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Take My Breath Away	By : Mr_Asher_Ethan Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2497 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The Television show "Sherlock" belongs to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. The characters of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no money from this fic.

Chapter List
- 1-Take My Breath Away
- 1
Author’s Note: In no way do I condemn those who practice breath control play. I myself have dabbled in it, and find it to be quite interesting and fun in the right, and safe, circumstances. However, for the sake of this fic, the very real danger of synapse death would be something that the character of Sherlock would find devastating. I write, then, with this in mind.
Sherlock, John, and all of the characters from the show belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.
Reviews are highly appreciated.
__

Lying on his bed in the silence of his lonely room, Sherlock ran his long fingers down over his own throat, relishing the cool fingertips against his Adam’s apple and the scratch of a day’s worth of stubble. Such a contrast to the smooth skin of his fingers, to the warm flesh of his neck. He breathed slowly, calmly, fingers coming up to press lightly against his larynx. His breathing slowed even more, became shallower, and a rise of carbon dioxide in his bloodstream began, increasing the sensations which his other hand was causing. His right hand ran slowly, surely over his hardened cock, squeezing at the tip, slicked pleasantly with silicon lubricant.
The fingers of his left hand pressed harder, conforming to the column of his neck now, squeezing the air from him. The hand on his cock stroked faster as he lost more oxygen, the feelings of elation becoming intensely magnified as he felt his orgasm rushing in. His breathing had stopped; he was choking, little pinpricks of dark light forming round his vision as his right hand moved at a rapid pace, bringing him ever closer to that momentary feeling of ecstasy. His mouth opened to gasp for breath, but his hand clamped down harder, sure to leave a bruise by morning. His could feel it now, everything within him coalescing at once into this moment, his orgasm inextricably linked with the hand on his throat.
He wondered what John might say if he knew.
With that thought, he came hard into his hand, riding out waves of silent pleasure as his left hand still shut off the air from his lungs. His mouth was open in a quiet scream as he bucked up into his hand and the waves of giddy, lightheaded pleasure rode through him and around him and into him. Head to toe thrummed with the reverberations of his orgasm, and he curled in on himself as the last vestiges of his ejaculation left him, thumb sliding lightly over the slit, causing him to jerk with the touch to such over-sensitive flesh. Still silent.
He brought his hand away from his throat, and gasped for the air around him, drawing it in with huge gulps, lungfuls to restore the correct oxygen saturation in his bloodstream. Every nerve in his body felt electric and dull at the same time, and his brain felt pleasantly sluggish. Just one more way to cure, or at least allay, his boredom. With a small smile and a low noise of satisfaction, Sherlock rolled over and went to sleep.
___
The next morning, Sherlock awoke to a nasty headache. He knew this was the consequence of his little game with himself, and had ignored it in favor of the momentary elation which would dull his senses temporarily. It was a fix, in lieu of cigarettes or patches, or something stronger. Those addictions served to heighten his perception; this was meant to take it all away and make him, for some short time at least, feel as a normal person would feel, and think, and reason, and not be so bloody bored with everything that wasn’t a homicide.
His head throbbed as he sat up, bare feet hitting the bare floor. He reached for his dressing gown, put it on, and headed for the toilet. World class genius or no, he still had basic bodily functions which could not be ignored in favor of something more interesting. Once his business had been completed, he chanced a look in the mirror. This wasn’t something he often cared about, but the intensity with which he had choked himself the previous night had him curious to see if bruises had formed. Indeed, they had, as a large, hand shaped darkening of the skin was forming on the pale column of his neck. He ran his fingers over it; put his hand to it, matching the lines of the bruise with the width and shape of his own hand, calculating little pieces of information which would be filed away for later use.
He made a mental note to make a mental note of the results of this particular experiment.
He grabbed his scarf on his way to the parlour, wrapping it carefully, for the bruise had started to smart a little. John was already up, trundling about in his dressing gown while making tea, and trying in vain to find anything in the small kitchen which would be suitable to eat. Severed heads in the fridge did not qualify.
