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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
- 10
- 11
- 12
A/N: Hi everyone!
I know, I know, it’s been AGES! But I’m still here and part eleven is now complete for your reading pleasure!
And I also have good news - I have a new job now, which means I should be able to dedicate a bit more time to writing for you lovely people rather than job hunting, so a big WooHoo for that! ^^
Oh, before I forget, I want to put it out there that I am NOT, in any shape or form, a BDSM practitioner. All of this is being written by doing some very thorough research on the Internet so, if I balls it up in any way, please let me know and I will amend it! Thanks guys!
Right, that’s enough from me (because you do know how I hate to keep you in suspense, right…? *wink* )
Enjoy! xxx
Part Eleven
‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’ Staring at the calendar on the fridge door, John knew that the thought shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, but he was still surprised that the day had somehow managed to sneak up on him. The presents had already been bought for family and friends; the tree was up and the decorations Sherlock loathed were adorning their flat, and yet it still didn’t feel like it would be Christmas in two days. Then again, he mused, anything that had been distinctively not Sherlock hadn’t been on his radar very much since the night he had fantastic sex with the man and John couldn’t quite bring himself to be ashamed of it.
The night after Sherlock had taken his virginity (which was technically true because he’d never had anal sex before) his relationship with the detective had a whole new meaning. It wasn’t like they weren’t lovers already (and it certainly didn’t set a precedent that penetrative sex had to be involved for them to be classed as such), but things were definitely different now. There was a subtle undercurrent of tension within the flat that hadn't been there before, almost an air of expectation for the things to come, and even the interruption of four separate cases within a week hadn't cut through it.
The cases themselves had been above a seven, interesting enough to warrant Sherlock leaving the flat, but John had still caught glimpses of his lover looking at him over the body of a victim who’d died from lacerations to their throat, or felt a glance from under lowered lashes before they analysed a new footprint that had just been discovered. Having Sherlock looking at him wasn’t a new phenomenon; John often felt Sherlock’s eyes on him when he tried to suss out the cause of death on one of the victims, and it was more the way Sherlock was looking at him now that was different.
Almost like, every time John correctly guessed a clue or lead, he was going to be eaten alive.
Laughing a little to himself, John knew that, by the end of the fourth the case, they hadn’t so much as slept in the same bed together and he could very well understand Sherlock’s position; he saw it in the tension of Sherlock’s shoulders when they walked beside each other on the way back to Baker Street; the pursed lips and darkening eyes when a criminal forced them to retreat, to hide until the coast was clear with their bodies pressed close to each other behind some dustbins or down a darkened alley. Oh yes, those times had been especially difficult, feeling Sherlock’s breath on his face and Sherlock’s hands on either side of his head, the scent of the man filling his nostrils until John felt like he was drowning in him.
With fingers that shook slightly, John put the pen back in its holder at the top of the calendar, a flush rising on his cheeks as he recalled the last time they’d been together. He wasn’t a shy man and enjoyed a tumble between the sheets more than he suspected most people did, but he should have known that being with Sherlock would blow everything else out of the water. Over a week ago now, Sherlock had ordered John to stretch himself open with his own fingers while Sherlock watched and John mentally noted that it hadn’t been the first time that they’d been intimate that morning. Actually, they’d had sex again just as they’d woken up, but it hadn’t stopped them from wanting another go once they’d both recovered.
John remembered that he’d been completely naked and on his front initially with his arse in the air, the first three fingers of his left hand buried inside him as he slowly stretched himself, trying to go easy on already tender muscles. The detective had been crouched at the edge of the bed so he could get a better look and John hadn’t needed to see the other man's face to know that he was enjoying the view immensely, with the position itself being chosen at the time because it meant John wouldn't able to reach his prostate with the accuracy he would've liked. The angle was all wrong, making it more than a little frustrating for him, and he couldn't curve his fingers the right way to give himself any further stimulation, but the detective hadn't been bashful in telling him exactly what he thought about it.
"Yes, that's it, John. Push them a little deeper." The sound of lube and come squelching between John's fingers echoed in the room as he obeyed Sherlock's command, whimpering as his fingers just brushed the edge of his prostate, swollen and sensitive to the lightest stroke across it. "So beautiful," Sherlock said, stroking a hand up John's right thigh. "Next time I'm going to record this so you can watch yourself. The way your body has opened up for your fingers, your rim stretched tight and your hole still full of my come. Glorious..."
After that, Sherlock hadn't wasted any time pulling John's fingers from his body and climbing on the bed to kneel between John’s thighs; all the while John had moaned at the emptiness inside of him, already aching for more, but the feeling had quickly been replaced with Sherlock's cock. The detective had been so geared up after watching John prepare himself that he didn’t even pause once he was balls-deep inside, barely taking the time to ensure his thrusts would be aiming for John’s prostate before relentlessly pounding into him.
John felt his blush deepen as he recalled the feel of hands on his hips as Sherlock took him from behind, the overriding thought at the time being that Sherlock’s come was still inside him. The wet, sticky sounds of Sherlock’s cock sliding into him added a deeply perverse thrill to the whole thing, a symphony to play alongside John’s moans and Sherlock’s own deep baritone murmuring encouragement to him. The sex that morning had been on just the right side of rough, he remembered fondly, with him burying his face into the pillows to muffle his cries when the thrusts became harder, deeper, and Sherlock was growling with each push as his hips snapped into John’s buttocks.
