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femmeTitle: A Study In Blue
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I suppose distracting you is my civic duty, really."
Word Count: ~3,800
Warnings: Slight bondage, breathplay, and a bored Sherlock
Author's Notes: Written for a prompt![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
noeon gave on ginger_veela's Hump-Day Porn-a-thon. Huge thanks to noeon and supergrover24 for betaing it for me late this afternoon. And dear God, I may have to write more Sherlock now.
"Bored now," Sherlock says from the sofa, his voice dull and lifeless. The ancient radiator in the corner hisses and clangs in response.
John just ignores him and scrolls further into whatever ridiculous clinical study on BMJ.com has caught his interest. He rolls a biro between his fingertips absently.
With a peeved sigh, Sherlock twists on the sofa, the worn springs creaking beneath him, his dressing gown bunching around his hips. He stares up at the ceiling.
There's another long pause, then the soft thump of long feet landing on the floor as Sherlock sits up. He looks around the room and sighs again.
"Bored. Now."
John just hmms and frowns down at the screen.
Sherlock glares at him. "I could have read that entire site in the time it's taken you to finish four hundred words."
"I'm quite certain." John scrawls something on an notepad.
The flutter of a brown moth in the dusty stream of sunlight from the window catches Sherlock's attention. He watches for a moment, then with a quick snap of his fingers catches the insect by the wings. It struggles for a moment. Sherlock crushes it and flicks it aside, wiping his hand on the heavy silk of his gown as he stands up.
He hates boredom; he has since he was a child and Mycroft had the audacity to hie off to Eton, leaving him behind with no one but their terribly dull parents and their (God forbid) even duller nanny to occupy his time. He's never quite forgiven his brother for that abandonment. Sherlock stops his pacing in front of the desk. His gun lies on top of it, tossed on top of a teetering stack of papers and a German manual of ballistics. He hefts it in his hand, eyeing the wall.
"Don't even think about it," John says, not looking up, and Sherlock sets the gun back on the pile with another highly annoyed huff.
He wraps his dressing gown around his thin hips and shuffles to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He stares blankly into the half-empty cupboards.
"Tea," he shouts, and a moment later he hears John sigh in exasperation.
"Second drawer next to the hob."
Sherlock finds the tin and spoons the dark leaves into his mother's old teapot. It's green Limoges with pale roses meandering across the rounded sides. There's a chip on the lid that he'd put there when he was six and had been curious about the physical composition of bone china. He'd been sent to bed without supper for that one, not that he'd cared: he kept a stash of crisps beneath his bed for such emergencies. The teapot's the only thing he took from his parents' house upon their deaths. Mycroft thought it a rare show of sentimentality. Sherlock hadn't the patience to inform him that his mawkishness was for the remembrance of his first proper experiment, not their flighty and entirely ineffectual mother.
He's drunk two cups of tea and gone through nearly an entire pack of jam tartlets before John appears in the door.
"Bored," Sherlock says again, sweeping crumbs from the table to the floor. Mrs Hudson will sweep them up when she comes by next to check on them both. He licks the very last of the raspberry jam from his thumb.
John sets his laptop on the counter. "So you've mentioned. Repeatedly. It's really rather annoying."
Sherlock just shrugs and drains the lukewarm dregs of his tea.
"Planning on staying in your pyjamas the entire day, are you?" John circles the table and stops behind him, his fingers resting lightly against the back of Sherlock's chair.
"Perhaps." Sherlock flexes his bare feet against the cold tiled floor. "No case. No forum posts. No idiotic commenters begging to have their inane stupidity pointed out to them in minute detail. No reason not to." John is silent. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Is there?"
"So difficult, your life," John says dryly.
Sherlock just heaves a deep sigh and rests his chin on his fist. "Immensely." He droops across the tabletop, rubbing a fingertip over the remnants of a sword gash in the wood. "What I wouldn't do for a nice triple-murder."
"People are so terribly non-accommodating in that regard."
Sherlock just grunts.
John doesn't say anything for a moment, then he leans over Sherlock's shoulder. "Stand up," he says softly, his breath warm and light against Sherlock's ear. It's not a request.
Sherlock straightens in his chair, his interest suddenly piqued. "Why?"
"Don't ask questions." John's voice is clipped. Sharp. Very regimental. "Up. Now."
The chair scrapes across the tile as Sherlock stands. He turns and looks down at his flatmate. "Well?"
John takes the belt to Sherlock's dressing gown in his hand, twisting one end around his fingers. "I think I need to give you something to do." He tugs gently, and the thick dark blue silk belt slides through the loops on either side of Sherlock's waist. "Just to save poor Mrs Hudson's walls from further harm." John wraps the belt around his wrist. The ends swing free. He grabs the open panels of Sherlock's dressing gown, tugging him forward. "I suppose distracting you is my civic duty, really."
"Indeed." Sherlock can't help but agree. He takes a step forward, following John.
John smiles then, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Tell Mycroft I'd be happy to accept that knighthood you keep turning down."