Sherlock sat in his armchair and tapped his fingers on the soft leather, jiggling his leg anxiously. He glanced at John, who had his back turned, and slyly stole his newspaper. No crinkle of paper could be heard, but John, whom had been the victim of early morning newspaper theft for several days now, knew exactly what was happening.
“Sherlock, why don’t you just wait until I’m done with it? It takes me all of half an hour to read the paper on a Monday morning. Surely you can keep from being bored for half an hour?” John said, back still turned, as he searched the cupboards for the last can of beans, which he had been so certain were still in there somewhere.
“Half an hour? What do you propose I do in half an hour? You do realise most things I do take thirty seconds or less for me to complete.” Sherlock shot back, the front page of the newspaper held high as he scanned the scammed paper for potential cases.
“I… really don’t want to think too much into that. You could go rearrange your sock index for all I care; I just want a moment’s peace in the mornings with my newspaper before we’re called away by London’s finest, thank you very much.” John had returned to his chair, mug of tea in hand, quest for the long lost can of beans forgotten.
Sherlock glanced up from the paper and sighed heavily, as though some great burden were being placed upon him. He folded the newspaper and handed it back silently, a scowl on his face as he brought his knees up to his chest and sat there in his armchair like a petulant child. John rolled his eyes and busied himself with the paper.
After a while, John, having finished the paper and set it down, looked at Sherlock and realized there was something… off with him this morning. Not that there was anything on with him, ever. He just seemed, apart from the childish snarking, to be unusually subdued. At that moment, Sherlock had actually fallen asleep in his armchair; something John believed he had never seen happen before in all their time together at Baker Street. It was an act of vulnerability that John didn’t think Sherlock could be capable of. John took this rare opportunity to study his friend without the threat of being found out by that ever astute, penetrating gaze.
Sherlock’s head was reclining against the back of the chair, his face, for once, looking unguarded and peaceful. Black eyelashes fanned softly against his cheeks, his eyelids twitching occasionally as dreams played out. John found himself missing those gray and ice eyes of his, which would undoubtedly try to minutely examine John’s reactions as he observed Sherlock, coming to conclusions which may or may not be accurate. His mouth was slightly open, Cupid’s bow lips parting to reveal the neat, white teeth. His knees were still drawn up, hands on his kneecaps, but lax and unconcerned. Large hands, long fingers, well kept; John had noticed on more than one occasion that Sherlock kept his fingernails nicely manicured. He swept his gaze over Sherlock’s face once more, and noticed a furrowing of the brow, an expression a man in pain would have, even in slumber. He searched Sherlock’s form for any indication of where the pain might be located. Sherlock might think John an idiot, but he was a medically trained idiot, and therefore did know what he was doing from time to time.
Everything seemed fine, apart from the fact that he was sleeping in a position which would most certainly lead to a stiff neck… wait.
Something was off with his neck. Sherlock never wore his scarf in his pyjamas. John took a second to take in the temperature of the room. With the fire going in the fireplace, it was actually quite warm in the small parlour. So what would make Sherlock keep his scarf round his neck, which would make him break his usual morning routine (which was something John knew was never to be messed with), and make him subdued and lacking in his sharp retorts?
John stopped for a moment and thought about what he was doing. Was this how Sherlock did the things he did all of the time? Taking in the smallest details and analysing them with the frame of reference of knowing the person or type of person he was analysing? Did he do that to John himself? The answer was probably yes, and John felt a little guilty for doing it to his friend, while at the same time rightfully justified and just a little bit vindictive.
John stood from his chair and tiptoed toward Sherlock’s, careful to avoid a particular floorboard which creaked at the slightest touch. He had no idea whether Sherlock was a light sleeper or not, and was not keen on being caught so swiftly if he was. He reached Sherlock’s side, and reached out with tentative fingers to brush aside the scarf on his neck. Bending slightly, he examined the flesh revealed to him, careful to take into account Sherlock’s breathing to make sure he would not be found out.
