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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
- 5
- 6
- 7
A/N: God, everyone, I am so sorry this took so long to update! The last month has certainly been a tester (a combination of bereavement and redundancy is a hard pill to swallow) but I'm really happy with the way this has turned out so hopefully it meets with everyone's approval! :D
I can't say when the next update will be (new job needed, etc), but I won't let this fall by the wayside so don't worry. And thank you all again for your support and lovely comments! They have certainly kept me going the last few weeks so thank you! xxx
Part Six
John took his hands from the pockets of his jacket and rubbed them together briskly once they got back to the flat, cursing himself for the umpteenth time in forgetting his gloves because of the mad dash it’d been to get to a crime scene earlier that morning. Sherlock had gotten a call from Lestrade saying that another body had been reported on the Tower Bridge by the right-most tower; a young woman had been found hanging from the under-carriage of the road by three bridge-maintenance men during their patrols for external damage.
Except that it hadn’t been what you could call a ‘traditional’ hanging; she’d been tied there by her right foot with her hands cuffed behind her back and her left foot tied to the knee of her right leg. She had no identification on her and she was pronounced dead at the scene, but the circumstances of her death had definitely been unusual enough for Lestrade to call on Sherlock’s expertise. Which had led to both of them standing on the bridge at half eight on a chilly December morning trying to work out what had happened to her.
Forensics had initially determined the cause of death as a suicide, something that unfortunately wouldn’t have gotten the detective out of his flat if it had been in any way ‘normal’, or as normal as a suicide could be. Sherlock himself had been unoptimistic when he’d heard the cause of death, but that changed when Lestrade had described exactly how the woman had been found and John also knew Sherlock couldn’t resist it when he’d heard that Anderson was in charge of forensics. John had been unable to keep the grin off of his face when Sherlock had been his usual self and denounced the opinion entirely (because they couldn’t possibly have found all the facts with Anderson leading the investigation), before crouching down by the body of the woman and examining the bindings of the rope that had been left around her ankle and knee.
Sherlock quickly determined that she’d been hanging there for a while, most of the night actually, and John had informed him that, if that were the case, it would have been long enough for the blood to pool in her brain, ultimately causing blood clots that would result in a stroke. Anderson attempted to ‘persuade’ Sherlock several times that they couldn’t know that until an autopsy had been performed, but John knew it was a pointless venture to try and influence Sherlock’s decision over anything unless you had hard evidence to the contrary. That, and the lack of an autopsy didn’t mean he hadn’t agreed with Sherlock’s initial assessment; if she’d been hanging there for as long as Sherlock was theorising, then the blood accumulation in her skull would have been inevitable, but he hadn’t agreed with Sherlock that more people needed to be hung upside down to assess the reactions of the body to the change of orientation. He even went as far as ordering Sherlock not to do it to himself for the sake of science, because, as much as he was seeing the detective in a whole new way (and regardless of their private life), there were times when one just had to draw the line.
And yet, although it left him a little shame-faced to admit it, because there had been a dead woman there and it just wasn’t decent for normal conversation let alone where they’d actually been, all John could think about was the rest of his conversation with Sherlock from the night before.
The previous night…
“So what happens now?” John asked around a dry throat, his erection still twitching through the gap in his boxers and somehow insatiable in its demand for more attention.
Sherlock regarded him for a moment; his eyes lowered to a half mast so only a sliver of colour remained. To all outward appearances it looked as though Sherlock was starting to fall asleep, but there was a subtle tension in the air and John could still feel Sherlock’s eyes on him despite the man’s body language. The silence stretched on between them, and it almost reached the point where John couldn’t decide whether Sherlock was actually going to say anything until Sherlock’s eyes opened again, the detective rubbing the flats of his hands together before bringing his chin to rest on top of them with the fingers of his right hand curled around his left fist. As before, the silence continued and John fought the urge to shift where he was sat; Sherlock hadn’t told him he could move, not yet, and he didn’t want to risk moving in case the scene wasn’t over. He’d read about the punishments that could be inflicted on a submissive for disobeying a command and he knew that he was in no way ready for any of them, despite the fact that they hadn’t established how far they were going to take this new turn in their relationship. Would it go as far as Sherlock choosing what clothes John would wear for the day or would it remain a small kink that they only delved in occasionally? John was only slightly startled by the thought that he knew he couldn’t wait to find out.
