You Owe Me Nothing

John is reminded that Sherlock has not always been exclusively his, and he does not like it one bit. He decides he must fix this.


Part Two


John will never tire of the look that comes into Sherlock's eyes when he knows he is being commanded. The way they go black with it; the utter glee, the greed it brings to life there. It's intoxicating. So is the way Sherlock instantly obeys. John had made sure to use his service voice because he knows it's a kink. He'd mostly known but discovered it fully when he'd used it intentionally to get Sherlock to turn during one of the times he'd been fucking him off the bed. Knows he'd already seen it hundreds of times in side-glances of his face while they'd been working together in the past.

Sherlock becomes instantly compliant at the sound of it now. John watches him melt to the floor, folding to his knees and setting his hands palm down on each thigh. He doesn't look away from his eyes once. Stares at him earnestly; with a thirst so obvious John almost feels the urge to smile with how utterly proud he is to invoke such arousal in such a beautiful man. He subdues his glee as the haze in the room continues to thicken; mirrors the way the heat in his body grows as they stare at each other.

Fuck, he's pretty like this. Pretty always, but this… He knows very much that Sherlock would spend every second allowed on his knees. His tongue flicks out, runs over his lips; the only slip he allows himself before he straightens his shoulders sharply and puts his hands behind his back, settling into a most familiar stance from his years in service. Somehow it makes the look in Sherlock's eyes even more dark; John feels his cock strain against his loosened trousers as the man takes his bottom lip between his teeth before letting it go. John keeps his hands locked and his chin sharp as he walks slowly towards him. Sherlock's head tilts farther and farther back with each step, and he does not stop until the tips of his shoes press against the man's knees.

"That's right," he breathes, the arousal wrapped around them absolutely stealing all the air left in the room. "You keep your eyes on me."

Sherlock's eyelids flutter, but he stares up at him so directly John can feel it. "Am I allowed to speak?"

John's stomach tightens at the man's breathless voice. It pulls at his cock again as he presses one hand flat against the counter, the other reaching to slide into Sherlock's hair and find a firm grip of his head. "Yes. I want to hear you."

He sees Sherlock's pupils blow wide again before the man suddenly leans in, pressing his face against the ache of his cock and inhaling deep. John can't stop his hips from shuddering forward into it, his head falling back so quickly it hurts as his hands pull Sherlock hard against him. "Jesus."

Sherlock groans, loud and unabashed as he grabs the back of John's thighs to hold him tight. "I don't think you understand how much I adore this cock," John hears him murmur into the swiftly dampening fabric of his pants.

"I might," he grits out.

"No." Mouthing the outline of it, Sherlock raises those fucking eyes towards him again. John can hear himself panting like a dog, broken through the muffled sound of Sherlock's completely cock-draining voice. "You have no idea how good it feels inside of me, John. How good it feels to slide down on it." All at once Sherlock is reaching down into his pants and wrapping his fingers around the throbbing subject of their conversation, pulling it eagerly out. John groans loudly, thrusting into his hand as Sherlock looks up at him with an absolutely smitten look on his face, moaning his next words into the side of his cock, "How incredible it feels inside me when you fuck me from behind, or from below, or when you—"

"Enough." The pressure in John's stomach is overwhelming as he pulls fiercely on Sherlock's hair and waits until the man's eyes look up at him with complete consent before he says through his teeth, "Open your mouth."

Sherlock has only a split second to obey – does it with what John can only describe as a whimper – before he's stuffing his mouth full, pushing down his throat with a desperate groan. He feels Sherlock's fingers lock 'round his thighs again, but this is the only indication of any need to compose himself; Sherlock has always let him use his mouth however he fucking needs to, and he has always made sure to let John know how much he fucking loves it. He keeps his throat loose and open, alternates with perfect discretion between letting John slide against his lips at his own pace, and sucking him hard. Each cycle of glorious pressure make John's eyes roll back in his head as he uses his grip of Sherlock's hair to pull his head and move him that way too. Within several minutes his cock is already straining for release in the warmth of Sherlock's mouth, but all he can think about as he makes the man gag on it is the fact that other men have stood here and watched him do the same fucking thing. Does he moan their name like he does his, thick and frantic? Look up at them too with tears in his eyes from the stretch, the lack of air?