"Tell him yourself," Sherlock says. "I'd rather not speak to my brother unless utterly necessary." Curious, he allows John to lead him back into the warmth of the sitting room.
John smooths his palms over Sherlock's chest, pushing the dressing gown from his shoulders. It catches on Sherlock's arms, bunching around his elbows. Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just watches John, caught by the hunger in his eyes.
The dressing gown falls free, puddling at Sherlock's ankles. John swallows; Sherlock can see his throat tighten momentarily. He's aroused, Sherlock knows, rapid pulse, increased breathing rate, vasocongestion of the skin of the face and neck. It fascinates him, John's desire does. All these months since the first night Sherlock had let John take him into his bed, and he still doesn't quite understand it.
Sex had never been interesting to Sherlock. There were the physical mechanics of it, of course, and Sherlock had discovered early in puberty that when his thoughts grew clouded, it was best to find a private place for masturbation. Over the years he had it down to a precise science—he knew exactly how long he could go without an orgasm and he knew exactly how to bring himself off in the minimal amount of time with a minimal amount of effort.
And then John Watson had walked into his life, and everything Sherlock had believed about himself and his sexual needs had imploded over the course of one long, breathless night.
John's fingers slide beneath Sherlock's grey t-shirt, his touch light and professional against Sherlock's skin. When his thumb grazes a nipple, Sherlock can't stop a sharp, quick breath. A faint smile curves John's lips. "Raise your arms," John says, and Sherlock silently complies.
The brushed cotton shirt is pulled over his head and thrown aside. John's lips skim Sherlock's nipple; his tongue follows quickly. Sherlock observes his own physiological response, the soft thud of his heart as the flow of his blood increases. Another simple arousal instinct, he knows, but he can't stop the shiver that runs through him when John's teeth nip at his skin and his mouth trails up to Sherlock's throat.
"On your knees," John murmurs against the beat of Sherlock's pulse. He pulls back when Sherlock doesn't move. "Now," he says sharply.
Sherlock hesitates only for a moment. In John's narrowed eyes he can see remnants of the soldier who expects immediate obedience. He drops to the dusty floor and looks up, waiting. The worn wood is hard beneath his knees, and he thinks of complaining, but knows quite well too much resistance will cause the game to collapse and John will walk away, leaving his curiosity unquenched. So for now he remains silent, his eyes fixed on John's shuttered face, waiting.
John walks around him, and when Sherlock turns his head to watch, John grabs his hair, twisting it painfully between his fingers. "Don't."
Sherlock stares forward, looking at the wall. They haven't bothered to paper over the bullet holes yet; there are still dark, round gaps in the felted damask. Mrs Hudson still clucks over it every time she sees it and casts disapproving looks that Sherlock ignores. John's fingertips slip across his nape, tracing over the muscles of his shoulders.
"Arms behind your back," John says softly, and Sherlock complies. He crosses them at his wrists, the back of his hands resting against his pyjama-clad arse. He can feel John tie them together with the wide dark blue satin belt, and despite John's expert knotting and the tightening of his muscles as his arms stretch behind him, Sherlock knows he could easily free himself.
But that's not the point, is it?
John walks back around him, the other end of the dark blue silk belt still in his hand. It trails over Sherlock's bare shoulder. "What now?" Sherlock asks, and John smiles down at him.
"Still bored?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Not entirely." Not at all, actually, but he's no intention of letting John know that. He watches as John pulls his jumper over his head. His shirt rides up with it, revealing a swathe of pale skin and the jut of a hipbone. Sherlock only just manages not to lick his bottom lip.
John unbuttons his shirt and draws it off. His body's softer than he'd been in Afghanistan, Sherlock knows. Gone are the defined muscles that war brings. But he's still strong and sturdy, and Sherlock has the overwhelming urge to lean forward and press his mouth unbidden to the edge of hipbone that rises in a small swell above the waistband of John's too-loose corduroys.
"I think," John says, dragging his thumb lightly across Sherlock's mouth, "that I'd best give you something to do with this."
The belt brushes Sherlock's cheek with the movement, a careful wisp of fabric against his skin. He doesn't take his gaze off John's hands as his fingers fumble with the buttons and zip of his trousers. John's cock is stiffening already, filling out the soft, white cotton vee between his fly. Sherlock steadies his breathing. He'd never realised how much he enjoyed cocksucking until John. Not that he hadn't partaken of that particular delight before. One couldn't escape Eton without wrapping one's lips around another boy's prick, if only as an experiment. (Unless one were Mycroft Holmes, of course. Sherlock sincerely doubts his uptight brother has ever had an orgasm, self-inflicted or otherwise, in his life.) But only with John has Sherlock felt the flutter of anticipation deep in his belly at the thought of a cock stretching his mouth wide.
John's fingers tangle in the back of his hair. He draws Sherlock closer. "Go on then," he say softly, looking down at him, and Sherlock's mouth brushes across the swell in John's y-fronts, his eyes fluttering closed for the briefest moment as he feels the warmth of John's prick against his lips.
