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Ad Libitum	By : ambersue Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3225 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or any characters therein. I make no money from this.

Chapter List
- 1-Ad Libitum
- 1
1. Adagio/At Ease

“You’re composing.”

Sherlock spares him a wry glance, pausing in the middle of an elaborate run to pluck out an annoyed triplet. John raises his hands defensively.

“Sorry,” the doctor says. “Obvious.” He shuffles across the sitting room to his armchair, lowering himself down with a contented sigh and sipping at his tea as the detective bows his way gracefully through a few more measures. John studies him as he plays.

Sherlock’s rumpled form makes an odd contrast to the delicate music he coaxes from the strings. He stands at the window, blue silk dressing gown askew on his shoulders, his grey, slept-in tee shirt wrinkled, his striped pyjama bottoms slung low over narrow hips. His eyes, so strangely malleable in colour, pick up the faint morning light from the window, reflecting it back in an array of blues and greens and subtle golds. The tousled curls tumble across his forehead as he works his way through a forceful arpeggio, and if he’d known classical music could be anywhere near as captivating as this, John might have paid a bit more attention all those times Mary dragged him to the symphony.

“Stop it,” says Sherlock.

“Sorry? Stop what?”

“Thinking about former girlfriends.” The detective doesn’t look at him, instead picking up a pencil and making a notation on his sheet music. “You ought to know by now, I’m terribly jealous.”

John smiles, any shock he feels at how well Sherlock can read him buried under an avalanche of affection. “I’ll think about whatever I like, thanks. And you ought to know by now, you’ve rather spoiled me for anyone else.”

Sherlock’s pencil pauses for half a second, then falls back to the music stand. The detective’s lips twitch slightly as he lifts his bow again.

“What inspired this one?” John asks. “It’s rather different.”

“Is it?” Sherlock’s voice is grasping for indifference, but a shadow of pleased pride swells behind his words.

“The timing’s funny.”

“I assume you mean the tempo,” the detective corrects, “as the time signature is three-four, and, I assure you, quite ordinary.”

John waves a dismissive hand. “Never mind.”

“Oh, come on, John. I’m interested.” He draws his bow across the strings, a few slow, heavy notes spilling forth. “Tell me what you hear.”

The doctor shakes his head. “No. I don’t know anything about music. I’ll just embarrass myself, and you’ll tease, and I’ll get annoyed, and then a perfectly lovely morning will be ruined.” He raises his cup. “I’ll stick with my tea, thanks.”

“John.” Sherlock is still playing, facing him now. The detective catches his gaze and holds it, one eyebrow quirking upward in an expression that all but shouts, We both know how this ends, so just give me what I want and be done with it.

Still, the doctor is not without his pride. He returns the stare for a full five seconds before rolling his eyes and setting his teacup on the side table.

“Oh, fine then,” he says. He settles himself more comfortably into his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Play on.”

To his credit, Sherlock does not grin triumphantly, although his lips twitch with the effort of restraining himself. He does as John has instructed, repeating the opening measures of his composition, and the doctor closes his eyes to listen.

The melody is hard to pick out at first—the piece feels more a collection of deep, plodding notes than a true song. But gradually John becomes aware of a recurring pattern: a low note, bowed long and heavy, followed by a quick little trio of tones: low, high, low. “There,” he says. “It’s a bit faster, now.”

Sherlock makes an assenting noise but does not stop playing. The pattern repeats itself again. “It’s odd, though,” John adds. He draws his eyebrows low over his closed eyes, concentrating. “Like the notes don’t quite line up with the beat.”

“Imperfection,” says Sherlock, and John opens his eyes, blushing a little to find the detective watching him impassively.

“Sorry?” he says. “I know you’re not saying you’re imperfect.”

Sherlock scoffs, still playing, the little trio of repeating notes swirling faster now, newer, brighter notes appearing in between. “Nature is imperfect, John. A thin veil of order drawn over a vast, boundless chaos.”

“Alright, now I know you’re taking the piss.”

An errant stroke sends the bow scraping discordantly across the strings, and the music fumbles to an indignant halt. Sherlock stares at him, eyes wide. “I’m being perfectly serious,” he says, wounded.

The doctor cocks his head. “It’s not like you to wax philosophical.”

“It’s not philosophy. It’s fact.”

“Fact?” John snorts. “Okay then, tell me—the chaos and order of the cosmos, what’s that got to do with your song?”

