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John’s penis. That was the current focus of Sherlock’s interest.
Three months ago Sherlock had started a project of mapping out John’s body and had by now completed his notes satisfyingly on the precise details of every other characteristic. Most of John’s physical features had been relatively uncomplicated to examine.
The visual observations had been only too simple as John sometimes wore only a towel after a shower, and once Sherlock had caught him in the kitchen in his underwear getting drinks for himself and a visitor in his bedroom in the middle of the night. (What had made him think Sherlock would be sleeping?)
There was also reason enough to bump into John in various situations of chasing criminals, making it easy to quite inconspicuously conduct a manual scrutiny of whatever part of John’s body he still needed to.
Admittedly, he had gone for the buttocks more times than a purely scientific interest would warrant.
Only the exact measurements of John’s penis were still a mystery. Regrettably studying it had proved out to be difficult.
Sherlock had attempted to grab a feel of it once, stumbling over John in some life threatening situation, but John’s reaction time had been remarkably above his average on that occasion, and Sherlock had been pushed a few feet away before he even realised. John’s astonished and angry “what the hell, Sherlock?!” had also made it clear that here was a part of John’s body he would not get close to by accident.
Besides – getting a feel of the penis in its flaccid state hardly was necessary. He had seen enough on the few occasions they had happened to be in a public toilet together to have an approximate idea of its dimensions while soft. The real interest lay in its appearance while erect. And that, sadly, could not be deduced by observing the limp member. There was too much individual variance.
He had tried observing the nocturnal penile tumescence, but there were several obstacles. First of all, John often slept on his side, the duvet completely obstructing any view that could otherwise be had. If he happened to lie on his back, the pyjama bottoms, and again the duvet, were interfering with reliable conclusions.
Secondly, John slept very lightly. The years of night duty at hospitals, both on-and-off war zones, had made him extremely sensitive to any presence in his room, no matter how fast asleep he appeared. (The same alertness did not occur if John took a nap on the sofa during the day, his body and mind conditioned to react to the potentially more dangerous qualities of the night.)
And lastly, of course, there were the nightmares that jolted John awake, sometimes from a seemingly quiet sleep, sometimes from an obvious wild terror, in a manner so haphazard that it easily caught even the most cautious and experienced observer off guard.
Spying on these nightly activities through a very narrow door opening had made it evident that any attempt of getting close enough to conduct even a visual examination of John’s erect penis would not be possible this way.
The only time John locked his door was when he masturbated. A clear sign of what was going on, but unfortunately making monitoring impossible. (And while listening in on it did provide pleasure, often the exact same pleasure, it did not help with the project.)
The case then was very vexing. The penis had become the focal point of the project, for without being fully informed, Sherlock could hardly proceed with his plans of seducing John. If he did not know everything, and especially this, how could he possibly provide John with a satisfying sexual experience?
John’s complete satisfaction was, however, imperative, because Sherlock’s ultimate goal was an active and continuous sex-life, not a one-off. He was intent on giving John the best possible sexual experience, as he most certainly did not wish John to turn to anyone else ever again with his urges. The half-naked nightly encounter in the kitchen had been most decisive on that point.
(He had stopped John’s further activities that night with an ad-hoc experiment that set off the fire alarms and created a most repugnant smell, which spread everywhere. The female visitor had left quite upset and had not been heard of again. Well, John had not heard of her, Sherlock having borrowed his phone and answering her texts quite clearly in regard to any further association.)
Warding off the competition was another reason why this project should be brought to a conclusion as soon as possible (the primary reason of course being that he wanted John desperately, almost painfully, and the buttocks, the shoulders, the chest, the strong arms etc. were an unbearable distraction). There was a surprising amount of females who were drawn to John and it really took too much of Sherlock’s resources (both mental and physical) to disrupt the contact attempts.
Once the project would reach its successful end, John was expected to never want to look at another woman again. (Nor a man for that matter. The theorem predicted that he would only have eyes for Sherlock after the project was completed.)
