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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: Well, that took longer than expected...
Thank you to everyone who's read/commented/rated in the time I've been away, you're all awesome! xxx
Quick note: I noticed in the previous chapter that I referred to Sherlock's knuckles on his finger without explicitly telling anyone which knuckle it was... There is still some misuse of the which one is the first/second/third so for continuity's sake, here is the order that I use for this story.
The first knuckle is nearest the palm and the third knuckle is the one at the end of your finger. Just so we're clear ^^
By the way, the next chapter shouldn't take so long because I already have it drafted in my head and I know exactly where I'm going with it. I was going to add it onto the end of this one as a continuation but this part ended naturally on its own and it didn't feel like it needed it. So hence another chapter! I don't know about you, but I'm really excited...
Anyway, enough from me.
Enjoy!
Part Eight
The first text arrived when John reached the surgery, only ten minutes before the start of his shift, with the sound from his jacket pocket alerting him to the incoming message as he hung it up on his coat rack. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that he still had another fifteen minutes before his first patient was due for their appointment, but when he opened the message he began to wish that he’d just left his phone where it was.
Remember that you’re not allowed to come without my permission – SH
As if he could let himself forget that minor detail, the memory of the lubricant bottle burned into the nerve-endings of his hand where he had held it for a moment after Sherlock’s departure, before tossing it onto the sofa and rushing to catch a taxi before he was late for work.
His phone trilled again, jolting him from the memory as he opened up the next message and read another of Sherlock’s texts, sent seconds ago.
That doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to experiment – SH
‘Experiment?’ The very word was enough to conjure images that were in no way appropriate on a Wednesday morning, especially when he was at the surgery and preparing to see a new patient who had just transferred over to them. He sat down carefully behind his desk, hoping to God that he wasn’t blushing when his arse came into contact with the seat and pressed against tender muscles, the brief flare of pain making his jaw clench. If he was this sensitive after only ten strikes, how would he manage when the number went up? Shaking his head, he opened his phone again and typed a reply back to Sherlock, having a strong suspicion of what it was Sherlock was hinting at but not wanting to take any chances.
What the hell are you talking about?
Barely a minute passed before his phone went off again; John tried not to berate himself too much when he eagerly opened the new message.
I did leave you the lubricant for a reason. I was unaware that I would have to explain its purpose – SH
Haha, very funny
Sarcasm doesn’t become you, John – SH
No, but you seem to bring it out in me. And how the hell am I meant to ‘experiment’ without getting off?
You’re an army doctor. If you can handle operating on soldiers in a warzone, you are perfectly capable of convincing a few tense rings of muscle to relax – SH
Sherlock!
Imagine I’m the one doing it – SH
‘Christ…’ All John had to do was think back to their time in the shower; although it hadn’t ended in the way that he’d hoped for, the sensory memory of Sherlock’s finger slipping inside him, slick and smooth and the feeling of his arse clenching around it… It was an effort to remember that it had only been the tip.
His phone trilled again.
I’ve seen you looking at my fingers, you know. When I’m tuning my violin or focussing my microscope on a sample. You’ve been fantasizing about them, wondering how I’ll use them on you instead – SH
How do you…? No, don’t answer that
Why? Are you hard, John? Stupid, of course you are. Highly inappropriate when you’re working. What would your patients think of you, aching with arousal behind your desk as you diagnose them? What would happen if they knew what had caused it? – SH
Oh, he was going to kill Sherlock the next time he saw him. Slowly and painfully, with the other man tied down so he wouldn’t be able to move…
Another message.
Can you imagine the looks on their faces if they found out? Would they be disgusted? Revolted? – SH
Out of all the things John liked to attribute himself with, a humiliation kink certainly hadn’t been one of them. And yes, he could imagine it; in full colour, 3D imagery, the works. The whispered words behind his back and eyes that glared over the rims of spectacles; the warnings spread of perversion within the surgery concerning a certain doctor, ex-army, who got his kicks from what most people would consider an abusive relationship. God, he was certainly going to Hell because the thought of it was enough to make his breath shudder in his throat, not with shame, but with desire. He could almost hear the sound of Sherlock’s voice in his ear; perhaps the detective’s hand would be on the back of his neck, displaying his ownership of John’s body to the people around them, deep baritone stroking his nerves and making him tremble.