Something was off with the colour; it looked bruised, a light shade of red which indicated that it was a recent injury. John hadn’t noticed a bruise there last night when they’d gotten home from Scotland Yard, but John knew that bruises could take several hours to manifest. John focused on the edge of the bruise. It seemed to be a pattern of some sort…
He placed his fingers in alignment with the edges of the bruise and realised they were the marks of fingers; the whole bruise was in the shape of a hand.
“Are you quite done examining me, doctor?” Sherlock said in a low voice, obviously just awoken, knowing that John had seen and surmised about the bruise.
John jumped back, retracting his hand as though he’d been burned. He stepped back a few paces and looked at Sherlock with an unreadable expression. At least, it would be unreadable to anyone else but Sherlock Holmes.
“You’re confused. Yes, and angry too. John, someday you should try to keep your emotions in check; it’s quite exhilarating and makes for a better puzzle to solve.” Sherlock said in a nonchalant manner.
“What the hell happened last night? Did that guy attack you before we cuffed him? I knew that letting you out of my sight for more than a minute would lead to something—“
“John, I assure you it has nothing to do with Geoffrey Biggs. Besides, the bruise on my neck is from a left hand. Surely you could deduce that Biggs was right handed?” Sherlock’s eyes danced with a smirk, though nothing showed on his face.
A look of annoyance passed over John’s features. “Alright, so it wasn’t Biggs. What happened then? Judging by the stage of bruising and colour, it’s very recent. Last night recent,” John said, brows furrowed.
“Amazing John, you’re not as dull as I thought you were. Well, being a medical man, maybe I’m not so surprised.”
“I’m not sure if that was a compliment or not.”
“Rest assured it was only slightly backhanded.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Not a problem.”
“You’re avoiding answering my question. What happened?” John was sitting in his chair again, a frown forming on his thin lips.
Sherlock unfolded himself with a sigh from his previous position, his knees creaking slightly at the abuse they’d been put through. He winced at the pain in his head, something which John was certain to catch in his friend’s otherwise perfectly schooled expression.
“What happened, John, is intensely personal. But seeing as you’re so very curious, I will divulge a bit of information if only to allay that curiosity.”
John was becoming more confused by the second, but ever more curious. Intensely personal? With a bruise on his neck in the shape of a hand? He couldn’t begin to imagine what this event would have entailed.
“There is an act that some people engage in while… manipulating themselves or others in the privacy of their own rooms. They withhold air and essentially choke themselves while in the midst of this manipulation. When a climax is reached, they either pass out or release whatever was rendering them incapable of breathing. The bruise on my neck is from my own left hand.” As Sherlock said this, he took away the scarf and matched his hand to the bruise, wrapping his fingers around the warm, pale flesh.
John was looking at him, mouth slightly open, confused but with a dawning realisation of what Sherlock was talking about.
“So you… what? Wank while holding your breath?”
“Indelicately put, but yes.”
“How did this… come about then?” John asked, wincing at his own wording.
Sherlock took no notice, or at least made no indication that he did. “After being choked so many times while in pursuit of criminals, I realised it made me feel, for lack of a better word, good. I wasn’t certain in which context this feeling was, so I searched the internet for information. It’s really the only sexual act I’ve allowed myself. Anything else might get in the way of brainwork.”
“You do know that there are physical side effects and such to worry about with choking right? Like death?”
“It’s called auto-erotic asphyxiation. The physical side effects include headaches, which is the unpleasantness I’m experiencing right now, heart and lung problems, and yes, possibly death. But I’ve made certain never to use plastic bags.”
“Plastic bags? Jesus…”
“You needn’t worry, John. I’m in perfectly fine health. When done correctly and in a safe environment it is an invigorating experience. This is just one of my many… personal oddities.” Sherlock said this with a flippant wave of his hand.
“There are other side effects too, Sherlock. With loss of oxygen there is always the threat of a loss of brain function, the death of synapses. You could lose your mind, quite literally, and then where would you be?” John said, worry evident in his expression. If there was one thing he loved about his friend, it was his mind. All of it, even the rude, hateful, hurtful bits.