“We’re going to continue this tomorrow,” Sherlock said finally, lowering his hands and scooting forward on the chair until John was within easy reach of his hands. “Before we start anything new I want you to think of two safe words,” he continued, running the index finger of his right hand up John’s collar bone, a feather-light touch that tickled as much as it aroused, leaving John inhaling sharply on the floor. He was desperate for more of this, the touch of Sherlock’s hands on his body, but Sherlock seemed content to torment him with small brushes across his skin, his eyes focussed on John’s face and the expressions that he was unable to hide. No doubt cataloguing each shiver of reaction for future retrieval.
“The first one should signal that you need a break,” Sherlock said, eyes following the line his fingers made on John’s flesh. “A small breather from the activity we’re doing should you require it; and the second should signal your need for the scene to stop in its entirety. They don’t have to mean anything specific, but I want them to be as unusual as possible. Not the sort of thing that would crop up in a normal conversation.”
John giggled, his face breaking out into a grin and then shuddering when Sherlock pinched the skin above his right nipple. “Since when…” A deep breath to relax tense muscles, then a sharp inhale with the next pinch which was followed by a gentle soothing action on the area. ‘Oh God, please do that again!’ “...are any of our conversations normal?”
Sherlock smiled; a small one that titled one side of his lips and made the predatory look in his eyes much more powerful. “As I said, they should be words that won’t come up in a normal conversation. You have the ability to integrate yourself into social events with minimal effort despite your cohabitation with me. This should be an easy task for you.”
John nodded and watched Sherlock’s face intently as Sherlock took his hands from his body, leaning down towards him and brushing his lips lightly with his own before sliding his tongue into John’s mouth. John didn’t restrain his moan at the contact, sucking on Sherlock’s tongue as it twined with his own in a warm, moist dance that had John’s skin tingling with the sensation of it.
He wanted to lift his hands up and run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, dig them into the other man’s hair and pull Sherlock towards him until they were pressed against each other in all the right places, but he stubbornly kept his hands where they were crossed in front of him. ‘Not allowed to move,’ he thought to himself, gasping into Sherlock’s lips when the kiss became more heated. ‘Don’t have permission…’ God, the thought made his body break out in goose-bumps, the very idea that he needed Sherlock’s permission before he could move, and it made him feel hot all over with a flush that had nothing to do with the dying fire at his side.
Sherlock broke the kiss reluctantly (John liked to think that it was with a certain amount of reluctance on Sherlock’s part) and held John’s eyes with his own for a moment, seemingly unwilling to break their connection so soon. “I may not say this as often as you would like,” he murmured, a quiet admission, “but you’ve done well so far, John. I’m very pleased with you.”
“Thank you, Sherlock,” John whispered, the proper response tumbling from his lips but unable to make the words louder because of the tightness in his chest. He tried not to let it bother him because he knew that Sherlock would understand his fervour, would see it on his face and in the look in his eyes; that Sherlock would see all the emotion that he had for the other man by his physical reactions alone.
“I have one more thing that I want from you,” Sherlock said, his right hand lightly tracing the underside of John’s jaw. “You’ve read about this already, so it shouldn’t come as too great a shock to you, but you’re not allowed to bring yourself to orgasm without my permission.”
John’s focus drastically shifted from where Sherlock’s fingers were on his face to the words that had just been spoken. “You’re jok-” and hastily shut his mouth before he could finish the rest of that sentence. It was very clear that Sherlock wasn’t joking and his retort to the order wouldn’t have gone down well. “Even when we’re not in a scene?” he asked, a small amount of his disbelief covering his tone because he honestly hadn’t thought it would go this far this soon, which was stupid really because he couldn’t remember a time when Sherlock had done something ‘by the book.’ It was just like the detective to dive headlong into a new experiment and their first forays into the dynamics of a Dom/sub relationship would be no different.
“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied. “I need to know how your body reacts in every possible way to what we’re doing; from the lightest touch of my fingernail to the way your body adjusts to the strike of a flogger.” Sherlock smirked. “Not that denying you of your body’s pleasure doesn’t give me a perverse sense of satisfaction; I like the idea of you desperate for me and, although you may not agree with me in the days to come, I’m certain that you’ll learn to enjoy it as much as I will.”