The detective sighs flamboyantly, twirling his bow in a flourish before placing both bow and violin in his chair. “Not the cosmos, you know how I feel about that. I was thinking much closer to home.”

And John barely blinks, but suddenly Sherlock has closed the distance between them, leaning over him and placing his hand on the doctor’s chest, fingers splayed. Christ.

“Sorry?” John’s voice cracks slightly, his mouth irrationally dry. He ought to be used to this by now, having his personal space invaded without so much as a by-your-leave, but somehow the novelty of having so much of Sherlock so very close is still enough to set his pulse galloping.

“Heart rates, John.”

“What do heart rates have—?”

“No, shut up.”

“You can’t just—!”

“Shut up, John. Talking requires you to breathe more quickly, which in turn raises your heart rate. If you want me to explain why you find the tempo of my composition ‘funny’”—the air quotes are audible—“then close your eyes and concentrate on relaxing.”

The doctor shifts a little in his seat, glancing pointedly at Sherlock’s hand. “Oh, yes, absolutely,” he mutters. “It’s talking that’s got my heart rate up.”

“John.”

Oh, to hell with it. As if John has anything better to do with his morning. And of course, if he’s being honest, there are many things he loves about his flatmate—the heat of his palm where it rests on his chest, the mathematical elegance of his music, the silvery, irritation-honed edge on his melted-sugar voice—but his greatest love is still his first: Sherlock’s unfiltered, unapologetic brilliance.

The doctor swallows a smile and sighs instead, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. He makes a great show of taking deep breaths.

Sherlock seems unruffled by his display, standing with his legs bracketing the smaller man’s, his smooth baritone rolling over John in a soothing ebb and flow. The doctor can feel himself relax as Sherlock talks, lulled by the rhythm of his speech. “The average heart beats in a fair approximation of three-four time. Never really exact, of course. In excitement, it approaches a six-eight—a swing instead of a waltz. But it’s sloppy to compose in multiple time signatures, so I had to account for the variations with tempo alone.”

John opens one eye, staring up at him. “You mean you wrote a song based on heartbeats?”

“A piece, John, not a song. I wrote a piece built around the time signature of a heartbeat. Singular.”

The doctor huffs, unwilling to argue semantics, and closes his eyes again. “Fine. It’s an interesting idea, I’ll grant you.”

“Mmm.” The detective hums in agreement. “I thought so. Not a little bit maddening, though.”

“And why’s that?”

“I’ve just said—the variations.”

A long breath through his nose to show that John’s not following. Sherlock presses harder against his chest, his fingertips a five-pointed star over the doctor’s heart. The detective elaborates, “Heart rate variability, to be precise. Nothing in your medical memory bank about that?” John does, in fact, recall studying the subject, but the detective doesn’t give John a chance to reply, pushing on with his lecture. “The interval between heart beats is irregular. Minutely so, of course, but it’s hellish to compose around. But I settled for three-four, because it’s closest to that when you’re resting, and your resting heart rate was the original data point.”

“When I’m—hang on!” Both of John’s eyes open this time. “You’re talking about my heart rate?”

Sherlock’s face is inches away. Do catch up, John, screams one delicately arched eyebrow.

“Christ,” the doctor mutters.

“Deep breaths, remember.” The detective’s voice is smooth and smoky, slipping over John’s skin like a promise. “You ought to be at resting heart rate, or you won’t fully appreciate the progression.”

John glares at him balefully. “I haven’t decided if I’d like to kiss you or hit you,” he says.
“I imagine you’d very much enjoy both,” Sherlock murmurs. When the doctor leans into him, however, the hand on his chest pushes back. “Focus,” says the detective. “Relax.”

Then the pressure disappears from his chest as Sherlock’s hand trails upward, the detective pivoting until he is behind John’s chair, his hands resting on the doctor’s shoulders. His thumbs work their way into the muscles there, and the doctor melts into the touch.

“God, that’s nice.”

“I won’t make a habit of it,” Sherlock sniffs, but his fingers gently stroke the skin above John’s collar, and the smaller man smiles. Then the detective’s hands find a knot and set to work, and the smile slips into a groan of appreciation.

“You’re impossible.” Again, Sherlock’s clipped, annoyed tone is a stark contrast to the warmth of his touch. “You’re breathing isn’t nearly slow enough. It ought to begin adagio—at ease. The speed your heart beats as you sleep.”

John pushes back, leaning into Sherlock’s hands and letting his head brush against the detective’s forearm. “Keep putting your hands on me like that, I might get there.”