“I… I’ve never thought about that.” Sherlock looked to the floor, calculating how life would be without his mind. He couldn’t fathom it. He, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective, without his crowning glory?
At this admission, John sat back in his chair. Sherlock not think of something? And especially something to do with the one part of his body that was completely indispensable?
“I can’t stop, though,” Sherlock admitted. “It’s another one of my addictions, I—“he stopped. He brought his hands up to clasp the sides of his pounding head, as he looked up at John. The expression on his face made him feel. Feel what, he didn’t know; but on John’s face there was a mixture of sadness, confusion, hurt, and… was that love? At the prospect of losing Sherlock to mediocrity, John’s face became an open book to his emotions, and Sherlock could swear he read love written on the pages.
He lowered his hands and placed them demurely in his lap.
“John. Would you help me?”
“Help you what?”
“Help me shake this one addiction. I can’t… now that I know it’s a possibility, I can’t risk losing my mind, my intelligence. I need help though, you know I do. You helped me quit smoking; you can help me with this, can’t you?” Sherlock’s expression was as close to desperate as John thought it would or could ever get. And Sherlock asking for help… something he couldn’t do or cope with on his own. Normally John would jump at the chance to be useful to his friend, but this sort of request…
“Sherlock… you wank while you do this. While I have no problem with gay people, everyone keeps forgetting I’m not actually gay…”
For a split second, John could swear he saw hurt flash through Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s lips pursed very slightly.
“I understand, John.” He got up from his chair, retrieved the scarf, and turned his back on John, headed for his room. Before he reached the doorway, a small, soft voice could be heard behind him.
“Sherlock,” John said, his voice low, quiet, almost not wanting Sherlock to hear him.
“Yes, John?” Sherlock hadn’t moved, hadn’t turned back to face him.
There was silence, and then movement as the smaller man got up from his chair and crossed the parlour. Sherlock felt arms winding round him, pulling him close. He didn’t know how to react; it wasn’t everyday – or even ever – that he received hugs. His arms stayed stiffly at his sides, as his hands flexed, fight or flight warring with the knowledge that this was John Watson, his only friend. He felt hot breath seeping through the silk of his dressing gown and t-shirt, the humidity warming his shoulder.
“I’ll help you. I’ll help you, dammit, because for some reason, some unknown, unexplainable reason, I love you. You and that insane mind, your deductions, theories, and all the mean things you say. No reason at all, because you belittle me, call me an idiot all the time, embarrass me in front of half of Scotland Yard on a regular basis, and patronise me in front of Mycroft every chance you get. Tell me why, Sherlock. Tell me why I love you, though I’ve never loved another man before. Deduce that for me, you smart, selfish, childish, beautiful bastard!” John’s arms had tightened by the end, his breath hitching as he held back tears and waited for Sherlock’s answer.
Sherlock brought his hand up to finally rest on John’s, joined right in the middle of Sherlock’s sternum. Deftly, he felt for John’s pulse. Elevated. Sherlock sighed.
“John, I can’t even begin to explain how you could love me. After what you’ve just said, I realise I haven’t ever been the best of friends, or flatmates. I would like to say that it’s no fault of my own, but I know it is. I’ve hurt you more times than you’ve deserved, and you’ve never deserved it. I hope someday you’ll forgive me. But I… I don’t even know if I’m capable of loving you back. I’ve never tried loving someone, before.” Sherlock bowed his head, muttering the end of his sentence.
John withdrew his arms from around Sherlock and stepped back. Sherlock turned round, and looked at John, taking in his red rimmed eyes and tousled hair: evidence of a late night out drinking with Stamford, his carriage: evidence of vulnerability, his lips: distracting, his breathing: slightly heavier, his eyes, those dark blue eyes: dilated, pulse: elevated. Conclusion: aroused, short-tempered, enticing, and everything Sherlock always wanted, but never knew he did.
“Try loving me.” John said weakly, hopefully, sadly.
