Chapter Text
It was a little odd, John considered, talking about female genitalia with one Sherlock Holmes. But the man himself had brought up the topic, as his most recent case had been a smuggling ring utilizing breast implants. John had expressed the perfectly reasonable opinion that natural breasts, no matter how small, were preferable to artificial ones, no matter how cunningly applied, and Sherlock had declared the totality of mammary glands 'terrifying.'
"Terrifying?" John asked, grinning as he put his book aside and stood up to stretch his legs a bit. They're just... parts!"
"I don't have them."
"I know," John replied, feeling cheeky. "I've looked." Not within the past few days, to be sure - Sherlock had buried himself in a case and had expressed no interest in anything that John considered the necessities of life - food, sleep, and - yes.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh god, John, don't be vulgar." A similar word dance at the edge of his attention, annoyingly. Of course he didn't mind female genitalia. He just didn't like them much. And he was fairly sure he hadn't used the word 'terrifying.'
"Sorry, am I being cocky?" John asked, airily.
The wry grin, the tilt of his chin; the way his stance made his jeans tighten here and fold interestingly there... Sherlock forced his attention away. "It's impossible to concentrate when you're being like that, you know."
John folded his arms. "I am a man of few talents, so I try to exercise the ones I do have."
Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "Do you know what will happen when I finish these case notes, John?"
"No, what?"
Meeting John's eyes, Sherlock leaned closer. "I am going to get terribly bored."
John swallowed. Yes, it had only been three days, but that was a long enough time, surely... "Really?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, lightly. Seeing John's mind work, running through possible scenarios - it was rather entertaining.
"How will you relieve your boredom?" John asked, trying to appear casually uninterested rather than substantially aroused and massively interested.
"I shall have to think of something." Was it entirely unintentional, the way John stood right in front of Sherlock, his crotch just at Sherlock's eye-level?
"Let me know if I can help."
"I will." Sherlock met John's eyes, which were deep blue and glittering, no doubt with ideas for later activities. "When I've finished." Something to look forward to, that.
John sighed. Sherlock could take minutes or days. "Take your time..." He settled back in his chair, trying to recover his interest in his book. But he could not help casting quick glances in Sherlock's direction to try to guess how close the man might be to finishing.
Sherlock sat back to watch John read, in no real hurry. The book's title was innocuous and general enough, but the subheading - Living With Mental Illness - made Sherlock smile wryly. Was John trying to better understand his own mental health or Sherlock's? Either way, it was... comforting. Pleasant, in a way.
After a few minutes, John found himself absorbed in his read again despite himself. The book was beautifully written, striking the perfect balance between raw data and engaging humanity.
Like any person, John moved and behaved subtly different when he thought himself to be unobserved. Sherlock often found himself nearly consumed by it; the simple act of watching the man. John was reading with interest, now, his mouth (lips a little dry, tongue darting out to wet them every so often) hanging just slightly open, one hand (nails cut too close, fingers surprisingly long for a man his size) idly tapping the arm of the chair. Easy to get lost, indeed, and the fact that he allowed himself to do so made Sherlock realize that he was, really, done with the notes. He closed the lid of his laptop with finality, making sure the noise was heard, and coughed.
The highly artificial cough startled John out of his immersion; he looked up, not quite back in the real world. "Huh?"
Sherlock ran his hands along the closed lid of the laptop, meaningfully. "Bored now."
John felt mild annoyance, being at Sherlock's beck, mixed with acute interest. He tried for coy. "Well, suppose I'm not?"
He wasn't, Sherlock knew, but it was possibly a fair question, even so. Sherlock slumped down in the couch, non-committally, shrugging. "That's your own lookout."
"I was just wondering 'what if,'" John replied, quickly, trying to maintain a plausibly innocent demeanor.
"Then I should have to make my own entertainment."
"I don't know if you're capable of that..."
"You may have a point..." The laptop felt nice and smooth under his fingertips. Sherlock kept feeling along the lid, noting the minute scratches.
"I'm not bad at it myself, actually." John smiled.
"So your talents are distraction and making your own entertainment?"
"I'm a simple man," John replied, pompously.
"Your words, not mine." While Sherlock enjoyed a little amicable bickering, he had other things on his mind right now. He got up, making his way around the table.
"I thought that was my appeal?"
"There are enough simple people in the world. You're... interesting."
