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“Do you want me to call you ‘Daddy’?” Sherlock asks John suddenly one day after school as they lie on the teen’s bed, clothes thrown haphazardly around Sherlock’s cluttered room and stiff cocks pressed close to one another’s.
At the words, John’s erection instantly withers.
“What the fuck, Sherlock?” John asks his teenage lover angrily, glaring down at Sherlock under him. He rushes to push himself off of Sherlock and sit up, wanting to put as much distance between the two of them as possible at the moment.
“Well, it’s just that—” Sherlock starts, sitting up as well and looking at the older man with wide, imploring eyes underneath a mop of unruly dark curls. He looks almost afraid that he has offended John. Sherlock has never been able to keep a deduction to himself to save his life, though, and John knows he isn’t about to start now. “Y-you like that sort of thing.”
“Sherlock, we’ve been over this,” John starts with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and scooting to the edge of the bed, setting his bare feet on the floor. “I don’t—”
“Yes, we have been over this,” Sherlock interrupts his older lover, growing bolder. “And I’ve pointed out every hitch in your breath and every twitch of your cock when we are in bed and you think of me that way. Every pet name you call me and every time you stop yourself from saying something to me that you think you’ll regret.”
This is an old argument between them, one which Sherlock won’t let go and one that John won’t give in to. John shakes his head, at a loss for words. Sherlock inches closer to him, carefully, like he is approaching a skittish animal. John lets him move nearer, though he eyes Sherlock warily.
“Just because I’m a teenager doesn’t mean that I don’t know about things like this,” Sherlock whispers, reaching a hand out to him. “And I’ve told you before: it’s fine. I’m okay with it. Really.”
John licks his lips and shakes his head again because, as much as he wants to give in to this part of himself, he doesn’t think he will ever be able to forgive himself if he does.
Sherlock says that it’s fine, but, really, John knows that it isn’t. It is bad enough that Sherlock is almost 20 years younger than him; it is worse still that Sherlock is his upper sixth form student. John has only a tiny, jagged shred of dignity and honour left, and he won’t throw it away just because his cock wants to play some silly little game.
“Let’s just try it,” Sherlock implores softly, and he sounds almost as if he is begging. His bare arms are around John now, sliding across the white vest that still covers John’s torso softly as Sherlock tries to crawl into his lap. “Please?” The question is pressed against John’s lips, sweet and innocent. “I want to try it. You’re not the only one who is intrigued by the idea of doing this.”
John sits there, held speechless by the gorgeous, nude teen clinging to his half-naked body, rubbing against him. He wants to, honestly. God, how he wants to. John has finally come to terms with that fact—internally, at least, if not out loud quite yet. But he doesn’t think he will ever be comfortable enough with himself or his relationship with Sherlock to ever try it.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Sherlock reassures him again, settling comfortably in John’s lap, straddling his thighs. Sherlock’s hard cock rubs up against John’s wilted erection, reviving it somewhat. “You don’t have to be ashamed. When a consenting adult makes the decision to role play the mindset of a younger age, it is motivated by a need to re-experience emotional states and social interactions of one’s youth, which just so happen to also be pleasurable in a sexual context to the participants,” Sherlock tells him, sounding far too clinical about this, as if John needs an explanation as to why this is all—as Sherlock says—“fine”.
As Sherlock talks, he settles deeper onto John’s lap and the man can’t help but wrap his own arms around the boy. His mouth finds any piece of Sherlock’s skin that it can to trail kisses along as Sherlock talks, his voice rumbling deep and soft in the infinitesimal space between them. “And I know why you want this,” Sherlock continues, the last word ending on a gasp as John finds a sensitive spot on his neck and sucks on it hard, nipping painfully and then soothing it with a lick. “Why you need this.”
“Go on,” John says with a groan that he can’t help against Sherlock’s skin. “Tell me, then.” He bucks his hips up into Sherlock in a way that earns him a soft moan, overly-large hands coming up to grab John’s face gently and raise it towards his own so that Sherlock can kiss him.
“Taking care of someone so fully is something you’ve always loved,” Sherlock whispers against his lips. “It’s why you became a doctor in the first place. It’s soothing to you, to know that you can care properly for someone and love them so well.” Sherlock’s fingers caress the sides of John’s face softly and the edges of his plush mouth lift up in a sharp smirk. “You also have control issues, so you enjoy being the dominant one during sex, but you mostly like that someone else is letting you take care of them, the trust this person puts in you. It’s been so long since anyone has let you take care of them, and as a natural caretaker this has taken a toll on you. You feel loved when your partner trusts you implicitly and understands that you need to take care of someone to make yourself feel useful, especially after being invalided home from the Army and losing your job as a doctor.”
God, John loves it when Sherlock deduces him. It is the sexiest fucking thing he has ever experienced. The teenage genius is right, as usual. John has always wanted nothing more than to take care of people, in every aspect of his life. Even in previous sexual relationships, he had always striven to be a generous, considerate lover. He loves taking care of his partners, but not only does he love it—he gets off on it.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” John asks Sherlock as he tilts his head up to kiss him again.
“You may have mentioned it a time or two,” Sherlock answers with a small smile.
Okay, John thinks with a sigh, giving in. Okay, you can do this. It’s simple. Start slow. He takes a fortifying breath, then steels his nerves and squares his shoulders. He takes a hand off of Sherlock’s bare, slim hip and points towards the head of the bed and says, “Go lie over there.”
Sherlock’s head lowers demurely and he smiles at John shyly as he moves to obey the man’s command. “Yes, Da—”
“No,” John cuts him off quickly. Something churns in his stomach disturbingly and makes him feel sick. “Don’t. Don’t say…that. Please, just…don’t.”
Sherlock instantly stills on his lap and frowns at him. “Why not?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“Because, I—I just…” John trails off because he really doesn’t have an answer. “It just makes me feel uncomfortable. The whole thing is just bloody uncomfortable,” he says with a sigh and shake of his head, the moment gone now.
“But you want to try it, I know you do!” Sherlock practically yells, and John can see that he is getting frustrated now, unable to solve the puzzle that is John Watson’s fetish. “There’s no shame in it, John, I promise,” Sherlock rationalises, and John thinks about how wrong and how sweet it is that this boy—this child—is the one who is reassuring him about this whole situation.
Yet John still can’t go through with it.
He shakes his head at Sherlock and blushes.
