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Published:
2014-02-21
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1/1
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Spoils of War

Summary:

John brushes his thumb over the gun’s slide, over the rear sight. Sherlock’s mouth feels too wet. He could lick John’s fingers, suck on them, bite down softly on that callus that is a direct result of John’s frequent need to handle the gun at all. Sherlock could do that, John might like it, really. Sherlock has been told his mouth is absolutely lovely

Notes:

Oh God. This is nothing of poetry, it's just smut.

Work Text:

Sherlock is being atrocious. At least that’s what John yells to him, and Sherlock hisses like a opossum guarding a pile of rubbish. Sherlock had seen one once, during a trip to Florida, it clambered on top of a compost heap and bared its teeth at the old widow who tried to shoo it away with a broom. Silver fur raised along the hackles. It was hideous. Sherlock loved it. He tried to catch it and it bit him, he had to have rabies shot in a dismal clinic outside of Lynn Haven. He thinks he would have named the creature Bartholomew.

 

That’s what Sherlock looks like right now, very possibly, it’s so boring without Work, or a good experiment, or cigarettes. He’s perched at the end of the sofa while John cleans his Sig. John knows what Sherlock wants and he just won’t give it to him, because “I’m busy, Sherlock,” and, “My gun isn’t a toy, you could actually shoot yourself in the head you great prat.”

Well, technically, John doesn’t know what Sherlock wants, because Sherlock hasn’t said anything.

 

Sherlock shot the telly this morning. Sherlock had only wanted to see what would happen. He likes the way the wielding a gun feels, full and heavy in his hand, but that isn’t the only reason why he went digging through John’s room for the thing.

 

John is very fastidious about his Sig Sauer P226R, knows when it has been handled without permission. Although, Sherlock is always sure that John catches him with it anyways. The way the muscles in John’s jaw clench, the cobalt of his eyes going dark and ireful, he marches into Sherlock’s space and snatches the weapon out of his hands. The callus from his trigger finger brushing over Sherlock’s wrist as he rages and begins disassembling the gun with stoic competency, like the thing is an extension of himself. Slipping effortlessly from lovely-John, into Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

 

Sherlock loves John ergo Sherlock loves Captain John Watson.

 

He’d bend over any bit of furniture for either one of them. Sherlock wants to do all the sentimental rot with John; kisses in the rain, cuddles in front of the warm fire of 221B, drowsy morning sex when John’s hair is softly mussed from sleep. Things Sherlock found dreadfully dull before, but now, with John, he can see the appeal.

 

But Captain Watson, Sherlock wants to fuck Captain Watson until he forgets his own name.

 

Sherlock is aware of the reasoning behind this sexual proclivity. He’d grown terribly enamoured by a Major Scott when he was seventeen, an old friend of his father’s. The man never touched him, didn’t even notice him. He’d ordered Sherlock to, “Clean the table for your mother,” once while wearing his dress uniform, and Sherlock never seemed to get over the experience. How convenient is it that Sherlock should come across a one John Watson

 

Sherlock would have loved to have seen John carrying his standard M16A2 rifle in Afghanistan. Slung over his shoulder, pressed up against the digital desert print camouflage, barking orders with a commanding tone that refuses disobedience.

Sherlock found a sleeve of pictures displaying John in his digitals once. He hauled the best of the lot off to his bedroom, Sherlock touched himself and thought of John ordering him to do it. Telling Sherlock just how to get himself off, directing him in his Captain Watson voice.

 

Captain Watson fingering Sherlock over their dirty dining room table after failing to have squared his rubbish away.

Captain Watson ordering Sherlock to get on his knees.

Captain Watson demanding Sherlock perform press-ups until all his muscles are shaking and spent, and then fucking him until Sherlock is more reminiscent of a limp dishcloth than human being.

 

John brushes his thumb over the gun’s slide, over the rear sight. Sherlock’s mouth feels too wet. He could lick John’s fingers, suck on them, bite down softly on that callus that is a direct result of John’s frequent need to handle the gun at all. Sherlock could do that, John might like it, really. Sherlock has been told his mouth is absolutely lovely.

 

John looks like sex when he’s got his gun.

 

“We should have sex,” Sherlock says abruptly from his end of the sofa. He was thinking about it, why not say it. .

 

John pauses, gun oil clenched in his hand, ready to clean the disassembled weapon. Looks up at Sherlock, a small smile like he’s waiting for the end of a joke. Sherlock keeps staring, waiting for an answer and John’s brow furrows.

 

“Huh?”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Honestly, John. “I want you to fuck me.” Perhaps the first proposition wasn’t blunt enough.

 

Surprisingly enough, John does not clear his throat awkwardly and ask Sherlock if maybe he would prefer a cup of tea instead. John simply shrugs and keeps on cleaning the sig.