John remained silent, thinking of the hours of endless waiting ahead; the almost painful urge in his groin that demanded satisfaction because this whole evening on its own was enough to fuel John’s wanking fantasies for months. That, and also knowing that not a night went by where he didn’t get off at least once (with or without another body there), knowing that he wasn’t even allowed that anymore, was just torture, pure and simple. Sherlock had said that it would only be with his permission though, so he would be there watching John take his pleasure, his eyes taking in the way John’s hands moved on his length, starting with light, teasing touches and moving onto broader, firmer strokes with just the right amount of slickness leaking from his slit- ‘Fuck, stop it, John, just fucking stop thinking about it!’
“This is going to be hard,” John murmured and grinned when he realised what he’d just said before yawning widely, his tiredness creeping up on him and making him yearn to stretch his body out to relieve his cramping muscles.
“No pun intended,” Sherlock said mildly, glancing down at his watch when John finished his yawn. “It’s gone midnight, not that late for a Friday night, but I wouldn’t be a responsible Dom if I didn’t allow you to recover from what has been a strenuous evening. Incidentally, you will be sleeping in my bed from now on; I sleep on the side closest to the door so don’t be surprised if I move you during the night if you’ve taken up the whole of the mattress. You can stand now and don’t forget your clothes on the sofa.”
“Are you coming with me?” John asked, getting his legs up underneath him with a little difficulty because they’d gone to sleep and watching as Sherlock stood up from his chair.
“Of course,” Sherlock said, taking hold of one of John’s hands in his own after John picked up his clothing. “Just because I usually don’t participate in sentiment doesn’t mean that I can’t see the potential benefits of it once in a while. Sharing a bed with you should prove to be extremely advantageous.” Sherlock smirked again. “In more ways than one, I’m sure.”
Present day…
Before John could give any more thought on the events of the previous night, Sherlock came into the flat after him with a great swirl of his coat as it was removed and placed on the hook on the back of the door. The scarf was quick to follow, and the gloves, until Sherlock was back in his normal attire and almost physically vibrating with an energy that had come from successfully solving the case of the hanged woman.
John smiled as he continued blowing warmth into the cup of his hands because, although it certainly hadn’t been the fastest case Sherlock had ever solved, it had been one of the more rewarding ones; one with a puzzle to it, rather than just a dull murder of passion, and it would certainly make a good read on John’s blog later. He couldn’t understand how Sherlock thought any murder was ever dull, but a murder of passion by suicide… now that was a different story.
The woman had intentionally hung herself upside down in mimicry of a tarot card known as ‘The Hanged Man’. Sherlock didn’t immediately delve into the specifics of what the card meant, but his excitement over finding not just one, but two tarot cards, had been infectious. ‘The Hanged Man’ had been paired with the ‘Death’ card and, despite the Yard’s pessimistic reaction to the find, Sherlock himself had been intrigued.
“Finding these two cards together doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ll die in a certain way,” he’d explained to John. “‘The Hanged Man’ generally represents a release of emotion and control in the Tarot world; the suggestion that you allow fate to guide your life instead of struggling against it and having an acceptance of where you are and what has happened to you.”
Sherlock had held up the ‘Death’ card, its graphic depiction of Death with his sceptre making John nervous. “When paired with this card, most Tarot readers will tell you that they represent the end of something old and the start of something new. This woman has either taken it literally, which I doubt, or she has taken it as a threat. Given the level of detail she’s put into making her appearance the same of ‘The Hanged Man’, it’s obvious that she knew what the card meant because she didn’t struggle once she was in her bonds. She accepted her death until the very last moment.”
Once this had been explained to Lestrade, along with instructions to locate the owner of the tarot deck from which those cards came from (Sherlock had told them to start with the dead woman’s sister and ask for the location of a ‘Madame Trinity’), Sherlock had left the scene with John hot on his heels, shouting over his shoulder for Lestrade to text him once the suspect had been apprehended.
“I didn’t know you dabbled in Tarot,” John said to Sherlock, watching as the other man paced the living room from the windows to his chair and back to the windows with his hands pressed together under his chin.
Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned his head to look at John. “Experiment. I wanted to calculate the ratios of actually receiving a positive reading to a negative one, how the deck could be rigged to show certain cards instead of at random. Child’s play.” He walked up to John then and took his hands between his own, using the warmth of his own body to help restore the circulation in John’s fingers. “You really should have brought your gloves,” Sherlock chided him, stepping closer still until their bodies were shy of just pressing against each other.