“Okay, we’ll start with something else, then,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, intent on doing this thing. “Tell me something that you’ve always wanted to say to me when we have sex.”
John opens his mouth to say something, to say anything, but nothing comes out. He can’t. He can’t say it. No matter how badly he wants to.
“Go on, John,” Sherlock urges him. “Say it. Tell me.”
John turns away from him in embarrassment. He wants to—truly, he does. It’s just that…honestly, he would much rather have the daddy kink without the daddy part of it. That would be ideal. But he knows that’s just not on. He doesn’t even really know what that would entail, anyways. It’s all just a bit…much to be dealing with right now.
He sighs and runs a hand through his greying, short blond hair, frustrated. “Sherlock, can we just…not do this right now?” he asks, and winces at the pleading sound in his voice.
Sherlock huffs in irritation but relents. He looks disappointed, though. “All right. Will you please still get me off, though?” he asks, voice low and plaintive. “I’m so hard.”
How could John possibly say no to such a sweet request?
He chuckles softly as Sherlock squirms in his lap, grinding down to prove to John just how aroused he is. “Yes, all right, you needy thing. If I have to.”
John doesn’t think he will ever get enough of touching Sherlock. His lover is soft under John’s calloused hands, all young skin and fresh-faced. Sherlock’s body has none of the jagged edges of adult-hood, though he is worryingly skinny, and bones jut out in odd places alarmingly. But the curves of his thin, flat belly lead out to slim, flared hips that slope softly and gently outwards. The width of his shoulders is more suited to that of a prepubescent boy’s, some of his growth development stunted from the poor eating habits of a teenager left to care for himself with no parental supervision. The narrow line of his shoulders leads down to an undefined, hairless chest with skin so pale John fancies it practically luminous (he has learned with great delight that it holds the most delicious-looking blush, though). There are still traces of baby fat clinging desperately to the edges of what are promising to be dangerously-curved cheekbones and the skin of Sherlock’s forehead is smooth and tight. There are only the barest hints of laugh lines around the edges of those amazing eyes, grown a bit deeper since John has met him. John has never once seen Sherlock in need of a shave since he has known him, and Sherlock’s face still holds that beautiful translucence of skin that has barely touched a razor. When Sherlock sucks his cock, John loves to run the head of his prick along the smoothness of Sherlock’s face, letting spit and precome slick the way over the stubble-free flesh.
The most beautiful part of Sherlock’s body, aside from his gorgeous mind, John thinks, is his cock.
John looks down the line of their bodies to watch Sherlock grind his erection against John’s own hardness and stares at the two of them pressed so closely together.
Sherlock is slightly smaller than John, which is to be expected given his age. Yet, like the rest of Sherlock’s body, he is very nearly hairless here, too. There is only a small, thick, dark patch of curls on the mound of his pubic bone. His testicles are bare and John knows that they turn an angry-looking red colour when the teen is severely worked up and they tighten, with no hair there to hide them.
He brings a hand in between them and wraps it around them both, squeezing their cocks against one another. Sherlock gasps into his mouth and bucks into his tight grip, and John can feel the precome leaking out of his head, wetting his palm with silky slickness and warmth.
“John,” Sherlock moans, his hands gripping John’s bare shoulders and digging his fingers into the skin. “Feels so good.”
“I know, baby,” John says, dropping his head slightly to press a soft kiss to the side of Sherlock’s neck.
“I-I want to say it, I want to call you that name,” Sherlock tells him, bucking into his hand again, panting like a wild thing. His head falls backwards and he groans as John drips a line of spit from his mouth down in between their cocks, increasing the slickness between them. “Why can’t I say it? It turns you on so much. It makes you so hard. See?” he points out, grinding into John’s hand and pressing his prick against the older man’s own aching one.
John shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. He can barely think straight; Sherlock is driving him mad. “It’s not the name that turns me on,” he says, lifting his head and taking Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss. “It’s you. God, it’s you.”
“No,” Sherlock gasps on a breathless giggle, breaking the kiss but not pulling away. “I can promise you—it’s both.” He drops his voice down to a low, sinister growl, full of threatening promise. “Do you want me to prove it you? Do you want me to call you ‘Daddy’ while I let you fuck me and show you? While I let you take care of me?”
“Christ,” John gasps, his hips thrusting hard into his hand against Sherlock’s cock of their own volition at Sherlock’s words.
“Because that’s what this is all about, underneath it all, isn’t it, John?” Sherlock asks, mouth still so close to John’s own that the words are messily smeared between them. Sherlock is rolling his hips on top of John now, fucking John’s hand like he would be riding his cock and John can do nothing but stare at the boy in wonder, insanely turned on and yet trying desperately not to be. “You like taking care of me; you always have. From the very beginning, you saw me and you saw a boy who needed saving, someone that needed you to take care of him.”
Sherlock leans over slightly, not dislodging himself from John’s lap or John’s grip, to grab the bottle of lube. It had rolled down next to John’s leg, pulled towards the man by gravity from where it had been thrown earlier, when John had come over to Sherlock’s thinking he was just going to have a nice, normal shag. Once he has it, the teen settles back into position, wiggling his hips and making John groan at the feel of him in the man’s hand—Sherlock is so hard.
He opens the bottle of lube and reaches down to his own hip, where John’s other hand has been holding him. Sherlock lifts it up, upturning the lube and dripping a dollop onto John’s fingers, meeting the man’s eyes over their combined hands.
“So take care of me, John,” Sherlock whispers to him, tossing the bottle aside and guiding John’s hand back down between their bodies before leaning in to kiss him softly, pleadingly, on the mouth. “Please.”
With his eyes on Sherlock’s, John slips his lubed hand between them, along the warm crease of Sherlock’s thigh and down the moist, wrinkled skin of his balls, wet with John’s saliva which has dripped down the length of Sherlock’s cock. He moves softly across the flat expanse of Sherlock’s perineum and to the tight pucker of his entrance. John slides a single finger in swiftly and watches as Sherlock gasps and winces slightly at the sudden intrusion, his eyes never leaving John’s. The man stretches his arm out in the uncomfortable position, searching, looking for just the right angle to find—
“Oh, God!”
“Mmm, fuck yes, there we go,” John groans out as Sherlock writhes on top of him, never taking his eyes from the young face. God, but Sherlock is beautiful like this.