Another message and two minutes before his next patient was due. With fingers that shook, he opened up the last message he would be able to look at until the end of his shift.
Or would they be envious? – SH
‘Damn you, Sherlock.’
oOo
It wasn’t the first time John had had to treat a patient whilst trying to hide an erection from them, but he’d be damned if it was going to happen again on his watch. Not only was it uncomfortable (he couldn’t exactly reach into his pants to adjust himself), but it was also embarrassing and had the potential to affect the quality of his care for his patients. It was especially disconcerting when he considered the fact that it was that very embarrassment that had kept his erection going throughout his shift, although a small part of him was quietly satisfied at how well he’d handled it in the end.
Luckily for him, his patients were too concerned with their own problems to focus on John’s difficulties and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The very potential of strangers noticing his arousal was enough to make him sweat behind his desk and it wasn’t something he had any desire to experience again in the future. Well… not with his patients at least, not if he had any say in it.
If he was also honest with himself, the distinct lack of emergency cases meant that he had more time to reflect on what had happened that morning; specifically, the incident in the shower. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t disappointed in him; the man was too well-versed in how the human body reacted when under pressure to discount how John was feeling in favour of his own needs, but John couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something he should have controlled a bit better. Trying to understand it from an objective viewpoint was damn near impossible though because he couldn’t view his own body with the same attitude that Sherlock had for his, couldn’t fathom referring to his physical being as ‘transport’.
Self-reflection was something that his therapist had quoted to him more than once, so he figured it couldn’t hurt to try and sort through his own feelings on the matter. He knew that his reaction had nothing to do with his upbringing or things he had seen in the war. His parents had been nothing but supportive when they found out his sister had a girlfriend, so he knew it didn’t stem from any indirect homophobia, and he’d seen enough soldiers turn to each other in Afghanistan to know that he didn’t have a problem with the physical aspect of it. Nor was he particularly religious, despite having been brought up in a community that prided itself on traditionalist standards and a firm belief in God, Queen and country - in that order.
It was probably inexperience, but even that didn’t seem to answer all the questions as to why it had happened in the first place. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sherlock that he’d had prostate exams before, yet this was a completely different context. The exams had been for a physical health check; Sherlock’s intention was something very different but not wholly unwelcome. Yes, the prostate exams hadn’t been arousing in the slightest (they were never designed to be), so having his gland prodded and stroked had done nothing for him sexually. John wasn’t sure whether it was because he’d unintentionally blanked out any pleasurable sensations at the time, but Sherlock’s finger hadn’t gotten that far to see whether the theory was justified. Nor did he view himself as a man who displayed his masculinity to other males to prove his dominance over them. He was by no means an alpha but he wasn’t on the lowest rung of the ladder either, so maybe it was some misplaced sense of domination that had caused it.
Experimentation was the only likely way forward than but Sherlock wouldn’t be back until the weekend and John wasn’t sure he could wait that long. Now he had inklings of what was wrong, he wanted to put them to the test, see if he could overcome them, but he wasn’t sure how to do that without Sherlock there to help him.
Any further reflection on his part was cut short when his shift ended on time for once, and he arrived back at the flat just after five pm, two brown paper bags in his arms and the key to the flat itself set between his teeth for a lack of anywhere else to hold it. Getting up the stairs to the flat was always a tricky business when one was in the situation that John found himself in on quite a number of occasions, but thankfully it wasn’t impossible. Sherlock had never seen helping with the shopping as an activity that was worthy of his time, which meant that John had more than enough practise managing on his own. Precariously balancing the two loads in one arm, he opened the door to the flat and side-stepped into the living room before unceremoniously dumping the whole lot on the kitchen table, for once devoid of Sherlock’s experiments, and pulled out his mobile.
