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Perihelion	By : darkangel1210 Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 13557 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
A/N: *Peeks over the sofa waving a white flag* Ummmm… hello! Yes, I’m still here, I haven’t forgotten about you all, I promise!
I know this part has been a long time coming but I think you’ll understand why when you read it. Jeez, this was a pain to write, but oh so worth it!
As always, my thanks and gratitude go to everyone who is supporting this story, both past and present. I know I haven’t responded to everyone’s comments but that doesn’t mean I value them any less! You’re all wonderful!
Enjoy!
Part Ten
John inhaled sharply as the fabric settled around his eyes, small adjustments made to the placement to ensure that he couldn’t see a thing before it was tied securely. The smell struck him right from the off, Sherlock’s scent, with the texture of the cloth against his skin reaching a close second, and he realised that he’d been blindfolded with Sherlock’s scarf. The one he’d never had the opportunity to wear but had passed to Sherlock on numerous occasions, and now it was being used to strip him of his sight. ‘Oh dear God…’
Gently, one of Sherlock’s hands left the knot at the back of his head and settled at the base of his neck, the heat of skin meeting skin making John shiver and causing the hair on his arms to rise in small goose-bumps. Sherlock’s other hand wasn’t motionless for long; sliding down his cloth-covered spine until it reached his coccyx and back up again, this time moving under John’s shirt and jumper so the skin of his back came alive with the feel of Sherlock’s hand against him, stroking his sides and counting his vertebrae with another pass. A side effect of the slow touching was that, with each upward stroke of Sherlock’s hand, John’s clothing was being pushed up as well, exposing more of his body and bunching the fabric up around his shoulders. Just the thought of it was enough to make John shake with desire, the image of having his body undressed in such a sensual manner prodding at him until all he could think about was tackling Sherlock down to the table and giving him the same treatment, just to see how the other man would respond.
Above the heavy sound of his panting that the images inspired, John slowly became aware that it felt like he was waging a silent war with himself. On one side, the clasp around his neck made him yearn for surrender, to submit to the power being held over him where Sherlock had pinned him to the table, but the hand sliding over his back made him only too aware of the fact that Sherlock had plans for him. He knew they were going to venture into uncharted territory soon, thus bringing out his more dominant side, but, despite his natural inclination to meet power with power, he willed his mind into receptiveness because there was no need to be ready for a fight that wouldn’t ever arrive. He had his safe words and he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t really hurt him, not in a way that would be irreversible; he just had to keep it together.
John couldn’t say exactly how long he remained bent over the table with Sherlock standing over him, but as the minutes passed so too did his earlier urges, and he felt himself starting to relax. His hands uncurled from the fists they’d clenched themselves into and his gasping breaths slowed down until he was taking deep, measured ones, an odd sensation when he could still feel his erection bobbing between his legs, as stiff as it had been when he’d been sucking Sherlock off. As it turned out, his calmer state of mind was what Sherlock had been waiting for, a physical sign from John that he was ready for things to move ahead.
“Stand up,” Sherlock said, removing his hand from John’s neck and helping John get to an upright position when his arms trembled as he went to push up on them. His trousers were still tangled around his ankles, effectively disabling all movement, but Sherlock was quick to rectify that, the air swishing against his legs when the other man bent down to remove his feet from their confines. Being blindfolded, he couldn’t see what Sherlock did with his clothes (hoping that they weren’t being tossed out a window somewhere in Sherlock’s sudden haste), but it quickly became the furthest thing from his mind as Sherlock turned him on the spot so he was facing away from the table, his hands hanging at his sides.
Fingers grasped the hem of his jumper, pulling it up and over his head to expose his shirt underneath it and returning to undo the buttons of said shirt. Unlike the previous time when Sherlock had undressed him personally, there wasn’t a pause between each button (perhaps he was as impatient to get John naked as John was feeling) and he soon felt the warm air of the flat gliding over his freshly bared skin. There was a slight break after all his clothing had been removed and it gave him the heady sensation that every inch of his body was being appraised, the feeling confirmed when Sherlock spoke. “Look at you,” Sherlock breathed, taking John’s right hand in his own and gently guiding him a few steps away from the table. John couldn’t see where the other man was looking at him but he could certainly feel it; Sherlock’s eyes were like laser beams and John was certain he’d see the burns left over for when the blindfold was removed; fancied that he would be able to see the scorched lines on his skin where he would be able to trace their shapes in a mirror later.