Fuck, it makes his blood boil. He would kill for this man. He would kill anyone. End any life.

"You will never touch," He pauses; pulls Sherlock's head back by his hair until the man has to slide further under his legs and arch back ridiculously far to make sure his cock stays nestled firmly in his mouth. Sherlock's eyes shine with joy the entire time he does this, a grateful moan shuddering out around his swollen length. John grinds into it and continues raggedly, "another cock, ever again. Do you understand me?"

Sherlock nods, quick and frantic. John fights the way his eyes want to roll. The pressure locked around his cock overwhelms him, even as every second he tries (nearly pointlessly) to build resolve – he will not come until he has made sure Sherlock knows he will not condone even the briefest thought of anyone from his past for awhile.

Suddenly Sherlock pulls off, ignoring the way John chokes out his disapproval of this as he glares up at him through the blur of arousal in his eyes. "Stop doing that, John," he says, hoarse from the stretch of his cock and oh that's so lovely John feels it make him jump against Sherlock's chin. "Stop holding yourself back. It's you I've wanted inside me since the second I laid eyes on you; you I imagined every time I let anyone else touch me. I belong to you. John. Fucking show me if I belong to you."

He knows Sherlock very intentionally words it that way because he knows that it will strike a chord – as if he hasn't pounded into him many, many times already that he owns him now. Fucking dickhead. Gritting his teeth, he lets go of Sherlock's hair and reaches down to slide his thumb through the mess of spit and pre-come that coats his chin.

"Stop talking. You say my name and nothing else. Don't answer, just nod." He's not sure if he even finishes the last word, he's too busy focusing on sliding his cock back into the beautiful press of Sherlock's open mouth; focusing on the man's muffled sound of gratitude. "And keep your fucking hands to yourself. I haven't decided if I'll let you touch me yet."

Even as his eyes blow wide with shock, dismay; still John can see the filthy pleasure his rage evokes in Sherlock as the man stares up at him a second after he speaks before his eyes roll back and he puts both hands flat on the floor, leaning forward to take John's entire cock down his throat with a sound so obscene it flits through John's knees and almost sends him to the floor himself. As the sensations build in him, curling out from the warmth between his legs, growing up into his hips, into his gut, up his chest, John starts to just focus.

Focus. Focus on the way it feels, the head of his cock pushing gloriously against the back of Sherlock's throat; the sounds, the wet slide of the man being careful not to swallow any of the thick mess that builds in his mouth. He's utterly glorious, and John knows he will have to spend a lot of time being intentional about letting those lucky enough to have had the man this way in the past go. But this thought infuriates him a bit too, and he decides to act on it now, not bend to it.

He presses one palm on the counter and wraps his fingers round the edge; the other he uses to take hold of the chair, and with this grip he holds his weight so he can move. He rolls his hips hard, fucking into Sherlock's mouth exactly as he would his hole. Blearily he feels the urge to praise how firm and still the man keeps his body for him, but he can't seem to bring himself for a while to form words. Sherlock loosens his jaw and takes the strong fuck of his hips beautifully. Even on his knees the incredible man makes sure to keep his stance and stay a warm, wet, soft, tight, glorious place for John to thrust his rage.

He can't stop the hideous reel in his mind of Sherlock with other men that stays always muffled behind the bliss. So he moves his focus each time a scenario pops into his head; shifts it to the glorious suction of Sherlock's throat, shoves down into it more violently as each one comes. He can feel Sherlock's hands eventually come up to hold his calves; allows him this gentle grip because he knows Sherlock needs something.

"Fucking bloody Christ," he finally chokes out, tears in his eyes as he forces himself to stop moving after awhile. Sherlock's face is wet with them; his eyes feverish and nearly feral as he stares up, lips stretched around the base of his cock. John fights the urge to fuck his face 'til he comes; bites out instead; "I want to come down your fucking throat but I need it in you—"

He hears Sherlock gurgle out a frantic moan. It sounds so filthy he feels his balls draw up and groans, grabbing Sherlock's head with both hands as he hovers a moment there, overwhelmed with heat; how close he is. He knows Sherlock is begging for him to wait. Knows he wants to be fucked just as raw as John plans to have him.