There weren’t any more texts from the detective but there was a missed call from the man, timed almost after John’s shift had ended at the surgery. Sherlock never called unless it was an emergency, and even than he still preferred to text, so he clearly hadn’t taken into account the possibility that John would go and do shopping afterwards. Without any hesitation he dialled Sherlock’s number, listening frantically to the ringing on the other side before Sherlock finally answered on his end. “Hello, John.” A smooth intonation, almost a purr across the miles separating them and completely at odds with what John had been expecting.
“Sherlock! Are you all right? I missed your call, what’s wrong?” Ok, so he hadn’t meant to come across as worried as he sounded, but Sherlock would have probably picked up on it anyway.
“Yes I know, I purposely hung up so you would have the missed call,” Sherlock said, voice tinged with humour. “And no, I haven’t been kidnapped by the Russian mafia yet so there isn’t anything wrong.”
There were so many things wrong with that sentence that John couldn’t decide whether to be incensed that Sherlock had purposely called him to make him worry, or whether he should be worried about what the detective had been doing on his first day in Russia. “Yet? What do you mean ‘yet’?”
“Exactly what I said, John, do try to keep up. I did have a meeting with the Don though. He said to pass a message onto you saying that he’s a fan of your blog, although I cannot fathom why.”
“You? You met with…” Why did the English language decide to desert him now, when this was quite possibly the first time he had Sherlock on the phone since he’d met the man? No, he didn’t have time to think about that now, not when the most pressing matter still needed answering. “So you’re not hurt?”
He heard Sherlock’s huff of exasperation. “I am unhurt in either a physical or mental capacity. If there is any way I can make myself clearer to you, please indulge me.”
John released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding, his relief palpable. It was all very well that Sherlock sounded like himself on the other end of the phone, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t in any danger. Sometimes the man could come across as too in-character for John’s peace of mind, particularly when he couldn’t tell if Sherlock was in a situation that would normally demand John’s intervention to keep them both safe. “So why did you call me? You never call.”
“I assume you’re back at the flat,” Sherlock said.
‘Avoiding the question,’ John thought, irritably. “Yes, I’ve only just got back from doing the shopping though.” Which still needed to be put away but he didn’t mention that, unwilling to give Sherlock an excuse to terminate the call.
“The shopping can wait,” Sherlock said almost immediately. “There has been a delay in the proceedings of the trial due to the evidence I located at the crime scene; my services won’t be required until tomorrow at the earliest despite my attempts to negotiate with the police force.”
“And?” John asked, looking at the bags on the table and thinking about the frozen items that would need to be put away first.
“And?” Sherlock parroted back to him, voice again laced with humour. “Why would I be calling you when I’m facing this evening alone in an understaffed hotel in a room that doesn’t have central heating? Sounds like a marvellous way to pass the time, John, but surely I can think of something better…”
It was only than that the meaning behind Sherlock’s words clicked. Like, actually clicked, lodging into his brain and refusing to be shaken loose. But surely Sherlock wouldn’t be calling him for… that? “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with you missing me and just wanting to hear my voice,” John said, swallowing around a dry throat.
“What would you like to hear me say?” Sherlock asked. “That I wanted to hear your voice because I missed you, or because I wanted to hear what it sounds like as you’re coming with your own fingers buried inside you?”
The mental image that accompanied Sherlock’s words seared through John’s head, his breath gasping in his chest and his erection, which hadn’t disappeared completely since Sherlock left this morning, giving a warning throb in his trousers. “Jesus, Sherlock… We haven’t even decided if this is something we want yet.”
“Purely because we only have one set of data upon which we can draw from,” Sherlock said. “More information is required before we can come to any conclusions.”
“And you thought that,” John quickly glanced at his watch, “just gone five o’clock in the afternoon was a good time to try and convince me to have an orgasm over the phone.” Not that John was fooling himself. Being an advocate of a healthy sex life, he very rarely needed any persuasion on that subject and he wasn’t about to tell Sherlock that he’d been thinking the exact same thing only a few hours previously.
“Taking into account the time difference between our respective locations,” Sherlock replied, “mine is a respectable seven minutes past seven in the evening compared to your seven minutes past five, not that you have any qualms about what the time is when you’re aroused and just want to ‘get off’. Nor should you limit yourself to certain periods of a twenty-four hour clock in which to seek sexual gratification.”