“Mmm. That would be ideal, but then I’d have to wake you again to carry on.”

“Carry on?”

Sherlock bends down, his lips ghosting across the skin of John’s ear, sending a shiver down the doctor’s spine. “We begin with adagio, John,” he whispers, and Jesus, that voice, “but we have quite a ways to go.” He presses a kiss to the side of John’s neck, and in spite of himself, the doctor’s hands clench on the armrests of the chair. “Are you ready for the next tempo, do you think?”

John cranes his neck about until he can look Sherlock in the eye. The detective’s pupils are wide, glittering with a feverish heat, and John isn’t sure if it’s the drive to show off or something darker, but that heat is catching. It draws him in, pooling in his belly until he can feel a flush creeping up into his cheeks.

“Oh God, yeah,” he says, and pulls the detective down into a kiss.

2. Andante/Walking Tempo

Sherlock keeps the kiss slow and soft, his fingertips straying from John’s shoulder to his cheek. The doctor didn’t shave this morning, and the pads of Sherlock’s fingers brush across the fine scattering of stubble along his jaw. The detective closes his eyes, mapping the sensation into his long-term memory.

John leans into him, tongue teasing at his lips, and Sherlock withdraws, smiling just a little at the irritated huff from his flatmate.

“Not yet, John,” the detective says. “You’ll spoil the build-up, rushing ahead like that.”

The doctor licks his lips, and Sherlock almost changes his mind—but John is already pulling away again. “You’re a bloody nuisance,” the smaller man sighs. “Fine then, where are we?”

Sherlock circles back around his chair and drops himself onto John’s lap, folding his long legs so that his knees rest on either side of John’s thighs, pinning him in the chair.

The doctor grunts, his hands sliding around Sherlock’s waist. “And that’s your idea of taking it slow, is it?”

Sherlock ignores him—ignores his words, anyway. The rest of him is demanding attention. “Adagio,” the detective says, “builds to andante—walking tempo. Moderately slow.” He kisses John’s forehead. “The speed of your heart as you examine a body…” Kisses his nose. “…as you make me tea…” Kisses the place where his jaw joins his neck, smiling against the little jumping pulse point there. “…as you clean your gun.”

“I take it back. Nuisance doesn’t cover the half of it,” John mumbles, his arms tightening around the detective, pulling him closer. “You’re a plague, is what you are. A vexation.”

“And here I thought I was being nice.”

The doctor snorts, but when Sherlock leans forward to kiss him again, he kisses back so wholeheartedly that the detective forgets for a moment the purpose of the exercise and loses himself in the depths of John’s mouth. It’s not until John breaks away of his own accord, leaving Sherlock panting and unsteady as the doctor licks a pathway down his neck, hungry, that Sherlock becomes aware that his pulse is thundering in his ears.

“John…”

A hum against his throat as the doctor acknowledges him but doesn’t stop. Sherlock tilts his head, his fingers finding the hairs at the nape of John’s neck and pulling hard.

“Ow!” the doctor cries, wrenching away from him. “What in the hell, Sherlock?”

The detective glares at him, unable to tear his eyes away from John’s slightly swollen lips. “Slow down,” he hisses, his fingers stroking over the doctor’s chest, attempting to soothe him and chastise him all at once. He leans his forehead against the smaller man’s, breathing through his nose in an effort to regain his composure. “God, you’re a menace.”

“Me?” John splutters. “You’re the one—”

“Shhh.” A quick kiss to silence him, and then Sherlock’s fingers find John’s shirt buttons and set about undoing them, one by one. The look this earns him from the doctor is equal parts amusement and fury and lust, and maybe something else, something close to sentiment, and quite without meaning to, the detective finds himself humming the melody to his composition.

John stills beneath him, his fingers digging into flesh where they rest at the small of Sherlock’s back—not enough to hurt, just a subtle reminder that the doctor is displeased. Which, of course, he isn’t really, but John is never happier than when he’s something to be unhappy about. The detective keeps working, one button at a time, maddeningly slow, tipping his head forward so he is humming against John’s ear, his jaw, his neck.

The doctor swallows hard, but he’s breathing through his nose now, too, trying to adhere to Sherlock’s directive. His voice is low and throaty and the detective pulls his shirt out of his trousers to undo the last few buttons. “Why this melody?” he asks.

Sherlock’s fingers don’t stop working. “What do you mean?”

“You said the rhythm—”

“Time signature.”