Sherlock’s fascination with his body continually astounded him, to be quite honest. Although he was still fit in body, John didn’t have the abs from his army days and the scar on the back of his shoulder had looked horrific when he’d first set eyes on it after his surgery, but none of these things deterred Sherlock from mapping out what had to have been trails he’d crossed numerous times before. If anything, those paths probably gave Sherlock another point of reference so he could accurately catalogue the differences in his body from the last time he’d been there, each point lovingly remembered. The effect must have only been increased with the addition of him being blindfolded, the vulnerability of it adding a different sensuality to the image he represented to the detective, and more than once he longed to see the look on Sherlock’s face. He knew he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do the same to Sherlock’s body given the amount of time he’d seen the detective naked, and it was something he deeply wanted to rectify. Sherlock’s transport was nothing short of glorious, a perfect male specimen and seeing it in all its naked glory made a man want to do things to it; so much so that he wanted to pin Sherlock down to the nearest surface and-
Just as he was starting to lose himself in the fantasy of doing something to that body, Sherlock prompted movement from him again, slowly guiding him through the flat to what sense-memory told him was Sherlock’s bedroom. The air was slightly cooler than it had been in the living room, but not uncomfortably so, and he was stopped again while Sherlock went ahead of him, the sound of drawers being opened loud to his limited senses. He could clearly hear Sherlock’s movements in front of him as the blindfold had been tied above his ears rather than over them, but it still didn’t give him any clues as to what the other man was planning.
Once Sherlock finished rooting through his drawers, John heard more sounds; muffled thumps of things hitting the bed but, in total, there were only two. He knew that the items that were heavy enough to make the sound, but if he knew Sherlock (which he did), than two noises couldn’t be relied upon as an indicator of what Sherlock was going to use on him, if he was going to use anything at all. ‘And I don’t have a clue what either of them are.’
Eventually Sherlock must have been satisfied with the items he’d picked out because John heard Sherlock move and then felt the heat of the other man’s body press close to him from behind, Sherlock’s hands sliding across his hips and moving in a gradual sweep up his body until the tips of Sherlock’s fingers were making light circles around his nipples. John’s body immediately responded to the sensation, his cock jerking in an upwards motion against his belly as the tips were caught between the pads of Sherlock’s thumbs and forefingers and gently rotated, pausing to tug and pinch at them in-between.
Through the nipple play John could feel Sherlock’s breath against the nape of his neck and shoulders, deep breaths which supported John’s hope that Sherlock was finding this just as arousing as he was. Yet, despite the closeness of their bodies, no other touch was given to him; just the feel of those fingers massaging him until his hands were clenched into fists and his gaps had turned into breathy moans. “I’m going to introduce something new to this,” Sherlock said next to his right ear, his fingers leaving John’s chest so he could step around to John’s front, one hand drifting to John’s right nipple and gently pulling it away from his body until it began to throb with the tension. “As it’s something we haven’t done before, I want you to describe how it feels. In detail.”
While Sherlock was speaking, John felt the hard surface of something press at the base of his nipple where it was extended; he didn’t know whether it was unfortunate that he didn’t have time to guess what it was, only aware that it began with a small pinch on either side of his nipple until Sherlock released him from his fingers and then all thoughts dissolved into, ‘OhmyfuckingGod!’
Even with the gentle preparation that Sherlock had given him, even with the solid belief that he liked pain on that area of his body, the pinch of whatever it was on that small bead of flesh hurt far more than Sherlock’s fingers ever had. The unrelenting pressure made him growl in his chest and dig his fingernails into his palms in a conscious effort to breathe through it, his head tilting back until his neck was stretched at his throat. Christ, but it hurt! It hurt so much and his body still loved it, his cock a throbbing, swollen length which jerked with each beat of his heart and made him hyperaware of the clamp around his nipple. It had to be a clamp, it just had to be, but God knows what sort of clamp it was. As the ache gradually lessened and morphed into an intense heat, he could feel that the tip of the clamp was broad where it was pinching into his flesh, and the surface was smooth and free of any teeth or jaw like edges. That didn’t make it any less arousing and the image of his nipple being tormented in such a way slid like warm honey down his spine; the flesh swollen on his chest, aching and tender, but to be given no relief until Sherlock was finished with him. He groaned sharply as the clamp was flicked at the end, the shooting pain making him wince and jerk away as the fire tore through him.
Sherlock’s answering moan was low and debauched, the sound muffled when John felt lips seal themselves around his left nipple to suckle it into stiffness while his right one still ached from the rough treatment. The suck ended with an audible pop! before Sherlock’s tongue lightly traced around the nipple itself, pausing to flick the tip before drawing it back into that mouth where the dual sensation of being sucked and licked made John’s knees feel weak beneath him. “Ooohhh fuck… yes…” and John’s breath hissed between his teeth when Sherlock’s mouth was removed and another clamp was fitted into place, the abrupt change from hot to cold to being clamped making him clench his eyes shut behind the blindfold.
“Beautiful,” Sherlock murmured, drawing away until John couldn’t feel his body heat anymore. “Tell me how it feels, John. I want to hear you.”