But this throat. Fuck. This throat. He just wants—

Pulling quickly out of his mouth, John sucks in what he can manage to make resemble a few deep breaths and wraps his hand around his cock to squeeze the base, pressing off what he can. It does not help much. But it allows them both the few seconds they need to hover a moment, panting, undone; and then suddenly Sherlock is reaching into his pocket and pulling out the half-gone bottle of lube. John swallows hard as Sherlock hands it to him and doesn't wait before grabbing at where John's pants are stuck halfway down his thighs, his fingers frantic and wet. "John," he gasps, "please–"

Despite himself, despite everything, John feels a helplessly smitten chuckle press at the inside of his mouth. "You can't just carry this around for the rest of your life."

Sherlock quickly stills to look back up at him. Flushed and undone as he is, he still manages to look defiant. Stunning. Magnificent. His eyebrow raises. "Watch me."

Even as his cock leaps up, aching with how much he wants to bury it deep, John is shocked by how quickly bitterness continues to grow alongside. He genuinely can't believe the force of the fury he feels. How often do you go to him? How does he touch you? Does he make you come like this? Does he make you come like I can't?

The words taste like ash in his mouth; like glass in his throat. He does his best to ignore them.

But he can't deny how his hands are much fiercer than they need to be as he quickly sets the lube down and grabs Sherlock's wrists to pull them up in front of the man's face. It subdues him as intended; Sherlock goes instantly still, looking back up into his eyes. There is such a gorgeous look of want for him there it nearly extinguishes his rage – but not quite. He stares back down at the panting man with his jaw clenched and his body trembling with a desire for violence. God, he wants to fucking throw him—

"John."

There it is. Always what he needs to snap him back; tuned in to him like night is to day. His mirror; his counterpart. Constantly reading him inside and out; constantly aware of what he needs. Even here. Even with John dripping down his neck; even here on his knees in the kitchen.

"I hope you're ready for how fast I'm going to stretch you out, Sherlock," he quietly says.

Sherlock doesn't respond, which is okay, because John is past the point of caring what words are said now. Save the select few he expects to hear each time he fucks him – but he knows they'll come later. He pulls Sherlock to his feet and slot their mouths instantly together, both his hands sliding up to fist in his hair again. Sherlock's breath rushes swift and hot through his nose, down John's throat as the man latches onto his lips, moans around his tongue, "May I touch you now?"

John thrusts his straining cock against the rough fabric covering Sherlock's thigh, biting down on the side of his mouth and feeling his eyes roll again at the way the man whimpers when he does. His body has always had such primal and automatic responses to the sounds that Sherlock makes. "Yes, darling, but I'm going to come up your arse, and if you ruin that in any way I will be irreparably incensed at you."

Sherlock instantly reaches down and wraps his hand around his cock, stroking him frantically a moment before John realizes he's reaching for the lube. He quickly wraps his fingers under the man's jaw to tilt his head back sharply, pressing his mouth there as Sherlock moans. "Stop," he breathes into the man's sweat-soaked skin. "Stop forgetting your place. I'm going to take you so far apart you're out of your fucking mind before I fill you up how you want. I love you, Sherlock, but I could fucking rip your perfect face off for every single sod you've let touch you before me. Hold still."

He can see that his words do as he intends; feels the way Sherlock shudders with them as he watches the man's eyes roll back, the flush spreading so far up his cheeks it reaches his forehead. It makes John's heart ache, his cock ache. God, he loves him.

He undresses him slowly. Takes his time. At times he watches what he's doing, carefully tracking each button of Sherlock's shirt as he undoes them; other times he stares straight into Sherlock's eyes. Like when he's unzipping his trousers slowly, when he's sliding his fingers into the elastic of his shorts, when he's pulling everything down slow, slow, slow. Sherlock's swollen mouth stays open the entire time. John prefers him that way. Mouth open.