John really didn’t have anything to say to that, logical as Sherlock’s thought process was, but he never thought he’d see the day when he’d hear Sherlock defending his right as a healthy, young male in the pursuit of his desires. “…So where do you want me?” God, he was going to be in so much trouble, giving Sherlock an open-ended question like that.
“Go to my room,” Sherlock said, sounding alarmingly calm despite the intensity of what they were about to do, “and pick up the lubricant on your way there. You’ll need it.”
Breath escaping him in a whoosh, John wandered over to the sofa and picked up the bottle he’d discarded earlier that morning, turning it around so he could read the label again. Christ, was he even ready for this? Sliding a thumb over the name on the bottle, he clutched it in his right hand and walked towards Sherlock’s bedroom, taking in the rumpled sheets and the scent of his lover / flatmate as he entered the room, the curtains still drawn against the darkness of what had been a bright day. “I’m here,” he said into the phone, voice steady, turning around to shut the door behind him.
“Put the phone on loudspeaker and put it on the bedside table,” Sherlock ordered.
John did as he was told, making it clear to Sherlock when the phone was on the table by emphasizing the slight click of the plastic touching the wood. “Done.”
“Do you still have the lubricant?” Sherlock asked and John found himself nodding before he realised that Sherlock couldn’t see him.
“Right here,” he said, twirling the bottle around in his hands to look at the instructions. Jeez, who really needed instructions for this, seriously?
“Good. Put it on the table next to the phone and take your clothes off.”
The world stopped on its axis for all of five seconds as John stared at the phone, his hands stilling on the bottle. “I’m sorry, what?”
Sherlock sighed, an audible exhale in the call. “I want you naked, John. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“…Right.” He put the bottle on the table, paused for another second, and began taking his clothes off without trying to think about what he was doing beyond slipping the buttons of his shirt through their respective holes. Making sure he took his shoes off before his trousers. The usual mundane way he would undress before he went to bed, except this was completely different and there wasn’t any possible way for him to escape that. The last bit of clothing slipped from his body, landing on the floor with a quiet swoosh and making the air swirl around his ankles, the touch intimate in a way that he’d never associated with it before. He cleared his throat softly to distract himself, looking at the lubricant and his mobile in turn. “Done.”
“Take the phone and lubricant and lie down so you’re on your back, facing the ceiling. Be sure to keep the bottle within reach of your hands.”
John followed Sherlock’s instructions, squirming with pleasure when the silk teased his skin and glided across his body, the softness of Sherlock’s pillows cradling the back of his head when he pressed into them. Curious, he looked down the length of his torso and saw the head of his cock looking back at him, hard enough that it was lying flat along his stomach rather than pointing straight up at the ceiling. Looking at the state of his own body, John secretly hoped that he’d never get used to the luxury of Sherlock’s bedding purely because the utter sinfulness of the silk made this whole situation deliciously naughty in a way that being in his own bed would never be. “Ready,” he said, a little breathless now, dropping his head back on the pillow.
“Bring the phone closer to your mouth but be careful not to dislodge it,” Sherlock said, and when John moved the phone to its new position, his agreement with John’s placing was a sigh of pleasure down the line. “Much better, John. Now, I want you to follow my instructions exactly; I will know if you do something different.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t want to use Skype for this,” John murmured, turning his head towards the phone. “I’d have thought you’d want to see me when I… you know.”
“The first time I see your hole penetrated, I will be between your legs watching it happen,” Sherlock said. “A computer screen is a poor substitute.”
“Except for crime scenes below a seven,” John joked, although the words were difficult because it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. Sherlock really saw him as better than a crime scene?
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock chided him. “You’re much more interesting than a seven.”
John laughed. “Point taken. So what do you want me to do?”
“Close your eyes if you haven’t done so already,” Sherlock murmured, “and bring your hands above your head.” Wordlessly, John did as asked and waited. “When you’re there,” Sherlock continued, “I want you to stretch your body out. Feel the muscles in your arms flex as you hold them above your head; the way your toes stretch away from you when you ease the tension in your legs and feet. Keep doing this until I tell you to stop.”