John wanted to, God did he want to, but, when he inhaled to speak, the clamp on his left nipple was flicked in the same way as the right had been and he couldn’t stop a shout escaping him as his chest throbbed with the pain. Gritting his teeth, he felt something wet between his legs, distracting him from the ache, and he quickly found that the wetness was coming from the tip of his cock. He realised that he was positively dripping with want, leaking pre-come in a way that he’d never experienced before, and Sherlock hadn’t even touched him there.
“Yes, John. Exactly so,” Sherlock said, and John knew that he’d already answered Sherlock’s order but not in so many words. His body was doing the talking for him; the inarticulate growls and moans that he gave voice to when Sherlock touched him, testing his limits, and he couldn’t have been more thankful for it. Words seemed like a distant memory, sentences a thing of the past, but he knew Sherlock understood him; however he didn’t have time to reflect any further on it. All at once, his mind focussed itself on a light touch at the base of his erection, the pad of a finger pressing into the vein underneath and then slowly dragging up along his cock to the tip. The moisture was being spread as the finger worked its way up to the flushed head, his body twitching when the pad of that finger settled on his slit and rubbed that fluid into the skin around it, a sensual massage that halted any attempts at logical thought in its tracks. Once all the moisture had been collected, the finger left his cock and John heard the sound of that finger being sucked between lips, the noise perverse and loud as he listened to Sherlock clean pre-come from his skin.
'Oh God, oh fuck, fucking God.’ John knew he was making noise when Sherlock’s finger popped free of his mouth. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop it, realised he didn’t want to stop. He’d never had any trouble voicing his pleasure for the benefit of previous lovers, but knowing it was Sherlock he was making them for… Knowing that it was Sherlock’s hands on him, putting clamps on his nipples, licking John’s DNA from his skin so when he swallowed it would become a part of him… A pulse ignited in his groin, an urgent fire spreading through him at his thoughts.
Without warning, the clamp on his right nipple was flicked again, startling him, and then the left, alternating between the two until John was making animal noises in his throat, resisting the urge to step back, to get away from the pain as Sherlock continued torturing his nipples. His hands were shaking and he was dripping with sweat by the time Sherlock was finished, but the agony… God, the agony was beautiful. It still hurt, yes, but the pain wasn’t a single layer anymore. It was layer upon layer upon layer, building up until it started to become something else. He didn’t have a word for it but it felt distinctly like not pain.
“Clench your teeth,” Sherlock ordered softly and John obeyed without question, grateful for Sherlock’s forethought when his jaw seized as Sherlock released the clamp on his right nipple, then the left, discarding them somewhere and returning with his hands, gently working his nipples through the cramps as blood tried to force its way into them. Christ, it hurt almost as much as the clamps did when they’d been put on him and his body was struggling to acclimatise to it, his legs shaking and his breathing unsteady.
“I know they weren’t on for very long,” Sherlock said, continuing the massage as John’s body gradually breathed through the pain and settled in a place somewhere in-between, “but, as you’ve never had nipple clamps before, we’ll start slowly for now.” Once Sherlock was satisfied that the blood flow in John’s nipples was back to normal, if leaving the nubs a little tender and sore, his fingers left John’s body and the detective stepped to John’s right-hand side, one hand settling on the small of his back and urging him forward. Warm breath huffed into his ear when Sherlock pressed his body against his side, his hand settling on John’s right shoulder and insistently pressing down. “Kneel,” Sherlock murmured, sweeping that hand down John’s arm to tangle with his fingers briefly and then releasing him so he could follow the order.
Biting his lower lip between his teeth, John lowered himself to the ground, startling only slightly when his knees came into contact with Sherlock’s pillows instead of the carpet he expected to feel. He followed Sherlock’s directions, bending at the waist and gasping when he was pressed face-first into Sherlock’s bed sheets with his legs spread on the pillows and his hands on the silk beneath his head. Sherlock guided him until only his head and neck were on the bed, his arms being used for support on the mattress and leaving the entire expanse of his torso facing the floor, his nipples blessedly free of further stimulation for the time being. “Don’t move,” Sherlock said once he was in position, walking around his body and only stopping when John felt the other man kneel directly behind him.
Despite wanting to keep an ear out for what Sherlock was doing, it did nothing to distract John from the fact that his body had been placed in a very particular way; the same way as over the table, he realised. The pillows were there to stop his knees from hurting, which told him that he shouldn’t expect to be let up any time soon, and his hips had been arched upwards, exposing his arse and groin for further exploration. His body had also been positioned so, when he was bent over the bed, there would be no contact between his erection and the objects around him. In fact, any physical contact with his cock seemed miles away at this point and John was abruptly reminded that he wasn’t here for his own pleasure. Sherlock had said ‘positive reinforcement’, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he would enjoy it overall.