"Interestingly simple, or simply interesting?" The latter most definitely applied to Sherlock, John decided, and he put his book aside. The dim light of the room deepened the shadows on Sherlock's face, making it appear even more angular; his face was a monotone construct of light and shadow, his eyes unexpectedly bright inside.
Halfway towards John, Sherlock stopped. It was an appealing image, John sitting there, anticipating. "Which do you think?"
"I wouldn't second-guess you."
"You will, one day," And Sherlock would welcome it. Welcomed it even now, as he moved closer, the image clear in his mind. John, taking control. Standing his ground, as he did even now, of course, but he would grow more assertive, in time. Sherlock swallowed, standing before John's chair.
"I doubt it," John replied, sliding down a little in his chair to keep Sherlock in his view as the man walked closer - almost towering, now.
Sherlock gave a quick laugh. "Well, you keep surprising me." He hunkered down, meeting John's eyes levelly. If he got down on his knees, he would be looking up, he considered, heart racing.
"Like I said, it's one of the few things I can do." John reached out to touch Sherlock's face - how could he not? His thumb grazed the high, sharp cheekbone, thrown into relief by the hollowness of the cheek below (he had to get that man to eat, somehow).
Yes, there it was; John's touch. Firm, determined, yet careful, like Sherlock might break if he used too much force. That was not an issue, of course. Sherlock pushed back against the caress, eagerly, laying a hand on John's knee. John pulled him closer, tighter, and Sherlock melted into him; kissing the underside of his chin. John was solid, earthy, thrumming with potential force. Sherlock run a hand up John's thigh, feeling the resting muscle, remembering what it felt like in action; hard, shifting. His pulse rose.
This... this was utterly brilliant. This lean, muscular body in his arms, kisses just in that part of his chin that made him shiver. He held Sherlock tight, stroking his too-long and rather messy hair.
Sherlock had to get closer. He pressed himself between John's legs, kissing along his jaw line. That, too was solid; square and broad, everything Sherlock himself was not. The Holmes family tended to extremes; John, in so many ways, represented balance. A fact he might laugh at, should Sherlock ever mention it, so he didn't.
John opened up his legs to let Sherlock get closer, on his knees, then squeezed the man's hips between his legs, tightly. He bent his head down to press his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock leaned into the kiss hungrily, both of his hands on John's thighs. John didn't want this over in five minutes, though - which, at his level of current stimulation and prior anticipation, it might well do. He slid his tongue lazily into Sherlock's mouth, moving slowly and deliberately. Fortunately, Sherlock seemed to be of the same mind; he sighed gently into John's mouth, grabbing his hips. John rubbed Sherlock's back with the same slow deliberation as his kisses. This was nice, yes - almost sensual.
Sherlock's sighs turned to whimpers; this was what he wanted, to follow John's lead, give in to his control. He had not stopped questioning and examining this urge and where it came from, but that was out of scientific curiosity, not need. Need lay in this - giving in to it.
John stood, trying to pull Sherlock with him - but the other man dislodged himself from the kiss, staying on his knees, his hands kneading John's hips. John looked down in surprise.
This was better; on his knees, Sherlock had an excellent view, and it placed him in rather a practical position. He looked up, questioning. Did John want this? He generally did, but getting his approval was part of the appeal. Sherlock played with the buckle of John's belt, holding his breath in anticipation.
John had to smile - he liked where this was going. He helped Sherlock undo his belt.
Sherlock exhaled sharply, starting on the fly once the belt was gone, giving it all his attention. John let him, stroking his hair. John let him. Sherlock felt light-headed. One by one the buttons came open; there was no rushing this. When he was able, Sherlock pulled the fly open, and for a moment, just stared.
John sighed happily; he was not fully erect, but was getting there. No hurry, they had all night - and with any luck, they'd use it.
Sherlock reached to free the erection within, breathing hard. His mouth fell open. He had not done this before, not so... deliberately, and he found the effect it was having as intriguing as it was pleasurable.
John stroked Sherlock's hair gently. He loved to touch it - it was oddly coarse, and pleasing in its texture under his hand. He twisted his fingers in it, watching Sherlock touch him, breathing carefully.
There were so many sensations; heat, scent, not to mention the visual of John's cock firming even as Sherlock watched it, mouth gaping. He gripped it firmly and began to stroke in fascination; carefully, experimentally, licking the underside.
"Yes..." John breathed. It was still hard to believe - so to speak - that Sherlock was kneeling there with John's half-hard cock in his mouth. It was well on its way to being more than a half-hard.