Sherlock took a step forward and placed his hand on John’s cheek, looking down into eyes that seemed to have the depths of oceans. Hope blossomed in those oceans.
“I can try,” he said, and he pressed his lips to John’s.
John inhaled sharply and sighed, leaning into the simple kiss, parting his lips to run his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip. A small gasp came from the taller man, whom John surmised did not have much experience in kissing. Sherlock tentatively slid his tongue out to meet John’s, surprising himself with how much he enjoyed the slickness of the two muscles in contact with one another. John’s hands came up to cup Sherlock’s face, as his mouth plied gently at warm, supple lips and a shy tongue. He slid one hand down to Sherlock’s neck, a sharp intake of breath indicating that the still forming bruise was beginning to hurt. They parted, lips glistening as the warm air between them infused their lungs with lust and curiosity.
John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, lightly running his fingers over the bruise on his neck.
“Sherlock, I –“
“John,” Sherlock said, putting to a stop any kind of apology or non-sensical rant the shorter man was about to embark on.
“Yes?” John’s gaze was searching that stoic face for any sign of resentment, refusal, disgust.
“Take my breath away.”
A shock of arousal pulsed through his spine as John heard these words, and he pulled the taller man to him and ravished his lips, pouring all of his passion and hurt and love into the kiss, needing Sherlock to know everything, to know that he would be there. He backed Sherlock up against the wall of the parlour, fervently kissing this knowledge into him as his hands ran down the man’s chest, coming to the hem of his sleep shirt and willing himself not to freak out over the fact that he hadn’t felt breasts under his palms. Instead, he had felt hard muscle, flexing as Sherlock had brought his arms up to loosely encircle John’s shoulders. John told himself that everything he ever knew about sex would be of only little use in this circumstance; he realised that in this instance he was just as much of a virgin as Sherlock.
He slid his hand underneath the sleep shirt, running them up, over surprisingly soft and supple skin. By now, he had slowly migrated his kisses to Sherlock’s jaw and neck, mindful of the bruise, but only just. Sherlock was gasping small, barely-there breaths as John grazed his teeth over the bruised, lovely, pale column, worrying the flesh and soothing it with his tongue in a lazy pattern. His hands found nipples, and he wondered if playing with them would have the same effect on a man as it did with women. He pulled at each nipple and tweaked them gently, still sucking on Sherlock’s neck. The effect was immediate, as Sherlock braced himself against the wall, arms leaving John’s shoulders, pushing his chest into the source of pleasure. His head was thrown back, John’s lips coming off the soft flesh with a muffled popping sound. John looked up and observed Sherlock, really looked at him, as he looked back with lust glazed eyes. A blush, mouth open, lips wet, panting just for him; just for John. The barest of nods, and John licked his lips and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, leading them both to Sherlock’s room.
John pushed Sherlock down unceremoniously onto the bed and began divesting himself of his clothes. He threw his dressing gown and sleep shirt to the floor, and crawled towards Sherlock in his pyjama bottoms, which were tented rather painfully over his straining erection. Sherlock had been observing John as he was in the process of undressing, and found the simple act itself was not arousing. However, when it was John Watson, pale flesh and stout chest (stouter than his own, at least), Sherlock discovered that his body had some very interesting ideas about it being very arousing.
John began pulling Sherlock’s dressing gown and sleep shirt off, taking in every inch of pale, lovely skin exposed through each action. Those clothes also met their fate with the floor. John was now straddling Sherlock, who had propped himself up on his elbows. Hands ran down a pale chest, forefingers and thumbs coming up to tweak at nipples once more, and Sherlock gave a gasp and collapsed slowly to the bed, unconsciously grinding his hard cock up against John’s. Both of them moaned at this contact, John folding forward to rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder as he rutted against him slowly, hands still exploring. John brought his lips to Sherlock’s once more, and bit at them, soothing them, possessing them. John’s thrusts and Sherlock’s gasping moans increased, and John swore he would never, ever tire of that deep, masculine voice sounding like this just for him.