 

“Why would I want to do that?” John rubs at a speck of nonexistent dirt, fingers smooth over the gunmetal.

 

Is that a trick question? Why does anyone want to have sex? To get off, lose it. Sherlock has wanted to lose it with John for ages and ages, anyone else would have had Sherlock up against a wall and screaming their name by now. Maybe John doesn’t want sex with Sherlock, he could have misinterpreted the signs. Sexual attraction is tediously unpredictable at times, especially with someone as covertly complicated as John.

 

“Never mind,” Sherlock says, disappointed.

 

“God, you give up easily. Take off your clothes. Stand still with your back against the wall.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth falls open, he doesn’t close his eyes for what must be quite some time because suddenly his eyes burn and he has to blink rapidly to clear his vision.

 

“I said, take your clothes off. Do I need to order you to do something that simple?” The slip in John’s tone is immediate. Authoritative. Sherlock’s skin begins to heat up, already expectant and greedy. Invisible hair follicles at the nape of Sherlock’s neck perk up, begging for a good stroke. Sherlock starts shucking off his cotton t-shirt, shivers at the blast of air that fans over sensitive, bare flesh. John waits patiently, uses a brush to clean the frame of the sig. He isn’t even watching Sherlock take off his pants. Sherlock is starkers, and John isn’t even appreciating the view.

 

“At first, I thought it was this, you know,” John grabs the empty magazine and waves it a bit, “The gun. I was wrong.”

 

“Imagine that,” Sherlock bites out, annoyed that John won’t at least glance in his direction after having Sherlock go through the trouble of undressing. John talks over him, like Sherlock has said nothing at all.

 

“It’s really this, isn’t it,” John reaches underneath the collar of the blue and black striped jumper, fishes out his I.D. circles. They dangle from around his thumb, clink softly together. Sherlock swallows, licks his lips. John says, “Mh, thought so. I’m not as unobservant as you believe. You think I wouldn’t notice half my photos nicked?”

 

Ah. Well. Sherlock really didn’t think he’d notice. A week ago Sherlock tested out a new compound on John and he didn’t even notice an entire Wednesday disappeared. John looks at Sherlock now, the only indication of arousal being the slight dilation of his pupils. He rises from the sofa and stalks to where Sherlock stands, naked and unashamed of it. John stands close to Sherlock, hands clasped behind his back, chin tipped up defiantly. Sherlock can feel John’s breath breaking against his collarbone.

 

“You don’t think I’d notice how you get hard when I talk to you in this way? Last month when I had to wear my cap and badge for the recruit event, I saw your face. I heard you in your room that night.”

 

Sherlock face flushes, under John’s own deductive reasoning for once, “Why didn’t you--”

 

“I didn’t say you could talk, Holmes,” and there’s nothing left of John, it’s cool command. The expectation of obedience a concreted into every syllable. A tremor runs through Sherlock’s body, delicious and dangerous, John must feel that same way because he uses his palm and adjusts himself in his trousers. “I said hold still. You’re no good to me if you can’t follow an order. Say yes, Captain.”

 

Sherlock swallows, too buzzed with arousal to feel ridiculous. Clearly John is willing to play, and Sherlock is nothing if not a good actor. He’s accustomed to playing any number of characters to get what he wants.

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

John gives a curt nod, Sherlock is rewarded by a brief touch along his ribs. The gentle swipe of John’s trigger finger brushing over skin and bone. John pulls back and paces in front of Sherlock a few times, telling him to straighten his shoulders, widen the space between his feet. Sherlock already has impeccable posture, it really is something to have it criticised.

 

“I could order you to do anything like this, couldn’t I? Take out the bins, clean the dishes for once in your life. You’d do it as long as I promised to fuck you after.” John stops and looks Sherlock up and down. “Hm. So which is it that you find so appealing? Being ordered about like a soldier?” John tilts his head and watches Sherlock’s face. “Or being treated like the spoils of war?”

Yes, that exactly. Sherlock’s cock gives an upward twitch. A smile sets into John’s mouth, Sherlock’s absolute favourite smile. More like a smirk, one-sided and dangerous and Sherlock wants to cover John’s lips with his own.

“You want to be invaded like some bloody battleground. Not by just anyone, you need someone capable. Am I right?”

 

Sherlock blows out a shaky breath, “Yes,” John clears his throat expectantly, and Sherlock remembers to add, “Captain.”

 

“Very well, then. Wait here, you aren’t to move until I say,” and without as much as a backward glance John is off toward the stairs.