Hmmm, yes, that was starting to feel good. The rhythmic stretching of his muscles was working wonders on the aches and pains that a strenuous day could bring, each flex of movement encouraging his body to relax after the tension was held and then released.
“Very good, John,” Sherlock’s voice purred, hearing the groans of John’s pleasure as his body sank further into the mattress. “Now, bring your hands to your collar-bones, your right hand crossed over your left. Once you’re in position, I want you to slide your hands down your body slowly, across your chest and down your abdomen, only stopping when your hands separate above your hips. Do not touch your erection while you’re doing this and don’t stop at any point along the way.”
Naturally, John’s inclination was to stop at the exact points that would provide him with the most pleasure, unable to contain his gasp when his fingers slipped over his nipples and tickled along the sensitive sides of his ribs and hip bones. He did this another three times, each pass becoming slower as he focussed on the heat from his own hands and the way the pads of his skin felt against the hair on his chest; the way they felt when they brushed against his stomach and teased at the firm musculature that he still retained.
He was just about to start the fifth pass when Sherlock told him to stop. “How do you feel now, John?”
“Sensual,” John replied, a dreamy grin taking over his face. “Like I could lie here forever just touching myself.”
Sherlock made a noise down the phone but John was unable to discern if it was a chuckle or a moan at his words. “Spread your legs,” Sherlock ordered, “and bring your heels up until they touch your buttocks.”
Biting into his lower lip, John did as he was told; bringing his feet up until he felt the heels of his feet contact his glutes. This change in position was going to put a strain on his quadriceps eventually, but when he allowed his legs to drop slightly on either side they relived the pressure somewhat and opened the areas on his inner thighs and groin for further exploration. “What next?” he asked Sherlock, keeping his hands plastered to the mattress to avoid the temptation of giving his cock any stimulation before Sherlock ordered him to.
“Patience,” Sherlock murmured, and John had the fleeting thought that Sherlock knew exactly how low that voice could go because damn… “You’re aching for this now aren’t you? Yes, of course you are; you’re naked in my bed, writhing around on my sheets with my voice in your ears. Well, don’t expect relief any time soon. I’m not done with you yet; we haven’t even started.” There was a pause, just the gentle exhale of Sherlock’s breaths on the phone making John aware he was still there, before Sherlock spoke again. “Now I want you to feel yourself properly. Slide your hands down your body and stroke along the inside of your thighs.”
Moaning his gratitude at finally being able to move, John did as directed, making sure to drag his fingertips across his more sensitive areas before he reached the creases where his thighs met his groin. His cock felt like a brand of fire along his belly, twitching in its need for attention and flushed at the tip, but he determinedly ignored it, pressing his head back against the pillows as his hips thrust upwards. Panting breaths filled the air when John slid his hands along his inner thighs after teasing himself, feeling the pressure of his hands and the wantonness of his position, open and needful for the right touch. “God, Sherlock, what you do to me…” he groaned, back arching when a combination of Sherlock’s words and his own actions made the ache in his cock intensify. “I wish you could see this.”
“Tell me,” Sherlock said and his voice had a breathless quality to it that made John wonder whether the other man was touching himself as he spoke to John, maybe in a mimicry of what he was asking John to do. “How does it make you feel being this way? Spread out and waiting for my permission before you can touch yourself, unable to relieve some of that ache you must be feeling?”
“It feels fantastic,” John replied, drawing out the words slightly to emphasise their importance. “I feel… I’m aching so much right now, I can’t even tell you. I want your hands on me, Sherlock; I want you to be the one doing this to me.”
Sherlock didn’t respond to John’s words for a moment but John wasn’t concerned; if the telltale hitch in Sherlock’s breathing was anything to go by, John’s words were also having their desired effect. If Sherlock’s mission was to keep John in this position for an unknown length of time, at the mercy of Sherlock’s words, he was damn well going to make sure that Sherlock was suffering right there with him.