Sherlock drags his tongue along the cotton, pressing it against John's skin and he's rewarded with a soft sigh and the tightening of John's fingers on his shoulders. John's delight in this always intrigues Sherlock. He wonders at times if John makes the same noises with Sarah, but John's always indignant when he asks. Sherlock doesn't quite understand why it makes John uncomfortable for him to compare both his lovers. He's made it quite clear to John that Sarah doesn't threaten him, so long as she understands her place. While Sherlock's perfectly content sharing John with Sarah, he's no interest in sparring with her over him. John is Sherlock's and has been since he first walked into Sherlock's lab.
He sucks lightly at the head of John's prick, and John groans. "Fuck," John says and Sherlock frowns, pulling back.
"Really, John," he says, but John just pulls his cock free from his pants and presses it back against Sherlock's lips.
"Open," he says. Sherlock doesn't. John taps the head of his prick lightly against Sherlock's mouth. His thumb presses into Sherlock's underjaw. "I'd rather not make you."
Sherlock wishes he would. He'd been curious about his own response the last time John had, stunned by the way John's harshness had made him hard and almost desperate, and captivated by how quickly his patient flatmate had slipped back into the role of steely authority that had kept him alive in the Army. John's thumbnail digs into the soft skin of his underjaw, and Sherlock gives in.
John's cock slides into his mouth. Sherlock can taste him already, sharply bitter, and he shifts his retracted scapula and extended arms, nearly wanting to pull his hands free so he can grasp John's narrow hips and suck him dry. John presses his hips forward with a hiss, and the head of his cock slides along the ridge of Sherlock's palate. Sherlock swallows. John bites his lip. His fingers tangle in Sherlock's hair, the belt still in his hand. It slides over Sherlock's throat, rubbing against his skin.
It's difficult to keep his balance, Sherlock finds. He wants to use his hands, wants to catch himself when he nearly falls. He spreads his knees to get a wider base for balance. John steadies him with his hands, his breath coming in quiet huffs as he rocks his hips forward again, pressing his cock deeper into Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock finally pulls away, gasping. John's wet prick presses against his cheek. "I—" he says, but for once he's not entirely certain what he wants.
John touches Sherlock's cheek, almost gently, before stepping back. His cock bobs from his rumpled corduroys, and he grabs a small bottle from the paper-strewn desk. He's gone barely a moment, but Sherlock feels every second.
When John comes back, he drops to his knees behind Sherlock. His hands make quick work of Sherlock's pyjama trousers, pushing them down. John cups Sherlock's swelling cock in his palm, squeezing gently through his pants, and Sherlock draws in a sharp breath. "John," he says, voice low, and John knows. He always knows. His fingers tug at Sherlock's pants, sliding them down his thin thighs, and he strokes Sherlock's cock quickly, firmly.
Sherlock leans back against him, his tied hands pressed against John's prick. John's mouth is on the curve of Sherlock's throat, nipping, kissing. Sherlock's body tenses under the attention, his skin prickling with heat.
The first time had John touched him, Sherlock had been merely engrossed with the mechanics of male sexuality. Men are far easier in some aspects than women; he's learned that much from carefully observing Molly and Sarah and his mother and their various interactions. There's only been one woman who held his own interest longer than a day, and Sherlock has no idea where she's disappeared to. Irene was never one for forwarding addresses.
He prefers the roughness of men, he thinks. Or perhaps the roughness of John. There's no need for consideration between them. No melodramatics. No foolish words. Just a strong, tight touch and the press of two bodies together.
Slick fingers slide through his crease, just under his hands. "Legs wider," John says against Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock shifts just enough. John's hand leaves his heavy cock, much to Sherlock's annoyance, his palm spread across his stomach, holding Sherlock up as one fingertip presses in.
Sherlock's body aches at the strain of holding himself still at such a difficult angle. It's worth it, though, when another finger slips inside of him, twisting slightly.
John's good at sex. Not much else to do, he'd once said with a shrug, when you're looking for the Taliban's gunmen, and given camels or men, he'd take the latter. Sherlock hadn't been able to disagree.
He groans as John's fingers slide deeper. He can feel the press of John's cock against his arse, and his impatience spills over. "Now, John," he grits out between clenched teeth, his body arching back. John laughs softly, his mouth pressed against Sherlock's temple.
"Testy bastard." John's hand moves, leaving Sherlock oddly empty. He pushes him forward--gently, gently--laying him on the floor in stages. "Quiet," he says when Sherlock protests.
Sherlock falls silent, waiting, his uneven breaths stirring the dust on the floorboards his cheek is pressed against. His shoulders are wrenched at an uncomfortable angle, thanks to the belt of his dressing gown draped around his throat; his hips are high in the air, pyjamas and pants bunched along his thighs. Only for John would he do this, he knows, and this inner awareness fascinates him.
John's fingers trail across his arse. "I think I like you like this way."
"I'm certain Krafft-Ebing would have been delighted to include you in Psychopathia Sexualis," Sherlock says.