“—was my heartbeat. But you could have picked any notes. Why these notes?”

“Ah.” Sherlock pulls back now, helping John shrug out of the shirt, then tugs off the doctor’s vest for good measure. Better. The melody swells in his head, and he isolates the repeating strain, breaks it down into its base elements.

His hands trail over John’s chest as he speaks. “A low E to start—it’s the spine of the piece. Steady, subtle, strong. But the note breaks…” His fingers slip over the puckered scar on the doctor’s shoulder, trace a path to the newer, neater scar just below his heart. “…the note breaks into the triplet—another E, an octave higher, because it’s the same, broken but better for it. Then a bright B…for luminosity.”

He smiles a bit and glances up at John—and the smile slides from his lips, because the doctor’s irises have gone a dangerous shade of cobalt blue, and Sherlock is suddenly aware that John’s hands have found their way under his shirt. A wave of pure physical want shudders through him, and John feels it, he must, because he grips him even tighter, one hand dipping beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms to grip his buttocks.

“The third note?” John asks, his voice as rough and ruined as Sherlock feels. The detective blinks. “You said it was a triplet,” the doctor adds. “E, B…?”

“E again,” says Sherlock. One hand finds the back of John’s head. “E again, because you always come back.”

Then John is kissing him, and Sherlock loses himself to the music in his head for a time.
John’s tongue against his in a slow crescendo, John’s hands as he pulls at his dressing gown, his shirt. Both items of clothing tumble to floor as Sherlock sucks John’s lower lip into his mouth, tasting him, all tea and toast and trembling and home.

The detective’s hands are wandering, brushing over John’s stomach and across the top of his jeans, fumbling at his flies. The doctor catches his wrist.

“Where are we?” he breathes, and Sherlock has to pause.

“I suppose I could be generous and call it andantino. Moving a bit quicker than we should.”

“Want to slow down again?”

Sherlock looks him over, all spit-slicked and stubble-burned, his eyes the deep blue-grey of the Thames on a stormy day.

“Too late, I think,” the detective says, and unzips his jeans.

3. Allegro/Quickly, With Joy

Sherlock’s hand works its way into John’s jeans, palming him through the cotton of his pants, already stretched thinner by his burgeoning erection. John moans at the touch and ruts into his hand, a slow motion canting of his hips that he can’t seem to control.

“You see what I mean?” the detective sighs. “You’re terrible at taking things slow.”

“Insult me all you like. You started this, and now I’m having you.”

Beneath his hand, the muscles of the detective’s backside clench, and John digs his nails in to steady himself, grinning inwardly as Sherlock tilts his head back and hisses in response. John’s lips find the elegant expanse of the detective’s neck and latch on, sucking a mark that will show later, claiming this maddening, glorious creature as his own.

“John…”

“Mmmnf.” The doctor’s words are lost, pressed against the welcoming skin of Sherlock’s throat. He pulls back long enough to glare at the detective. “Don’t even think of telling me to stop,” he cautions.

“Hardly,” says Sherlock. He captures one of John’s hands in his own, laying the doctor’s palm flat against his chest so that John can feel the thud of his own heartbeat. “Allegro, John. My favourite bit.”

“What does it mean?”

The detective’s smile would be filthy, if it weren’t also entirely radiant. “Quickly,” he says. “And with joy.”

John can’t help but smile back, pulling him down for another kiss, moaning again as Sherlock’s hand continues to paw at him, letting his tongue suggest to the detective exactly what he’s imagining doing to him.

A sudden absence of heat and friction as Sherlock slides backward, unfolding himself from the chair and dropping to his knees in front of John. Long fingers hook themselves through the belt loops of the doctor’s jeans and pull, and John lifts his hips, shimmying a little to free himself from the garment.

The detective plants his hands on John’s thighs before leaning forward to kiss his way down the smaller man’s chest, letting his teeth scrape over a nipple. John’s head falls back against the chair, his fingers lacing their way into dark curls. “Clever bastard,” he sighs.

The detective hums agreeably and dips his head lower until John can feel hot breath between his legs. Sherlock’s lips trace the outline of his cock through the fabric of his pants, mouthing at the wet spot forming over the head.

“Jesus,” mutters the doctor. “You…”

Long fingers tease their way along his thighs, crawling up to waistband of John’s pants.

“As the tempo increases,” Sherlock murmurs, and God, the vibration of his throat against John’s cock as he speaks, “the melody becomes more complex.” The detective tugs at the elastic of the waistband, working the garment off the doctor’s hips until his erection is freed.