John’s penis, then, was a critical priority at the moment. Sherlock simply did not want to be surprised one way or another, when everything else had been planned and studied so minutely.
Such were the thoughts puzzling Sherlock as he was once again running through the streets of London. It was 1:24 am. The night clear, a bit chilly, which was a blessing as running in his heavy wool coat got really uncomfortable, if it was anything above + 6,7 °C.
John was a couple of steps ahead of him. (But only because Sherlock wanted to enjoy the view of his behind while dodging the bullets. The sight of the muscles tightening with his steps. It wouldn’t hurt if John went down a size with his jeans. The problem was, John always chose the most stupid routes.)
“Left, John, left!”
Sherlock groaned and overtook him.
Then a right, another right, and a quick dive left. He pulled John along with him and pressed him back against the wall. A small nook between buildings provided just enough room to conceal them both from anyone glancing at the alley.
Facing the street Sherlock leaned in against John, feeling John’s breath on the back of his neck.
“Sherlock,” John whispered, “I do know how to stand still without you squashing me.”
Sherlock pushed in closer, bending his knees slightly to align their hips.
“Move,” John’s angry huff in his ear.
But now they could already hear the steps of their chasers. John was helpless as Sherlock’s buttocks pressed tight against his groin.
Sherlock didn’t seem to be able to stand still, his hips in tiny movement, the pressure against John easing, shifting, increasing again.
There were two men after them.
John was suddenly less interested in staying alive than in focusing on steady, steady breathing, trying to fight the effects of the slow grinding motion against him, and attempting to shake off the thoughts of how firm Sherlock’s buttocks were.
Sherlock was well aware of John’s struggle, and pleased to notice that his subtle efforts were working. He felt a sudden thrill as John’s hands took a firm hold of his hips, only to be disappointed, when they resolutely forced him farther a crucial few inches and held him there.
Well, it had been worth a try. There had definitely been a bit of growth and firming. Sherlock slipped his hand in his pocket and texted Lestrade to come over quickly and quietly. They might as well hand the men over to the police as it didn’t seem likely he would be able to proceed with his actual case any further tonight. But at least he had finally managed to conduct a brief preliminary investigation.
---
“What was that bloody lap dance about?” John demanded to know the minute they were back in Baker Street and the sitting room door had closed behind them.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock answered trying not to look embarrassed and trying to think of something to do.
“Come on, Sherlock, I suppose you don’t have much experience, but I’ve had that move pulled on me countless times since fourteen. I do know a dry hump, when I’m getting it.”
Sherlock felt a definite blush rising on his face and he turned his back to John to place a stack of books in the shelf.
“Really, John, I couldn’t be less interested in your adolescent sex-life.”
“No?” John was standing right behind him. “How about my current sex-life?” His voice had a shade in it Sherlock had never heard before, something menacing but with a smile.
He turned around. While John could not exactly tower over him, there was still something very determined in his look making it impossible to get around him.
“Sex, sex, sex. What’s with this sex obsession? Not everyone is as preoccupied with sex as you are, John.”
He heard himself how his tone lacked conviction.
“Is that so?” John grinned knowingly, “I wonder why I haven’t been able to get a date in over two months? I wonder why that smelly fire experiment was necessary the last time I was getting laid? Nothing to do with sex, I’m sure.”
“Really, John, I don’t know what you’re on about. Now, if you’ll just let me – “
But John had gripped both his wrists holding him securely in place.
“Sherlock, if you want to touch my cock, just say so,” John told him and placed his hand on his groin. “Also, if you want to feel my bottom, go ahead.” And with that his other hand had been pressed against John’s buttock. “No need for the sly fumbling. Not that I really mind that either.”
Simple as that. Sherlock had been sure these things could not be approached so straightforwardly. Obviously he had made a mistake in his deductions regarding the subject.