That earns him a sharp slap against his hip. "Be nice or I'll leave you like this for Lestrade to find." At Sherlock's snort, John's adds thoughtfully, "Or Mrs Hudson."
Sherlock holds his tongue.
John rubs against him as Sherlock tries to keep his hips still and fails. He likes the feel of John's prick sliding over his hole, tantilising him with the anticipation of what's to come. He draws in a ragged breath, his hair falling into his eyes, his chest compressed against the hard floor and beginning to ache.
When John presses inside him, Sherlock breathes out, canting his hips wider. "Yes," he murmurs, and he can hear John's laboured gasp behind him.
They move slowly at first, John's fingers tight on Sherlock's waist, pulling him back against him with each careful thrust. Sherlock arches into the floor, rocking and trying to use a shoulder for leverage. His wide-spread pyjamaed knees slide against the wood and his bound fists clench, nails digging into his palms.
"More," he croaks, and John moves faster, his hips slapping loudly against Sherlock's arse, his grunts echoing in the near silent room.
Sherlock's body tenses. His mind--always moving, always frantic, always, always, always unless opiates are involved--is finally still. Empty. Fixated on nothing but the sharp, almost-pleasant pain and the building pressure coiling around the base of his spine.
One rough thrust and the dressing gown belt tightens around his neck.
"Oh," Sherlock chokes out on his last breath, and his eyes unfocus. Waves of silent pleasure rock through him, making his body shudder as John's hips slam against him, nearly lifting his knees from the floor.
He can't breathe. Can't think. The tightness around his throat intensifies and his eyes bulge. He can feel his cock bobbing in the air, bouncing into his stomach with another quick rock of John's hips. He tries to make a sound--he doesn't know what--and John's hand is on his prick, stroking hard and fast. John bends over him, whispers something into his ear. Sherlock can't make out the syllables. Nothing matters. Nothing but the intense pleasure sparking across his entire body. The world is darkening around him and he's desperate for air--
The belt loosens.
With a raw cry, Sherlock climaxes, his body stretched and taut and shaking in uncontrollable movements. Spunk spatters across the floor beneath him and he can feel it warm and slick on John's fingers as they slide down his hard prick.
Sherlock gasps, sucking air into his lungs, and then he slumps against the floor. Shudders rack his body. John is inside of him, still moving, still arched over him, breathing raggedly. He's barely aware when John collapses with a small, tight groan.
They lie still for several minutes, the rumble of traffic down Baker Street muffled by their heavy breaths.
"John," Sherlock says finally. John just grunts and presses his face to Sherlock's shoulder. "John," he says again, irritated now. His shoulders ache, and John's weight is beginning to cut off the circulation to his lower arms. He shifts, and John rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
"Sorry." He doesn't sound apologetic. He sounds highly pleased with himself.
Sherlock sniffs and twists his hands back and forth. He has the belt free before John can sit up to unknot it. He arches his back and stretches. His arse is pleasantly sore.
John looks over as he crawls onto his hands and knees. "Still bored?"
"Only slightly." Sherlock pulls up his pants and pyjamas and pushes himself to his feet. He looks down at John, half-naked and sprawled across the floor. "Starving, though. Chinese or Indian?"
"Neither," John calls out after him, but Sherlock's already halfway to his room.
He finds clothes quickly--a crisply starched shirt Mrs Hudson has hung in his armoire and a pair of woolen trousers. He touches his neck, looking into the small, dark mirror above his dresser. There's a pink mark across his pale skin and the edges are beginning to bruise. Sherlock smiles, quite pleased, and leaves his shirt unbuttoned at the throat.
He pulls on his jacket as he walks into the sitting room. John stands near the window with his shirt untucked, jumper in one hand, Sherlock's mobile in the other.
"Come now, John, really," Sherlock begins reproachfully, but the look on John's face when he turns makes him stop. His heart leaps. "Lestrade?"
John nods. "Text just came in." He hands the mobile over.
408 Mile End, Stepney. Worth your while, yes.
Sherlock shoves the mobile in his pocket and reaches for his coat, suddenly ebullient. "Brilliant."
John stops him, his hand on his arm. "Sherlock. You've..." He hesitates, a flush rising on his cheeks.
"What?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Time's wasting, and he's eager to make his way east. They'll be fighting City traffic as it is, congestion charge or no.
John coughs and touches his own throat lightly with two fingers. "A scarf, perhaps?"
"Oh." Sherlock allows himself a moment of amusement as he realises what's flustering John. "Does it bother you?"
"Not precisely." John looks away, and Sherlock's quite aware he's lying. " But Lestrade..."
"Won't even notice." Sherlock buttons his coat. He enjoys John's discomfiture nearly as much as he'll delight in the Inspector's.
"Right then." John doesn't look convinced--Sherlock's grown accustomed to that particular expression--but he grabs his jacket and sighs. "Fine. Whatever. You bloody lunatic."
Sherlock throws the door open gleefully. "Shall we?"