Sherlock closed his eyes, sucking in just the very tip of the head, moaning, in as much as he could. The taste was about as he'd expected; just skin, really, with a little something added. Of course, it was all in the details.
John grinned at Sherlock's enthusiasm, pushing forward just a little.
The push was exactly what Sherlock needed. Yes; John should control it, control everything. Make Sherlock please him. He moaned deeper, sucking in what he could manage, but slowly; just beyond the head, at first.
John sighed with delight. This felt all too good, and he had to curb his desire to just shove it all in. Plenty of time... But whenever he moved slightly, John felt Sherlock trying to suck more in, with much enthusiasm, if not style or technique, and rather a lot of pleased sounds. Noting that, John tried to ease a little more into Sherlock's mouth. It was difficult to be easy or controlled, seeing his cock slipping between those expressive lips.
Sherlock took in as much as he could, closing his eyes and moaning deeper. This was bliss; no questions, no excess care taken, just the two of them, and pleasure. His own erection pressed urgently against his underwear and trousers, but it could wait.
John shivered, putting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders; he thrust a bit deeper, relishing the moist warmth of Sherlock's mouth. Though Sherlock choked a bit at first, that only seemed to egg him on further, tightening his grip on John's hips. This display of enthusiasm undid John entirely, and he thrust eagerly into Sherlock's mouth.
This was beyond good. Sherlock groaned, kneading John's hips, his eyes fluttering open and closed. Thought had all but stopped, an odd thing for him to welcome, but he did. It felt peaceful. Calm.
John pumped rapidly, enthusiastically, losing himself in the delicious sensation, his eyes half-closed, panting.
Sherlock kept up the pace as well as he could manage. It was all out of his hands, he was just along for the ride, being taken. He looked up at John, watching the man's face; such intense concentration. Sherlock was doing that, was making that happen. He felt dazed.
John came, biting his sleeve to quieten his yell - it wouldn't do to have Mrs. Hudson come running up to see what was the matter! He rode the waves of pleasure, twisting one hand in Sherlock's hair.
The blissful peace and calm was broken by a burst of warm, bitter fluid, forcing its way down his throat. Sherlock spluttered, making rather a mess of things as the ejaculate spilled out of his mouth. "God, that's vile," he muttered under his breath, or close equivalent of breath, at any rate. John did not reply, panting and shuddering as he recovered. When his breath returned somewhat, Sherlock traced a finger through the liquid still dripping from his mouth. He was used to the texture, of course, but mixed with saliva, it was still something of a different thing. Curious, that.
John finally caught his breath and came back into the present, noting Sherlock's distaste. "Erm, sorry about the taste," he said, feeling himself flush. "Comes with the territory..." he cringed at the inadvertent and quite terrible pun.
Sherlock wiped his mouth with back of his hand, still kneeling. "I'll get used to it, I suppose."
John tucked himself back in. "I wish I could flavor it, but it's come out a bit badly when I've tried," he joked.
Flavor it, indeed. Sherlock quirked a smile and started to get up.
John helped him rise to his feet; it was easier to pull him close that way, his warmth and vitality so pleasing. Sherlock took a second or two to find his balance, then pressed against him - there was no urgency despite his obvious erection. John kissed him deeply, rubbing the man's lean buttocks. There was nothing as good as this post-sex closeness. Well, perhaps post-sex closeness and pizza, but that was asking a little much.
The kiss reignited Sherlock; he returned it eagerly. It was a bit like food, really; you could forget about it for days on end, but once you got a taste, you couldn't stop until you were sated.
"Bed," John murmured between kisses. Nudity and lying on a bed would improve this situation greatly.
Sherlock murmured in agreement; trying to move and keep up the kiss at the same time.
John found it challenging to be sufficiently coordinated with Sherlock to move and kiss at the same time; sexual excitement and a height differential were conspiring against him, too, but he gave it a go. A bit of a stumbling, bumping-into-things, teeth-clashing go.
There was altogether too much furniture around; Sherlock bumped against it as he walked backwards. He knew the layout of the flat in his head, but he was not the only one in control, now, nor did he want to be. This rather silly dance was inefficient, though, so when John inadvertently backed them into a wall, Sherlock used the opportunity to pull him closer.
John appreciated the opportunity to kiss a bit more, and more deeply, sliding his tongue as far into Sherlock's mouth as it would go, tasting the man. This distracted him from his goal of the bed, but he couldn't bring himself to care at all.