“J-John!” Sherlock cries as he falls into John’s body, clinging to him desperately as John assaults his prostate, relentless in his stimulation. Sherlock’s face presses into the crook of John’s neck and the man can feel Sherlock’s breaths, deep and hot, against his skin.
“I…” Sherlock tries to say, but the words won’t come out. “It’s…”
“It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” John says, pumping their cocks together. The speed has been somewhat hindered by Sherlock’s weight against him, but he doesn’t mind in the least. He keeps fingering Sherlock with one hand while he lets his hips and the force of his thrusts push their cocks through his other hand. “Come for me, Sherlock. Come on, baby, come for me. Let me take care of you.”
His hips stop immediately and his eyes go wide, his finger still in Sherlock’s arse. He can’t believe he just said that.
At the same moment, Sherlock orgasms with a cry, shooting messy and thick between them, his come warm on John’s belly and his chest heaving with great, deep breaths as his head rolls loosely onto John’s shoulder, fringe sweaty and sticking to John’s skin.
He can’t believe he just fucking said that.
John sits there on the edge of Sherlock’s bed with his lanky lover in his lap on top of him, stock still, while Sherlock recovers from his orgasm slowly and he tries not to think about what just happened.
When Sherlock finally comes back to himself, he lifts his head from John’s shoulder and graces him with a happy, dazzling smile that makes John forget what he was worrying about for a second.
“That was brilliant,” Sherlock says brightly, giving John a peck on the lips and moving off of him, throwing himself theatrically down onto his bed beside John while the blond chuckles at him. John moves to sit on the bed fully, back against the headboard, and Sherlock looks down into John’s lap. “You didn’t finish,” he states rather plainly, almost clinically. “Do you want me to…?” Sherlock asks, reaching a hand out to John’s erect cock.
“No, love,” John says with a small smile and a shake of his head, “I’m all right.” Instead, he moves down the bed and drags Sherlock into his arms as he lies on his back, holding him close and stroking Sherlock’s bare arms absent-mindedly.
“Does the idea put you off that much?” Sherlock asks him, face buried in John’s neck and voice fighting sleep. “It can’t! I know it turns you on; I can see it!”
John just huffs a laugh. “Not every answer to a riddle is as simple as deducing someone’s heart rate or his hard-on, Sherlock,” he says. “Yes, the idea turns me on—immensely—but there’s just a part of me that doesn’t think I will enjoy it.”
“So you won’t even let me touch you now?” Sherlock asks him quietly. John knows Sherlock is trying to hide it, but John can hear an undercurrent of hurt in the deep, settled teenage voice.
John hugs his lover tighter and places a soft, lingering kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. “I’m just not in the mood to come at the moment, love,” he assures Sherlock, voice gentle.
Sherlock breathes out a sigh of defeat. “Fine. Will you at least stay here with me for a bit before you have to go?”
John knows that Sherlock’s house will stay dark and empty for hours to come. He has spent a decent amount of time with Sherlock already, but there is no need for him to go rushing off just yet; he can enjoy this time with his young lover. “Of course,” he says, more than happy that he doesn’t have to leave.
At that, Sherlock wiggles out of John’s arms, squirming about in the bed as he tries to pull the bedsheets around himself comfortably and fluff his pillow precisely. When everything is arranged how the mad genius wants it, he lies back on the mattress and says imploringly, “John, tuck me in for bed.”
“Oh, are you sleeping today?” John asks mockingly, a small smile gracing his lips as he sees the angry glare his lover shoots him. “That’s very good.” Over the short course of their relationship, Sherlock has been notorious for going days without sleeping, something John has been adamant in voicing his displeasure about.
“Just tuck me in,” Sherlock grouses, moving to burrow deeper under the covers of the bed.
John heaves a fake, put-upon sigh and moves off of the bed and to Sherlock’s side to help him get underneath the sheets, heedless of his own semi-nakedness and the erection that seems to be slowly subsiding. Just because he does happen to love taking care of Sherlock doesn’t mean that he has to let the spoiled brat constantly know that. If Sherlock realised just how much John would do for him, the brunet would have John eating out of the palm of his hand in no time. Even more than he does now (which should be physically impossible, but John knows that if anyone can defy the laws of physics, it is Sherlock Holmes).
“There,” John says as Sherlock settles into position, lying prostrate on the bed, and John pulls the bedclothes up around him, below his chin. “All settled?”
Sherlock makes a small content noise and smiles brightly up at John. The man huffs a laugh and bends the rest of the way down to place a small kiss on Sherlock’s forehead before pulling away to go back to the other side of the bed.
As he goes, he hears Sherlock’s voice call out to him, soft and low. “John, read to me.”
“What?” John asks, standing and looking down at the teen below him, a small frown pulling at the edges of his face. It is such a strange request coming from Sherlock that he is sure he must have heard wrong.
But Sherlock simply looks up at him, quiet for a moment, before he asks, “Can you read to me?”
John’s frown grows. “Why do you want me to read to you?”
Beneath the covers John can see Sherlock’s shoulders shrug and his glass-green eyes slide away from John’s gaze, as if in embarrassment. “I like the sound of your voice,” he tells John quietly. “And I like knowing that you’ll stay right beside me when I fall asleep. It makes me feel safe.”
John’s heart stutters in his chest as he stares down at the adolescent. Sherlock looks incredibly young right now, with his skinny body completely covered by the duvet and only his thin face peeking out from the top of the sheets. John can’t possibly tell him no.
“Yeah, okay,” the man says quietly. “I’ll read to you.”
He walks across the room to Sherlock’s bookcase. “What do you want me to read?”
“Just pull a copy of The Forensic Examiner,” Sherlock orders him. “Any one.”
John’s fingers close around a random issue of the magazine on the shelf that Sherlock wants. He is about to pull it out when he hears the teen say from across the room, “No, not that one.”
John bites back a sigh. “Well which one, then?”
“That one,” Sherlock says, indicating the next magazine over with a jut of his chin. John reaches for it. “No, no wait,” Sherlock’s voice stops him once again. “That one,” he corrects with another toss of his head, meaning the next magazine over.
“Are you sure?” John asks, trying to decide if he wants to sigh in loving exasperation at the immature antics or frown in annoyance. Sherlock has a way of making him feel many conflicting emotions at once.