A tap to his hip brought him back into focus, his hands twisting into the sheets as he became acutely aware of the slickness between the cheeks of his arse, the faint traces of lube sticking to his skin from where Sherlock had fingered him open just moments ago. Sherlock didn’t seem in any rush to be back where he’d been though, instead sliding his hands around John’s hips and moving them up, a light, teasing touch that went all the way up to his shoulders before running back down to his hips again. From there they went lower still, trailing through the hair on his thighs and moving until those fingers tickled the backs of his knees. John huffed a laugh when Sherlock persisted with the tickling for a second, the touch becoming more sensual again as the detective’s hands slid back up his legs and palmed his sore buttocks, the thumbs rotating the muscles as the fingers clenched into them. The detective was still fully dressed (he even had his suit jacket on), but the hardness pressing against his backside left nothing to the imagination at how Sherlock was feeling.
“You have no idea what I’m going to do to you,” Sherlock said, leaning over John’s body until John could feel almost every inch of Sherlock against his skin, the man’s hands leaving his arse and wrapping long arms around his chest. “Have no idea how long I’ve waited to get you like this… Just this, blindfolded over my bed, spread open and waiting for my touch.” The hands on his torso hadn’t stopped in their motion, fingers following the lines of his collar bones and dipping into the ridges between his ribs, and John had the distinct feeling that this would all end up in the study of Doctor John H Watson, taxonomy of physical attributes. Christ, he was being felt up by his lover and it still felt like he was being examined, assessed, deduced.
“How long?” he asked, voice jumping when Sherlock’s fingers ran over his aching nipples. “How long have you been waiting for me?”
Abruptly Sherlock’s hands stopped stroking his nipples and instead pressed upwards, pushing John’s body back into Sherlock’s as the other man brought them to an upright kneeling position. “Keep your arms by your sides,” Sherlock said, bringing his right hand under John’s chin and encouraging him to tilt his head back, to lean his weight against Sherlock’s body. “For longer than you might anticipate,” and it took John a moment to understand that Sherlock had answered his question from before, albeit with a very indirect answer.
Before he had a chance to query the words with Sherlock, the hand under his chin moved up so the fingers were against his lips, stroking them lightly before pressing down on them and prompting John to open his mouth. He didn’t need much encouragement, taking Sherlock’s fingers between his lips and drawing them inside so he could lick at them with his tongue. Overriding the musk of the other man’s skin, John could faintly taste a trace of antiseptic gel and he moaned deeply when he knew he was sucking on the fingers that had been inside him, now clean and sterile of any bacteria that may have been left on them. God, just the thought of it made him hips jerk forward reflexively and Sherlock’s quiet chuckle against his neck wasn’t helping.
“I knew you’d probably have reservations if I decided to make you suck them after where they’ve been,” Sherlock said, planting kisses down John’s neck as he thrust his fingers deeply into John’s mouth. “So I took precautions.”
John was helpless to respond, the sounds of him sucking on Sherlock’s fingers almost overriding the words being spoken to him, and he nearly felt a thick tendril of shame when he realised that he probably wouldn’t have minded even if Sherlock had made him do that. He’d cleaned himself thoroughly before-hand, something he had experience of when he’d had physical exams before, so it wasn’t really that big a deal for him and just knowing where Sherlock’s fingers had been was making him ache in all the right ways.
Sherlock, damn him, was all too quick to pick up on it, the sharp inhale of his breath against John’s neck making him shiver. “So you do like the sound of it,” Sherlock said, teeth latching onto John’s ear lobe and nibbling on it. “You do know how depraved it is, don’t you? Tasting yourself there and knowing that it’s the filthiest thing you can do to yourself.”
John’s eyes clenched shut behind his blindfold with Sherlock’s words, the faint shame he felt earlier blossoming into a full body shudder. Yes, it was filthy, and disgusting, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. ‘God, what won’t I do for this man?’
The fingers in his mouth withdrew, sliding wetly down his chin and twisting into one nipple just to make John cry out with the shock of it before hands were tilting him forward again, back into the kneeling position over Sherlock’s bed. “Aren’t you relieved,” Sherlock murmured, his hands running down John’s body and stopping on his buttocks, kisses being laid from the top of his spine and working their way down until John felt the other man’s warm breath at the top of his cleft, “that I don’t have the same reservations.”
John barely had time to hear the words, much less process their meaning, when Sherlock’s thumbs pulled his cheeks apart and hot, wet slickness licked at him from his perineum to the base of his spine in one long glide. “Oh my God!” His hands fisted into the sheets and pulled at them as the sensation of Sherlock’s saliva cooling against his skin intensified the utter wrongness of it. Feeling Sherlock’s tongue there, even only for a split second, was enough to turn him into a mindless, babbling mess and already he felt like begging for more. “God, Sherlock…”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock agreed, this time starting at the top and working his way down, his breath huffing down between John’s cheeks as his tongue slowly made its way south. John titled his hips up as far as they would go, trying to direct Sherlock in case the target wasn’t big enough, and outright moaning when Sherlock’s tongue slid over his entrance again and stayed there. It slowly circled his pucker, barely dipping into the centre and flicking across it before John’s cock throbbed with a new sensation that made him grit his teeth when he figured out what the other man was doing. Sherlock was kissing him there, breathy, open-mouthed kisses that reminded John of make-out sessions he’d had with other partners where neither party wanted to break contact between their lips and tongues, only this was far more sordid. Christ, he knew people did this, had seen his fair share of porn vids where this sometimes happened before anal sex, but he hadn’t been prepared for the almost painful intensity of it. If he’d thought Sherlock’s fingers had felt good rubbing his hole, then Sherlock’s tongue, those eight muscle groups that brought women like Irene Adler to their knees, felt bloody fucking fantastic!
