Sherlock tossed his bag carelessly beside the pristine double-bed, stretched, and sighed. He had a fierce headache, manifesting as a gas explosion in the 'hazardous materials' (emotions) sector of his Mind Palace. His journey had been uneventful, in the back of a stifling taxi. Now, he pushed open the windows of his Kensington apartment and welcomed the freezing, numbing midday air.
He let out a long breath, closing his eyes as he tried to let the freezing wind burn the embarrassment from his cheeks. The halls of his mind were cracked, the windows shattered, the files once so neatly shelved splayed across the cold marble floor. Everything was in disarray, and it would take days to clean it all up. He brought his hands together, rolling his chin over the tips of his fingers as he tried to find some semblance of peace. It didn't help, flutters of memories replaying behind his eyes.
In a rush of frustration, Sherlock turned and allowed his body to flop unceremoniously onto the queen sized bed. With nothing to keep his itching fingers occupied, the detective pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through the messages that John had sent the night before. John...
His doctor really had been quite adamant in his 'rejection' of Tristan.
Whether it had been entirely altruistic, Sherlock didn't know.
Rubbing his eyes, he used his free hand to unpick his jacket and shirt, and kicked off his shoes to bump faintly on the thick carpet.
Sherlock pushed himself up the bed, curling his back as he tucked his legs together. He felt a faint tug to the corner of his lip as he read the last text.
High-functioning sociopath.
He shook his head, irked and endeared at the same time. What a ridiculous, stubborn, nosy, wonderful man John was. It had killed him, at times, to have John so close, and to be unable to touch.
Now that he could forgo that hesitation however, now that he could have John under his hands– the inevitable had happened. Of course he risked losing him. Why should he be allowed his moment of happiness?
He had learned long ago that fragments of joy were often accompanied by the rough edge of pain –accessible, but with the risk of being cut. He tapped his thumbs absently on the screen, bringing up the message folder labelled 'John'. What would he even say?
He breathed out hard through his nose.
John. Good start.
How are your knuckles? - SH
His body was still, his breath hardly easing in and out his lungs in the few minutes he waited for the reply.
-Sore.
-Worth it though. – JW
Having you come to my rescue is one of my favourite things. - SH
Sherlock panicked and doubted himself the instant he had sent the message. That may have sounded...oppressively sentimental.
It was a tense thirty seconds until the reply chimed through.
Well he was a dick. -JW
Yes. - SH
Sherlock pondered what to type next. The simplest thing in the world, to construct a series of words from twenty-six letters. But confoundingly difficult, too.
Are you still at home? - SH
Yeah. I wasn't sure where else to go. – JW
This is where I am… - SH
Sherlock quickly snapped a few panoramic photos of the elaborately furnished flat, and sent them.
Jesus, where the hell are you? The Ritz? - JW
I didn't break any laws to get in here, if that's what you're asking. I own this. – SH
You own that? When did you get a place like that? – JW
I was about nineteen. You should come over sometime. It's very well-appointed. Hot tub and everything. I hear those are desirable. I personally consider them to be cauldrons of pathogens. - SH
It looks lovely. Why are you at 221 if you've got a place like that? -JW
It's not to my taste. Who needs an inbuilt pineapple corer? I don't. I think the people who designed this place had cerebral syphilis. -SH
-Having things you don't need seem to be necessities in luxurious places.
-How long are you going to stay there? – JW
Sherlock didn't answer the question, not yet.
221B is luxurious to me precisely because it has all the necessities I could contemplate. You are one of those things. – SH
Was it true though? What Dickface was saying? –JW
I had to try and find a way to play on your innate jealousy and protective instincts towards me - SH
Why didn't you just talk to me about it? -JW
I think you had to come to terms with it yourself. I had one chance to try and obtain you – SH
Why just the one chance? -JW
If I screwed up, the dynamic of 'us' would have been irrevocably damaged. Then I couldn't hope for you to see me as a potential partner. - SH
I think you've overthought all of this. -JW
There is no such thing. Did you pretend to be me on my phone because you wanted to be with me? Or because you were worried for my safety? - SH
-All of the above. Plus I really didn't like him and knew you deserved better.
-How did I do, as you? –JW
Surprisingly well. ; ) You do want to be with me? You don't want a woman, like he said? - SH
Sherlock despised using emojis, but he felt the inclusion of one might lighten the mood a little. Text levity had gotten him out of trouble (well, in less trouble) with John on more than one occasion.
-It's still weird seeing you use smileys.
-I think having my tongue in your arse is probably hint enough about what I want. –JW
There was a telling pause, and John hoped he hadn't been too blunt.