That particular morning they'd fucked; making love hadn't been the last thing on John's mind but it certainly hadn’t been the first either. It was straight-forward, animalistic fucking with Sherlock's hands holding his body in position while John gripped the sheets for dear life, gasping and cursing as Sherlock used him for their combined pleasure. It hadn't been the only position they'd tried either; Sherlock eventually pushed John down so he was on his back with his knees to his chest, John's hands holding onto his own legs to keep them in place as Sherlock loomed above him. John hadn't even had the presence of mind to touch himself; in the end Sherlock made him come without a single tug to his cock and it had been so hard that he'd painted his own mouth and chin with it. It turned out that that was exactly what Sherlock had been hoping for, taking John's sticky face in one hand and making him meet Sherlock's eyes so he could see the moment when the detective reached his own release, adding to the mess John could already feel leaking out of him.
Smiling to himself now, John thought Sherlock in climax was most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and the clean-up afterwards had definitely been worth it.
Thinking back to Sherlock's words, specifically the mention of a recording, John didn't have any doubts that a video camera would make an appearance at some point; Sherlock had never been a man to give idle threats and John actually felt quite excited by the possibility of it. Although it wasn’t because he wanted to watch himself getting fucked, as some people might think, but so he could do quite the opposite. Sherlock was a very considerate lover, but it was precisely because of that reason that John's eyes were usually clenched shut to try and hold out for as long as humanely possible and he desperately wanted to see that body in the throes of sex, the sweat glistening on bare skin and the tight circle of those hips before John wrapped his thighs around them. He almost wished there was a mirror on Sherlock's bedroom ceiling just so he could watch the thrust and drive of that perfect arse, so he could trace the line the soles of his feet made as they drew themselves up the lithe muscles in Sherlock’s back…
John felt the beginnings of another erection at the front of his pyjama bottoms, the fabric filling out and becoming taut as the flesh beneath it responded to the memory, and he silently cursed himself for the umpteenth time. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, he tried to think about the most boring thing in the world whilst trying to will away his determined libido, knowing he wasn’t going to be getting anywhere with it this morning when he glanced into the sitting room and noted the location of the flat’s other occupant. Unfortunately the past week had been one of the busiest ever, not including the last-minute Christmas shopping and that fact that criminals weren't taking any holidays, and all John wanted to do was curl up on the sofa with a sleepy consulting detective after a sex marathon. But no, Lestrade had texted Sherlock four times this morning (and finally got hold of John when Sherlock didn't respond to his messages), asking them to come into NSY so he could take their statements before midday at the latest. In Lestrade's defence all the cases had been solved, but they needed to be 'on file' before the festive season began in earnest.
John glared down at his bottoms and the bobbing flesh underneath them, his erection refusing to go away no matter how much he tried to think of the most disgusting things known to man. Even Mycroft twirling his umbrella in a bright pink mankini wasn’t working and John’s hand was of the opinion that it would be so much easier if he could just rub one out. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought about sneaking in a furtive wank to release some of the tension, but he also knew that he’d only get away with it if Sherlock gave him explicit permission to do so and there wasn't any sign of that happening anytime soon. Not when the man himself was in the sitting room making notes on his sheet music, his blue dressing gown catching the early morning light from the windows and casting Sherlock's shadow in a faint blue glow.
John looked his fill of Sherlock's profile as the detective made small amendments to the music he was creating, feeling relieved that Sherlock was actually concentrating on playing music rather than the shrieking the violin often did between cases. Now the violin and bow were clasped in Sherlock's left hand, his right one holding the pen, and John had a brief memory of how those fingers felt inside him the first time, the way they'd stretched him open and made him pliant for the urgent thrust of Sherlock's cock.
He shoved the thought away as he went to the fridge for the milk, barely stopping himself from slamming the jug on the table before the noise caught Sherlock's attention and taking a deep breath to calm himself down. He could admit that his frustration had more than one source, having had quite a bit of time to think about it, and the only thing more distracting then the lack of sex was that there hadn’t been any more pain-play between them. It’d been a whole day since Sherlock’s attention had been on the Work, with ample opportunity for a spanking or two, but there hadn't been a whisper of anything happening in that regard. As far as John was concerned the nipple clamps had been a huge success, and he'd been spending the last twenty-four hours trying to anticipate what else Sherlock might introduce to their relationship … with nothing to show for it.
No more spankings.
No more new toys.
In fact, as the hours of the week passed between one case and the next, John was seriously beginning to wish for the cramp of muscles as he sat in chairs and the soreness of fabric against his chest. He wanted it to hurt more, to last longer each time so he could bask in it for hours, if not days, at a time. Jesus, he wanted to be able to look at his arse in the mirror the next morning and know that Sherlock had been the one to cause its deep flush of red in contrast to the skin of his back and thighs, a physical testament to the desire they had for each other and a reminder that Sherlock still thought of him in that way-.
Growling under his breath, John worked a hand into his pyjama bottoms and pinched at the base of his erection, willing it to go down. 'Not allowed,' he reminded himself.
The sound of Sherlock's violin case opening shook John from his thoughts and he turned around to watch as Sherlock put the violin away, always careful with the instrument from beginning to end. John pushed away the ache in his stomach at the sight and turned around to finish the tea, pouring the water from the kettle into the cups he'd gotten out for them and adding the sugar to Sherlock's taste. He stirred the tea idly, watching as the granules dissolved until he couldn't feel them anymore beneath the spoon; he was so lost in thoughts that he didn't hear Sherlock come up behind him, almost spilling the tea when Sherlock made him jump. Looking over his shoulder, John half glared at the man behind him and then shook his head in amusement when Sherlock just smirked at him. "Still want that bell?" John asked, fishing out the teabags and stirring the milk into the cups until it was just the right colour for them both.