Gently, Sherlock’s mouth worked at his hole, the detective’s moans vibrating into John’s pucker and John couldn’t keep his own mouth shut for one second, it was so good. “Oh God! God, Sherlock, that’s… More. Oh God yes, more …” Each of his vocalisations seemed to spur Sherlock on, and John’s body tingled hotly all over when that tongue finally centred on his hole and began to push.
His head shot up from the bed when Sherlock’s tongue finally pushed past that first tight ring of muscle, John’s shout of pleasure drowning out Sherlock’s moans as that lithe muscle worked around the rim and coaxed it to relax further for deeper penetration. Spread out as he was with another man licking him into submission, John’s could honestly say he’d never thought of this happening to him before and now he didn’t think that he’d be able to live another day without it. The whole area was alive with nerve-endings, each sparking electric shocks through his groin and making him thrust his hips almost uncontrollably; back towards Sherlock to impale himself on that tongue and forwards into nothing but air and, oh Jesus, if this was what Sherlock had meant by ‘positive reinforcement’, he certainly wasn’t to complain about it. In fact, his mouth seemed to have been rewired from his brain to his cock, murmurs of praise escaping him and incoherent noises growling in his chest when Sherlock pointed the tip of his tongue and began to fuck him with it. “Jesus fucking-! Oh God, Sherlock, harder… Argh yeah, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”
Time ceased to have any meaning when Sherlock’s tongue finally slid from his hole, leaving him feeling open and desperately wanting Sherlock to continue despite the cramp the other man must have had in his jaw. “Please, Sherlock,” John moaned as he pressed his sweating face against the sheets, positive that his cock had to be drooling on Sherlock’s silk pillows by now. “Please don’t stop.”
He didn’t have to wait very long before one of Sherlock’s fingers pressed against his opening, letting go one of arse cheek so the detective could push that finger inside with barely any resistance until it was in to the first knuckle. The heat of the man’s body rose up behind him, pressing against his back as that finger began to gently thrust into him with Sherlock crooking his finger so he could alternately caress John’s prostate when it went deep. Sherlock mouthed at the back of John’s neck, his panting breaths an echo of John’s moans as the slow preparation continued, and he felt it when Sherlock smiled against his skin. “Will we have any aversions to a repeat in the future, John?”
Growling, he twisted around to where Sherlock’s voice was coming from and pressed his face into Sherlock’s neck, mouthing at the skin there and moaning when Sherlock moved his head so their lips met in a bruising kiss. All inhibitions cast away, he greedily thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, his shock a palpable thing when sweet cherry filled his taste buds and he realised the detective was using flavoured lube.
And there was nothing Sherlock liked better than sweet cherry.
John moaned again, keeping the contact going for as long as Sherlock would let him before the kiss ended, resulting in him licking his lips to chase the last dredges of the sweet, sticky flavour that had smeared from Sherlock’s mouth to his. “Christ no,” was all he could manage, listening as Sherlock removed his finger and flicked a cap before returning with two fingers and more lube. He groaned deeply in his throat when those fingers pressed into him, the initial push easier now with Sherlock’s inventive preparation, and this time they pressed on either side of his prostate, rubbing around the edges of it and gently stroking across it. The feeling of having his gland pressed when he was fully aroused made him ache, almost as though he needed the bathroom, but as the stimulation continued each rhythmic stroke of Sherlock’s fingers caused an answering throb in his cock. A deeper, more intense throbbing.
Sherlock eventually pulled his body back from John’s torso, taking up the kneeling position behind him again judging by the heat of the detective’s thighs against the back of his own, and a third finger was slowly introduced. John winced behind the blindfold, breathing deeply to accommodate the extra finger and the shape they made when they pressed back into him, spreading his thighs a little more to open his body to Sherlock’s careful exploration. Deep inside, Sherlock’s fingers gradually separated themselves, stretching John’s hole until the fingers were side by side, one of either side of his prostate and the middle finger directly on top of it. The feel of it was maddening as Sherlock began to thrust his fingers, aiming for that small gland so, on every in-stroke, a jolt of pleasure would sweep through him, grunts and gasps escaping him when some thrusts were particularly forceful. The depth and angle of penetration was so different from what he’d been able to manage when he’d been lying on his bed, the thrust of Sherlock’s fingers so sure and decisive that a small part of him wished he’d been able to accept Sherlock there the first time in the shower. Knowing what he did now, of course it was a logical step for him to wait and gradually work himself into it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to experience that again. Most of all, he wanted a wet, soapy detective preparing him for a hot, slow bout of anal play underneath the showerhead and, now that the fantasy was in his head, it was refusing to go away. Distantly, he told himself to remember that for when they were finished here.