John looked up at Sherlock’s face and then back down to where his hands were clasped between the detective’s. “Well, we didn’t want to be late, did we?”
“Hmmmm…” Sherlock began to rub his hands against John’s in an effort to restore the warmth more quickly, using the friction created to aid the process. “Despite this little mishap, you did well with the crime scene today.”
John smiled. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” Like it wasn’t anything that he was growing accustomed to now. Sherlock’s intervention at crime scenes over the past year meant that John had had the opportunity to practise the deducing skills that the other man was inadvertently teaching him, and the feeling of getting something right, making Sherlock feel proud of him, wasn’t something that he thought he’d ever want less of. “I do have an excellent teacher.”
Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to his from where they’d been on John’s hands, the look one of quiet assessment. “Are you suggesting that you are indebted to me, John?”
The question was simple but the implications behind it, the unspoken entendre, were the things that made John feel weak at the knees, making him struggle not to squirm under the intense scrutiny of the man who saw everything. “Maybe…”
Sherlock’s hands stilled in their motion, the fingers curling around John’s in a loose grip, with Sherlock’s eyes holding John’s for a moment longer before he moved his face closer to John’s head and let his breath ghost over the shell of John’s right ear. Sherlock didn’t say anything like John had expected him to, just allowing them both to feel the moistness of his breath on the side of John’s face until all he knew was the gentle inhale and exhale of Sherlock’s body.
Sudden warmth on the left side of his groin made John gasp at the contact as a hand, Sherlock’s right, slid closer to the erection that he didn’t know he had. Last night, the first night of his enforced denial, he’d been in agony; he’d gone to bed at Sherlock’s command with sore nipples and a hard cock, both of them vying for his attention with equal amounts of pain and pleasure, the dual sensations playing together until he couldn’t figure out where one began and the other ended. It had taken a stern look from Sherlock to make him stop fidgeting underneath the covers, his hands twisted in the sheets above him and whimpering when the French silk (of course it had been French silk, Sherlock would only ever have the best) brushed across his chest and groin in maddening strokes.
The only thing he had going for himself was the fact that he hadn’t begged, not really. His body might have had other ideas, longing to press himself to Sherlock’s lean form and rub one off on him until they both fell asleep from exhaustion, but his mind had been stronger, especially when Sherlock had looked at him with praise over his handling of the situation. In those cases he didn’t even need to think about it. He could have the minute or so of physical bliss or he could have the look Sherlock had given him before he’d drifted to sleep, one of supreme satisfaction and approval. There wasn’t any contest.
Sherlock’s hand continued its exploration, rubbing along the width of his leg between his hip and groin, his thumb curling over John’s hipbone before sliding back and just letting a fragment of sensation reach his erection which was already at full mast and straining against the zip of his jeans. John kept trying to remember to breathe, unintentionally holding it in when Sherlock’s hand drifted close to the centre of his arousal and releasing it when Sherlock again moved his hand away, although with a shorter period of time between each pass. It helped, somewhat, that each lingering caress was becoming stronger, firmer, something he might be able to thrust up into if Sherlock gave him half the chance, and in his ear he could hear Sherlock’s breath quicken in response to the noises he was making, the quiet gasps and whispered pleas.
John’s next inhale escaped him in a shuddering sigh when Sherlock’s hand finally stopped at his groin, pressing the heel of his hand against the length of John’s cock and teasingly stroking up and down, enough friction to enable John to feel it through two layers of clothing but not enough to bring him to orgasm. “You’re so hard, John,” Sherlock whispered, his hand easily riding the reactive thrust of John’s hips to his words. “You want this, don’t you? You want my hands on you, making a tight sheath that you can fuck into.”
John moaned aloud at the words, Sherlock’s use of the word ‘fuck’ acting like the fist he’d been just been talking about and squeezing his cock beneath his trousers. God, Sherlock had the prettiest voice, deep and sensual, so hearing any cuss word come out of his mouth was enough to push John to breaking point.