“You correctly observed that the notes do not seem to align with the beat.” Jesus, the clinical, practical tone, coupled with the wide-blown pupils and those fucking hands—John swallows hard against a spike of arousal.

“You are not—oh—” The doctor’s train of thought is derailed at the station as Sherlock’s fingers close delicately around his cock, teasing back the foreskin until the head is fully exposed. He slides further down in the chair, his legs opening to allow his flatmate better access, the last of his coherence escaping in a groan. “Christ, Sherlock.”

“Syncopation, John.” The detective lets his tongue circle once around the head. “The chaos in the order.” And John hardly knows anymore what the hell he’s talking about, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because Sherlock abruptly decides his mouth has better things to do, and for once those things are very, very favourable for John.

The plush lips open, taking him, and the doctor’s hands scrabble for purchase against the pale skin of the detective’s back. Sherlock hollows his cheeks, tongue flat against the underside of John’s cock. He sets a varying rhythm—sucking in shallow, fevered strokes, then swallowing him to the root and holding there. John can feel the need to come spooling in his belly, low behind his testicles, a like a tortuous, tantalizing paradise, visible but out of reach.

He won’t beg, though. He absolutely will not—“Sherlock, God…fuck, please.” Oh, fine, then.

“I told you, John,” the detective says, his hand keeping up the irregular strokes as he speaks. “Syncopation.”

“The hell, Sherlock—” His hips thrust toward the taller man, straining for anything, for everything, for release.

The detective rubs a flat palm along his thigh in a soothing gesture, and John contemplates the moral ambiguities of punching someone who is in the middle of giving one a fantastic blowjob.

“An unpredictable rhythm creates tension.” Sherlock’s thumb rolls idly over the head of his cock, smearing pre-come, making the doctor buck in his hand.

“Not sure now’s the time,” John says through gritted teeth.

The detective holds up two fingers. “That’s the point exactly,” he says. “You’re not sure.” Looking John straight in the eye, he sucks the fingers into his mouth, letting his tongue curl around them suggestively. The doctor forgets why exactly he wanted to punch him.

Sherlock’s head dips again, his lips kissing a wet line up the inside of John’s thigh. “You’re never really sure”—his voice is a dark whisper between John’s legs, and suddenly there’s something else, something damp and probing, and oh God, those fingers—“what’s coming next.”

The detective’s touch is gentle but insistent, pushing forward before John can react, and then Sherlock’s finger is inside him, and oh God, oh Jesus. The detective pauses, looking up at him through dark lashes, the colour drained from his eyes. The look is a question, and John is surprised to find he knows the answer.

They’ve never done this before—always it’s been John in Sherlock, not the other way around. But the thought of it, of letting Sherlock take him, of that lean frame curled against his, of the detective filling him, having him completely…the doctor’s gut clenches at the thundering wave of desire that crashes through him.

Sherlock feels his tension, misreads it, and retreats. His finger slips out of John, and the detective braces himself against the doctor’s thighs, stretching up to kiss him. John kisses back, eyes open, his brain racing to catch up with his body.

“Too much?” Sherlock asks.

John has to swallow before answering. “N—no.”

A raised eyebrow from Sherlock, and John shakes his head. “Not too much. I just…God, Sherlock.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Stopped,” John finishes for him. The detective looks confused, and John kisses him again, harder. “Please,” he says. “Please don’t stop.”

Sherlock’s pupils blow wide as understanding dawns on him, and for a genius, he can be awfully slow sometimes.

“Bedroom?” asks John.

The detective nods without taking his eyes off of John’s, standing slowly—John is pleased to see his legs tremble a little. The doctor wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, nuzzling into his tented pyjama bottoms, and Sherlock moans.

“Bedroom now,” the detective says through gritted teeth, “while I still have the patience.”

John presses a kiss low on Sherlock’s exposed abdomen before releasing him. The doctor stands.

“What’s our tempo, then?” he asks, but Sherlock is moving away already.

Without looking back, the detective calls, “Damn the tempo. The tempo is right now, John, or I’ll have you in the hallway.”

John smiles and follows him to the bedroom.

4. Ad Libitum/At One’s Pleasure

Sherlock pulls John onto the bed in a fumbling of touches and tongues, their limbs a hopeless tangle, and he wants so much of John that he hardly knows where to put his hands anymore. What he’s offering…Sherlock’s legs are trembling again, and he holds on tightly to John and hopes he won’t notice.