Even through the thick fabric of the jeans he could feel John’s cock hardening under his touch. He moved his hand along it. Cupped John’s arse in his hand, clasped it tightly. Amazing. He could spend the rest of his life like this, John in his hands. Perhaps he would.
John opened his jeans and guided Sherlock’s hand in. The hard line of his cock against the soft cotton of his undies.
Sherlock eased the waist of John’s pants nervously and slipped his hand in. (John gasped quietly, bit his lip. The sight of him like this was very erotic.) Sherlock felt the warmth, the strength as he held John in his hand. John was hard, fully erect. The girth, the length, the curve (or more correctly, lack of), and the angle all finally available to be added to his notes.
The notes which did not seem that important anymore. Not as important as the strokes of his hand on John, John looking at him, his fast heartbeat, shallow breath. His fingers around John, John’s cock in his hand, providing John with that pleasurable friction.
As Sherlock felt John’s fingers wrap around himself he involuntarily squeezed hard with his hand, making John flinch.
“Easy,” John smiled.
He had opened Sherlock’s trousers, made his way into them so suavely, that Sherlock had hardly noticed.
As John started to stroke him, his grip just right around him, thumb passing over the tip, spreading the slickness to smooth the movement, Sherlock lost all concentration on what he had been doing to John. He leaned against the bookshelf, hands powerless on John, gasping.
“Yeah, this is what you really wanted, isn’t it? My hand on your cock.”
“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled feebly.
No. He was supposed to seduce John. (Oh, that’s wonderful.) It wasn’t supposed to happen like this… (Ah.) His plan… His carefully crafted plan… John’s lips pressed on his.
John pecked them, his tongue pressing against Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock felt his knees buckle, but John held him up, pressed him firmly against the shelf. John parted his lips, slid his tongue in his mouth. Hungry for him.
John’s hand mercilessly stroking him. The grip tightening just a bit, thumb circling over the glans.
The pleasure made Sherlock completely helpless. He was supposed to use the data he’d gathered (fuck me, John), impress John with his knowledge (please), but he was only able to moan his desire, surrender to John.
John loved seeing Sherlock so compliant under his touch. The lush lips slightly parted, the moaning of his name, the blue eyes hazy, lashes fluttering. It was absolutely gorgeous. He kissed Sherlock, craving his mouth.
“You like this, don’t you? When I jerk you off. Yeah, you love what I’m doing to you,” John teased him, voice rasp with lust.
“Yes, John, yes. God, I love it…” Sherlock gasped as John sped up the movement of his hand intent on finishing him. He couldn’t take it anymore.
Sherlock was struck by noiseless light. As his back arched, he hit his head on one of the shelves, but the pleasure overtaking him was fiercer than any pain. His feet gave in as he collapsed against John, the waves of his orgasm stealing the control of his body.
John’s hand eased off him gently when he was spent. John’s lips so soft against his.
“John, it was all wrong…” he tried to murmur.
John chuckled.
“All wrong? Sorry, but you have the look of an all right.”
Sherlock shook his head, placed his lips against John’s neck.
“Yes, that was perfect, but…”
“Just shut up then,” John kissed his earlobe.
Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around John, for once forced not to reply as he was incapable of a more detailed conversation.
---
Sherlock woke up alone in his bed. John had taken him there and he had fallen asleep curled around him. Breathing John in.
John, most definitely not satisfied. Sherlock had made an attempt, but it was hard to improvise with the mind dulled by orgasm, his plan not perfected yet and no previous experience. John had taken hold of his hand, mumbled something about sleep and wrapped Sherlock around himself.
And now John was gone.
No doubt out somewhere looking for a woman to satisfy himself.
Sherlock groaned and placed his hands on his face. What a mess. He had not cocked up (appropriate wording) this spectacularly since his fourth birthday, when he had completely miscalculated the balance of well-behaved begging and annoying tantrums needed to get the pirate outfit and the sword as presents.
He reached for his phone.