The thrusting eventually stopped, Sherlock’s fingers separating again in a final stretch of his arse before withdrawing, leaving him with a gaping feeling as his hole tried to close around nothing. Oh… Something was very much there now; something hot and hard and very much alive and, when Sherlock’s hands took a hold of his hips and pulled him back against Sherlock’s body, he realised that it was Sherlock’s very bare cock sliding in the crease of his arse. He moaned almost desperately, wondering when Sherlock had opened his trousers as his fingers twisted into the silk, trying to spread his legs further when the head of Sherlock’s cock began to rhythmically thrust against his hole. It never penetrated him, Sherlock instead choosing to rub his whole cock along John’s crack, hands pulling his cheeks apart so that every inch of that hardness could be felt against his twitching opening.
“Look at you,” Sherlock murmured, voice carnal as he slapped John’s right cheek and then guided his cock to nudge at John’s hole. “I could fuck you open right now,” and John’s breath caught in his throat when the pressure against his arse increased and he could feel his body opening for the head of Sherlock’s cock, the lube-slicked tip barely pressing inside him and suddenly that was all he wanted. Wanted Sherlock to take him over the bed, to fuck him silly until he couldn’t even remember his own name and he was so close to having that now, to feeling Sherlock lose control inside him, God…
“Please… Please, Sherlock, fuck me. Fuck me, fu- aahh!” An aborted shout died in his throat when the pressure left him suddenly, the heat of Sherlock’s body shifting away from him and taking away the source of John’s desire, the very thing he wanted so badly that he sobbed once against the bed, his body shaking at having been denied.
“Ssshhh.” Sherlock’s body rose up from behind him, coming around to his head and gently carding his fingers through John’s sweat-soaked hair. John felt Sherlock’s lips press against the cheek that wasn’t buried in the sheets, coaxing his head up so his whimpers could be swallowed by Sherlock’s mouth. The kiss was deep and sensual, Sherlock’s tongue flicking against his own and drawing his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth so it could be suckled on, and then resuming the slow flicking.
John’s lips fell open against Sherlock’s, his body trying to respond in kind but he was fucked, in almost every sense of the word. His mind felt like it had taken a holiday, leaving his body open and vulnerable, living only for the next breath, the next touch of Sherlock’s hands on him. “Please,” he pleaded against Sherlock’s lips. “I want you. I want this, more than anything, please don’t stop…” If he’d been allowed to move, to prostrate himself at Sherlock’s feet in a genuine act of complete submission, he would have without question. Was this how Eric felt when Will denied him of release, denied him the pleasure of feeling his Dom’s body against his own? How did he cope with it, this begging, this pleading, at the mercy of a man who lived to torment him? How did he survive?
“You’re almost there,” Sherlock said in a low voice, sliding a hand up to cup John’s cheek and stroking the skin of it with his thumb. “Be patient, John, just a little more…”
Could he? Could he do any more than this, was it even within his capabilities? Regardless of the direction of his thoughts, Sherlock was moving him again, pulling him to an upright position and firmly lifting him to his feet. The pins and needles began almost immediately, even with the pillows cushioning his knees, and he wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s arms to stop himself from collapsing. Manoeuvring with Sherlock supporting him was difficult, but thankfully it was only a short distance to the bed and John was soon laid on the mattress, his head settling on one of the pillows as he was positioned on his back. The knot of the blindfold was moved so it wasn’t digging into the back of his head, pulled to one side whilst ensuring he still couldn’t see anything, and hands slid up his thighs, encouraging him to spread his legs before the touch was taken away.
In another world, he heard the sound of clothes being shed, the fabric settling on the floor before the mattress dipped between his thighs, the heat of bare skin pressing against his own making his body arch up in an attempt for more. Hands pushed at his hips, holding him down until he stopped writhing against the covers, and then they began to move. Stroking over his thighs again, nails drawing trails on his skin where they pressed into him; moving up to his hips and across his abdomen, then up to his collar bones and pectoral muscles, tracing the shapes and mapping the areas where Sherlock found them particularly interesting. Those hands pressed into his own, bringing them up until they were pinned to the pillow he rested on, Sherlock’s hips nestling between his legs and bringing their erections together. The symmetry of the position to the one before their last shower together made John whimper, already bringing his legs up so his feet could press close to his legs, obscenely spreading them open and giving Sherlock room to act as he saw fit.