He doesn't look to see if John is following him. He knows he will.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I suppose distracting you is my civic duty, really."
Word Count: ~3,800
Warnings: Slight bondage, breathplay, and a bored Sherlock
Author's Notes: Written for a prompt
noeon gave on ginger_veela's Hump-Day Porn-a-thon. Huge thanks to noeon and supergrover24 for betaing it for me late this afternoon. And dear God, I may have to write more Sherlock now. "Bored now," Sherlock says from the sofa, his voice dull and lifeless. The ancient radiator in the corner hisses and clangs in response.
John just ignores him and scrolls further into whatever ridiculous clinical study on BMJ.com has caught his interest. He rolls a biro between his fingertips absently.
With a peeved sigh, Sherlock twists on the sofa, the worn springs creaking beneath him, his dressing gown bunching around his hips. He stares up at the ceiling.
There's another long pause, then the soft thump of long feet landing on the floor as Sherlock sits up. He looks around the room and sighs again.
"Bored. Now."
John just hmms and frowns down at the screen.
Sherlock glares at him. "I could have read that entire site in the time it's taken you to finish four hundred words."
"I'm quite certain." John scrawls something on an notepad.
The flutter of a brown moth in the dusty stream of sunlight from the window catches Sherlock's attention. He watches for a moment, then with a quick snap of his fingers catches the insect by the wings. It struggles for a moment. Sherlock crushes it and flicks it aside, wiping his hand on the heavy silk of his gown as he stands up.
He hates boredom; he has since he was a child and Mycroft had the audacity to hie off to Eton, leaving him behind with no one but their terribly dull parents and their (God forbid) even duller nanny to occupy his time. He's never quite forgiven his brother for that abandonment. Sherlock stops his pacing in front of the desk. His gun lies on top of it, tossed on top of a teetering stack of papers and a German manual of ballistics. He hefts it in his hand, eyeing the wall.
"Don't even think about it," John says, not looking up, and Sherlock sets the gun back on the pile with another highly annoyed huff.
He wraps his dressing gown around his thin hips and shuffles to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He stares blankly into the half-empty cupboards.
"Tea," he shouts, and a moment later he hears John sigh in exasperation.
"Second drawer next to the hob."
Sherlock finds the tin and spoons the dark leaves into his mother's old teapot. It's green Limoges with pale roses meandering across the rounded sides. There's a chip on the lid that he'd put there when he was six and had been curious about the physical composition of bone china. He'd been sent to bed without supper for that one, not that he'd cared: he kept a stash of crisps beneath his bed for such emergencies. The teapot's the only thing he took from his parents' house upon their deaths. Mycroft thought it a rare show of sentimentality. Sherlock hadn't the patience to inform him that his mawkishness was for the remembrance of his first proper experiment, not their flighty and entirely ineffectual mother.
He's drunk two cups of tea and gone through nearly an entire pack of jam tartlets before John appears in the door.
"Bored," Sherlock says again, sweeping crumbs from the table to the floor. Mrs Hudson will sweep them up when she comes by next to check on them both. He licks the very last of the raspberry jam from his thumb.
John sets his laptop on the counter. "So you've mentioned. Repeatedly. It's really rather annoying."
Sherlock just shrugs and drains the lukewarm dregs of his tea.
"Planning on staying in your pyjamas the entire day, are you?" John circles the table and stops behind him, his fingers resting lightly against the back of Sherlock's chair.
"Perhaps." Sherlock flexes his bare feet against the cold tiled floor. "No case. No forum posts. No idiotic commenters begging to have their inane stupidity pointed out to them in minute detail. No reason not to." John is silent. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Is there?"
"So difficult, your life," John says dryly.
Sherlock just heaves a deep sigh and rests his chin on his fist. "Immensely." He droops across the tabletop, rubbing a fingertip over the remnants of a sword gash in the wood. "What I wouldn't do for a nice triple-murder."
"People are so terribly non-accommodating in that regard."
Sherlock just grunts.
John doesn't say anything for a moment, then he leans over Sherlock's shoulder. "Stand up," he says softly, his breath warm and light against Sherlock's ear. It's not a request.
Sherlock straightens in his chair, his interest suddenly piqued. "Why?"
"Don't ask questions." John's voice is clipped. Sharp. Very regimental. "Up. Now."
The chair scrapes across the tile as Sherlock stands. He turns and looks down at his flatmate. "Well?"
John takes the belt to Sherlock's dressing gown in his hand, twisting one end around his fingers. "I think I need to give you something to do." He tugs gently, and the thick dark blue silk belt slides through the loops on either side of Sherlock's waist. "Just to save poor Mrs Hudson's walls from further harm." John wraps the belt around his wrist. The ends swing free. He grabs the open panels of Sherlock's dressing gown, tugging him forward. "I suppose distracting you is my civic duty, really."
"Indeed." Sherlock can't help but agree. He takes a step forward, following John.
John smiles then, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Tell Mycroft I'd be happy to accept that knighthood you keep turning down."