"For you perhaps," Sherlock replied, reaching around John to grab his cup and taking a sip, his eyes skipping over John's clothing. "Wear your black and white jumper today. The striped one."
John looked down at himself and reasoned that he hadn't even gotten dressed yet; it was still early-ish on a Saturday morning and they didn't need to meet with Lestrade until midday, but still… He quirked one eyebrow at Sherlock's words, smiling behind his own cup as he brought it to his lips. "You like that one then?"
Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping John's body again before he nodded once, an affirmation. "Yes." He didn't elaborate on it and John watched as Sherlock walked back to the sitting room and perched on the edge of the sofa, flicking through the morning newspaper.
Bemused, John took a sip of his tea and decided he needed to get dressed anyway, going upstairs to his room and fishing out the requested garment. Taking into account the washing that still needed doing, he paired the jumper with some light blue jeans that were a little frayed on the ends, a comfortable pair because God knew how long Lestrade would keep them at the Yard before he was happy with their statements. John could only hope that Sherlock would be on his best behaviour today, purely because it meant they would get out a damn-sight faster and could start their own Christmas celebrations.
Picking up his tea, he meandered his way back downstairs and sat in his own chair with a sigh, his eyes straying to the windows to see what the weather was doing. John couldn’t help smiling a bit when he saw it hadn’t stopped snowing, although it wasn’t as heavy as some of the previous storms, and the child in him hoped the weather would stay long enough for London to have a white Christmas. Through his contemplation, the sound of a newspaper page being turned filled the room every so often, followed by the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional sip of tea, and it allowed him to relax in his chair a little more, his shoulders sloping into a more natural position, for these were the sounds of home. Almost as much as the usual banging and violin music and smoke that sometimes filled the kitchen, or Sherlock covered head to toe in corn-flour and some other jelly-like substance that he’d sworn wasn’t harmful in any way. Smirking, John remembered that he still had a picture of that on his phone, only to be used as passive blackmail in cases of extreme sulkiness on Sherlock’s part.
The sound of the newspaper being tossed across the coffee table brought his attention back to Sherlock, who’d thrown the paper away when there (obviously) wasn’t anything interesting in it, and was now lying across the sofa length-ways, one hand tucked behind his head and the other resting on his stomach. John noticed that the t-shirt Sherlock was wearing had ridden up slightly in the new position, meaning Sherlock’s hand was now touching bare skin, and John felt himself swallow around a lump in his throat. He hadn’t seen Sherlock naked for the longest time since their relationship started, not since the first case this week in fact, so the sight of pale flesh bathed in natural light, those long fingers idly scratching the skin beneath them, was enough to make the dull ache he was feeling flare into actual pain.
God, he wanted Sherlock. He wanted to replace Sherlock’s hand with his own, to stroke the skin there and feel the muscles ripple beneath his fingers. His hands itched to push Sherlock’s t-shirt up the rest of the way so he could lick at Sherlock’s nipples, swirl his tongue around them until they stiffened into little peaks that he could suckle on, the fingers of one hand stimulating the other one and then swapping around until Sherlock’s chest was moist with his saliva. Perhaps he’d reach a hand down to Sherlock’s own pyjama bottoms and curl his fingers around the hardness there through the cloth, teasing the detective with the heat of his hand and the pressure but with no actual skin contact. Sherlock would squirm so beautifully, breath hitching as John would playfully nip at one bud and roll Sherlock’s testicles around until he-
John shut his eyes and curled his hands around his cup, trying in vain to banish the images as he pressed his head against the back of the chair. He really wasn’t doing himself any favours, he knew that, but it still wasn’t helping. His erection was a persistent throb in his jeans, which were a far less forgiving fabric than his pyjama bottoms, but it also meant that, when his hips twitched, they provided an almost painful friction. ‘Fucking Christ… I can’t do this anymore.’
No sooner had he thought the words before he pushed himself into action, opening his eyes and finishing his tea in a few scant swallows. He looked over to Sherlock again, seeing that the other man had shut his eyes now, apparently at ease with the current arrangement and perhaps going over the last few cases in his head. Well, that simply would not do…
John stood up and walked into the kitchen, snagging Sherlock’s empty cup on the way and placing them both in the sink to be washed up later. Once there, he paused for a moment, flexing his fingers on the edge of the kitchen surfaces and concentrating on his breathing. He was so excited he thought he might start hyperventilating, but it was also tinged with concern. What if Sherlock didn’t respond or simply wasn’t in the mood? Five days… Five days only of the Work and he was like this. Needy and desperate, already missing Sherlock’s hands on him, his mouth, his words. Not the words of Cases but the words of a Dom. His Dom, commanding him, praising him, whispering into his ears of how good a sub he was and how much he deserved what Sherlock was going to give to him…
He thought back to the time when Sherlock blindfolded him, denying him of orgasm again and again, and how that had caused him to enter what seemed to be ‘subspace’ (or at least what he thought it was because it seemed not even submissives could agree on a single experience, it varied so much). The overwhelming peace he’d felt under Sherlock’s hands, knowing he was being looked after, cared for in such a vulnerable state, was a high he hadn’t found anywhere else, not even on the frontlines, and he already knew that he missed it. That lack of control, of giving up, giving in to another person and having all their attention focussed on him, on what was happening and how to make it last… No, John quickly amended with a shake of his head. Not just any person, because only one would do, and he was currently obsessed with cases!