“Yes,” Sherlock answers him as John makes his way back across the room and settles down, still half-clothed, on the mattress next to Sherlock, erection completely gone now. The youth budges up under his covers so that there is enough space for John to sit on the bed with his feet propped up, back against the headboard. When John is comfortable, Sherlock wiggles around a bit to settle back under the sheets close to John, his head pillowed on John’s hip. “You may begin,” he tells John, and the man tries unsuccessfully to hold back another snort of laughter.
John opens the magazine to a random page and reads the first article he finds.
“ ‘Open to Dispute: CODIS STR Loci as Private Medical Information:
‘For nearly 25 years, advocacy groups and legal scholars have been predicting that the day when the DNA features used in forensic identification will reveal predispositions to diseases or behavioral traits is just around the corner…’”
The words fall out of John’s mouth, dull and heavy, but he figures that he doesn’t have to understand or even care about them to be able to parrot them out to Sherlock, so he lets his mind drift away as he reads the article thoughtlessly.
“ ‘The 90 megabases of microsatellite DNA—” John’s voice suddenly cuts off in a sharp intake of breath as he feels Sherlock’s warm hand move to cup his softened prick while he is reading.
“Sherlock?” he asks, looking away from the magazine and down at the boy lying beside him. “What are you doing?”
Sherlock’s curly head is still resting heavily on John’s hip and his bright eyes glance up at John’s face, a smile gracing his full lips. “Thanking you for reading to me,” Sherlock answers simply, as if it is obvious. “Don’t stop.”
John draws a ragged breath as Sherlock’s hand moves over his stiffening cock. He doesn’t know exactly what Sherlock is playing at, but the boy gives him a gentle squeeze and says, “Please?” and John gives in to him.
He keeps reading.
“ ‘The 90 megabases of microsatellite DNA, itself only about 3% of the genome, from which the forensic STRs’—Christ,” John bites off his sentence in a groan as Sherlock’s fingers dip down to squeeze his balls. Sherlock’s palm rubs smoothly along the underside of John’s shaft as he reaches for the warm area behind John’s scrotum with the tips of his fingers.
“Keep reading,” Sherlock whispers, bringing his other hand up now to stroke John’s prick as he continues playing with John’s balls softly, rolling them in between his fingers and pinching the loose skin gently, delicately. John looks down at his lap and catches a glimpse of a dark, curly head hovering over his suddenly very-stiff prick before Sherlock’s hot, wet mouth descends on him, taking the head of his cock in.
“Ah!” he gasps as he feels Sherlock’s tongue swirl around the tip, dipping into his slit briefly. “ ‘T-the few geneticists w-who have raised…the issue of med…medical privacy with regard t-to CODIS loci have’—fuck, Sherlock, God!”
He gives up all pretence of reading and drops the magazine, using both now-empty hands to grip Sherlock’s hair and tangle his fingers in the strands, pushing the warm mouth down deeper onto his prick. He groans as he feels the head of his cock hit the back of Sherlock’s throat and the teen swallows reflexively around him. Sherlock keeps him fully encased in his mouth for a moment longer, tongue swirling around the stiff shaft, before pulling off almost completely. He leaves the head in his mouth and gasps for breath around it as his hand comes up to stroke the rest. John thrusts into the tight grip encasing him, feeling his cock slide slickly through the copious amount of spit that Sherlock has left behind along his length. Sherlock’s fingers squelch around his prick and John is suddenly very close to the edge—surprisingly close, after telling Sherlock that he didn’t want to come.
John grips the dark hair harder under his fingers and tugs on it, groaning out Sherlock’s name in warning, meaning for Sherlock to pull away. Instead of moving off, however, Sherlock slams his mouth back down onto John’s cock, tongue and palate slipping past his stiff shaft and only stopping when the head hits the back of his throat once more.
John comes in Sherlock’s mouth with a shout, breath ragged and heart pounding, and Sherlock swallows down as much of it as he can. John can hear him choke on the rest.
He sits there on Sherlock’s bed for a long time while he recovers, his head spinning. He doesn’t know exactly what to make out of what just happened. He looks down at his lap again; Sherlock is still resting his head on John’s hip, face upturned so that John can see him. His cheeks are flushed a blotchy red and his mouth is stained with John’s come. One of his hands is playing lightly with John’s balls, the touch barely even there, and he is still mouthing at the base of John’s cock, licking at the strings of come that are slowly sliding down John’s still-hard shaft.
“Jesus,” he says, because he has no other words.
“Hmm,” Sherlock hums happily from his lap, a smile tugging at his shiny lips. “Content” is the only word John can think of to describe the way Sherlock looks right now. “Thank you for my story, John,” he says as he licks his lips, cleaning off most of the come but smearing the rest.
Something roils in John’s stomach, disturbingly similar to nausea. John can only sit there and stare down at the boy while they lie in Sherlock’s bed as his cock slowly softens and his young lover drifts off into sleep, face and hands still covered in come and spit. John shakes his head to clear it and slowly shifts out from under Sherlock, careful not to wake him. He quietly pads over to Sherlock’s en suite bathroom and wets a flannel, going back out into the bedroom to gently wipe Sherlock’s mouth clean and then his hands, finally using the soiled flannel to give himself a cursory clean-up. He tosses the flannel onto Sherlock’s pile of dirty laundry and goes about putting on his clothes, never once taking his eyes off of Sherlock’s still form.
When he is fully dressed once more, John quietly makes his way to the side of Sherlock’s bed and stares down at the sleeping teen. He reaches a cautious hand out to brush Sherlock’s fringe away from his face so that he can see him better, and he frowns down at his lover in confusion. He wants to wake Sherlock up and ask him about what just happened, what Sherlock was playing at. But he knows that Sherlock needs the rest more than John needs answers to his questions—he doesn’t know the last time Sherlock had a decent sleep.
So he bends low over Sherlock’s bed and kisses the smooth forehead, then the tip of a nose, and finally a soft cheek. Lastly, he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s slack mouth, licking softly at Sherlock’s lips and tasting himself still on them.
When he is done, he stands back up and leaves Sherlock’s room quietly, mind still reeling from everything that has just happened.
*
The next time John meets Sherlock at the teen’s house, he brings food with him.
“Sherlock,” he says as he pushes the door to the brunet’s bedroom open with his hip. The rest of the house is dark and empty once again and John knows that there is no chance of them being interrupted, as usual. It is a Saturday evening, and John guesses that Sherlock’s alcoholic father is taking advantage of the weekend to post up at his local for the rest of the night. “I brought dinner.”