“But you don’t really want it to end this way,” Sherlock said, his voice a low drawl. “Perhaps another time, but not right now.” He drew back from John’s ear and pressed his face close to John’s throat so that, when he spoke, his mouth was just millimetres away from John’s pulse point. He inhaled deeply and John felt the flush on his face rise to the tips of his ears when he realised that Sherlock was scenting him, his cologne from the night before, the smells of London which still clung to his skin and the faint underscoring of sweat that was increasing as the stimulation to his body continued. “When I step away, I want you to take your clothes off,” Sherlock said, gliding his other hand around John’s waist. “And when you’re naked,” his hand stopped on John’s right buttock and squeezed the muscle beneath it, “I want you over my knee.”
“Oh yes,” John panted, eyes sliding shut at the vivid image of himself spread over Sherlock’s legs. “I want that… Please, let me do that for you.”
Sherlock pressed a single, closed-mouth kiss against John’s neck before stepping away and taking his hands with him, and John had a second to regret the loss of those hands until he was started shedding his clothes, trying to take his time and be neat about it because he had a hard enough time cleaning the flat with Sherlock’s mess, let alone his own. Sherlock didn’t give any indication that he wanted John to go any faster, although his face seemed to grow darker, more intense as each article was removed. Throughout the process Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off of John’s body, following the movement of John’s fingers when they finished undressing his torso and started working on his trousers. The button and zipper were easy to deal with, his fingers unintentionally brushing over the head of his cock through his boxers and shuddering at the wetness which was leaking from him through the fabric. The faint hitch John heard in Sherlock’s breathing showed him that the other man had seen it too.
Unlike the first time where he’d been undressed by Sherlock, removing his clothes himself took no time at all, and soon he was standing there in the living room with not a stitch on, waiting for his next direction. The flat was still a bit chilly from where they hadn’t stoked the fire before they left, and John could see his skin reacting to it when his hairs stood on end, an unwanted tremor racking his frame when the goose-bumps turned to shivers.
Sherlock stepped into his space and took his right hand, leading him further into the living room and up to Sherlock’s chair. “Stay still,” Sherlock murmured, and John did as asked while he watched Sherlock turn and start a kindling for the fire. Once the fire caught on the logs and coals, a much needed heat began to spread through the room and John felt his muscles relax from where he was standing as the warmth took away the chill from his body and replaced it. Sherlock turned back to him once he was satisfied with the fire and a guard had been pulled across to stop the embers spitting out onto the carpet, stepping just slightly away from the hearth so that, even in the light shining through from the windows, he could still see the shimmer of the flames leaping onto John’s body.
John hoped Sherlock liked what he saw and, by the deepening hue of the other man’s eyes, he was guessing that his body was being visually savoured by a man who absorbed every detail with all of his cognitive ability. “Have you decided on your safe words?” Sherlock asked, sliding his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and leaning back against the mantle, a relaxed posture that John wanted to go up to and slide against. He’d never seen Sherlock look this relaxed before but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t in control; he’d learnt early on that Sherlock rarely did things for no reason when it came to his own body, including the sparse eating during cases, so the way he was now had been done to garner a certain reaction in John.
If it was to make John want him even more, then Sherlock had passed with full marks. “Um, yes… I have,” he answered, suddenly shy in his choices; what if Sherlock didn’t approve of them? “For a break I chose ‘Warten’. For the scene to stop, the word is ‘Arrêter’.”
There was a moment where Sherlock seemed to absorb the words and their English translations. Then he smiled. “Very good, John. Warten and Arrêter it is.” He pushed himself off the mantle and went to his chair, sitting down so that his buttocks were just perched on the edge of the seat with his knees bent at an almost perfect right angle. “Lie across me, face down, with your feet towards the fire.”
Oh, God, this was it. This was actually happening. John came around to the side requested of him and, with Sherlock’s assistance, managed to get himself draped over the other man’s knees, Sherlock spreading his thighs to give John more support in the position that he wanted. John suspected that Sherlock had also opened his legs to prevent John’s erection from receiving any sort of stimulation; getting into the position had been a little tricky and his cock had brushed against Sherlock’s trouser legs more than once, sending jolts through him at each contact. Now there was nothing there but the air that surrounded him and that left him positively hurting with want.
Neither of them spoke for a moment and it gave John the time he needed to relax in the position, dropping his shoulders down to reduce the ache in them and allowing his hands to brush the floor. The support being given by Sherlock’s legs meant that he wasn’t arching his spine, so he wouldn’t have to worry about back pain either, at least for a time. He couldn’t ignore the fact that he felt extremely vulnerable in this position though, and Sherlock must have sensed it because his hands were gently soothing their way from John’s thighs to the small of his back, broad strokes that relaxed any remaining tension in the muscles.