John must though, because his lips quirk in a smug half smile. Sherlock traces it with a thumb before kissing it away. His tongue in John’s mouth, the doctor’s fingers digging into his hips, nails biting into the skin in little half-moon pinpricks. John grinds against him, his erection hot against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock moans around their kiss, and his whole world is John: John’s melody in his head, John’s scent in his nostrils, John’s teeth on his skin.

His hands find their way to John’s buttocks, clinging to him, desperate for friction, and John licks at his earlobe. “Eager, aren’t we?” the doctor laughs.

By way of answering, Sherlock rolls him onto his back, settling himself between John’s legs. He cants his hips forward, and God, just the heat of John’s thighs through the fabric of his pyjama bottoms—the thin cotton is damp and clinging as Sherlock rocks against him, not entirely sure he believes that anything could ever feel better than this.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John’s faint exhalation against his throat, John’s hands tugging at his waistband. Sherlock takes the hint, breaking contact enough to wriggle his way out of the garment. He pauses, looking down at John.

John’s eyes travel once down the length of Sherlock’s naked form, darkening a shade, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Sherlock tries to pretend that isn’t fascinating, but his body betrays him, cock twitching with undeniable interest.

Finally, John’s gaze returns to his face, and there’s a tug in his chest as the concerto in his mind reaches a feverish crescendo—several bars too early, he realises. John is playing havoc with the careful construction of his piece, and Sherlock isn’t sure he minds.

John raises a hand toward him. “Come here.”

Sherlock reaches for the bedside table, finding the bottle of lubricant there before stretching himself back over John. He rocks against him again, skin on skin this time, and then has to stop himself because Christ, the sensation is nearly overwhelming, and he doesn’t want this to be over yet. John’s arms snake around his waist, and he takes a few deep breaths through his nose in an effort to calm himself. Beneath him, he feels John do the same, the doctor’s forehead resting against his collarbone.

“Might not last long,” Sherlock mumbles into his hair.

John grunts. “Well,” he says between breaths, “quality over quantity, they say.”

“In that case, I’ll endeavour not to disappoint.”

John looks up at him, one of his legs twining around Sherlock’s, pressing him closer. “As if you could,” he says. From anyone else, Sherlock would suspect such a statement was mockery. But on John’s tongue, the words aren’t flattery, they’re fact. Absurd. Sherlock can think of any number of ways that he may one day disappoint his flatmate, any number of ways he already has. But that doesn’t change the warmth in his chest, the sharp, prodding ache that he doesn’t want to name, and he leans down to capture John’s lips in a kiss.

He fumbles with the cap of the lubricant, snapping it open, and John pulls away, glancing down as he slicks his fingers. The doctor’s sigh is shaky—with want or nerves, Sherlock can’t tell.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

He can feel John’s lop-sided smile against his neck. “I’d be better if you’d stop talking and just get on with it.”

Sherlock smiles in return, letting his slippery fingers encircle John’s cock, enjoying the way John’s breath dissolves into a hiss. “Slower is better,” the detective whispers against his ear, “if you haven’t done this sort of thing before.”

John bucks up into his hand, fingers squeezing Sherlock’s neck. “Well aren’t you a considerate”—he gasps as Sherlock’s fingers slide further down, pressing teasingly against his perineum—“bastard.”

“It might hurt,” Sherlock says, ignoring him. The pad of his middle finger circles John’s opening, and he feels the sensitive muscles there twitch in response. “But then, pain doesn’t bother you much, does it?”

John’s hand moves, brushing across the puckered pink bullet-scar just beneath his heart. “Occupational hazard, living with you,” the doctor murmurs, and he’s laughing, but Sherlock frowns.

His eyes linger on the scar. “John…” But there are too many words, and none of them seem eager to be said first.

“Oh, shut up.” John’s fingers brush through the hairs on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, the gesture marking his words as endearment, not admonishment.

Sherlock bends to kiss him again, and this time he lets his finger push forward. John moans into his mouth, and God, that’s delicious, the twin heat of John’s erection on his thigh, John’s body clenched around his hand. Sherlock has never done this—has never really thought he’d want to. It was enough to be claimed by this man, to know that he belonged somewhere, to someone, that he was right and okay and part of a whole. But as John relaxes around him, he has to admit: his jealous nature, once introduced to it, is quite taken with the notion of claiming John, of making John undeniably, irrefutably—

“Mine,” Sherlock whispers, and begins to move his hand in long, slow strokes—teasing, stretching.