Warm hands suddenly curled around his waist and John tensed automatically when a firm body pressed against his back, a hot mouth laying featherlike kisses at the base of his neck. Gasping, he didn’t know when he’d shut his eyes or when Sherlock had even moved, but it only heightened the sensations as he leaned back into Sherlock’s embrace, keeping his hands on the counter and giving free reign to whatever Sherlock wanted to do. Sherlock took the permission as he was meant to, his right hand moved up John’s torso and across the fabric of his jumper, settling over his heart as the other hand moved down to the front of John’s jeans and cupped his erection through them.
“God, Sherlock,” John whispered, his hips rolling forward into the palm of Sherlock’s hand as the detective squeezed John’s length and then reached lower to fondle his balls, already pulled tight to his groin with his arousal.
The lips at his neck moved again, the moist heat of Sherlock’s tongue lapping at one ear-lobe and tracing the curl of that same ear. John could hear Sherlock’s own breathing as the touches continued; a slow puff of warm air with the space between each breath narrowing as Sherlock’s body responded to John’s need. “Do you know what you smell like?” Sherlock asked him, moving the hand over John’s heart until it reached his right nipple, gently circling it with the tip of one finger. “You smell like the gun oil you use to clean your Browning and the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.” John’s ear was soon left alone, only for that mouth to press to the skin where his ear met his neck and John shuddered as the touch sent violent shivers through him. Sherlock never paused, almost whispering the words between each kiss and caress. “Like desire. Arousal. Need. Even through the soap of your shower. A musky smell; man, soldier and healer all compressed into one.” The hands moved again, making John almost whimper in disappointment before he was turned so his back was pressed against the counter and Sherlock was looking down at him, his eyes sharp and full of heat. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice this?”
John closed his eyes again, holding his breath when Sherlock’s hands moved back to their previous positions, except this time on his front, and releasing a moan when one of those hands pressed against his cock, stroking him from root to tip. “I knew you’d probably notice,” John gasped, his hips following the motion of Sherlock’s fingers, “but I didn’t want to… The Work, it’s-”
“Finished,” Sherlock replied, the hand not at John’s crotch sliding up his chest to stop at his collar bones, the fingers splayed against them over the jumper. “It’s finished, John.”
“Finished,” John echoed, his mouth dropping open when the hand at his groin deftly flicked open the top of his jeans and slid the zip down, just enough for those fingers (was he really thinking how dexterous those fingers were a moment ago because damn!) to slip his boxers down over his cock and give Sherlock entrance to him. His whole body seemed to thrum in time to the pulse between his legs, Sherlock’s fingers working the moisture at the tip of John’s erection and then closing his hand around it, stroking the head lightly using the foreskin there.
“Do you have any idea what it’s been like the last five days?” Sherlock asked, his eyes watching John’s expressions as the feeling of finally having Sherlock’s hands on his body made his face and neck flush with pleasure. “To see you standing there, unable to feel the touch of your skin against my own? Or to hear your voice begging me for more?”
“I have an idea, yeah,” John replied breathlessly, trying to keep still when the light touches to his erection became firmer, more rhythmic, his chest seizing when one stroke felt particularly good.
Sherlock kept watching him, knowing how to move his fingers in just the right way to make John squirm. "When you found the ring under the wardrobe, just by the glint it made in the sunlight, did you also have an idea of how much I wanted to take you over the victim's dressing table?" he asked, one finger curling against the skin of John's scrotum and flicking against one ball. "In front of Lestrade. Donovan... Even that idiot Anderson." Another flick to his balls and John saw Sherlock's eyes darken as he watched John wince at the dual sensations of pain and pleasure. "Do you think they'd get off on it, seeing you so uninhibited?"
John groaned at the words and at the sharp flick of Sherlock's nail against a very sensitive area, pressing back against the kitchen counter as his mind brought to life the fantasy Sherlock had created. He remembered the dressing table well; a sturdy thing, cream coloured, with an oval vanity mirror in the centre and two sets of drawers on either side. A proper little girl's table, except this one had been made for an adult woman, and the very notion of being taken over it while Lestrade and his team watched... His blood thrilled with the exhilaration of it all, the fantasy of being at Sherlock's mercy while the police looked on, as helpless to Sherlock's power as John himself...
Abruptly, Sherlock's hands lifted from John's body to cup his face in their palms, John's cock now pressing against Sherlock's pyjama bottoms and, through them, the answering hardness of Sherlock's erection. "They may not," Sherlock said, bringing their lips together in a faint kiss and pushing a thigh between John's legs. "But you do, don't you."
'Do what?' John couldn't focus on the words, his hands white-knuckled on the counter as he tried to kiss Sherlock again, already thinking ahead to the moist lick of Sherlock's tongue in his mouth and feel of a lip nipped between teeth. Sherlock had the prettiest mouth; all Cupid’s bow and sharp words and John felt like he could waste an entire morning exploring it without the morning being wasted at all.
Sherlock slid a hand to the back of John’s head, stroking his fingers through the strands of his hair in a way that made John’s eyes flutter. “You want to see how they react to it,” he said, his tone coloured by the realisation. “You like the idea of it happening to you.”