"Tell him yourself," Sherlock says. "I'd rather not speak to my brother unless utterly necessary." Curious, he allows John to lead him back into the warmth of the sitting room.
John smooths his palms over Sherlock's chest, pushing the dressing gown from his shoulders. It catches on Sherlock's arms, bunching around his elbows. Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just watches John, caught by the hunger in his eyes.
The dressing gown falls free, puddling at Sherlock's ankles. John swallows; Sherlock can see his throat tighten momentarily. He's aroused, Sherlock knows, rapid pulse, increased breathing rate, vasocongestion of the skin of the face and neck. It fascinates him, John's desire does. All these months since the first night Sherlock had let John take him into his bed, and he still doesn't quite understand it.
Sex had never been interesting to Sherlock. There were the physical mechanics of it, of course, and Sherlock had discovered early in puberty that when his thoughts grew clouded, it was best to find a private place for masturbation. Over the years he had it down to a precise science—he knew exactly how long he could go without an orgasm and he knew exactly how to bring himself off in the minimal amount of time with a minimal amount of effort.
And then John Watson had walked into his life, and everything Sherlock had believed about himself and his sexual needs had imploded over the course of one long, breathless night.
John's fingers slide beneath Sherlock's grey t-shirt, his touch light and professional against Sherlock's skin. When his thumb grazes a nipple, Sherlock can't stop a sharp, quick breath. A faint smile curves John's lips. "Raise your arms," John says, and Sherlock silently complies.
The brushed cotton shirt is pulled over his head and thrown aside. John's lips skim Sherlock's nipple; his tongue follows quickly. Sherlock observes his own physiological response, the soft thud of his heart as the flow of his blood increases. Another simple arousal instinct, he knows, but he can't stop the shiver that runs through him when John's teeth nip at his skin and his mouth trails up to Sherlock's throat.
"On your knees," John murmurs against the beat of Sherlock's pulse. He pulls back when Sherlock doesn't move. "Now," he says sharply.
Sherlock hesitates only for a moment. In John's narrowed eyes he can see remnants of the soldier who expects immediate obedience. He drops to the dusty floor and looks up, waiting. The worn wood is hard beneath his knees, and he thinks of complaining, but knows quite well too much resistance will cause the game to collapse and John will walk away, leaving his curiosity unquenched. So for now he remains silent, his eyes fixed on John's shuttered face, waiting.
John walks around him, and when Sherlock turns his head to watch, John grabs his hair, twisting it painfully between his fingers. "Don't."
Sherlock stares forward, looking at the wall. They haven't bothered to paper over the bullet holes yet; there are still dark, round gaps in the felted damask. Mrs Hudson still clucks over it every time she sees it and casts disapproving looks that Sherlock ignores. John's fingertips slip across his nape, tracing over the muscles of his shoulders.
"Arms behind your back," John says softly, and Sherlock complies. He crosses them at his wrists, the back of his hands resting against his pyjama-clad arse. He can feel John tie them together with the wide dark blue satin belt, and despite John's expert knotting and the tightening of his muscles as his arms stretch behind him, Sherlock knows he could easily free himself.
But that's not the point, is it?
John walks back around him, the other end of the dark blue silk belt still in his hand. It trails over Sherlock's bare shoulder. "What now?" Sherlock asks, and John smiles down at him.
"Still bored?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Not entirely." Not at all, actually, but he's no intention of letting John know that. He watches as John pulls his jumper over his head. His shirt rides up with it, revealing a swathe of pale skin and the jut of a hipbone. Sherlock only just manages not to lick his bottom lip.
John unbuttons his shirt and draws it off. His body's softer than he'd been in Afghanistan, Sherlock knows. Gone are the defined muscles that war brings. But he's still strong and sturdy, and Sherlock has the overwhelming urge to lean forward and press his mouth unbidden to the edge of hipbone that rises in a small swell above the waistband of John's too-loose corduroys.
"I think," John says, dragging his thumb lightly across Sherlock's mouth, "that I'd best give you something to do with this."
The belt brushes Sherlock's cheek with the movement, a careful wisp of fabric against his skin. He doesn't take his gaze off John's hands as his fingers fumble with the buttons and zip of his trousers. John's cock is stiffening already, filling out the soft, white cotton vee between his fly. Sherlock steadies his breathing. He'd never realised how much he enjoyed cocksucking until John. Not that he hadn't partaken of that particular delight before. One couldn't escape Eton without wrapping one's lips around another boy's prick, if only as an experiment. (Unless one were Mycroft Holmes, of course. Sherlock sincerely doubts his uptight brother has ever had an orgasm, self-inflicted or otherwise, in his life.) But only with John has Sherlock felt the flutter of anticipation deep in his belly at the thought of a cock stretching his mouth wide.
John's fingers tangle in the back of his hair. He draws Sherlock closer. "Go on then," he say softly, looking down at him, and Sherlock's mouth brushes across the swell in John's y-fronts, his eyes fluttering closed for the briefest moment as he feels the warmth of John's prick against his lips.