“Ohhhh, God.” John’s voice falters, his hand on Sherlock’s neck clenching and unclenching. He’s uncomfortable—Sherlock can read the tension in the contraction of each muscle, the slick of sweat on his palms—but John doesn’t shy from discomfort, and there’s something else in the grunts of almost-pain, something desperate and dark and hungry, and oh, God, Sherlock needs him, needs to mark him, devour him, possess him.

John’s hips are rocking now, and Sherlock can’t help but imitate him. The drag of skin on skin where his erection rubs against John’s leg is almost too much, and he drops his head to the smaller man’s shoulder, biting down to steady himself as he adds a second finger, twisting his wrist slightly with each thrust.

“Mine,” he growls again, insistent.

“Oh, Christ. Oh, Sherlock, fuck.” John shudders against him, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead now, his eyes shut tight.

“Look at me,” Sherlock says, but John is lost. Sherlock can feel him tensing and quivering, his body fighting the invasion, his brain fighting his body.

“John, look at me.” A flutter of eyelids, a hint of blue-black irises darting frantically back and forth. Sherlock presses one kiss to each eyelid and feels John relax a bit. “Don’t fight me,” he tells him, still thrusting. “You are mine.” He crooks his fingers forward, seeking, and it takes a moment—book knowledge is a poor substitute for experience—but he’s rewarded by a sudden gasp from John as his finger brushes over the right spot, the doctor arching beneath him. Sherlock repeats the motion, firmer now, and John moans low in his throat.

“Jesus. Can’t hold out much longer,” John pants. “Need you.”

Yes, says Sherlock’s body, but his brain knows better. “You’re not ready yet. A bit longer.” He slips in a third finger, and John’s jaw clenches, but this time he relaxes faster, his hips still moving, still meeting Sherlock thrust for thrust. Sherlock focuses on doing this right, keeping his eyes trained on John’s forehead, his shoulder—he can’t look at his eyes, pupils blown wide in lust, or his mouth, slack and panting, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He pulls his body away, denying John the friction, and John groans at the loss, but he will finish himself too soon this way.

After a few minutes, John is practically begging. “Please. Oh, God, please, Sherlock. I can’t.”

And no, Sherlock can’t either, can’t wait any longer. He lets his fingers slip free.

“Oh, fuck,” says John, and yes, Sherlock knows—the sudden emptiness is always strange, half loss and half anticipation, but John won’t have long to analyze the sensation, to savour it, because Sherlock needs him—needs to tell him, to show him, what it is to belong to someone else.

Sherlock squeezes more lubricant into his hand, slicking his shaft, letting his fingertips brush against the back of John’s testicles, making him groan. Sherlock hooks his arm under one of John’s legs, letting his hips rock forward, and they both gasp as his cock slides along the cleft of John’s arse. The detective grips himself, holding John steady with his other hand, leaning down to suck at the exposed flesh of his neck.

The doctor’s hands fist in the sheets as Sherlock pushes forward, finally, and Jesus—John quivers beneath him, all fluttering muscles and tight heat, and oh my God.

“Oh, shit. Oh, Christ, Sherlock!”

The detective freezes, concern forcing back the waves of pleasure. “Not good?”

“No, it’s—Jesus. Good. Just a lot.”

“Is that flattery?” Sherlock smiles into John’s neck and rolls his hips, drawing a long groan from his flatmate.

“You—aaaaahhh—God, please, Sherlock.” His fingernails press into the flesh of the detective’s backside, raising red welts where they drag across pale skin.

Which are Sherlock’s sentiments exactly, and he presses his forehead against John’s, panting. “God, you feel so good—how do you stand it? I can’t—”

John’s laugh is half moan, mingled pain and amusement and lust. “Move, then!”

So Sherlock does, forgetting all about tempos and time signatures and giving himself over to a different sort of rhythm. The pressure of John all around him narrows his whole world to this moment, this point of connection: John’s hands pulling him closer, John’s whole body enveloping him—and John’s voice in his ear, escaping in gasps and groans, alternately praising and cursing him, half his words lost in frantic kisses.

Sherlock himself is beyond words, transported. John is open, surrendered to him, and Sherlock is drunk on his vulnerability. His entire inner monologue becomes a chant, one word repeated to the beat of his pounding pulse: mine mine mine—mine!

He doesn’t realise he’s spoken out loud until John’s hand tangles in his hair, his breath heavy against Sherlock’s ear: “Yes, God, yours. Yours, love.”