But...my arse? Not male arse in general? - SH
Yes, Sherlock. Your fabulous arse. -JW
Should we...talk about it? Sexily? - SH
Like... The way you felt under my tongue? -JW
Yes. And I can masturbate here. And when I'm nearly there you can watch. If you want. - SH
I... Think this is a good plan. –JW
Sherlock sat up, shucking off his shirt and tapping his phone until he was waiting for John to pick up. He quickly padded to the window and abruptly slammed it shut, halting the progress of the ice-laden air.
The phone trilled in his ear and there was a moment that a sliver of doubt curled around his chest. Perhaps John had changed his mind? Perhaps he was regretting admitting to-
"Hi."
"Oh," Sherlock found himself uttering, as if he was surprised. He shook his head and scolded himself silently, before clearing his throat. "Hi John."
Then, for perhaps the first time in his life, he didn't know what to say.
There was a slight crackle in the line and Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. John, as always, beat him to it.
"I'm sorry, about, well... pretending to be you."
"It's okay. It worked out. Well, sort of. Not for Triss," Sherlock huffed, amused. "And, I'm sorry for paying a prostitute to engage me in sex and mark me in order to make you envious."
John let out a small bark of laughter.
"Yeah, well, don't do it again huh? I was losing my mind for a bit there."
"Did it surprise you? Finding out I had a sex drive? And quite a substantial one, at that?" Sherlock was sure his grin was audible.
"Well yeah. I mean, despite what you say you're still human. So everyone gets urges - I just didn't think yours would be so... adventurous."
"I don't actually like being hit. And I don't have much experience, really. I'm most confident when taking care of myself with toys. I wasn't joking when I told you about how I'd mastered my own pleasure."
John took a breath that seemed a little uneven, before blowing it out in a rush.
"Toys?"
"Yes. Penetrating myself gives by far the most intense experience. You remember?" Sherlock purposely lowered his already gravelly baritone. "...When I fingered myself, beside you in bed."
"God... your voice is bloody obscene, you know that right? Christ."
"Yes, John. I know. And you're going to hear it when I scream your name. Would that please you?"
"Oh... shit. Yes, God yes."
"If I tell you everything I do to myself...would you join in? I can start your tutelage in perfect climaxes."
"I... I would try to keep up."
"Not good enough, John. It's in your best interests to excel."
There was a small moan down the line, and Sherlock felt a smirk tug the corner of his lips.
"I will, fuck. OK wait, let me just... take..."
There was a small kind of scuffle on the other end, a distant thump before John's slightly heavy breath came into focus on the line.
"OK. I'm listening."
"Where are you? Tell me. Are you undressed?" Sherlock licked his lips, settling himself on his own bed, rummaging one-handed in the bedside drawer, praying that his emergency lube was still in date, and hoping he sounded more smouldering than he felt as he grabbed a sticky, half-full bottle.
"I'm... on your bed. Now naked."
"My bed? Oh. Yes, that's...that's stirring things here," Sherlock laughed softly, and spoke again, his voice gentle, but rumbling and deep. "I want you to prop the pillows up. Sit against them, comfortably. I'm assuming you have found and procured my lubricant?"
"Oh, uh..." More scuffling, the scraping of what he envisioned was his bedside table.
"Jesus Sherlock, how many toys do you have?" There was another scramble and a frustrating silence as the doctor moved to follow his instructions. Finally there was a sigh.
"Smells like you," muttered John, the words leaving his mouth as if it had been a passing thought that he'd unintentionally vocalised.
"Don't mess up my dildo index," Sherlock chided, before continuing. "I don't want you to peek at them. I'll show them to you in person. Then you'll use them on me, and it'll be like my first times all over again."
"God... I haven't touched them. And I'm comfortable. Are you undressed?"
"I have my trousers on. I'm taking them off now. While I do..." There was a faint rustle of fabric, and John waited. "...The night of the striptease...did you enjoy my jeans?"
John let out a small noise, something like a scoff and a laugh mingled.
"Yeah, you looked so good. Why do you think I lost my shit?"
"I didn't actually plan to go on stage. But I suspect it worked in my favour." There was a faint little grunt, and a long exhale. "I'm naked now."
John let out a long, shaky breath. "What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to get to a state of considerable arousal, quickly. Whatever that means for you. But don't get so close that you risk climaxing. I'll do the same. And I want to hear everything you do to yourself."
"Okay..."
There was silence for a good twenty seconds before John's breath came out in a rush, and he gave a small groan. "Talk to me."
"Do you ever penetrate yourself? Ever tested yourself? Ever felt ashamed when you realised that even a slight insertion can explode the senses?
"I... a few times. I could never - nggh - never find the right spot."
"Oh, John!" The doctor was surprised by the awed glee in his flatmate's voice. "That's...excellent news."
"Is it? Don't tell me you thought I hadn't experimented?"
"It's good news, because it's another thing I can teach you. You're going to experience a prostate orgasm, and I'll teach you. Oh, it's wonderful," Sherlock babbled excitedly, and John nearly giggled at his enthusiasm.