 

Sherlock’s fingers can’t seem stop twitching where they rest against his back, sandwiched between Sherlock’s sacrum and the wall. He straightens them and brushes the wallpaper with his fingernails. John’s feet on the stairs again, padding back down at an unhurried pace, and rounding the landing to stand in front of Sherlock again. He hasn’t changed clothes, aside from having shed the jumper. John might be of small stature, but he is delightfully compact with an easy, unassuming masculinity. Sherlock can see his ID circles plainly through the thin material of John’s white vest. Sherlock doesn’t really need the full uniform, of course the aesthetics are pleasing, but it’s the behavioral shift that Sherlock truly craves. When John switches over, Sherlock can’t keep his eyes off of him regardless of what he’s wearing. Captain Watson could be in a rhinestone burlap sack for all Sherlock cared, and he’d still get down on his knees and beg to have his throat fucked.

 

“Turn around and face the wall,” John demands, “Keep your hands held behind you.”

Sherlock says, “Yes, sir,” and does as he’s told. Sherlock can be good at following directions, with the right incentives. John could love him like this, pliant and eager to be used. Sherlock knows none of John’s vapid girlfriends have ever thought to allow John to bring his Captaincy into the bedroom. John wields his quiet competency with such artfulness, Sherlock had seen it immediately that first day at St. Bart’s. Afghanistan or Iraq? Then John shot a cabbie, he did so cleanly and without qualms and Sherlock could have sunk to his knees in reverent appreciation right then and there.

 

“The first thing you must do when approaching new territory, is secure the perimeter,” John explains, “It would take a bloody electrified cage to keep you, but this will have to do for now.” Sherlock hears a belt clinking about, being slid through its loops, and then the cool glide of leather being wrapped about Sherlock’s wrists. John knots and tugs and tightens until Sherlock’s hands are completely bound. It would take some struggling to free himself and regain his range of motion, if he were so inclined.

Sherlock isn’t even remotely inclined.

Sherlock is pinned between the wall and the firm press of John’s body. Sherlock wants to rut, wants to plead and plead and beg for John to touch his cock. But he holds his tongue, tries not to let out a soft moan when John pushes him against the flat surface, sparking friction. Sherlock can feel John hard against his hip. Hands on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders, his palm lifts and runs down the length of Sherlock’s back, a finger dipping into the long line of his spine, resting against the swell of his bottom. When he speaks it comes out low, John is breathing more quickly and whispering in Sherlock’s ear.

 

“Of course you have to explore the region, very thoroughly,” John murmurs, disturbing the curls above Sherlock’s ear. They shift and tickle, it makes Sherlock shiver unaccountably. “Take care of any hostility. Make sure your time is worth the effort.”

 

The flip of a bottle cap and the squelch of lubricant being squeezed onto fingers seems loud and out of place where John is pressed up against Sherlock. Inhuman, amidst soft pants and the scratching sound of denim rubbing against bare flesh. Sherlock will be good, he’ll be so so good, make it worth the effort.

 

“Don’t move,” and then John’s fingers are probing, rubbing along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, a forefinger dipping slowly inside of him.

 

“Ah,” says Sherlock.

“Quiet,” John commands, slicking his finger more quickly, then adds another. In and out, stretching and quirking and John seems to know exactly how to turn his wrist in order to make Sherlock’s breath punch out from his chest. Sherlock begins to sag against the wall, hips twitching forward to seek out more sensation. John braces Sherlock with a forearm nudged firmly across his back.

“Now, listen to me. I’m going to take you, and I’m not going to use anything between us, because this,” John keens into Sherlock with his entire body, working in a third finger as he does so, “This, is mine now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

 

Sherlock’s heart picks up its pace, he does understand the implication. John doesn’t plan on using prophylactics in this encounter. The unspoken implication that this has suddenly, and without any tedious bartering, turned into a monogamous relationship with the flip of a switch. John would never fuck about without employing condoms, otherwise.

 

Christ. That was so easy.

 

Sherlock should have done this months ago, it would have saved him all the indignity of pining after John like a lovesick adolescent. Should have stuck his arse in the air with the promise of warm, reciprocatory friction, and let inevitability take its course.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

John dips his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder blade, Sherlock can feel a smile spreading across his face and he kisses the spot once. Scrapes the sharp edge of teeth against the ridge of bone.

 

“Good, always is less messy when the locals cooperate,” John giggles that breathless laugh, slipping out of character for a moment to acknowledge the shift in their relationship. Sherlock adores him.

John’s fingers thread into the unruly curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, tightening and baring Sherlock throat in one swift movement. Sherlock’s back arches as John tugs him backward, it makes Sherlock’s hips rubs more firmly against the wall, setting off teasing sparks of pleasure. John strains up on the balls of his feet, sets his teeth against a high spot on Sherlock’s neck.