And in one moment, he loses the last of his control, his vision grey at the edges as John’s name spills from his lips, and he is coming. He clings to John like a drowning man, and John holds him until he’s spent.

It takes Sherlock several moments to come back to himself, and when he does he realises that John is shifting uncomfortably against him, still straining for release. He slithers backward, he and John both gasping a little as he slides free of him, Sherlock planting messy kisses down the doctor’s chest until he reaches his cock. John is painfully hard and leaking, and Sherlock does not waste time teasing, pausing only a moment to taste him, lay the flat of his tongue against his fraenulum before taking him all the way into his mouth.

John shivers, his body arching upward, hands carding softly through Sherlock’s curls.

“God, Sherlock, please, love, oh please.”

That word again—Sherlock’s toes curl reflexively and he swallows him deeper, his hand moving to stroke along the cleft of John’s arse. John sighs as the detective’s finger finds the still sensitive ring of muscle, slips inside without resistance, and Sherlock works him from both ends now, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks. He crooks his finger just slightly, seeking the spot he found before, and—

“Christ!” John bucks up into his mouth, and Sherlock breathes through his nose to keep from gagging as John comes, hot and bitter on his tongue. He swallows it, savouring the alkaline taste of him, lingering like gun smoke.

They lay still for awhile, blissfully lazy, Sherlock’s cheek resting against John’s thigh, John’s fingers brushing idly through the detective’s hair. Finally, Sherlock shifts, pressing a kiss against John’s abdomen before pushing himself off the bed.

“Where are you going?” John asks. Sherlock waves him away, going to the sitting room and grabbing his sheet music and pencil. He begins erasing frantically.

John stumbles in from the hallway, shrugging into his dressing gown. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, leaning against the doorway and grinning crookedly at him.

“Fixing it.”

“Fixing it? Surely you don’t mean you’ve got it wrong.”

Sherlock snorts. “Only a bit. Won’t happen again. It’s hardly my fault you’re unpredictable.”

“Me? Are you serious?”

Sherlock lets his silence answer for him.

“Okay, I’ll bite. How in the hell is it possible that I’ve messed up my own song?”

“Piece, John. And it’s just…the tempo was off.”

John crosses the room to him, wrapping his arms around the taller man’s waist and glancing down at the new notation.

“Ad libitum,” he reads, his lips moving against the bare skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’ve erased all the rest. What’s this one mean?”

Sherlock sets down his pencil, turning to peer down at him. “At one’s pleasure.”

“Hmm. Sounds vaguely dirty.”

Another snort from Sherlock. “Don’t debase my art, John.”

The doctor laughs softly. “Alright then. Why the new tempo?”

Sherlock meant to be irritated with him, but he finds himself tracing John’s jaw with his fingers. “Ad libitum. The player chooses the tempo. Whatever suits the piece.” He leans down to kiss him. “Because just when I think I’ve got you figured out”—another kiss—“you change the rules.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about—mmmf!” He’s cut off by a third kiss, deeper this time. “But since you’re so agreeable at the moment, I won’t argue.”

“Did you mean it?” Sherlock closes his eyes, but with his forehead pressed against John’s, he can feel his eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“Mean what?” John asks.

“You said love.”

John is silent for a moment, and Sherlock forces himself to breathe, counting the milliseconds between his heartbeats.

When John finally speaks, his voice is low and breathy. “How can you even ask that?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to be confused, and he pulls back, annoyed. “Never mind, I—”

John’s arms tighten around him. “No,” he says firmly. “No, I only mean, how can you not know? You know everything.” And Sherlock can hear it now, the wonder underneath the confusion. “Christ, I just assumed you knew.”

“I didn’t—I mean, I thought. I hoped…but I didn’t know.”

Another second of silence, and then John laughs again, rising up onto his toes to brush his lips across the detective’s. “God, yes. I meant it. I love you.”

There. Sherlock’s breathing comes a little easier, his heart rate slowing from it’s hummingbird pace. He captures John’s chin in his hand, kissing him again. “Thank you,” he mumbles against his lips. “Thank you.”

It isn’t what he’s supposed to say, he’s certain of that. But he can only speak his heart, and his heart is so full of so many things that gratitude is all he can wrap his mind around to start. And John is perfect, warm under his hands, steady—a piece that is always the same, but will be new every time it’s played.

John doesn’t ask for more, just kisses him back wholeheartedly.
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Ad Libitum