Well, he muses as he walks into Sherlock’s room, “dinner” is a relative term. It is sandwiches and a container of mixed fruit that he picked up from the shop while he was getting milk for the insufferable prat, but still, food is food.
“Not hungry,” is Sherlock’s reply from across the room, where he is lying on his bed with his face shoved into a thick book. He is in a pair of pyjamas even though it is evening time, and John doubts very seriously that he has worn anything else all day.
“I don’t care if you’re hungry or not,” John tells him as he sets the bags down on Sherlock’s desk and begins rooting around inside of them to pull out the food, “you’re going to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock states again, tone beyond petulant now, and he doesn’t even bother to grace John with a look.
John sighs and his mouth tightens as he tries to bite back harsh words. He hates how immature Sherlock can act sometimes, how childish he gets.
“Sherlock,” John begins slowly once he knows he has his aggravation under control, “sit down at this desk and eat.” His tone is commanding, brooking no argument, and he fully expects the child to listen to him finally.
However, Sherlock simply continues to lie on his bed, ignoring him.
“Now, young man!” John shouts out, surprising even himself. Something tightens deep in his belly at his own words, but he is so annoyed at the moment that he doesn’t even really register it.
Sherlock looks over at him for a second, but then turns back to his book and continues lying on his bed.
The little brat, John thinks, the annoyance bubbling up inside of his chest and turning into flat-out anger.
Before he realises what he is even doing, John is making his way across the room towards Sherlock. The boy must have been looking at John out of the corner of his eye the whole time, though, because as soon as John moves towards him Sherlock is scrambling to sit up in his bed, eyes wide and focused on John as he tries to get away.
But John is quicker, and John is heavier, and John has had enough of Sherlock’s petulant little strop.
He struggles with the teen when John reaches him but finally manages to subdue Sherlock enough to heft the insufferable prat onto his good shoulder, Sherlock’s long legs draped down the front of John’s torso.
“John!” Sherlock squawks indignantly in surprise, twisting about in John’s grasp, but the man simply ignores him.
John turns on his heel and carries Sherlock to his desk, dropping him heavily into his rickety wooden chair. Sherlock looks up at John to glare daggers at the man, but John can give as good as he gets.
“I will not be ignored, Sherlock,” he tells the child angrily. Sherlock opens his mouth, looking intent on saying something rude and no doubt hurtful, but John cuts him off before the bratty teen can get so much as a word out. “Do you understand me?” he asks, tone sharp.
Sherlock closes his mouth on whatever it is he is about to say but the glare remains, focused intently on John. After a second of debate Sherlock seems to decide that it is not worth it to push John’s limits, so he simply nods in response to the man’s question.
But John’s not having any of that. If Sherlock wants to act like a kid, John will treat him like a kid. “Answer me, young man,” he growls, his voice going low and threatening. His stomach flutters and tightens again. “Do. You. Understand?”
John’s words seem to have a similar effect on Sherlock because the boy suddenly gasps softly, eyes gone wide. “Yes,” he chokes out, face flushing.
John’s cock starts to stir at the picture Sherlock makes below him, all impudence and immaturity, but he ignores it. What the hell is wrong with me, he thinks, that I can get hard when I’m in the middle of berating my lover like a child? But he shakes his head and tries hard to push those thoughts from his mind.
“Good,” he says instead, levelling Sherlock with a no-nonsense stare. He turns back to the desk where the bags of food still sit and begins to unwrap one of the sandwiches halfway. “Now you’re going to eat,” he states as he holds out the half wrapped meal towards Sherlock, “even if I have to feed you myself, like a spoilt kid.” When Sherlock still doesn’t take the food, John’s glare hardens. “Is that what you want, then? For me to treat you like a child?”
Sherlock looks like he doesn’t exactly know whether to say yes or no to John’s questions. That’s fine with John, though. The man is more than happy to put Sherlock in his place.
Without another word, John takes the sandwich and unwraps it himself, shooting Sherlock a meaningful look before sitting down on the edge of the desk in front of Sherlock’s chair. He spreads his knees, placing his feet on the floor on either side of Sherlock’s, almost straddling the boy’s legs as Sherlock sits quietly in the chair before him. Once John has the sandwich unwrapped, he tears a small bit off the corner and then sets the rest down on the desk. Then he steadily brings the piece of sandwich up towards Sherlock’s mouth.
“Open up,” he orders and, surprisingly, Sherlock does. He holds his mouth open and John feeds him. A small, shuddery breath escapes John as Sherlock takes the food that John gives him and chews it slowly. “Good boy,” John says softly, smiling proudly at Sherlock’s obedience.
He continues to feed Sherlock, his own dinner forgotten in his need to take care of the teen. Sherlock stays pliant and quiet the whole time. He holds his mouth open obligingly for the next bite every time John tears off one more piece of sandwich until there is no more left. John unseals the container of mixed fruit next. He uses the cheap plastic fork that came with it to lift a piece to Sherlock’s lips, expecting to be told no, but he is surprised when Sherlock willingly opens his mouth for more.
“There’s my good boy,” John croons, voice gone suddenly rough and low. With each forkful that he feeds Sherlock, John can feel his cock stirring gently in his trousers. It confuses and embarrasses him, so he ignores it. He leans forward in his seat so that Sherlock won’t notice it and doesn’t say anything.
Before John knows it, Sherlock is almost finished with the container of fruit that John had meant for the two of them to share, on top of having eaten his whole sandwich. “I knew you were hungry. See?” John chastises him gently, smiling proudly at how well Sherlock has behaved for him. “All you had to do was listen to me.”
A piece of fruit falls off of the fork and onto the desk. John picks it up with his fingers and brings it up to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opens his mouth up willingly and John feeds him from his fingers.
Plump lips close around John’s fingers, sealing them in warm, soft heat, and Sherlock’s tongue comes up to push the piece of strawberry to the back of his mouth and lick at John’s fingertips instead. A soft moan escapes his throat as John pulls his hand away slowly, smearing spit along Sherlock’s full lips.
“Do you like that? Is it good, sweetheart?” John breathes out, voice gone quiet. He looks at his lover and bites his lip at what he sees. Sherlock’s face is flushed a soft red and his pupils have blown wide. His mouth hangs open as John pulls his fingers away and stays that way, waiting expectantly. Whether it’s for food or cock, John isn’t certain any longer.