No touches had been made to his arse yet, just along his back and thighs, but John was prepared for it when one of Sherlock’s hands (the right, he was guessing by the position of the thumb) gently cupped one cheek and squeezed it. Women had often grabbed his arse in an attempt to try and pull him deeper into them during sex, but no man had ever touched him there with almost the same intent, a possessive touch that set his nerve endings tingling and made his body shake where it lay. “Steady,” Sherlock murmured, laying his right hand on the small of John’s back.
John almost whimpered at the heat coming from Sherlock’s hand but fought it back at the last minute. “Sorry,” he panted, hanging his head.
“Ssshhh,” Sherlock quietened him, sliding that hand back down to John’s buttocks again and stroking over one, then the other, alternating between the two. “No need to apologise. Your reactions are untried, pure. No other man has dared to touch you here,” another squeeze, firmer than the others to drive home the point, “and yet here you are.”
‘Like a child,’ John thought, finishing off Sherlock’s sentence in his head.
...No.
Not like a child.
Like a man who had chosen to be here, a man who wanted to be here. The distinction felt very important and Sherlock hummed his approval when the thought allowed John to sink deeper into the scene they were in, any remaining physical tension ebbing away until all that was left was John’s body and the places he was pressed against Sherlock in his nudity. There was something delicious about being petted over another person’s knee when you were naked while they were fully clothed; when that person was Sherlock, the feeling only intensified.
“I want you to choose a number that will decide how many slaps you receive,” Sherlock said, his voice soft but commanding. “You can decide between one and ten. After each strike, I want to hear you say the corresponding number. Understand?”
“Yes, Sherlock,” John whispered, loud enough for Sherlock to hear it. God, how did he choose? One strike wouldn’t be enough for him to decide whether he liked it or not, but ten didn’t sound like enough either. Did he go for the higher number and hope Sherlock would take it easy on him, or would each one be as powerful as the first, forcing heat into his flesh so that, by the time he reached ten, he’d be begging Sherlock to stop? “Ten,” he decided, nodding to himself. “Ten please, Sherlock.”
“Ten,” Sherlock repeated, solidifying the number in John’s head. “Don’t lost count.” With barely a pause, John felt Sherlock lift his right hand before bringing it down again on the flesh of his left buttock.
John groaned deeply in his chest with the first slap, the sound of Sherlock’s hand hitting his body loud in his ears. The first one hadn’t been soft at all; no ice breaker into what was an untried area between the two of them. No, Sherlock’s hand had landed hard, forcing the pain into the left cheek of his arse and leaving it stinging at the contact, making John unsure whether he wanted another one just like that or whether it was time to stop. “One,” he murmured, his voice hoarse in his throat.
The word had barely left his mouth before the second slap hit on his right cheek and John’s fingers curled into fists under him as the pain flooded up to his brain and made his eyes roll back into his head. Or it could have been the endorphins. Yes, probably the endorphins… “Two.”
A third one, this time on the same spot as before, and having the same area smacked again really woke John up; he cried out and dipped his back, unintentionally pushing his arse up towards Sherlock as the fire tore through him. “Oh my God,” he moaned, his fingers desperately clenching under him as his cock throbbed with need. “Th- three.”
“God, John, you should see yourself,” Sherlock said breathily, rubbing the flat of his index finger over the area he’d just hit. “You respond so beautifully because you were made for this, weren’t you. This is where you were meant to be all along.” John felt Sherlock shift position above him so that the detective’s mouth was above his neck. “Aren’t I lucky I found you first.”
“Oh God, Sherlock, again,” John groaned, dipping his back again to try and press himself against Sherlock’s hand. “Hit me again.”
The fourth strike on the opposite cheek held everything that John wanted it to; the feel of Sherlock’s hand on him, hurting him, forcing out all thought and leaving only base instinct behind. His breath was panting from him in sharp bursts from his chest, his mouth dry and forgotten in the onslaught of too much and not enough. What was left of his conscious thought knew that he’d pushed his head back until his throat was taut, exposing his neck in his desire to submit to a stronger hand. Oh fuck, they’d only just started and already John was in pieces.