The detective was quick to take him up on it, a gentle rotation of cock against cock making John groan thickly at the feel of it as Sherlock bent his head down to John’s neck and pressed open-mouthed kisses to the skin there. There was still no contact between their torsos though, and John realised it was because Sherlock was preventing any pressure on his chest, not wanting to aggravate his nipples by pressing down on them so soon after their part had finished. John knew he ought to be thankful for it, the hindsight on Sherlock’s part, but what he really wanted was to feel the full length of Sherlock’s body pressed against him, from the top of his head and right down to the soles of his feet. He wanted to be smothered by him, until all he knew the feel of Sherlock against him, inside him, but he was fast running out of ways to make that happen. Begging and pleading had gotten him this far, but he knew instinctively that it wouldn’t work now. What they were doing now, they were doing because Sherlock wanted them to. John’s own wants weren’t coming into it and it was driving him insane.
The frottage gradually stopped to his dismay, hands untangling themselves from his own and pressing down on them, a reminder to keep them where they were, before sliding down his body and resting on his hips. The pause barely lasted a minute, just a gentle shift of Sherlock’s body where it was sitting between his thighs (was he making himself comfortable?), and then those hands moved to his groin, stroking through his pubic hair and across the expanse of his stomach and thighs. John tried to ease his legs open a bit further but he soon realised that the shift was now working against him; it just gave Sherlock more areas to touch that weren’t his cock and the display of him spreading himself had no effect on the speed Sherlock had decided to take. This was still Sherlock’s way, or not at all.
As time passed, the touches became more sexual, if not more intimate. Sherlock’s fingers began to brush against his erection, small strokes that barely lasted a few seconds before they were moving again, reaching down to his balls and rolling them gently in their sack. Sherlock’s hands were slick with lube, warmed by Sherlock’s body heat so when he coated the entirety of John’s groin with it, it didn’t have the shock it would have had if it’d been cold. It meant that each stroke had a smoothness to it that wouldn’t be there had John been dry and reminded him of the times when he’d been inside a woman, her wetness surrounding him and coating him until he felt drenched with her when she came on his cock. Except now it was Sherlock’s hands on him, coaxing the same responses from him, the same moans and gasps and hip jerks as his body tried to dictate the pace. Each time this happened it didn’t get him anywhere; Sherlock’s hands stilled whenever his hips moved, and John quickly tried to stop it. Only then did movement resume with each stroke and tug blending together until he wasn’t sure where one of Sherlock’s hands started and the other began.
Between one touch and the next, John was beginning to feel himself unravel, like the thread of a woollen jumper caught on a nail. It was a slow process, so slow he hadn’t even noticed it, but as Sherlock reached down and pressed one finger into his arse, crooking that finger to caress his prostate, the splintering of it became earth- shattering. He shouted at the contact, his head pressing back into the pillow when Sherlock withdrew and added another finger, thrusting them into him as the hand other stayed on John’s cock, stroking underneath the glands with his thumb. God, close now, so close to release that he could feel it bubbling in his gut, spreading through his limbs and he wanted to move, just a little, to aim Sherlock’s fingers just there and, yes, God yes, just like that-
Abruptly, all movement stopped, his build to orgasm halted on the very precipice that he wanted to throw himself over. A strangled noise came from him, his nails cutting into his palms as the edge retreated, receding into memory, and all the while Sherlock kept still, no doubt watching him struggle to gain control of himself, the clash of doing what he wanted and doing what was expected of him reverberating in his skull. Seconds ticked over into minutes, each shaking breath counting the passage from one time to the next, and then Sherlock’s hands started moving again. Gently now, carefully, because they both knew it wouldn’t take much to get him to the brink again, slow, rhythmic, the sound of the lube squelching in Sherlock’s grip and the sensation of his hole clenching greedily around Sherlock’s fingers, his breathing stopping for a moment when another finger was pressed inside to join the others and then all three of them thrusting together. The strokes on his cock matched the penetration of his body and he quickly became overwhelmed by it, his body ready and eager for the pleasure, his mind falling to pieces when he was denied again for the second time.
Over and over, Sherlock brought him to the brink, and John didn’t even have the realisation that this was something else now. Yes, it was the strokes on his cock, the fingers inside him and the pulsations of denied orgasm in his blood, but it was also the silk stuck to his back; the blindfold around his eyes; the feel of Sherlock’s body heat where he was between John’s legs and the sound of Sherlock’s breathing as he expertly worked John’s body. All of them working together harmoniously to drive him to the edge of his mind again and again, until he couldn’t see to a point beyond this moment. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed; the exquisite torture between his legs, Sherlock between them; the memory of Sherlock’s mouth on his neck; the tongue in his arse, licking him open for the fingers inside him and it still wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed it like the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins, until it became his whole world and-
A noise he’d never heard before came from him, a sobbing sound that morphed into a moan and then into silence, tears leaking from his eyes into the scarf and his hands relaxing on the pillow above him. The thrashing of his body stopped completely as something inside him unwound itself and his mind was pushed over the edge into free-fall, the link between his consciousness and his physical form a tenacious link as he sank further into his own body than he’d ever thought possible. He felt weightless where he lay, but had never felt so heavy, his mind threatening to float out of the top of his head as Sherlock’s hands continued moving on him, coaxing him to the brink again but not letting him cross over, and suddenly he knew that it didn’t matter, not in the way he thought it did. There was only now, this moment with Sherlock and the pleasure being given to him by his Dom.
