lean in for a peck. Sherlock frowned. "I thought you charged extra for kisses? The 'intimacy tax,' if I recall," he spat.
The blond cocked one perfectly arched eyebrow, and Sherlock couldn't help but mentally compare the differences between him and the army doctor.
"This one's free," he all but purred, leaning close before Sherlock could step away. The brunette felt a soft brush to the corner of his lips but before he was able to respond, the other had pulled away.
The only thought that Sherlock seemed able to compute at that moment was how shell-shocked he probably looked. By the time he had the wherewithal to formulate a reply, the other man was on his way out, trudging downstairs.
The front door slammed for the second time, and he sat down heavily on his bed, before drawing in a hissed groan of pain at the pressure on the fresh, damp welts on his backside.
See you around.