In that instant, John already knew what Sherlock was talking about; how could he not, already remembering the way he’d been in the surgery, hard and desperately hoping someone would(n’t) see his erection that fateful Wednesday, but he still wanted to hear Sherlock say it. “What are you talking about?”
Sherlock smirked while the fingers in John’s hair tightened at the roots, arching John’s head back so Sherlock could lick from his collar bones to his jaw in a wet slide. “How about a demonstration?” Sherlock said instead, pulling back so John could see the heat deepen in the detective’s eyes.
‘Demonstration?’ As was normally the case, Sherlock didn’t give him any time to think about it, his hands already reaching down to John’s waistline to tuck his erection back into his boxers, doing up the fastenings and straightening his jumper afterwards so it wasn’t bunched up around his hips.
“Follow me,” Sherlock said in a low burr, walking back into the living room as John trailed behind him. John watched through blurred eyes as Sherlock draped himself in his chair and, without saying a thing, motioned to the space in front of him, giving John a pointed look until the implications of the gesture washed over him. Hell, the look Sherlock was giving him was enough to turn his knees to jelly and John shut his eyes for a brief second as he realised what Sherlock wanted him to do.
He swallowed the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth as he knelt at Sherlock’s feet, placing his hands on the other man’s knees to steady himself once his knees touched the floor. Sherlock made no move to touch him, laid back in his chair like some sort of regal entity, and John knew what happened next would be up to him. He could go straight for the prize, and Sherlock’s body language wasn’t attempting to divert that thought as his legs were spread open to allow John to kneel between them, but John remembered the way Sherlock had been laying on the sofa and he knew what he wanted to do next.
Looking up the length of Sherlock’s body, he maintained eye contact as his hands reached for the bottom of Sherlock’s t-shirt, pushing the fabric up until it was bunched up around his armpits and exposing that gorgeous chest. Sherlock shifted his body slightly to allow the fabric to move before settling back again, watching John with curious eyes as John ran his hands over Sherlock’s pectoral muscles, tracing the lines they made down to his abs. Despite Sherlock’s little gain in weight, he still managed to keep a trim figure and the body beneath John’s fingers was truly something to be envied. With that thought in mind, John stuck his left index finger into his mouth, wetting it generously and then placing the pad of that same finger near Sherlock’s right nipple, drawing a circle around the nub which was beginning to harden. Pleased with the physical reaction, and the deepening hue of Sherlock’s eyes, John repeated it near Sherlock’s left nipple until both had stiffened into little peaks and then leaned over Sherlock’s torso, boldly lapping at the right one with his tongue.
A hiss of breath sounded above him as Sherlock reacted to the lick, his hips arching under John’s weight to press his hardness into John’s stomach. Intrigued, John lapped at it again and then drew the tip of his tongue around the centre, and Sherlock’s body surged beneath him as his hands gripped the arm rests of his chair. ‘Very sensitive,’ John thought, unable to take his eyes away from Sherlock’s face as he gently pursed his lips around the nipple and began to suck.
A rough moan echoed in Sherlock’s chest as the detective arched his back, pushing himself bodily towards John’s mouth to increase the friction. John rode the action easily, having experienced it numerous times with previous lovers, but he didn’t stop. He gradually began to suck harder and, when he looked up and saw Sherlock had taken his own lip between his teeth, looking almost pained at John’s attention, he flicked the tip of his tongue against the nub in an experimental move to see how Sherlock would react.
“Oh God!” The shout almost startled John enough to stop him in his tracks, but Sherlock’s right hand was now clasped around the back of his head and keeping his mouth exactly where Sherlock wanted it, their eyes meeting when Sherlock looked down at him, dishevelled and a blush staining his cheeks. “Do that again,” Sherlock ordered him, his mouth dropping open when John followed the direction and a groan vibrating the skin beneath John’s lips.
A hot rush of something flooded John’s system at the noises Sherlock was making, reluctantly slipping Sherlock’s nipple free so he could switch to the other one. The left one was just as sensitive, if not more so because of the attention to the right one, but it didn’t stop him from leaping straight into it, lapping at the hardness of it and swirling his tongue around before enclosing the flesh between his lips. Unbidden, his left hand automatically started playing with Sherlock’s right nipple, the pads of his fingers stroking over it and then pinching delicately while he began to flick the one in his mouth with the tip of his tongue.
Beneath his stomach, Sherlock’s hips hadn’t stopped moving since John first licked at his chest but now the movement was more desperate, more encouraging. Sherlock’s erection felt like a steel rod as it was pressed rhythmically up into John’s body and John remembered the way those hips had flexed between his thighs, that cock invading him again and again until he couldn’t think of anything else. His own body seemed to throb in time to the rhythm of Sherlock’s thrusts and he desperately wanted to take himself in hand so he could match Sherlock’s pace, his jeans almost painfully tight in his crouched position, but he didn’t dare make the attempt. God, the fact that the normally brash detective was nearly purring under him would be enough to fuel John’s wanking fantasies for months and yet it all seemed to disappear when he was faced with the option of his pleasure or Sherlock’s. Hands down, Sherlock would come first every time (no pun intended) and John decided, if he so desperately wanted that wank, he would do better to substitute it with something, or indeed someone, else.