The sensation of Sherlock’s hands leaving his body reached him as though he were wrapped in cotton-wool. He was aware of it happening but the peace inside his mind wasn’t disturbed by it, not even when the blindfold was gently removed from his face and fingers gently pried one eye open to check his pupil dilation. Soft, breathy kisses were laid on his cheeks, along his mouth, and then those hands were turning him onto his right side, the warmth of Sherlock’s body pressing into his back as John pulled his arms down to the mattress to support the position. A hand curled behind the knee of his left leg, coaxing it up to his chest as Sherlock moved his body closer, and then the hot steel rod of the detective’s erection was poking between his buttocks, notching on his hole and slowly pressing inwards.
“Sherl-! Ohhh, God!” But it didn’t stop, his body opening for Sherlock’s cock as surely as it’d opened for his fingers, but this was so much better, so real and thick and it was Sherlock finally buried inside him, Jesus, how was he able to function without this?
Fingers curled under his head, tilting his face until he was looking up at where Sherlock was partially leant over him, the man’s cheeks flushed with desire and his breath panting over John’s mouth. “John,” Sherlock whispered, and the word held everything he wanted to, more than that even, and he blearily tilted his chin up, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s in a way that he hoped conveyed just how- much this meant to him. The detective must have gotten the message because the slow withdrawal of his cock from John’s body made him whimper, the resultant thrust back in causing his body to clench around Sherlock’s length, and they both gasped into each other’s mouths as the sounds of sex began to fill the room.
It wasn’t hard or fast, not like he’d expected their first time to be. This was slow, sensual, a pace set to the natural rhythm of the unhurried and the patient. There was no 221B or Mrs Hudson. No London or United Kingdom. There was barely the room which surrounded them, the sheets gliding underneath them as they moved together, the slap of skin meeting skin the music in their ears. And God, that was it, there was the perfect angle, Sherlock’s cock brushing up against his prostate with each slow thrust, pressing into it and John closed his eyes to savour it, the sensation of Sherlock’s body inside him before he was lost again, the pace ramping up a notch as the need to find release slowly rose within them.
John knew he hadn’t been patient. He’d begged and pushed and pleaded for Sherlock to take him, to make this a reality and Sherlock had resisted, waiting for the moment to present itself, the perfect time to complete the act they both so desperately wanted. So it came as a surprise when long, violinist fingers curled around his erection and stroked him from base to tip, the touch matching the long press of Sherlock’s cock inside him and it was quickly becoming too much to handle. The pace was quick now but not rushed, just perfect and the thought quickly pushed him closer to release, his voice rising when the pleasure became a bright agony. His hands fisted in the sheets as his orgasm swept up through him, centring on his cock and balls, and he couldn’t stop moaning even as the wave suddenly crashed over him, his body contracting tightly on Sherlock’s cock and his come splattering over Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock’s fingers stayed on him through the convulsions, gently working him through the aftershocks as his heart tried to burst from his chest, and he realised that Sherlock hadn’t finished yet. The hardness inside him hadn’t diminished, if anything it seemed larger than before, and John knew that Sherlock was close. Releasing his grip on the sheets, he raised his left hand to Sherlock’s face and brought their lips together again, murmuring against them, “Your turn. That’s it, come on, love, I need to feel you inside me, oh God, yes, keep going, fuck me, take me, I’m yours,” and then Sherlock was groaning urgently against his mouth, his hips pressing close to John’s as his cock pulsed and twitched inside him and John could almost imagine the feel of Sherlock’s come as it jetted into him, claiming him, and he’d never felt so desired before in his life.
After such a powerful release, the endorphins took a while to fade. During that time, Sherlock’s cock softened enough that he slipped out of John’s body with a trickle of lube and come, but John didn’t so much as flinch, deciding that he rather liked it. As though moving in slow motion, John’s body was gently turned until it was facing Sherlock’s and he was gathered up in strong arms, warm, slightly dry lips pressing against his as their bodies pressed close from face to ankle. His own hands buried themselves in Sherlock’s locks, not to deepen the kiss but to keep the kiss going, thinking all the time, ‘thank you for giving me this, thank you for not doing what I wanted and doing what I needed, for all of it,’ and felt Sherlock’s mouth tilt up in a smile against his mouth before strong hands pulled him back in and he lost himself in Sherlock’s arms.
To be continued
A/N: Oh, did I forget to mention that it’s not over? Huh, guess I did…
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Perihelion