John slowed his movements, coming to a stop, and Sherlock made a disappointed sound. John pulled away from his lips, and smirked playfully. He wriggled his way down, and without ado, laved his tongue across the pebbled flesh of Sherlock’s left nipple. A grunt of surprise sounded above him, and he felt fingers winding their way into his hair, pulling slightly. He wondered if Sherlock had deduced that he liked having his hair pulled, or if he even knew what he was doing. He groaned as those long, dexterous fingers pulled gently. He nipped at the flesh with his teeth, rolling it with his tongue, pulled, suckled it, relishing in the constant stream of noises coming from the man beneath him. He turned his attention to the other nipple, Sherlock’s hips bucking into his chest, hardened cock rolling up against muscle, friction there but not enough. John held him as well as he could, not wanting for this to be over so soon. He finished torturing the nipple and blew on it gently, cool air meeting wet saliva, causing Sherlock to gasp once more. John realised once again he was out of his depth, and thought of what he would do next if Sherlock were a woman. Sherlock bucked up against him while he had been contemplating, and he figured thinking was something that had no place in the bedroom at the moment.
John trailed his tongue down Sherlock’s chest, the unfamiliar feeling of coarse, yet sparse, chest hair against his lips reminding him once again that this was not a woman he was making love to. Lower he went, Sherlock’s fists balling up in the sheets, his Adam’s apple working beneath the love bitten bruise on that column of pale flesh. John came to the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, stopped, and looked up at him. The taller man propped himself up on his elbows and studied John for a moment, before nodding.
John nodded back, the communication complete. They both knew that there was no going back to the way they were. Too many emotions, too much touch and change had happened in the span of only minutes, that if they were to part now, life would be unbearable and it would rip into them, destroying their friendship and possible love for one another.
John pulled himself back up and kissed Sherlock again, desperately gentle. His hand found its way to Sherlock’s cloth covered erection and he slowly began palming it, alternating the pressure. Through his gasps and moans, Sherlock began kissing him deeply, encircling his arms around John’s shoulders once more and gently rolling them over. Sherlock reached down and swatted John’s hand away, a look of confusion and hurt rolling across his deep ocean eyes. Sherlock sat up and pulled down his pyjama bottoms, revealing the glistening length of hard cock that John had felt under the layer of thin cotton. He groaned loudly as Sherlock replaced his hand on his now naked cock, Sherlock’s head thrown back as a moan loosed itself from his throat.
John ran his hand over Sherlock’s cock, wondering at the feel and weight of it in his hand. It wasn’t so different from his own, and he was surprised to find the motions which he used when wanking himself came to him so naturally when wanking someone else.
He pumped his hand at a lazy pace as he watched the man above him, entranced with the sight of the great detective coming undone by his hands. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed, his lips kiss-swollen and red, eye closed in a moment of sheer ecstacy. He rocked into John’s hand, desperate for more friction and yet loathe to speed up this incredible experience, wanting it to last as long as possible. John’s erection, however, was still trapped inside his own pyjama bottoms, and he was desperate for some sort of release from the confinement.
He reached up with the hand currently unoccupied with hot, hard cock and undid the drawstring, awkwardly pulling the bottoms down while trying to maintain some sort of pace with his other hand. His hard cock was freed from confinement, and Sherlock looked down, curiosity written on his face. He took John in his hand, John’s hips bucking up, and began stroking John at the same lazy pace, maintaining eye contact. That was possibly the most intimate thing John had ever done, with anyone, and he tried to convey all of the feelings he felt at that moment through his gaze. Sherlock smirked and let go of John’s cock, slithered down between his legs and ran his tongue along his cock, from root to tip, before going down on him. John cried out and buried his hands in Sherlock’s dark curls, hips humping up into that sumptuous mouth. Sherlock obviously had no previous experience, but that did not detract from the fact that he was trying his utmost to please John, to make it known to him that he did care for him. John could not have been more appreciative. He lowered a hand to his cheek and brought him back up, his cock springing from Sherlock’s mouth with an audible sound. Sherlock’s lips were wet, glistening with saliva and pre-come, and John kissed him furiously, tumbling both of them over so that John was once again atop the detective.