Without preamble John bites down and begins sucking a mark at the hollow of Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock ‘s body and jerks and words spill out of his mouth,even though he isn’t supposed to be talking, but John’s mouth is hot and wet and relentless. That bite is going to be impossible to cover, bruises show bright and clear on Sherlock’s pale skin.

 

John pulls off with a pop, and is abruptly tugging Sherlock by the hair and shoving him belly-down over the arm of the sofa. His fingers slip out from where he’s had them buried inside of Sherlock’s arse, and then there’s the bright flash of heat pressed against his hole. John pushes home in one sharp thrust.

 

Sherlock shouts his name, shouts God’s name, curses and cries out in surprise at the speed of John’s penetration. Not painful, John prepared him well, merely the odd feeling of adjustment as John stills momentarily, the residual burn. John decides that Sherlock has had enough time to acclimate to the full feeling, and immediately sets a rough pace. One hand shoving Sherlock’s bound wrists so far up between his shoulders, left hand digging into the hollow of his hips as he slams forward. Sherlock can’t help the noises he makes at this point, John must understand that. Whines and moans, vowels that end in breathless hah, uh, ah, nnh, sounds.

 

“You see, Sherlock,” words punctuated with hard shoves, “Soldiers claim our territory, mark it up like a pack of dogs. Everyone will know now, when they see you. They’ll see you and know that I’ve had you.” John bends and bites down between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “I bet I could order you to suck me off at a crime scene, if I said it properly. I could come all over your pretty mouth. Everyone would see your proper suit wrinkled and they would all know how filthy you are. They’d know who you got on your knees for. They’d know who owns you.”

 

All Sherlock can do is pant hot air and nod, shake his head in agreement, because John is right. Sherlock is a land, and John is the invading force, it’s simple rules of engagement in how John crawls inside and takes over.

 

John’s hands disappear for one moment, and then something lukewarm and metallic is being slid over his head. John’s ID circles. John tightens the slack in the chain until it presses into Sherlock’s throat, a sweet hint of strangulation.

 

“Now, you’ll wear these and remember. You’ll feel them on your skin and remember who you belong to. What you let me do to you.” A hand slides underneath Sherlock’s belly, inches toward his cock.

 

“Oh god, please,” Sherlock begs, aching after having not been touched for so long, “John, John--”

 

“There are a lot of John’s in the world,” One finger touches feather light against his prick, not nearly enough. “Whose are you? I don’t care if you think it sounds stupid, I want to hear you say it.”

 

It will sound ridiculous, as do most things during sex, but Sherlock is beyond caring. “Captain John Watson, now pl--”

 

John reaches down and is sliding his hand down Sherlock’s cock, tugging at him with relentless speed until Sherlock is practically sobbing, and coming explosively all over John’s still moving fist, wringing it out of him until Sherlock begins to whimper in oversensitivity. His grip lightens considerably, but John doesn’t stop touching Sherlock, not even when Sherlock cries out from the overload of sensation. Unable to think past the feeling, John making choked growling noises as he fucks into Sherlock, and then, “Oh, oh, fuck. God yeah. You’re fucking mine.”

 

Sherlock nods eagerly in unanimity, feels John cock twitch and then start to ejaculate inside of him before pulling out with a groan and coming all over Sherlock arse and spread thighs.

They’re both breathing hard, nearly a step away from hyperventilating, and John rubs his cooling semen into Sherlock’s skin. Tells him to hold still for one moment as he blows the stuff dry.

“Don’t take a shower tonight,” John murmurs. Sherlock smiles into where his face is pressed into a throw pillow, absolutely ecstatic over the possessive gesture.

 

John loosens Sherlock’s binding, tugs him back to standing and steadies him when Sherlock sways as the blood rushes everywhere, making him lightheaded. He inspects Sherlock’s wrists for bruising, which they certainly will bruise, and Sherlock is sure John intended as much. For Sherlock to look down at his slender wrists and long fingers and see the evidence of being conquered.

John brings the bruises up to his lips and kisses over them. Sherlock stretches out his fingers and cups John’s jaw, tips his chin up and finally he has John’s mouth against his own. John kisses like he fucks, without shame or pretense, competent and lovely. Sherlock sighs against John’s lips.

 

“So, have a bit of a kink, do you,” John asks, not making fun, simply amused and likely a little surprised at his own willingness to participate.

 

“Plenty of people have a sexual attraction toward military men and women, what they represent. It’s not an uncommon thing, why, does it bother you?”

 

John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. He likes Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock caught him sniffing it once. He thinks John would probably like what it looks like when Sherlock’s head is between his legs and licking at him.

 

“I want to do very ungentlemanly things to you,” John’s eyes burn as he looks over Sherlock’s body.

 

“Good,” says Sherlock, kissing John again because he never wants to stop kissing John, “Next time wear the uniform.”