Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Surprise!	By : aineko Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2889 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own no part of BBC Sherlock and make no profit from this work, I'm just in it for the kicks

Chapter List
- 1-Surprise!
- 1
One fine day:
"What are you doing?"
John looked up from his handiwork; Sherlock was standing in the doorway, clearly just arrived home from wherever, giving him a puzzled look.
"Well," John began in his 'Human Behaviour for Dummies'-tone, "I just bought a new book, so I'm writing my name in it."
Sherlock came over and read over his shoulder: "'If found please return to John Hamish Watson'? Why?"
"What d'you mean, why? So people know it's mine, of course, in case I mislay it."
"But you hardly ever take your books with you when you go out," Sherlock pointed out. "And you usually end up giving them to charity once you've finished with them. So why bother?"
"Dunno..." John thought about it briefly. "I suppose it's old habit. When I was in the army, I always wrote my full name on my belongings, some of those guys had no concept of boundaries or personal property... it just stuck, I suppose."
"You're not in the army now," Sherlock told him. "There's little point in keeping it up. I'll make tea." He turned and headed into the kitchen.
"Yes well, the principle applies to flatmates too," John called after him.

A week later:
"Sherlock?"
"Hmmm?"
"What's that?"
"What?" Sherlock followed the line of John's stare. "Oh. It's nothing." He began to turn away.
"Noth- It's a bandage, Sherlock!" John got up from his chair and grabbed his lover's arm, pulling him back around; he heard Sherlock hiss, saw him wince, as John's grip must cause some stress on... whatever was concealed by that white patch of gauze. He loosened his grip. "Seriously, what have you been up to?"
"It's nothing, John, don't worry about it." Sherlock pulled his arm back and swept the sheet around him. "I'll be in the shower. Tea would be nice when I'm done."
He disappeared into the hallway, leaving John to fume in solitude.

Two weeks later:
"Where are you off to?"
Sherlock turned in the doorway and looked back at him. "Shopping."
"Shopping? You!?" John couldn't suppress an incredulous smile.
There was no answering smile on Sherlock's face, though. "Shopping. Yes." He pulled his scarf tightly around his neck. "Back in a bit." Without further explanation he skipped off down the stairs.
Great, John thought. Secret squirrel Sherlock. God only knew what he was up to. And he still refused to explain that bloody bandage!

The next day:
"Sherlock?"
No answer. Frowning, John pulled his jacket off and went through to the living room. No Sherlock. His bedroom door was closed, though. Maybe he was asleep.
John gingerly opened the door. "Sherlock?" he called.
"Get out!"
He didn't even have time to catch a glimpse of the room before Sherlock was on him, pushing him back out into the hallway. "Sher-"
"Not now!" Sherlock glared at him through the nearly closed door. "Wait!" The door slammed.
"Wait for what!?" John yelled.
A few seconds went by, then the door opened again. "Not now, John," Sherlock repeated more calmly. "Look, could you go out, come back in - fifteen minutes?"
"What!?"
"Just do it, John," Sherlock insisted. "Fifteen minutes." After a moment he added, "Please." He had that solemn puppy-dog look on his face that John just couldn't resist (and the bastard knew it too). John sighed.
"Fifteen minutes. Not a second more."
"Thank you." The door shut again. Shaking his head John went back down the stairs, putting his jacket on as he went.