As soon as he's naked John grabs the lube and melts to his knees in front of him. He knows it takes Sherlock by surprise, which he ignores. As the man takes a small step backwards John quickly grabs his hips and pulls him close, pressing his lips to the side of Sherlock's swollen, beautiful cock. He bites back a pleased grin when the man convulses against his mouth, grabbing John's hair in both hands without meaning to and gasping, "Don't–"

"*Don't?" John sits back a bit and Sherlock lets him go. He gazes up at him with a raised eyebrow. "Is that what you just said?"

"John." Somehow Sherlock's voice drops a thousand more octaves and despite himself John finally lets his ragged smile loose at the nearly mortified look on the man's face. "I don't need–"

"Sod off." His heart pounds a solid weight of hunger and reverence in his chest as he follows the words with his teeth, biting the things he doesn't say into Sherlock's skin. The closer his mouth gets to the man's pulsing cock the more broken Sherlock's breath becomes, and soon he feels long fingers curl into his hair again. He moans, low and soft to show his approval, and then he slides his lips around him and pulls. Sherlock's knees completely buckle in response.

John is unbearably fucking hard as he slides slowly on and off him, gentle pressure that he knows is just a tease. He watches Sherlock's head fall back before he carefully slips one lube-coated finger into what he knows will be a very relaxed and very lovely hole. The whine that pours out of Sherlock's mouth when he does makes his entire body flush with need.

He doesn't slow; doesn't give him time to adjust. Two fingers quickly replace one and work him out in rhythm with each steady pull of his cock. After a moment he grabs Sherlock's leg and lifts, hooking his knee over his shoulder so he can slide in at a better angle and oh, yes; fuck; there it is. He can hear the rise in Sherlock's voice; the utter elation that bursts forth in his moans as he glides over his prostate for no more than a minute before Sherlock suddenly pulls away and simply folds down onto him, all pliant limbs and sweaty skin and unhinged eyes. Wanting his cock like John knows he does. He would die for him. Die for this.

Instead he settles back onto the balls of his feet to keep them both steady and tries to get a hand back and keep taking him apart. Before he can touch him Sherlock spreads himself open with both hands and in a fluid movement that John has absolutely not a single moment to prepare for slides down onto his cock. White-hot pleasure bursts across his eyes as he grabs the chair for balance and groans sharply, worry striking through the haze as he feels Sherlock stretch around him. He's slick, but he's tight, so fucking tight and John knows that no matter how cock-hungry Sherlock is it will still be painful and he never wants that.

Sherlock does. John quickly realizes this. As he tightens his body to stay still and give him time to adjust, focused hard on not just driving up into the glorious heat of him like he very much wants to; fuck, that heat; he feels Sherlock wrap his long legs around his waist, already bouncing up and down, whimpering against his ear, "Fuck me."

John uses his free hand to fist in the hair on the back of Sherlock's head and pull it quickly back. The bleary look in his eyes almost makes him come; he grits his teeth and fucks up through it. "Whose is this?" he asks quietly, not letting him go even as Sherlock keeps arching back so he can slide up and down on his cock more conveniently how he wants and god the way he feels John is hard tempted to let the man fuck them both to orgasm. "Whose, Sherlock?"

"Yours," Sherlock breathes, his eyes rolled completely back as he clings to John's shoulders and moves even faster. "Yours, John – John, John, John, John…"

He hopes the man never stops singing his name like this each and every time he fucks him open. It's something John knows he'll never feel worthy of, but will never be able to live without now. This man who is his heart moaning his name with so much need he has to literally brace himself against how bad it makes him want to come deep, now, again, again, again. He can feel that Sherlock is right with him on the edge, feel it in the way the man falls onto his knees on each side of him for more balance to chase it.

He'll never fucking believe how beautiful this is. Sherlock thrust up on his cock, frantic, flushed and damp and nearly sobbing with need. How absolutely exquisite it is seeing how fiercely this man wants him. He knows that soon he is going to come whether he continues to try to stop it or not and Jesus fucking Christ he's not sure he's ever been more ready for anything in his life. He never will be. Ready for how it feels to come with him; come inside him, make sure Sherlock comes first. Sherlock will always come first.