Without taking his mouth away from Sherlock’s chest, he moved his left hand up from its grounding position on Sherlock’s right knee until he reached the inside of Sherlock’s thighs, softly stroking the skin there and feeling the muscle tighten beneath his fingers as Sherlock used his entire lower body to grind his cock against John’s stomach. Unbidden, Sherlock spread his thighs wider, subconsciously creating a bigger target and one that John was only too happy to hit. Slowly, as though on a hair-trigger, his hand reached the crease between thigh and groin and delicately traced the shape Sherlock’s erection made under his bottoms, the heat and hardness of it hitting him square in the stomach when Sherlock gasped above him.
Popping Sherlock’s nipple free from his lips, John looked up again and saw the path the blush had made on Sherlock’s body, starting at his cheeks and ending on his chest; a deep flush of arousal and exertion as Sherlock continued to writhe under him. “Gorgeous,” John murmured, finding the tip of Sherlock’s cock between his index finger and thumb and gently squeezing the head.
Sherlock’s eyes had been closed with the first brush of John’s fingers, but now they were open, the pupils expanded until John almost couldn’t see Sherlock’s natural eye colour and completely focussed on him. “Enough foreplay,” Sherlock growled and the hand in John’s hair gently pushed down for a moment, just enough for him to get the message. “Take me out.”
John didn’t need any encouragement, the excitement of touching that bare cock flooding through him, but he didn’t rush it, wanting to savour the moment because this was the first time he’d seen Sherlock like this in a week. The skin under the waistband of Sherlock’s bottoms was warm beneath John’s fingers and still faintly damp from Sherlock’s shower earlier that morning, the faint traces of wetness making John want to roll Sherlock over so he could lick the man clean, but he knew there were far better places to put his tongue than Sherlock’s hips.
He started to pull Sherlock’s bottoms down, motioning for Sherlock to raise his lower half so he could finish the job properly before reaching down and pulling Sherlock’s feet free so he could still spread his legs. John’s eyes were immediately drawn to Sherlock’s erection, noting the girth of it and the way it flexed against Sherlock’s stomach, the flushed head pointing towards Sherlock’s chin. Gulping reflexively, he looked up at Sherlock for guidance, unsure of how quickly the other man wanted him to do this, but Sherlock wasn’t giving him anything, watching with half-lidded eyes.
‘Fuck it,’ John thought eventually, gently taking Sherlock’s cock at the base and tilting it towards him so he could lick a broad swipe up the large vein, riding the thrust of Sherlock’s hips so he could swirl his tongue around the head. He looked up when he heard a breathy moan from above him, watching through wide eyes as Sherlock fully relaxed in his chair with his hands on the arms rests and his head tilted back so he was almost slouching in the leather. John was almost transfixed by it, the look of respite on Sherlock’s face, and he figured that, after almost a full week of cases, Sherlock definitely deserved this.
Being a doctor, he knew very well what happened to the human body when arousal culminated in orgasm, and he knew of no better way to relieve some of that tension than this. It was an added bonus that he’d only ever done this for Sherlock once before, although the first time had been cut short by his own actions, so it was almost like he was relearning the act all over again. Not that he was complaining. If anything, it made it so much sweeter than before, like he had the opportunity to take his time now, to learn what it was that Sherlock enjoyed most. Like when he flicked his tongue just so, or pursed his lips around the frenulum and suckled just under the glands, resulting in a jerk and a drop of pre-come that he happily lapped from Sherlock’s slit. He kept his hands busy too, sliding the unoccupied hand to Sherlock’s lightly furred balls and stroking across them, testing their sensitivity and the way they jumped beneath his fingers.
It was the persistent throbbing in his own jeans that gave John the incentive to move on, opening his mouth and sliding his lips over the head whilst making sure his teeth were out of the way. Sherlock’s desperate moan told John that the action was more than welcome on his part and it made him bolder, inching his way down the shaft and meeting his mouth halfway with the fist he now had curled around the last of it. Sherlock was well endowed, there was no doubt about it, and it would be a long time before John felt he would be comfortable in taking more than half down his throat.
But it didn’t hurt to have a goal in mind, he thought, slowly building into a rhythm and working Sherlock’s cock with a mixture of hot, wet suction and a firm grip.
The soft sounds of his sucking, combined with Sherlock’s deep vocalisations, was quickly becoming the hottest thing he’d heard in years, even better than the high, shrill cries he’d somehow managed to wring out of previous girlfriends when he’d licked them out. Each burst of salt on his tongue, rather than being a bitter consequence, was an erotic reminder of how much Sherlock was enjoying it, and John sent a mental thank you to some of the more talented partner’s he’d had in the past, trying to mimic certain actions to see how well they were received and those which just didn’t work. And, when his jaw started to lock, it was a simple matter to switch his attention to Sherlock’s balls, gently mouthing at them through the sac and sucking one into his mouth whilst trying to co-ordinate pumping Sherlock’s cock at the same time. ‘Practise, John. You need more practise.’ At sucking cock. And getting good at it. ‘Fuck yes…’
In what seemed too short a time, Sherlock’s breathing became more laboured, his gasps sharper, and his hands had moved from the arm rests and buried themselves in John’s hair, guiding the depth and angle of John’s mouth on him until it was exactly as he wanted it. John still kept a hand on the lower half of Sherlock’s cock, not wanting to gag on it and ruin the whole experience, and Sherlock didn’t seem to have a problem with it if his almost frantic, “John! John, fuck, I’m close,” were any indications. The very words, ‘I’m close,’ had John breathing hard through his nostrils as his own body ached in sympathy, his sucking taking on a renewed vigour to push Sherlock closer over the edge because, God, he wanted Sherlock to come in his mouth. ‘Fucking do it,’ he thought, feeling Sherlock’s fingers clench in his hair. ‘Do it, fuck my mouth.’