Sherlock drags his tongue along the cotton, pressing it against John's skin and he's rewarded with a soft sigh and the tightening of John's fingers on his shoulders. John's delight in this always intrigues Sherlock. He wonders at times if John makes the same noises with Sarah, but John's always indignant when he asks. Sherlock doesn't quite understand why it makes John uncomfortable for him to compare both his lovers. He's made it quite clear to John that Sarah doesn't threaten him, so long as she understands her place. While Sherlock's perfectly content sharing John with Sarah, he's no interest in sparring with her over him. John is Sherlock's and has been since he first walked into Sherlock's lab.
He sucks lightly at the head of John's prick, and John groans. "Fuck," John says and Sherlock frowns, pulling back.
"Really, John," he says, but John just pulls his cock free from his pants and presses it back against Sherlock's lips.
"Open," he says. Sherlock doesn't. John taps the head of his prick lightly against Sherlock's mouth. His thumb presses into Sherlock's underjaw. "I'd rather not make you."
Sherlock wishes he would. He'd been curious about his own response the last time John had, stunned by the way John's harshness had made him hard and almost desperate, and captivated by how quickly his patient flatmate had slipped back into the role of steely authority that had kept him alive in the Army. John's thumbnail digs into the soft skin of his underjaw, and Sherlock gives in.
John's cock slides into his mouth. Sherlock can taste him already, sharply bitter, and he shifts his retracted scapula and extended arms, nearly wanting to pull his hands free so he can grasp John's narrow hips and suck him dry. John presses his hips forward with a hiss, and the head of his cock slides along the ridge of Sherlock's palate. Sherlock swallows. John bites his lip. His fingers tangle in Sherlock's hair, the belt still in his hand. It slides over Sherlock's throat, rubbing against his skin.
It's difficult to keep his balance, Sherlock finds. He wants to use his hands, wants to catch himself when he nearly falls. He spreads his knees to get a wider base for balance. John steadies him with his hands, his breath coming in quiet huffs as he rocks his hips forward again, pressing his cock deeper into Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock finally pulls away, gasping. John's wet prick presses against his cheek. "I—" he says, but for once he's not entirely certain what he wants.
John touches Sherlock's cheek, almost gently, before stepping back. His cock bobs from his rumpled corduroys, and he grabs a small bottle from the paper-strewn desk. He's gone barely a moment, but Sherlock feels every second.
When John comes back, he drops to his knees behind Sherlock. His hands make quick work of Sherlock's pyjama trousers, pushing them down. John cups Sherlock's swelling cock in his palm, squeezing gently through his pants, and Sherlock draws in a sharp breath. "John," he says, voice low, and John knows. He always knows. His fingers tug at Sherlock's pants, sliding them down his thin thighs, and he strokes Sherlock's cock quickly, firmly.
Sherlock leans back against him, his tied hands pressed against John's prick. John's mouth is on the curve of Sherlock's throat, nipping, kissing. Sherlock's body tenses under the attention, his skin prickling with heat.
The first time had John touched him, Sherlock had been merely engrossed with the mechanics of male sexuality. Men are far easier in some aspects than women; he's learned that much from carefully observing Molly and Sarah and his mother and their various interactions. There's only been one woman who held his own interest longer than a day, and Sherlock has no idea where she's disappeared to. Irene was never one for forwarding addresses.
He prefers the roughness of men, he thinks. Or perhaps the roughness of John. There's no need for consideration between them. No melodramatics. No foolish words. Just a strong, tight touch and the press of two bodies together.
Slick fingers slide through his crease, just under his hands. "Legs wider," John says against Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock shifts just enough. John's hand leaves his heavy cock, much to Sherlock's annoyance, his palm spread across his stomach, holding Sherlock up as one fingertip presses in.
Sherlock's body aches at the strain of holding himself still at such a difficult angle. It's worth it, though, when another finger slips inside of him, twisting slightly.
John's good at sex. Not much else to do, he'd once said with a shrug, when you're looking for the Taliban's gunmen, and given camels or men, he'd take the latter. Sherlock hadn't been able to disagree.
He groans as John's fingers slide deeper. He can feel the press of John's cock against his arse, and his impatience spills over. "Now, John," he grits out between clenched teeth, his body arching back. John laughs softly, his mouth pressed against Sherlock's temple.
"Testy bastard." John's hand moves, leaving Sherlock oddly empty. He pushes him forward--gently, gently--laying him on the floor in stages. "Quiet," he says when Sherlock protests.
Sherlock falls silent, waiting, his uneven breaths stirring the dust on the floorboards his cheek is pressed against. His shoulders are wrenched at an uncomfortable angle, thanks to the belt of his dressing gown draped around his throat; his hips are high in the air, pyjamas and pants bunched along his thighs. Only for John would he do this, he knows, and this inner awareness fascinates him.
John's fingers trail across his arse. "I think I like you like this way."
"I'm certain Krafft-Ebing would have been delighted to include you in Psychopathia Sexualis," Sherlock says.