He feels a familiar tightening in his groin and his prick stirs against the flies of his trousers, pushing against the confinement.
Sherlock nods in response to John’s question and the man smiles at him warmly, happy that his boy likes what John is giving him. “Good. I’m glad you like it. Have some more,” he says, picking the fork back up and spearing another piece of fruit onto it. “Come on, darling, open up.”
Sherlock obeys and gets three more large pieces in before he is scooting away from John in his seat, eyes dropping as if he is scared of what John will do when he says, “Can’t, John.” He swallows thickly against the heavy food that has just slipped down his throat. “Full now.”
John tsks at him but there is no anger in the sound. “You’re almost done, love. Just a few more bites,” he tells Sherlock, spearing another piece on the fork and holding it out. Sherlock turns his head farther away to the side.
John hates forcing Sherlock to do anything he doesn’t want to, but sometimes the child just doesn’t know what is good for himself. John doesn’t know the last time that Sherlock ate a decent meal, something that wasn’t just biscuits or crisps. He reaches a hand out to cup Sherlock’s face gently, running his fingers down Sherlock’s neck before letting his hand trail lower, down the lean chest and over to his tum, worryingly thin even under his clothing.
“What can I do to get you to take a few more bites for me?” John asks pleadingly, rubbing Sherlock’s tummy gently, fingers dipping low on the soft abdomen. John knows that part of the reason Sherlock refuses to eat much of the time doesn’t have anything to do with “transport” or “slowing his mind down”, as Sherlock likes to claim. Sherlock had told him once that even before his mother left him as a younger child—before it was just his father taking care of him and the drinking grew too heavy—his dad had been a man of many rules. Sherlock had been expected to finish every meal placed before him, and had been punished if he did not. Always contentious of authority, Sherlock had found every way possible to be rebellious as a child, leaving meals unfinished, picking through his food to find only what he liked best, or only taking a few bites and being hungry again a few hours later but not giving his father the satisfaction of eating. John has watched him closely over the months that they have been together, and the doctor knows he doesn’t have an eating disorder—he is just stubborn as hell and now stuck in a learnt pattern of behaviour. He can’t finish a meal to save his life and he is picky as fuck about what he eats. Still, the physician in John would like to see Sherlock fed up more; he has gained some weight since John has been around, but could stand to put on a little more.
John’s fingers press slightly deeper into the tender flesh of Sherlock’s tummy at the endearing thought of him with a small pooch, skimming right above his groin. Sherlock’s breathing becomes ragged from the soft, gentle touchesand he stares at John with wide, child-like eyes. He licks his lips, leaving behind a shiny sheen of spit on them, and John’s gaze follows the movement hungrily.
“Let me eat it off of you,” Sherlock whispers in answer, so low that John almost doesn’t hear it.
His cock jumps in his trousers, fully hard now, and he hadn’t even realised when he had filled out the rest of the way.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moans. He can’t believe how aroused both of them have become over something as stupid as John feeding the boy. It’s ridiculous. Have they no shame? John shakes his head, trying to clear it and focus on the purpose that he had at the beginning of this whole thing: he just wanted Sherlock to eat something. Nothing more. This was just supposed to be a quiet, filling meal. “No,” John says, shaking his head again. “I—”
“Please?” Sherlock begs, sitting forward in his chair now, hands coming up to divest John of the fork he is holding. “Please? I’ll eat it all if you let me,” Sherlock promises, plucking the utensil out of John’s limp fingers and setting it down on the desk next to the discarded wrapper of his sandwich. “I swear.”
“God, I—” John starts, but the words catch in his throat as Sherlock stands up suddenly, looming over John, and carefully starts to undress the man. John doesn’t stop him and even helpfully lifts his hips off of the edge of the desk when Sherlock starts working his trousers and pants off of him.
“This is so wrong,” John says once he is sitting on the desk again, completely naked this time, using his arms to lean back sharply so that it is easier for the fruit to be placed on him. Sherlock is kneeling between his spread thighs now, still fully clothed in his pyjama bottoms and sleep shirt, reaching out for the last bit of fruit in the container. John can’t take his eyes off of the teen for the life of him. He sucks in a sharp breath when Sherlock spreads a small piece of cut strawberry at the base of his cock and uses some of the juice at the bottom of the container to rub up and down his hard shaft, coating it, the feeling cold and slick against his flushed skin.
“How do I let you talk me into these things?” he asks, completely intending for Sherlock to answer him, but in the next instant he forgets he has even said anything. Sherlock’s hot little mouth descends on him, slick and eager. The boy’s tongue wraps around the head of John’s cock, licking the sugary juice off, and Sherlock slowly slides his mouth down the side of John’s prick, licking the rest of the sticky sweetness away. He reaches the base and picks up the fruit with his lips, the piece small enough that he can swallow it down with no trouble. He immediately takes John back in his mouth and lets John feel the contractions of his throat as the head of his cock hits the back of Sherlock’s mouth.
“Fuck,” John curses, closing his eyes against the sight and feel of Sherlock, his hands gripping the edge of the desk fiercely to keep himself from tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and fucking into his mouth relentlessly.
Sherlock pulls off of his cock and smiles proudly up at John, as if satisfied with himself, and turns back to grab up another piece of fruit and dip his fingers in the juice before slathering the liquid on John’s cock once more and balancing a raspberry on the tip of John’s jutting erection with a giggle.
When he has coated the flushed, engorged skin as well as he can he forgoes taking the whole thing in his mouth like he did before. Instead, he drops himself lower to the floor so that he is shorter, curling in on himself, and positions his mouth right below John’s cock, his chin pressing gently against John’s balls. Sherlock sticks his tongue out and tilts his head up, licking gently across John’s wrinkled sack and up to the base of his cock in a precise, calculated manner that doesn’t jostle the berry sitting precariously at the tip. Then up some more, against the underside of John’s prick smoothly. Up the shaft to the head of John’s cock, Sherlock licks a careful, straight, unbroken trail that leaves behind no evidence of the sticky juice that was spread over John’s prick. His wicked little tongue wraps around the crown once more, taking the raspberry with it, and Sherlock moans as he pulls off, licking his lips hungrily. He has fruit juice all over his mouth now, but he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest.
Fuck, but this boy is a wonder, John thinks as he tries to catch his breath.