The door to his bedroom was close enough for Sherlock to kick it open - he did so, pulling John towards and through it. John stumbled in with him, kissing as well as he could, given their haphazard bedwards movement, and soon, they were at their goal - bed. John atop. As it should be. Sherlock lay back, anticipating. Always the best bit, that.
This was good - a little leverage, a little space, and he really needed to see Sherlock's naked body. He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt as Sherlock watched, open-mouthed. John made quick work of the shirt - but had to pause once it was off to kiss the stomach and nipples thus revealed. Warm, vital, tasty, irresistible.
Sherlock exhaled in a shiver, tilting his head back. No need to act; just react.
John moved to straddle Sherlock, one knee on each side; this position let him undo Sherlock's trousers while still lavishing attention on the man's torso. This was, he decided, brilliant.
Sherlock arched up to meet John's lips and tongue, closing his eyes briefly. Only briefly; He wanted to see, to observe.
John pulled Sherlock's trousers down, kicking them the rest of the way with his feet. What was it with this man's nipples? Compact, warm, just fantastic to lick and - yes - nibble on a little.
A strange sort of noise escaped Sherlock as he felt John's teeth on his nipples. Good God that felt good! His eyes flew open with the strength of it. Nerve-endings, part of his brain supplied, but it seemed less important than the actual experience, right now.
If it was good for Sherlock, it was fantastic for both of them, so John kept at it as Sherlock's trousers went off the side of the bed.
His body, Sherlock found, reacted much without his conscious interference during sex. Take his hips now, making vague thrusting motions entirely of their own accord. His entire body, in fact, was writhing, slaved to the attention John was giving it. John, however, looked like there was nothing out of the ordinary about this at all. Sherlock couldn't stop staring.
John gave the nipples a few parting licks, then pulled Sherlock's pants off, leaving his erection free, resting on his stomach. So many things to lavish attention on...
Sherlock whimpered, looking down at John. Breathing was becoming difficult; was he in worse shape than he'd thought?
John leaned down and licked at Sherlock's erection. Oh, yes - this was good, so good. He had always loved giving oral sex, and just because it was a man's bits instead of a woman's changed this not one bit. So intimate, so good to give someone pleasure.
"Aaah..." The pleasure was almost painful in intensity. Sherlock whined through gritted teeth, clutching the mattress as though he might fall off it.
Slowly, carefully - no need to rush, it's better if you don't - John put his mouth over the erection, feeling the shape of it in his lips. Sherlock was clearly trying to control his breathing; his eyes open now, that expressive mouth clamped shut. John closed his mouth on Sherlock's erection, squeezing it with his lips, rubbing the head with his tongue. Yes - yes, this was simply brilliant.
The thing was to remember to breathe, Sherlock thought. He pressed his legs against John's sides and desperately looked at the ceiling. It was bland and uninteresting; a welcome lack of input.
John smiled internally at that - his mouth was otherwise occupied - and gently fondled Sherlock's testicles as he pulled his lips, tightly clamped, up and down the shaft.
Sherlock exhaled in a huff, rising up on his elbows to get a better view. Any pretense of control gone was gone; he was gasping, staring, utterly lost.
John slid his lips up and down with a deliberate, measured pace, stroking the balls carefully. He could feel Sherlock quivering in pleasure - so close, so intimate, it was almost his pleasure, as well.
"J...ohn..." Sherlock stuttered, gasping in breaths. He was close now, tethering on the edge.
Feeling the change, John sped up his pace, massaging Sherlock's testicles gently, lashing the erection with his tongue as he stroked it with his lips.
The orgasm left Sherlock blindsided; he rose up, mouth open in a silent exclamation; eyes wide. It was almost invasively intense; there had been such calm; such order... Not that he could bring himself to complain.
John coughed at the bitter fluid in his mouth; he swallowed it, then licked Sherlock's cock, the taste of skin washing away the taste of come. He looked up at Sherlock, grin spreading over his face at the utterly undone look on Sherlock's.
Sherlock watched, mesmerized. John was a category unto himself, in Sherlock's mind, but even for him to have such access - to be allowed so close, made him feel raw. It was all still too new to tell if that was a good thing or not, so meanwhile, Sherlock reached out to stroke John's face with his fingertips, just watching.
The intensity of that look was not one your average human being could endure; John's eyes fell, and he pulled himself up to be more level with Sherlock.
There was nothing else for Sherlock to do than pull John close and kiss him, softly, now that he was in reach. It would not last, this closeness, but an embrace would keep it steady for a little while.