He went into the café downstairs, bought himself a coffee, and sat down by the window, from where he could see the front steps of 221B. Nobody went in; nobody came out. Then again, he would have been surprised. Nothing was ever that simple with Sherlock.
Exactly fourteen minutes and thirty-nine seconds later he picked up his jacket and went back inside and up the staircase.
The flat was silent at first; but as he set his foot on the first-floor landing he heard Sherlock's violin start up. He froze, listening for a clue. And got it the second he identified the tune: It was 'Happy Birthday'.
Unbelievable. The man was just unbelievable. John shook his head, smiling to himself. That the world's most brilliant detective knew his birthday was practically a given; that he bothered to remember it was little short of a miracle.
He hung his jacket on the coat rack in the hallway and went into the living room.
And froze to the spot.
Sherlock was standing in his customary spot by the window; that John could handle. That he was dressed (if that was the word) only in a sheet was not exactly a surprise either, even though on this occasion he had wrapped it around his waist and hips, leaving his torso naked. It was unusual, but still not entirely inconceivable.
No; what sent John straight into a brain freeze was the length of cloth wrapped around his lover's waist, tied off in a huge red bow and presumably holding the sheet in place. And the matching band of red encircling his upper left arm.
Sherlock had turned himself into a birthday present.
Something caught in John's throat.
Catching sight of him Sherlock drew the last plaintive notes from the strings and lowered his bow, still holding the instrument high. "Hello, John," he said huskily.
"Sherlock..." John swallowed and took a few tottering steps towards the detective.
"I..." Said detective gazed down at himself, as though he hadn't realized how he was kitted out, before setting his violin down. "Happy birthday, John," he finished.
John stared at him. At the band of red around his arm. In the exact position, he realized, that that damned bandage had occupied for the past couple of weeks, the one Sherlock had refused to explain to him. "Wh-what is that?" he managed.
In mute response Sherlock extended the arm, offering it to him. John saw that the scarf or whatever it was had just been tucked loosely in on itself; well, Sherlock would have had to do it one-handed, he thought irrelevantly. With fingers that trembled slightly he tugged at the cloth so that it unravelled and fell to the floor.
He stared at the arm, at the black markings on that smooth skin, until their true meaning suddenly resolved itself in his mind, sending a flash of heat through his entire body that made his knees wobble.
"John...?"
He swallowed and looked up into Sherlock's face, saw the uncertainty there. "John, I... I thought..."
John raised a hand and touched the tattoo, feeling the slightly raised lines tickle his fingertips. "You've really done it this time, you know that?" he whispered hoarsely.
"I... I don't understand..." Sherlock began. "Don't you like it? I believe these things can be removed, if you -"
"Don't you dare," John told him, pulling Sherlock's face close to his and practically raping his mouth with lips and teeth and tongue, suddenly insanely hungry for the most impossible man in the world. "Don't you dare even think about it. You're not getting away from me now." His hands scrabbled for the red bow, managed to snag one end, and pulled.
Predictably the sheet slid to the floor, revealing what the bow had obscured - that Sherlock was hard and ready. Excellent. John knew exactly what to do with that.
He pulled Sherlock down roughly onto the floor, back against his armchair; Sherlock reciprocated by tugging at John's shirt, struggling to undo the buttons so he could pull it off him. John reluctantly drew back for as long as it took to strip his upper body, then pounced on that delectable mouth again.
He felt Sherlock's fingers digging into his back muscles as the detective bucked his hips upward, rutting against him, moaning into John's mouth. He wanted to feel Sherlock, feel that delicious friction of skin against skin over every last square millimetre of his body, but there were too many clothes in the way. Obviously Sherlock had arrived at the same conclusion and fumbled with John's belt buckle, finally managing to undo it and shove John's trousers down over his arse, pants and all. Cool air caressed his buttocks, almost immediately driven away by hot hands as Sherlock's fingers eagerly dug between them, searching for the tight opening hidden there.
"Sher... Wait." John managed to tear himself away from his lover's lips and began to struggle with his jeans. Sherlock quickly moved to help, and then John was kicking his remaining clothes off, socks and all. He crawled back on top of Sherlock, straddling his hips, enjoying the gorgeously wicked sensation of their cocks pressing and rubbing against each other, the sight of his lover throwing his head back, the soft growl coming from deep in his throat. He began to rock his pelvis gently back and forth, increasing the friction, and felt Sherlock's grip on his hips tighten until it was hard enough to bruise.
"Sherlock..." His partner's eyes fluttered open, pupils so wide barely a millimetre of iris was visible. "Sher, we need some -" That was as far as he got before Sherlock whipped out the small tube he'd secreted somewhere within arms' reach and held it out, grinning wickedly.
With a return grin John snatched it from him and sat back, flicked the tube open and squeezed an ample amount onto his fingers. He looked straight at Sherlock then, with great deliberation, rose up on his knees and reached behind him, slipping his fingers between his arse cheeks and started to work them against his anus, supporting himself with his free arm. Sherlock stared at him, then cottoned on and tried to add his own fingers to the mix, but John nudged him away, caught his eye, and shook his head slightly, then used the remaining gel to slick his partner's rigid cock. Sherlock, understanding what John was about to do, gripped his hips again, supporting him as John slowly lowered himself over him.
"John... careful..."
John blinked at him. "You want to be mine?" he whispered. "All mine?" Sherlock managed a nod.
"Good. Then I want all of you. Now."
It was Sherlock's turn to blink. "All?"
"All." John let himself sink lower, feeling the engorged tip of Sherlock's manhood press against his hole; he adjusted his position and then felt the blunt shaft push into him as Sherlock, as impatient as ever, forced himself up to meet him.
Oh God, the bliss! A moment's discomfort as his body accepted the intrusion, and then that amazing sensation of being taken, filled, in a way that went well beyond the physical. This was theirs and theirs alone, something neither had ever shared with anyone else, and that knowledge alone was almost enough to make John lose it there and then. Struggling to keep it together he slid down further, angling his pelvis so Sherlock brushed against his prostate, and let out a shuddering moan. He didn't stop there though, not until every last fraction of an inch of his lover was inside him, stretching him almost beyond endurance. Through half-lidded eyes he looked at Sherlock, saw his own ecstasy mirrored in his partner's face.
He laid his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and began to move, rocking gently back and then forward, relishing the sensation of his lover's prick sliding back and forth inside him, the shocks that went through him every time the tip grazed the sweet spot, each time pushing him that bit closer to the edge. Sherlock's hands were on his arse cheeks, his nails digging into the sensitive skin, the pain only setting a thrilling counterpoint to John's pleasure and heightening it even further. He let go with one hand and instead took his own so far neglected cock in his hand, began squeezing and pulling it in time with the rocking motion. A low-pitched moan found his ears; it took him several seconds to realize the sound came from himself and that he was right on the verge of coming.
Then even the verge slipped beyond him as heat exploded in his groin and fireworks lit up his brain. His seed spilled between them, smearing both Sherlock's chest and his own abdomen, as he collapsed, shaking, his face buried against his lover's neck, clinging desperately to him. Moments later he felt Sherlock jerk and spasm under him as he too found his tipping point and emptied himself inside him.
He felt, distantly, Sherlock's softening cock slip from him, Sherlock roll him sideways onto the floor, Sherlock sliding down to lie beside him and taking him into his arms, cradling him gently and with a tenderness John knew nobody else ever saw in the self-proclaimed sociopath. John curled into the embrace, halfway wrapped around him.
His eyes fell on the pattern of black ink etched onto that beautiful pale flesh, still slightly inflamed in places. He could only see part of it from this angle, but it didn't matter, the entire image was etched into his brain as clearly and as indelibly as the ink in Sherlock's skin. Two lines of text; eight words; thirty-seven letters:

If found please return to

JOHN HAMISH WATSON

Thanks for reading :-)
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Surprise!