“Do you like that?” John asks him as he brings a hand to Sherlock’s face to wipe at the corner of his mouth where fruit juice and precome have gathered. “Does it taste good?” He pushes his finger into Sherlock’s mouth so the boy can wipe the appendage clean as Sherlock nods his curly brunet head readily.
John moans brokenly at the sight before him, Sherlock dirty and debauched on his knees, and he can’t resist the urge to twine his fingers in the dark hair and bring Sherlock’s face back down to his crotch again. Sherlock opens his mouth for John’s cock obligingly but he isn’t expecting to take all of it, so when John thrusts his hips up and slams into Sherlock’s mouth harshly the boy gags, coughing and spluttering beautifully.
John pulls back slightly but keeps fucking Sherlock’s face, thrusting in and out steadily. He knows his boy can’t take a cock that demanding yet, and John doesn’t want to hurt him, so he keeps his thrusts shallow. He feels Sherlock go pliant around his prick, mouth going slack and throat relaxing as he lets John hold the weight of his head. John likes Sherlock best when he is like this—so trusting, even after John has tried to choke him with cock only a moment before.
But John knows that Sherlock will let John take care of him in the end. And John takes such good care of him. He always gives Sherlock exactly what the boy wants. Sherlock might not want to eat food often, but John knows that he loves come, and John does so love spoiling his boy.
He feels his orgasm burning low in his belly, drawing his balls up tight against his body. He thrusts a few more times, a little too eagerly, wanting to be as far inside Sherlock as he can be, and the teen gags slightly, trying to pull away in surprise. But John tightens his hold on Sherlock’s hair and keeps his face pressed against his crotch, coming down his throat with a groan. John can feel Sherlock try to swallow against every spurt that his cock twitches out, but there is too much and Sherlock hadn’t expected to take John so deep. Sherlock’s mouth is wide around his cock as he tries to breathe and a thick mixture of spit and leftover semen slide out, dripping down the length of John’s cock wetly. As the convulsions of his orgasm ease, John loosens his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, letting the boy finally pull away from him.
Sherlock looks up at him from his position on the floor, kneeling low so that his face is level with John’s softening cock. He smiles widely at John, come and spit and fruit juice smeared all over his lips and chin. John huffs back a breathless, sated laugh and shakes his head at what has just conspired between the two of them. His gaze falls to the desk, taking in the empty container of fruit that he fed Sherlock from and the crumpled sandwich wrapper.
“Look at that,” he says wonderingly when he has his breath back. “You ate all of your food.” He reaches forward to help Sherlock off of the floor and drags the teen up and into his lap, sliding back on the flat surface of the desk and letting Sherlock straddle him. “I’m so proud of you, baby,” he states as he looks up at Sherlock. He stretches the small distance to kiss the brunet, heedless of the mess on his face. “You make me so happy,” John sighs against Sherlock’s mouth.
“Can I have a reward?” Sherlock asks him cheekily when the man finally releases him from the kiss. He wriggles in John’s lap, pressing his hard cock against John’s soft one.
John laughs and wraps his arms tighter around the slim waist. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he asks on a chuckle. “You know, most children don’t get a reward simply for eating their dinner.”
“But they get a reward for being good,” Sherlock argues, pouting and grinding against John. The man’s head reels from the innocent words Sherlock is speaking and the sinful things his body is doing. “I was good, wasn’t I?” he asks John as he bends low and presses open mouthed kisses to John’s neck, sticky with semen and sugar.
John groans at what Sherlock is doing to him, both physically and mentally. “Yes, sweetheart,” he gives in. He never had a chance against Sherlock Holmes anyways. “You were very good. So I’ll give you a reward. What do you want?”
Sherlock opens his mouth as if he is about to speak, but then he blushes prettily and looks away from John shyly.
“Do you want to come, baby?” John asks him. “Is that it?”
Sherlock flushes darker and he still won’t look at John, but he nods his head.
John groans. If he hadn’t just come, he has no doubt that he would be hard again, just from looking at the beautiful vision in his lap. Sherlock is driving him crazy and he isn’t even doing anything; John needs him, desperately, all the time. He would give anything to be inside his boy right now.
“Yes, sweet thing, anything you want,” he says, wrapping his hands around Sherlock and settling the brunet deeper onto his lap, spreading Sherlock’s legs wide across this thighs and kissing him frantically, fingers gripping each other harshly. “Everything,” he whispers against Sherlock’s mouth, “I’ll give you whatever you need.”
“You,” Sherlock whines, grinding down against John. It is physically impossible for him to get hard again so soon after coming, he knows, but his cock is making a valiant effort. “Need you. Please.”
“Yes,” John says, hands running down Sherlock’s knobby back to dip into the elastic band of the pyjama bottoms that he is still wearing. “Yes.”
John struggles to push the bottoms as low on the pale thighs as he can without dislodging Sherlock from his lap. He knows it would probably be better to just let Sherlock stand up and divest him of the bottoms completely, but John doesn’t think he would be able to survive even a single second without Sherlock sitting on top of him. So they just wriggle about awkwardly and finally manage to get Sherlock’s sleep pants halfway down his thighs, exposing his straining cock and his arse. John reaches around to grab the soft globes of flesh, dipping his fingers in between Sherlock’s arse cheeks and brushing against his dry hole. He feels Sherlock shiver in his arms and the teen clings to him desperately, breaths coming in heavy gasps now.
“We need lube,” John pants against Sherlock’s neck, the pads of his fingers pressing against the tight pucker of his lover’s entrance.
Sherlock gasps at a particularly deep prod to the unyielding rim. “D-drawer.” He claws at John’s back, heels pressing into the hard surface of the desk and digging into the sides of John’s thighs.
At that John stops his unproductive prodding and pulls back, looking at Sherlock. “What were you doing with lube at your desk?” he asks, trying to make his tone reprimanding and keep the laughter out of his voice, but he doesn’t think he succeeds.
Sherlock looks dazed and as though he doesn’t want to be answering questions right now, but he shakes his head to try to clear it anyways. “Experiment,” he says shortly. And then, “Shut up, John,” when the man grins at him.
But there are more important things that John would rather be doing than teasing Sherlock about keeping lube in his desk drawer. So he keeps one hand on Sherlock’s arse, fingers splayed wide across his cheeks so that the tip of one digit can still be pressed against his hole, keeping him from squirming too much. With his other hand he reaches over and opens Sherlock’s desk drawer to get out a bottle of lube. He lets go of Sherlock’s arse for only as long as it takes to slick up his fingers and then he is back, letting his exploration go farther now that he knows he won’t hurt the boy. He rubs lube along the rim of Sherlock’s hole and dips the tip of his wet middle finger into Sherlock’s body to get him nice and ready, to tease him a bit.