“Do you want to know what my hands are doing?” Sherlock asked after a moment, and John had a brief second of explicit imagination before Sherlock spoke again. “They’re on my cock, John. My right hand is pushing my foreskin over the glands at the head while my left is cupping my testicles, rolling them around in their sack and tugging at them when the need arises.”
John’s body shuddered on the bed with the visual that Sherlock had painted for him, his fingers clenching on his thighs and a moan spilling from him as his imagination filled in the blanks between Sherlock’s words. The thought of Sherlock in some seedy hotel room, naked on the chair or the bed and luxuriously stroking himself, that hot, hard length of his being teased and fondled… John’s head twisted on the pillow beneath him, his breath coming out in short, quick gasps. “Sherlock, please. Please let me touch myself, God, I can’t…” His fingers twitched again, a motion that brought them closer to his erection which felt hot and swollen between his legs. “Please…”
“Oh, John, I wish you could hear yourself,” Sherlock murmured. “You’re almost there now; you must be desperate for it.” A deep sigh drifted down the line and John whimpered at the sound of it, of Sherlock’s pleasure. “Lift your legs up until your thighs are pressed to your chest,” he said. “I want you spread open for me.”
“Yes, Sherlock,” John replied, moving his legs into position and feeling his skin flush hot on his face as the entirety of his groin was exposed. His cock jumped on his belly and he gasped in shock when he felt the sensation of liquid cooling on his skin, realising with another jolt that he was leaking pre-come onto his own body.
“Reach around your legs,” Sherlock continued. “Take a hold of one buttock in each hand and pull them apart so I can imagine that you’re exposing that tight, little pucker for me as I watch.”
With hands that shook slightly, John followed Sherlock’s order, getting a good grip on his flanks before slowly pulling them apart. The air was cool on his skin and he exhaled sharply when he felt the sweat drying around his entrance, his body flexing it in an instinctive need to close it up. Head thunking back on his pillow, he tried to concentrate on his breathing, listening to Sherlock’s own quick exhales to help ground himself.
“Let’s have some fun with it,” Sherlock purred. “Slick your fingers, John. It’s time you prepared yourself for me.”
“Oh my God…” John fumbled for the bottle at his hip, hastily flipping off the cap and drizzling some of the lubricant onto his fingers, ensuring that they were coated properly before flipping the lid and tossing the bottle on the bed. “Please, Sherlock.”
“Touch yourself there,” Sherlock said, his voice nearly a growl. “Stroke the lubricant over your hole and tell me how it feels. Leave nothing out.”
The first touch of his index finger to his entrance made John hiss, his eyes clenching in their sockets. Releasing the breath, he gave himself permission to prolong the contact, gently rubbing light circles around his opening and stroking the furled edges before dipping into the centre, mimicking the action that Sherlock had done to him in the shower. “Feels odd,” he said eventually. “But good. It’s hot, hotter than with gloves on, and… good.”
“Just good?” Sherlock asked and John could hear the smile in his voice.
Ok, it felt bloody fantastic actually, but John was coming close to that invisible barrier that had stopped him in his tracks with Sherlock this morning. He could feel it rising up inside him, although at a slower pace because the arousal in his blood was fighting it, pressing down and trying to force it into submission. If only he could finish it off… “Sherlock, I need to touch myself,” he gasped, the realisation hitting him square in his stomach. “Please, I don’t want to come, not yet, but-”
“Do it,” Sherlock ordered, interrupting John’s begging. “Stroke yourself and, when you do, I want you to penetrate yourself at the same time.”
His left hand found his cock almost desperately, the first tug forcing a cry from him with the surge of pleasure that forced its way through him. He was so hard and it felt so good to finally have his hand there, rubbing along the rigid length and finding the rhythm that suited him. Remaining true to Sherlock’s order, John slipped his index finger inside himself, grunting at the unexpected tightness of it and the way he clenched around his own digit, the strokes on his cock faltering as he grew accustomed to the sensation.
“Talk to me, John,” Sherlock said; his own small sounds of pleasure audible above John’s frantic breathing.