Gone out. Couldn’t bear to wake you, too gorgeous. Back soon. JW
Yeah, couldn’t bear to wake you – in a hurry to get laid. Sherlock almost moaned out loud with frustration with himself. Perhaps he should have practised first with someone he did not care for? Hone his skills? But, eww, he probably couldn’t have since everyone else except John mostly just repelled him. Nevertheless, he had let himself be caught unawares.
John opened the front door. Walked the stairs with two bags of shopping with him. (Who drank all that milk John was always buying?)
Sherlock pulled the duvet over himself, pretended to be asleep.
After unpacking the groceries, John went in to the bedroom.
It was criminal that a man should look so beautiful. John moistened his lips. It was almost noon. Time for Sherlock to wake up.
John lifted up the duvet from Sherlock’s feet and crawled under. He didn’t use his hands, but let his lips wander over Sherlock ankles. Kissed his shins gently and nudged his thighs apart by simply pressing his face between Sherlock’s legs.
What was John up to now? Sherlock really should stop him (the exhilarating contrast of soft lips and sharp teeth). It did seem like John still wanted some kind of sexual contact with him, despite his complete failure, so Sherlock definitely should intervene right now (John was nibbling and licking his inner thighs) and immediately start implementing his plan. He really should, absolutely.
Instead he spread his legs wider making more room for John, who was now caressing his pelvis with his hands.
Sherlock threw the duvet on the side. He wanted to see.
John’s lips were on his thighs, close to his groin, hands an inch away from the shaft of his penis, stroking the dark curls around him. John buried his face in Sherlock’s perineum making him inhale sharply. He stretched out just one finger to slide it along Sherlock’s cock, slowly, slowly to the tip, where it languidly grazed over his glans and was followed by a fist wrapping itself confidently around him and stroking once, twice.
Sherlock dug his fingers in the bed linen. Forcing his neck not to tilt backwards to be able to see John’s hand on his cock, the relish on his face as he kissed the hollow under Sherlock’s hip bone and gently bit his teeth across it.
And then without warning, John’s mouth was all around him. Sherlock moaned, couldn’t help himself as he bucked up, head tilting back. John licked his glans, moved his mouth away and swirled his tongue along Sherlock’s length. A faint smile on John’s lips. He was loving it.
His fist was tightly wrapped around the base of Sherlock’s cock and, gently this time, he took Sherlock in his mouth. Sucked him, the tongue fondling him, pulling with his mouth, letting go, pushing deeper, the pressure tightening, easing. A steady rhythm of sucking.
Sherlock’s hand had found its way to John’s head, gripping his hair, trying not to pull him closer, wanting to, wanting to. His breathing was heavy, ragged. Wet all around him, heat. John letting him in further, pulling him into himself with his mouth, tongue.
Like a wire snapping Sherlock came, shaking. Not recognising his own voice as he whimpered with relief. In John. Into John.
John licked him clean, swallowed. (Swallowed him, ate him.) Moved up, kissed him on the lips, smiled triumphantly (why?).
“Good morning,” John whispered in his ear.
He would not let John get away with this.
Sentences were still too far from his grasp. Instead Sherlock took a hold of John, turning them around so that he had John pinned under him. His feet over John’s thighs, hands on his shoulders making sure John would not be able to leave.
John’s sweater prickled Sherlock’s bare skin, the belt dug uncomfortably into both of them. He would rest just a little while, wait for his mind to start working again. He would have to have some of his mental faculties at his disposal before proceeding.
The plan was scrapped now, it was too elaborate, too detailed. He would just go for it, follow his instincts as John seemed to do. Follow the signals John would send out.
He kissed John’s neck, he would start slowly.
John reached for his pocket, pulled something out. His hands opened a cap of something behind Sherlock’s back. A cool, wet drop falling on Sherlock. John’s left hand took a firm hold of his buttock, fondled it.