"I love you," he breathes, ignoring his hideously broken voice as he thrusts up into him so hard he can feel the head of his cock drag over Sherlock's prostrate. Instantly it has the man a keening mess; John doesn't even make an effort to quiet him. He wants to fucking hear it. "I will always treat you how you need. I'm going to take such bloody good care of you. Only me, baby. Me."

Sherlock comes somewhere in the midst of the words, bearing down, ridiculously loud as John feels him streak warm and beautiful between them. Instantly it yanks the same heat up from his stomach and he's coming too, hard and relentless and he knows it's his own voice he hears groaning frantically as he pounds up into every single inch of his man. His bloody indescribable man.

"Fuck," Sherlock sobs, one arm wrapping around his neck for balance, for some resemblance of control over the way he's absolutely thrown by John's thrusts.

"You're fucking mine," John seethes, harder now, seeing this fact plain as day in Sherlock's wrecked eyes as they stare at each other. "Sherlock—"

Sherlock leans forward and kisses him frantically, moaning down his throat and digging his fingers into his back. He doesn't stop working John's cock like a whore for a single second and the way it makes their mouths slide is glorious, wet, messy, perfect, just like this hole, god John will never breathe again and he has never ever come like this; fuck—

Eventually his body finally slows; finally allows him to begin to relax, straining away from the chase of it. He slowly pulls out of him, tongue still wrapped around the man's while he does but Sherlock yanks away to let out what John knows is a disappointed groan and drops his head back, grabbing John's shoulders. He quickly gathers the man up in his arms and pulls him close – and then they both still. And they breathe. Just breathe. Eyes locked, chests heaving, gasping in identical pulls of air; John genuinely thinks his heart might pound out of his chest with the utter exhilaration of it and he knows for a fact that Sherlock (clearly) echoes the sentiment. Of course he does.

After a thick, sweat-filled stretch of simply clinging to each other, Sherlock speaks, his voice hoarse from a glorious mixture of John's cock fucking his mouth raw and also from whining his name. "I believe I'm going to compile a list of each and every thing I believe might infuriate you."

Love strikes out even further through him, somehow, and so does want, because fuck, this man is such a cock-tease; he doesn't deserve him but he's going to try every day to convince himself – and Sherlock, too – that he does. He can't risk ever losing this. He never thought he'd touch Sherlock this way; watch such devotion shine out from the depth of those beautiful, familiar, irreplaceable eyes. He grabs the man's arse to yank him close, and Sherlock's mouth falls open. John reaches one hand up so he can curl two fingers around his jaw and in over his tongue to keep it that way. "You don't need a fucking list. Stop hopping straight to mouthing off. Dickhead."

Sherlock's breath rushes through his nose, his eyes positively glowing. John uses the grip he has of his face to pull him forward and fasten their mouths together again. As Sherlock's arms slide around his neck, pulling him desperately close, John stops trying to contain the utter reverence he feels for this fucking sod and presses several gentle kisses to his lips before gathering him fiercely close. Sherlock buries his face in his neck and they sit wrapped together for several sated, lovely moments of silence until Sherlock's muffled voice flits quietly up to him. "There is perhaps a chance we've been shagging in here a bit too much, my love."

John chuckles, pressing a kiss to the sweat-soaked curls on top of the man's head even as Sherlock's soft use of the endearment sends shivers down his spine. "You mean the kitchen?"

Sherlock hums against his skin, nuzzling further down into him. John's entire body melts even further as he laughs. "There is no such thing as too much." Grinning, he squints down into the utterly adoring eyes that Sherlock raises up to him. He kisses the man's nose softly. "I plan to have you on the stairs next. I will have you on every surface in this flat before long, Sherlock. That's a fucking promise."

Of course there is nothing else for Sherlock Holmes to do after such a promise besides scramble frantically back to his knees and try to take his cock back down his throat.

As if John could expect anything else.

Anything else, of his beautiful, indescribable man.


fin

AH. If you're here, I really fucking hope you enjoyed your time. These two. Just. Ugh. Thank you so much for reading, loves. I'd love to hear from you. 3

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