That earns him a sharp slap against his hip. "Be nice or I'll leave you like this for Lestrade to find." At Sherlock's snort, John's adds thoughtfully, "Or Mrs Hudson."
Sherlock holds his tongue.
John rubs against him as Sherlock tries to keep his hips still and fails. He likes the feel of John's prick sliding over his hole, tantilising him with the anticipation of what's to come. He draws in a ragged breath, his hair falling into his eyes, his chest compressed against the hard floor and beginning to ache.
When John presses inside him, Sherlock breathes out, canting his hips wider. "Yes," he murmurs, and he can hear John's laboured gasp behind him.
They move slowly at first, John's fingers tight on Sherlock's waist, pulling him back against him with each careful thrust. Sherlock arches into the floor, rocking and trying to use a shoulder for leverage. His wide-spread pyjamaed knees slide against the wood and his bound fists clench, nails digging into his palms.
"More," he croaks, and John moves faster, his hips slapping loudly against Sherlock's arse, his grunts echoing in the near silent room.
Sherlock's body tenses. His mind--always moving, always frantic, always, always, always unless opiates are involved--is finally still. Empty. Fixated on nothing but the sharp, almost-pleasant pain and the building pressure coiling around the base of his spine.
One rough thrust and the dressing gown belt tightens around his neck.
"Oh," Sherlock chokes out on his last breath, and his eyes unfocus. Waves of silent pleasure rock through him, making his body shudder as John's hips slam against him, nearly lifting his knees from the floor.
He can't breathe. Can't think. The tightness around his throat intensifies and his eyes bulge. He can feel his cock bobbing in the air, bouncing into his stomach with another quick rock of John's hips. He tries to make a sound--he doesn't know what--and John's hand is on his prick, stroking hard and fast. John bends over him, whispers something into his ear. Sherlock can't make out the syllables. Nothing matters. Nothing but the intense pleasure sparking across his entire body. The world is darkening around him and he's desperate for air--
The belt loosens.
With a raw cry, Sherlock climaxes, his body stretched and taut and shaking in uncontrollable movements. Spunk spatters across the floor beneath him and he can feel it warm and slick on John's fingers as they slide down his hard prick.
Sherlock gasps, sucking air into his lungs, and then he slumps against the floor. Shudders rack his body. John is inside of him, still moving, still arched over him, breathing raggedly. He's barely aware when John collapses with a small, tight groan.
They lie still for several minutes, the rumble of traffic down Baker Street muffled by their heavy breaths.
"John," Sherlock says finally. John just grunts and presses his face to Sherlock's shoulder. "John," he says again, irritated now. His shoulders ache, and John's weight is beginning to cut off the circulation to his lower arms. He shifts, and John rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
"Sorry." He doesn't sound apologetic. He sounds highly pleased with himself.
Sherlock sniffs and twists his hands back and forth. He has the belt free before John can sit up to unknot it. He arches his back and stretches. His arse is pleasantly sore.
John looks over as he crawls onto his hands and knees. "Still bored?"
"Only slightly." Sherlock pulls up his pants and pyjamas and pushes himself to his feet. He looks down at John, half-naked and sprawled across the floor. "Starving, though. Chinese or Indian?"
"Neither," John calls out after him, but Sherlock's already halfway to his room.
He finds clothes quickly--a crisply starched shirt Mrs Hudson has hung in his armoire and a pair of woolen trousers. He touches his neck, looking into the small, dark mirror above his dresser. There's a pink mark across his pale skin and the edges are beginning to bruise. Sherlock smiles, quite pleased, and leaves his shirt unbuttoned at the throat.
He pulls on his jacket as he walks into the sitting room. John stands near the window with his shirt untucked, jumper in one hand, Sherlock's mobile in the other.
"Come now, John, really," Sherlock begins reproachfully, but the look on John's face when he turns makes him stop. His heart leaps. "Lestrade?"
John nods. "Text just came in." He hands the mobile over.
408 Mile End, Stepney. Worth your while, yes.
Sherlock shoves the mobile in his pocket and reaches for his coat, suddenly ebullient. "Brilliant."
John stops him, his hand on his arm. "Sherlock. You've..." He hesitates, a flush rising on his cheeks.
"What?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Time's wasting, and he's eager to make his way east. They'll be fighting City traffic as it is, congestion charge or no.
John coughs and touches his own throat lightly with two fingers. "A scarf, perhaps?"
"Oh." Sherlock allows himself a moment of amusement as he realises what's flustering John. "Does it bother you?"
"Not precisely." John looks away, and Sherlock's quite aware he's lying. " But Lestrade..."
"Won't even notice." Sherlock buttons his coat. He enjoys John's discomfiture nearly as much as he'll delight in the Inspector's.
"Right then." John doesn't look convinced--Sherlock's grown accustomed to that particular expression--but he grabs his jacket and sighs. "Fine. Whatever. You bloody lunatic."
Sherlock throws the door open gleefully. "Shall we?"
He doesn't look to see if John is following him. He knows he will.