Sherlock pecked John’s lips. Looked in his eyes. Saw everything. Almost had to close his eyes from the rush of John in him. John’s hard cock against his thigh, his hips bucking up against Sherlock, small pushes against him.
“Sherlock, I’m going to do something you’ll like, but I need you to be relaxed.”
Relaxed? He was as relaxed as he had ever been in his life. In fact struggling to perk up a bit to show John what he knew.
Sherlock felt a slick finger between his buttocks. It pressed gently against his anus.
What? No! It was his turn to please John.
But it was too late. A finger forced itself inside him and pulled out. (Well, that wasn’t very comfortable.) Circled around his ass, well lubricated. Pushed inside again, deeper and – .
The touch on his prostate nearly made Sherlock fall off John.
“Weren’t expecting that, were you?” John chuckled.
“John, really, I had a – ah!” Another finger entered him.
“A what?”
“A plan!” he managed to groan as the fingers moved in him very slowly. Stretching him, brushing his prostate in a dizzying pleasure. How could it feel so good right after an orgasm? Was there no limit to sexual arousal?
“Good for you,” John tried to keep his voice steady, “I have a plan, too,” he pressed harder against Sherlock, “it involves fucking you senseless.”
Fine.
Sherlock slid his hands under John’s sweater, dug into him. Pulled it off. Finally. John’s bare chest. He kissed it hungry. Bit John’s neck. John spread Sherlock’s legs wider, continued the steady pushes of the fingers. Sherlock’s mouth over his torso.
Sherlock got off him. Opened John’s pants fingers shaking and undressed him. Dived straight down on him, encasing his cock between his lips. Sucking it, tickling with his tongue, wanting to taste all of John. John was panting, handed him the lube.
Sherlock took a fair amount of it, lathered John’s cock with careful strokes. John watching him.
Sherlock lay down on his stomach, lifted his hips. Being entered, breached, having John inside him. Becoming one with John.
“Okay, John. Fuck me.” This would hurt.
John got behind him. Once more inserted one finger. Two fingers. A third finger. Sherlock felt John’s other hand almost shaking with excitement against his hip, but the one working his ass was steady, confident. (Come on, John, fuck me.)
John’s thighs aligned with his own. A wet, well-lubed cock between his buttocks. Sherlock shivered with excitement, anticipation. John pushed in.
Sherlock gasped. Pain? Some. Not as much as he had expected.
John pulled out a bit, pushed in, further. Pleasure? Yes. Definitely. A new pleasure spreading in him. Penis would not catch up with it yet, it was something else. Different, glorious.
“You okay?” John’s voice shaky with want.
“Yeah,” he confirmed panting. Better than okay. “It’s good. Feels good.”
“Yeah, it does.” In, out, in. “Let me know, if that changes, all right?” John hardly able to speak.
“Mmm.”
John guided Sherlock’s hips with his hands, pulled that ass towards himself, nudged away a bit. Pushed in.
Sherlock picked up the movement quickly. How to let John in, how to push him out, how to move with him. How to please John, how to please himself. The best combination of movement. Hips.
Being fucked by John.
John cursed under his breath. Too good, way too good. The best. Sherlock moaning, breathless as he fucked him. Enjoying himself. Biting his lip. The long back, the dark curls. The wonderful ass. Simply amazing.
John pushed in. Deeper, faster. Careful. Fingers clutching Sherlock’s hip. Holding on to him.
Stop.
Orgasm hitting John, back arched. Shuddering, being thrown against Sherlock. Lips on Sherlock’s back. Taste of sweat. Arms around him.
Slowly pulling out. Sensitive. Spent.
Lips on lips.
Sherlock caressed John’s face. It was very unlikely that John had gone out that morning for sex. It was certain that John’s plan had been the better one.
They rested foreheads together. Small pecks on lips. Sweaty bodies against each other.
“John?”
“Hm?”
“I don’t want you to ever have sex with anyone else again.”
John laughed.
“Of course not. Why would I?”
No reason. No reason what so ever. Simple as that.