"Alright, you can teach me. Fuck. Are you touching yourself?"
"I don't need to yet. I'm fully hard thinking about you," He cleared his throat again, and got more comfortable against his lush, plump pillows. He closed his eyes against the cold brightness of the room, and gently cupped himself, letting out a sharp, harsh gasp.
John released a small breath, reacting to Sherlock's voice.
"Tell me what you're doing," the detective demanded.
John let out a small grunt, the line flickering before there was a long moan. "Ah God...mmm... feels good."
"Use lube if you want...push slightly under your balls...till you feel a...spark. That's your prostate. From the outside," Sherlock informed him, and John allowed it with a grin, despite being a doctor and having encyclopaedic knowledge of the prostate's location and function.
"Okay," John said, with a new determination in his tone. He moved his fingers downwards, biting his lower lip before adding a small press of pressure. The answering gasp told the detective John had found what he'd been looking for.
"Yes, yes! Oh god, John," Sherlock cooed deliriously. "Wonderful. Your other hand. Hold the base. Thrust into it, slowly."
"Oh God... fuck...Sherlock..."
John did as he was told, balancing the phone between his shoulder as he took himself in hand, keeping the pressure to his perineum and thrusting into his hand.
"Shit! More Sherlock, tell me... to... more."
"Mmm, John, you sound divine. I want your...hips to do the work. Thrust up. As if I was riding you."
The next moan was deep, guttural, as his hips bucked in response to Sherlock's voice.
"God I want... yes, Sherlock, yes."
"Tell me when you're close. Fuck...your fist hard, John. Fucking...ugh," Sherlock panted, head pressed back into the pillows, his fringe tickling his tightly-closed eyes. "You have to tell me. And keep pushing your prostate."
"I'm not...mm... not close yet - shit, God - want you... to ride me, oh."
The phone perched dangerously on his shoulder as he started to make small circles on his prostate, pressing harder and making his hips buck hard. He cried out, a sheen of sweat on his brow, groaning as his hips thrust in an erratic rhythm.
"Yes yes, make noise, make...lots of noise," Sherlock entreated, huffing for breath. "I'm going to lubricate my fingers...how many, John? How many would best replicate you?"
John groaned, stilling his hips to run his hand over his length. He held himself, thinking, finding it hard to focus. Pressing his fingers flat against his length, he let out a long sigh.
"Start with three," he rasped, his voice thick and deep.
John found himself listening as best he could for the slick, wet sounds of Sherlock preparing himself. Before very long, the phone, now on speakerphone, was bumped against the detective's face again, resting beside him on the plush pillows.
"Oh yes, here we go," Sherlock wheezed, before emitting a shocked, blissful cry.
"Je...sus..."
John thrust hard into his hand, giving a grunt of frustration before he grabbed the bottle of lube he'd found in the drawer. He squirted far too much into his palm before slicking up his cock. When he returned to the previous hold, the next thrust of his hips was slick and hot and-
"Oh my God!" John gasped, shoving his hips forward again, his other hand pressing down with each push forward. "Oh God, oh Christ - Sherlock!"
"Don't come! Don't come!" Sherlock yelled at him, sounding close to panic.
John ground his teeth and completely let go of himself, raising his hands and taking three quick gulps of air, stopping himself from fucking his fist until he came.
"I'm not, I'm not! Shit, oh fuck, fuck!"
"Ah...God, John, that was close. You can't come yet. Oh, Jesus," Sherlock was groaning, slowly coming down himself.
John couldn't form words for a good thirty seconds, instead breathing heavily. His wet fingers fumbled with his phone, putting it onto loud speaker and resting it on the pillow next to him.
"God I want to be inside you," he bit out, his voice tinged with an edge of desperation, his swallows audible.
"Yes...you will. I need you there, John. You need to be part of me. You need to make it all complete," Sherlock whispered, licking his lips and listening to his own hammering heart. "Okay...this is your first time so...one more halt, and then we can come."
John nodded, the voice in his ear before he remembered Sherlock wasn't lying next to him.
"Okay... okay I'm ready."
"Is that alright? Do you ever do it? Or are you impatient with your pleasure," Sherlock asked, calming himself, slowly stroking his own stomach.
John licked his lips.
"I've never tried orgasm denial on myself. I didn't see the point when I'm alone."
"Oh, it gets better and better. You wait and see, John," Sherlock chuckled, sounding more pleased with himself than malicious. "Your head's going to explode."
John smiled, rubbing the lube between his fingers idly.
"You'll have to be strict with me as you're not here to physically make me stop."
"If you want me to ride you into the mattress at any point in the future, then you'd better obey," Sherlock sniggered. "Ready to start again?"
John let out a small groan before he chuckled lightly.
"Yes, sir," he smirked.