The following smacks happened in quick succession to different areas, making John cry out with each one and his erection burn almost as much as his arse was. “How many is that, John?” Sherlock asked, smoothing his hand over John’s thighs and dipping between them in teasing, distracting touches.
“Seven… Fuck, seven…” John’s legs automatically opened of their own accord, as far as his current position would allow, trying to give Sherlock more room to explore; Sherlock infuriatingly knew what he was trying to achieve and kept his touches minimal, wanting to make him work for it.
“Three more to go,” Sherlock said with his voice like dark honey; John whimpered, his body breaking out in a flush at Sherlock’s tone. Jesus, if this was what Sherlock sounded like during sex…
The next two hits forced groans from the depths of John’s chest, his mind breaking down with the sensory pleasure of having this finally happen to him. Sherlock’s hand had to be stinging by now but he hadn’t let up the pace or the pressure, and John couldn’t help but writhe a bit where he lay because the mental image of Sherlock’s handprints on his arse made his groin burn in the most pleasant of ways. Was it possible he could actually come from this? Without even being touched?
The tenth and final strike, harder than the rest by far (Sherlock must have really put some effort into it or was it because his skin felt like it was on fire anyway?), and John very nearly screamed if he’d had enough air in his lungs to expel it. Unbidden, he felt his cock jerk between his legs, once, twice, and then he cried out again in surprise, realising that he was coming, Jesus, he was coming and he didn’t think he’d ever stop, it was too strong.
He’d only just finished his orgasm, his cock still hard and jutting underneath him when he felt Sherlock move. The detective’s hands came around John’s body and supported him almost effortlessly, moving him from Sherlock’s lap until he was on the floor with his arms out in front of him and his stomach settling on the wet patch he’d left behind. “Don’t move,” Sherlock ordered him, voice rough and demanding, and John shivered when he heard the noise of Sherlock’s fingers undoing the clasp on his trousers. Before long the noise of Sherlock’s moan drifted down to him, followed by the slick sound of what must have been Sherlock stroking himself and the thought was almost enough to set John off again; the image of Sherlock bloody Holmes wanking off over his body.
When Sherlock finally reached his peak, it was barely preceded by a gasp and a moan before John felt hot wetness land on the places of his back, each jet of semen aimed with precision even as Sherlock was in the throes of what had to be an intense orgasm. John sobbed his relief when he felt the evidence of Sherlock’s pleasure on him, proving beyond a doubt that the other man was as affected by this as he was, perhaps more; God, he hoped it was more. The last of Sherlock’s release leaked onto him, leaving him with sticky warmth on his skin that he didn’t want to lose because it was Sherlock on him, marking him, staking his claim. When had the idea suddenly become so important?
Over the roaring in his ears he heard Sherlock step over his body and crouch down at his front, gently easing John up until he was on his elbows and tilting his head up enough so he could look at Sherlock’s face. And what a face it was, still flushed from excitement and arousal, and all John wanted to do was kiss him, kiss that beautiful mouth until they were both breathless from it.
After he’d gotten his wish, with the taste of Sherlock still fresh in his mouth, John realised that he hadn’t been given permission to come; but Sherlock calmly took his face in his hands and placed a finger over John’s lips when he went to speak. “No words, John,” Sherlock murmured, stroking the fingertip over his mouth. “Just enjoy the aftermath.”
Sighing deeply, John closed his eyes and pushed his face into Sherlock’s hands, breathing a moan of relief when Sherlock pressed gentle kisses over his face and stayed close as they both came down from the high. “Thank you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips, pressing their mouths together briefly. “Thank you for giving me this.”
Sherlock chuckled, lowering a hand and intertwining the fingers of it with John’s. “The pleasure is all mine.” The detective shifted again, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor. “You do know what you’ve opened yourself up for though, don’t you.”
John tensed where he lay, suddenly uneasy. “What?”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him in amusement. “You’ve just proved without a doubt that you can come without your cock being touched. It would be safe for you to assume that I’m very much looking forward to seeing what else I can do to you to garner the same reaction.” A hand drifted down John’s chest, lightly circling one of John’s nipples and causing John’s eyes to flutter shut at the stimulation. “Yes,” Sherlock purred, the light strokes turning into a flick over the hardened nub and making John shudder. “Very much indeed.”
To be continued
- 5
- 6
- 7
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Perihelion