Sherlock broke the kiss and blinked for a moment, and indicated toward his nightstand. John leaned over and opened it, finding a bottle of silicon lubricant, which Sherlock took from him.
“Sherlock, I… I don’t think I’m quite ready for the full monty,” John said with a huffing chuckle. He smiled apologetically.
“Neither am I, John,” Sherlock said, returning the smile.
“Then what –“
“It will aid in the act of frottage, which I highly encourage at this point. Since neither of us is ready for full penetration, either way, and surely both of us must feel… overwhelmed at this point. You do know-“
John snatched the bottle from Sherlock with a more than slightly predatory glare and kissed him savagely, nipping at his lips and fucking his mouth with his tongue. All Sherlock knew was that he quite liked being submissive for once in his life, and opened his mouth and took everything John Watson was willing to give.
They parted, their lips swollen, as John sat up and aligned himself in between Sherlock’s legs, lifting them so Sherlock could lock his ankles behind his back. He flipped the lid of the bottle of lubricant, and poured a generous amount into his palm, which he brought to Sherlock’s cock, spreading it round. Sherlock bit his lip, looking at John, seeing the man who always seemed so put together in a soldier’s way, looking at himself with such feral intensity. Shivers formed down his spine, even through the sultry heat of their frenzied coupling. John then squeezed more lubricant out, and spread it on his own cock, eyes closed as some relief was brought to him. He opened his eyes and licked his lips, tossing the bottle to the side. Leaning down, he placed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s lips; a contrast to the power and immediacy emanating from him. With one hand, he aligned their cocks and bore down, thrusting up against Sherlock in a slow, but steadily increasing pace.
Sherlock had cried out, and was now making deep, guttural noises as John thrust against him, the feeling of another’s man’s cock against his own something he didn’t think he’d ever feel. Not because he longed for it and no one would have him, just mostly because he hadn’t really cared. Hadn’t cared, that is, until John Watson showed up, all psycho-somatic limp and carefully composed military disposition. Hadn’t cared until John cared about him. Hadn’t known he loved John, until he knew John loved him back. He brought his hands up to John’s naked back, raking his blunt fingernails over the soft flesh, as John increased the speed of his thrusts, his own moans matching to Sherlock’s in perfect staccato symphony. The wet sound of flesh sliding against flesh had filled the room, and the old sleigh bed of Sherlock’s groaned under this new abuse. John’s hands went to Sherlock’s lower back, holding him, caressing him, as their chests met, as they kissed fervently, as both of them could feel the end coming.
Sherlock was the first to come, his deep voice shouting John’s name as thick strings of come spurted out between them, mixing with the lubrication. He clung to John, wrapping himself round the shorter man as his thrusts became shallower, panting against his neck, encouraging him to come, kissing at his face, his lips, his neck. John soon followed, with a shout and a curse he released, his seed mingling with Sherlock’s own as his thrusts slowed, stopped, and he lay atop his detective, kissing and caressing as the morning sunlight seeped through the partially closed Venetian blinds.
“That was… incredible. Thank you, John. For helping me. For loving me, even against your better judgement.” Sherlock said, his nose buried in John’s soft hair. He felt very sticky, and very exhausted, but thoroughly sated, and was loathe to move from that spot.
“Sherlock, I helped you because I love you. And yes, against my better judgement,” John chuckled. His face went briefly serious, as he looked Sherlock in the eyes. Those glorious, ice blue eyes. “But you must know, deep in the heart that I know is in there somewhere,” he said, poking Sherlock’s chest, “that I will never let you down.”
“I know, John.” Sherlock said, running a hand down the man’s back. They stayed like that for a while longer, John eventually falling asleep on top of Sherlock, drooling on the man’s shoulder. Sherlock smiled a small, barely-there smile, ran his fingers lightly through John’s hair and said in a low whisper,
“I love you, too.”
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Take My Breath Away