With a desperate groan Sherlock suddenly pushed John off him, taking his cock in his own hands and pinching at the base to stop himself from climaxing. John whimpered with a grimace when he saw the jolts of denied orgasm shake Sherlock’s body, feeling just as denied of his prize until the detective opened his eyes again and looked down at where John was still knelt between his thighs. “Open your mouth,” Sherlock growled, pushing himself up to the edge of his seat and then standing in front of John, his legs on either side of John’s knees. John obeyed without a second thought, watching Sherlock adjust his stance so his cock was aiming directly at John’s mouth. “Now stick out your tongue,” Sherlock said and, again, John followed the instruction, struck by an intense wave of déjà vu when he remembered saying something similar at the surgery; ‘Now stick out your tongue and say ‘ahhhh’.’
In front of his face, Sherlock began to pump his cock again and John kept his eyes on the other man’s fingers, trying to memorise the action so he could repeat it later because he wanted to be good at it and he wanted to know what Sherlock liked. Sherlock didn’t waste any time once he’d started and John could see his stomach muscles clenching as Sherlock came close to the edge again, his cock leaking pre-come until the shaft was glistening with a mixture of that and John’s saliva. And, when one stroke was timed just right, the head would brush against his tongue, making both of them moan in unison.
“Look at me,” Sherlock said finally, his fingers working at the glands in a way that meant he was almost there. “I want to see your eyes when you swallow me.”
John would have nodded his agreement to it, would have even said yes, but the English language fled his brain when he looked up at Sherlock’s face, seeing the red flush on his cheeks and the way his jaw had tensed and just how fucking beautiful Sherlock looked. Just in time for Sherlock to give one short shout of ecstasy and then his cock was jerking, throbbing, and John felt his mouth start to fill with Sherlock’s come.
He obediently kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face as the first shot of come hit his tongue and dripped down his chin, unable to stop his own moans as Sherlock continued to milk himself into John’s mouth. After the first shot, Sherlock pushed forward until his cock was resting on John’s tongue and John closed his lips around the head, providing a small amount of suction as he swallowed the hot liquid, the taste sharper than that of Sherlock’s pre-come, but no less arousing. Christ, he was about ready to come himself with no hands at all and, by the look in Sherlock’s eyes, he knew it too.
Too soon for his liking, Sherlock’s climax passed, leaving behind a bone-deep contentment that showed when the detective slumped his shoulders and gave a relaxed sigh, languidly stroking his cock a few more times to drag out the pleasure before pulling himself free from John’s mouth. John let him go, swallowing Sherlock’s release and chasing the last of it in the recesses of his mouth. Sherlock’s hand, the one that had been stroking his cock, came to his chin and dragged the tips of his fingers through the come there, holding them up to John’s lips. “You missed a bit,” Sherlock murmured and John groaned at the words, taking Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth and licking them clean.
Once his face was clean, Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to John’s in a passionate kiss, pushing his tongue into John’s mouth so he could taste himself there. John eagerly responded to it, sucking on Sherlock’s tongue the way he’d sucked on Sherlock’s cock and angling his head so he could press their faces closer together. Even through the kiss they were sharing, John knew better than to ask whether or not it was his turn now; Sherlock would be able to feel it in the shaking of his body anyway, though the urgency of the kiss and moans John wasn’t able to keep silent, and he knew it wasn’t his place to ask. He trusted that Sherlock would take care of him, albeit in a manner of his choosing, but John was also aware that they were quickly running out of time and Sherlock seemed to have the same thought, gentling the kiss until their lips were just brushing against each other.
“Such a good little sub I’ve got,” Sherlock whispered, cupping John’s face in his hands and pressing gentle kisses to John’s closed eyelids. “So eager to please, to obey. Ready to do anything I ask of him.”
John felt a smile curl his lips with Sherlock’s praise of him, his mind basking in it and ready to give itself over to Sherlock’s power, to give his whole body to Sherlock in an act of complete submission. Despite his flaming arousal, the urge to come was tempered with Sherlock’s closeness and affection, and John already knew which choice he would make if he couldn’t have both. Sherlock came first, in every possible way.
“We have to get ready to leave soon,” Sherlock said, pulling back so John could meet his eyes, the both of them smiling at each other. “But I think we have time for something extra beforehand.”
“Please,” John whispered, resting his hands on Sherlock’s bare hips and pushing his face into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and pure maleness. “Please, Sherlock.”
Sherlock chuckled, kissing John on the forehead and then leaning back, helping them both to stand. “Since you ask so nicely,” he replied, “go to the sofa and undo your jeans. I want you bent over the cushions with your boxers round your thighs while I get a little something from our bedroom.”
“What is it?” John asked, already undoing his jeans and muffling a groan when the pressure was released on his cock as he lowered the zip.
Sherlock smirked. “It’s a surprise.” His eyes flicked down to John crotch, taking in the state of his erection. “Don’t touch yourself.”