"Still bored?" John asked, softly.
Sherlock laughed. "What would you have done if I'd said 'yes'?"
"Worked at it a little more." John smiled wickedly. Sherlock's reply was a quick laugh and a squeeze of his shoulder, so John lay down next to him. It was little tight - this bed was not meant for more than one person - but he made do, putting an arm across the other man. It was rather nice, he decided.
Was this nice? It was, wasn't it? Sherlock put a hand on John's arm, and tried to smile. It was an expression he'd never really mastered, though other people seemed to hand them out so easily. It annoyed him. He ought, he felt, to try.
The smile was... well, Sherlock had a way of deliberately smiling that came out a little creepily. "It doesn't suit you," John said, trying not to laugh at the way the expression was shoehorned on. "Erm, is it OK if I..." he gestured at his own clothing, which was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Sherlock made an agreeing-sort-of-gesture, shifting a little to allow John the space to do so.
John tossed his shirt away, then shimmied out of his trousers and pants, gratefully letting them fall over the edge of the bed. He pulled at the covers. Nice, this was - comfortable, almost domestic (if such a word would not run and hide from the presence of Sherlock).
Naked, John was different; less imposing, far from less interesting, though. All the layers stripped away, leaving something few were allowed to see. Sherlock was. He helped shift the covers, letting John move them as he willed. Covers; Sherlock - it was all one.
John wiggled himself back next to Sherlock, drawing the covers atop both of them. He closed his eyes. Sex, nudity, warmth, closeness, covers - this was all leading up to a very relaxed John. He began to drift off.
"Maybe I should get a bigger bed," Sherlock mumbled, lazily. An idea, that. Every free night, like this, and during cases, himself resting close to John, watching him sleep or read, or pleasure himself. Whispering in his ear, perhaps. Telling him what to do. Yes.
"This one's all right," John replied, sleepily, then let himself slide right back down into comfortable, sated warmth.
"Mm." But what to do with John's room, then? Getting anyone else in the flat was unthinkable, of course; would it work better as a lab or a study? John might have an opinion, Sherlock thought, but the other man was already asleep, snoring gently.
It was likely the cold that woke John; his body heat alone was not enough to warm both himself and the Sherlock-sized cavity to his side. Or perhaps it had been the last noises of Sherlock leaving - a step on the stairs, the click of a door. All that he knew was that he was awake, and alone, and the bed this morning was much less warm and comfortable than it had been the night before.
He rubbed his eyes. It was too much to ask, wasn't it, that Sherlock might stay in bed, waking up with the person he had just had sex with the night before? No, John reminded himself - Sherlock did warn me. He yawned, stretching. He'd have to get out of bed and into clothes, he thought sullenly. Bugger winter.
The bedroom door slammed open to reveal a fully dressed Sherlock, wild-eyed and awake.
"I'm not expecting anyone or anything, so stay indoors!"
The door slammed shut again and remained so for a few, blessed seconds, before opening again.
"Although if something does arrive, do NOT call me." Sherlock paused. All in all, he wouldn't mind the company, and John did look rather lovely, all disheveled and confused. "Perhaps you'd better come with me?"
John stopped staring at the Sherlock microburst to look down at his own nude, unshowered self. "What?" he asked, feeling a little stupid in the face of this onslaught.
"Right," Sherlock agreed. "You should probably get dressed first."
"Time for a shower...?" John asked, trying to put into his voice and manner that it really was necessary.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why did people have to sleep all the time? All right; people, fair enough, but why John? He had better things to do. If he'd been up earlier, he would have had plenty of time for a shower. "Fine."
John really didn't think he could have survived without a shower. Come was still sticky in his mouth and smeared in the region of his crotch; the latter itched horribly. Washing all of that down the drain woke him up nicely, and he finally felt like a reasonable human being again when, with his teeth scrubbed and fresh clothing on, he trotted back down the stairs to the main room.
The shower took eleven minutes and fourteen seconds, with an additional four minutes for John to throw whatever passed for clothes with him on, all of which Sherlock spent pacing. He glanced up when John finally came down the stairs, looking more or less like always, if a little wetter. "All done? Good!" Any reply was not worth hearing; Sherlock turned on his heel and headed out.
John knew all to well that if he didn't keep up, he'd be left behind to find his own way. He shrugged into his coat and grabbed his scarf, buttoning the former and donning the latter as he followed Sherlock out of the door and into the breathtakingly cold, bright morning.