Sherlock whimpers above him, dropping his head down onto John’s shoulder and biting delicately to keep in the soft, needy noises he is making as he tries to grind down on John’s fingers, tries to take the man in.
“Patience, baby. Slowly,” John whispers to him, nudging Sherlock’s head tenderly with his own so that he can lift it off of John’s shoulder and bring it around so that John can kiss him. “I don’t want to hurt you. Never want to hurt my little boy.”
Sherlock makes a low keening noise deep in his throat and drops his head back down to John’s shoulders, finger’s clutching at the man’s back desperately. He wants it, John knows he wants it, so John decides to give it to him.
He has been so good for John, after all.
John slips the tip of his finger into Sherlock’s trembling body and groans at the perfect feeling. “You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and cracking. Sherlock gasps against his neck at the feel of John sinking into him. “Look, I can barely get one finger in,” John tells him. And then, as if to prove a point, John wiggles his finger around, showing him how much resistance there is. Sherlock’s body jumps and stiffens against him. “You don’t touch yourself when I’m not around, do you?” John asks, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder chastely.
“No, John,” Sherlock responds automatically, head still on John’s shoulder, and his voice sounds a bit dazed.
“Good,” John tells him, thrusting his finger deeply in and out of the tight heat of his pliant body. “That’s my good boy. Only I can touch you here.”
John has only been fingering him for a short moment when he suddenly hears Sherlock say from his shoulder, “Another. God, give me another.”
John smiles at his greedy little genius’s impatience and brings his empty hand up to rub along Sherlock’s t-shirt covered back, shaking his head slightly. “You’re too tight, darling, I don’t know if you can take another one so quickly.”
But Sherlock just sobs and clings to him harshly, pressing his face closer to John’s. He can’t be sure but John thinks he can feel a wetness on his skin. “Yes, yes, I can, please, I can,” Sherlock begs in a small voice. “Please, please.”
“Look at that,” John says soothingly, voice hushed and quiet. He rubs along Sherlock’s back, up his neck and into his hair, combing through the soft curls. “You can ask so nicely, Sherlock. That’s beautiful.” He preps Sherlock as quickly as he can with one finger, getting him ready for two, and although he thinks that Sherlock still needs a few minutes more to get used to the stretch, he won’t deny his little boy anything.
“Ready for it, baby?” he asks Sherlock as he slips his middle finger out of the boy’s arse. He waits for Sherlock’s small nod before he pushes two back in, wet and slick with lube, pressing tightly against the rim on the inside of Sherlock’s hole.
“Ah!” Sherlock gasps as John breaches him, but then the man can feel Sherlock bear down on him and open up around him. The gasp turns into a moan as John slips further inside, deeper, and finds Sherlock’s prostate.
“Ohhh,” Sherlock groans into John’s neck, breath hot and moist, and his fingers finally go slack against John’s bare skin.
“Do you like that?” John thrusts into him, deep, lifting Sherlock up with his hips and letting him fall back onto John’s fingers, angling him so that John rubs up against the sensitive nub of his prostate with each thrust. “Feel good?”
“Yes,” Sherlock gasps as he rides John’s fingers. He lifts his head off of John’s shoulder finally and throws it back, exposing the long line of his throat. John stares at the pale expanse of flesh, follows it down to Sherlock’s chest, where John can see the outline of his pert little nipples standing out at attention under the thin material of his shirt. He follows it down farther to the flat line of Sherlock’s belly, then down to the red, stiff length of his cock pressing hard between them, then down to Sherlock’s trembling thighs as the boy lifts himself up with each of John’s thrusts, only to grind back down onto John’s hand, rubbing John’s fingers against his prostate. “Yes!”
“God,” John whispers, staring at the vision before him, “you look so perfect, wrapped around my fingers.”
“John,” Sherlock gasps, opening eyes full of wonder widely. “John, I’m going to come.” He’s never come with his cock untouched before. “Can I?”
John is just as surprised as he is. And turned on like hell.
“Yes, you sweet thing,” he tells him. “Go ahead. Come for me.”
Sherlock smashes their lips together as he comes, opening his mouth in a gasp as his orgasm burns through him. John kisses him deeply, pressing him tighter against his body when Sherlock clenches around his finger and his cock twitches between their bellies, shooting spurt after spurt of come on them. It lands on John’s chest and the stomach of Sherlock’s t-shirt, warm and wet.
The younger male collapses on John after his orgasm, completely boneless. John carefully extricates his fingers from Sherlock and feels badly when he sees the brunet wince—John probably let Sherlock get a little more enthusiastic about riding his fingers than he should have. He will most likely be sore for a day or two.
When John has removed his fingers from the teen’s body, Sherlock wraps his arms around him and tries to manoeuvre them to sit more comfortably on the desk, but John won’t have it. He sets Sherlock’s feet down on the floor and moves to get up, then takes the boy to bed and lays him down. Sherlock reaches out a hand to drag John to lie down next to him, but the man moves away with a soft smile and a lingering caress to Sherlock’s face.
“Wher’yoo goin’?” he hears Sherlock complain on a slur as he heads into the bathroom.
“To get a flannel,” John tells him with a chuckle. “Gotta clean you up.”
“Mmm,” is the reply he gets, and by the time he comes back Sherlock is mostly asleep. So John wipes the dozing brunet down with a roll of his eyes, being sure to softly clean up the lube around his arse. He takes a moment to check Sherlock to make sure there is no tearing or inflammation, gentle fingers running over tender skin. Once he is satisfied with his clean up, he tucks his little boy into bed and then crawls in beside him, happily exhausted and wonderfully sated.
It isn’t until later, when John is lying next to Sherlock and listening to his younger lover snort and snuffle in his sleep, that he realises what Sherlock has been doing.
Sherlock has been giving him exactly what he had wanted: the daddy kink without the daddy part.
“Oh, you are a marvel,” John tells Sherlock with a sharp smile, even though the genius can’t hear him. He reaches a hand out and softly combs through the dark curls, pushing the fringe off of his face. “My brilliant, beautiful little boy.”
He places a kiss on Sherlock’s lips and smiles proudly down at his delightfully devious little lover.