John just stopped himself from scoffing at the reminder, watching as Sherlock walked to their bedroom, ‘he said ours,’ without his bottoms on, and losing himself in the memory of taking them off of Sherlock in the first place, before doing as he was told. Crouched over the cushions of the sofa, arse bare to world, John tried to think of a time when this would have been humiliating rather than arousing and found that, while he remembered the time from before, he also realised that it wasn’t important now. It was still an intriguing position to be in, if he was honest with himself, but it was also okay because Sherlock knew what he needed and John knew he needed this.
He didn’t turn to look when Sherlock came back from the bedroom despite his curiosity, keeping his face buried in his arms while listening to Sherlock’s movements as the other man kneeled behind him and placed something on the floor next to them. The flick of a cap barely made John flinch anymore, his body tensing only margining when a lube-slicked finger circled his hole and pushed inside, thrusting a few times before pulling out and massaging the rim. Unlike the previous times when Sherlock had done this, this was all about the preparation, not the pleasure, but, lust-addled as he was, John still couldn’t stop vocalising the desire it was making him feel. Having Sherlock’s hands on his body was a treat in itself and, when Sherlock slipped in a second finger, his hips bucked back to take them deeper.
Soft lips pressed at the base of his spine as the fingers stretched him, Sherlock’s other hand reaching between John’s thighs and squeezing the base of his erection to stop him from reaching orgasm when those fingers brushed his prostate. “So eager,” Sherlock said breathlessly, curling his fingers to make John writhe with the pressure of them. “You have no idea what I’ve got in store for you, but I know you’re going to love it. You’re so ready for this.”
The fingers inside him withdrew and John bit into the sleeve of his jumper to halt any protest on his part until he heard the click of the lube bottle again, a soft squelch of it being moved around, and then something very not Sherlock’s fingers was against his arse and slowly pressing inside. He muffled a shout into his sleeve when the smooth, round surface was pushed into him, larger than Sherlock’s fingers and flared at the tip before easing off and curving into a much smaller stretch, the base no larger than Sherlock’s index finger. The sensation of a flat surface between his cheeks had John’s eyes shooting open with the stark realisation of what Sherlock had put inside him, having seen his fair share of butt-plugs when a girlfriend was feeling adventurous, but he’d never thought that one would be used on him before and now one was in him.
“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed; his voice bright with approval as John grew accustomed to the coldness of the lube and the foreign sensation of having an inanimate object up his arse. “Perfect,” Sherlock murmured, leaning over and kissing the back of John’s neck, his fingers circling the rim where John was still open for the toy. “Just perfect.”
John couldn’t think of anything to say, unable to give Sherlock more than a small whimper and flexing his glutes as he tested the give of the toy, quickly coming to the conclusion that the only way it was coming out was if Sherlock removed it himself.
“Now for the best part,” Sherlock said, a click of a button being John’s only warning before the toy began to vibrate inside him.
“Argh fuck!” John’s hips surged forward when the toy didn’t stop, his cock jerking at the new stimulation as his rim clenched around the plug, the vibrating plug that Sherlock must have planned in advance because, fucking Christ, it was intense.
“I know you know it’s a vibrating anal plug, but there’s something I feel you should know about this one,” Sherlock said conversationally, as though John’s world wasn’t being turned on its head. “Firstly, the power is controlled by a separate remote that has a range of thirty metres.” John didn’t need to see Sherlock’s face to know the other man was smirking. “And secondly, it has ten different functions, all of varying speeds and patterns. The one you’re experiencing now is the first setting and you can barely hear that it’s turned on. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Fucking fantastic,” John managed before he cried out as the vibrations intensified, Sherlock having apparently activated the second setting.
“And also fascinating,” Sherlock replied, coming around John’s body so John could see his face. “You’re reactions to it, John, are simply captivating.” He grinned and the look on his face was one John only saw when Sherlock came across a very interesting experiment. “And this is only the second setting!”
‘Eight more to go,’ John finished unhelpfully in his own mind, groaning when, at last, the vibrations stopped and he felt like he could breathe again. “You’re killing me,” he groused out, fixing his eyes on Sherlock’s face. “I’m actually going to die, aren’t I.”
“I should hope not. The fun’s only just started,” Sherlock replied, smirking when John just stared at him, his confusion evident.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ John wasn’t able to speak, barely registering when Sherlock went to his hips again and began to pull his underwear and trousers back up, pulling John’s body into an upright position so he could tuck John’s erection away, and it was only then that John realised the toy was still inside him. “Sherlock!” He tried to turn to see what his partner was doing but, oh, that was interesting… The way the toy shifted inside him, an unrelenting pressure, and, with his unflagging arousal, the shift had been nothing but pleasurable. “Fucking…”
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, pressing a hard kiss to John’s mouth. “Just like this, John. You know what I want you to do.”
It took John barely two seconds to think about it and, when he did, the hot flush of shame and desire he felt made his body shake in a violent tremor. “You want me too… go to the Yard. Like this...” Sherlock’s eyes bored into his own, the look one of intense approval whilst also searching for something within John’s face, and he realised that Sherlock was looking for his own acceptance. He didn’t want John to enter into something he wasn’t ready for and John couldn’t stop himself from smiling when he knew what his answer would be. “What the hell are we waiting for?”
To be continued
A/N 2: If you're interested, the butt plug Sherlock has so kindly purchased for John's anal pleasure can be found at Lovehoney and it's called a 'Marc Dorcel Secret Genius Vibe Remote Control Butt Plug'. (Is it weird that I’m loving the name right now?)
Research is so much fun, teehee! ^^
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