“It’s so tight,” John said, cautiously thrusting the tip of that finger inside himself and timing it with the strokes on his erection. “So hot and tight… Yessss,” the last word drawn out when he became braver and pushed his index finger all the way in to the first knuckle, gently twirling his finger along the walls of his passage as it accepted the careful intrusion. Thank God he’d added as much lubricant as he had, he thought, the slickness of the product allowing for smoother movements as he stimulated himself. He gradually set up a thrusting motion between the first and second knuckle, shivering at the sensation of his arse clinging to his finger every time it withdrew before being sucked back inside, a very warm welcome to what was becoming an erotic act in its own right. “It’s in me,” he moaned, turning his head so he was facing the phone. “My finger’s inside me, Sherlock.”
“I know, John, I can hear it in your voice. You sound so good,” Sherlock murmured. “Keep going, don’t hold anything back.”
‘Fuck yes.’ Long seconds passed while John kept up the penetration of his body, experimenting with different angles and pressures, sometimes removing his finger altogether so he could feel his opening clenching around nothing, as though hungry for anything that would fill the void left behind. The first thrust of his hips was unsteady as John got used to the stretch, but soon natural instinct took over and his body found the pace of it, a movement that made his toes curl as the sinuous threads of desire crept their way through his limbs and centred on his cock.
“Add another one,” Sherlock ordered, definitely more breathless than he’d been moments before.
Tentatively, John withdrew his index finger and pressed his middle finger alongside it, concentrating on relaxing his body so that it accepted the digits as a whole. “Nnnggg, God, Sherlock, that’s…” It hurt, but that was to be expected; he’d only ever taken one finger before so two was going to be different, of course it was. To ease the stretch and burn that the extra finger was causing, he lightly pressed against the rim of his arse with his thumb, stroking lightly to convince it to relax and quickening the strokes on his cock with his other hand to counteract the pain. “Ok,” John panted towards to the phone, a verbal indication that he was ready to continue.
“Slowly now,” Sherlock said. “Can you feel how open you’re becoming? How your body is clenching on your fingers, encouraging you to thrust faster, perhaps add more of your fingers? You would be so full but it wouldn’t be enough, would it. No, you’re going to want something much better than that and I’m going to give it to you.”
“Give it to me,” John gasped, his fingers already starting to thrust again, matching each twist of his fingers with a tug on his cock and moaning when he realised how close he was getting, only one thought running around in his head. ‘I’m fucking myself, I’m fucking myself, I’m fucking myself, I’m-’ The words caused the ache in his groin to spike, his back bowing as he hurtled towards his climax. “Sherlock… I’m… I’m gonna-”
“Do it, John,” Sherlock ordered, the detective unable to hold back his groans. “Fuck yourself, do it now!”
Almost immediately after the words had left the other man’s mouth, John’s body was curling in on itself, high pitched whimpers coming from him as his cock jetted come onto his chest and stomach, violent spasms racking his frame as he tried desperately to keep fucking his fist whilst thrusting his fingers into his arse. It was so intense and powerful that he couldn’t say anything, every muscle locking up tight, and it hurt but it was so good. After what seemed like a lifetime, his body finally shuddered out the last dregs of his orgasm, his legs flopping down on the bed with his arms resting on the mattress, the only sound being his loud pants as he tried to get his breath back.
“Well, that certainly exceeded expectations,” Sherlock said smugly and John could just imagine the grin on the detective’s face at that moment. Or maybe it wouldn’t be a grin, but a self-satisfied little smirk, with curls dropping down into eyes which were sated and happy and if John kept up with that train of thought he might have to rethink his refractory period.
“It was bloody fantastic actually,” he replied, although he couldn’t help his wince when he felt his hole clench reflexively when he stretched. The sensation was odd now, like it felt more natural to have his fingers inside him and now his body had to adjust to the abruptness of their retreat. He would need to test it out again later, preferably with Sherlock’s fingers in place of his own, but he couldn’t see Sherlock refusing him.
“Something to be repeated when I return,” Sherlock said, and John couldn’t help his nod of agreement.
“Hmmm, yes. Definitely.”
To be continued
- 7
- 8
- 9
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