Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, John will stir in his sleep at the slightest external stimulus. Other times, John’s face holds an inordinate amount of tension as he is tormented by nightmares, and Sherlock will just watch him, wishing he could soothe the painful workings of his subconscious but not knowing how. Hoping that just his presence and his good intentions can be enough.

Then there are times like today, when John sleeps like a log. His mouth, slack, hangs open, and he snores lightly on every inhale. The early morning sun streams through the bedroom window, bathing him in a warm, golden glow. It casts a highlight over the scar tissue adorning his shoulder; Sherlock only has to move a little to run delicate fingertips across the old wound. John is always a little self-conscious about it, but Sherlock can't imagine why. It tells his story, and it’s part of him, and he is beautiful.

The sheets have been strewn throughout the night, and they currently rest draped low across John’s hips. Their legs are tangled together, comfortable and warm, underneath. Sherlock curls his toes, and they brush against John’s calf. John’s nose twitches.

So Sherlock trails his fingers down, across John’s chest. The smattering of hair there is coarse and untamed. Manly. Wonderfully sexy. Keeping his touch light, Sherlock scratches through it with his nails, delights in how John is so full of sleep that he doesn't respond. Again, Sherlock scratches, this time dragging his nail off to one side, catching gently on the peak of a nipple. The texture of the skin there is different, somehow, and endlessly fascinating.

He rubs, watching John’s face. John huffs a little.

Sherlock could do this all day.

He shifts his upper body closer, feeling John’s radiating body heat against his torso. Feeling John's breath against his face. The tips of their noses touch, the faintest of contact. Sherlock’s hand trails back up, fingertips dragging, until it reaches the stubbly area where neck becomes jaw, and he lingers there. The scratchiness and shadow almost harsh in juxtaposition to John’s soft, lax expression. Strong and brave and not a care in the world.

This time, when Sherlock strokes his skin, the sound caused by the friction against those sharp hairs is stark against the stillness of the room. Sherlock swallows.

He runs a finger over John’s bottom lip. It’s dry, a little chapped, from his mouth breathing. But it’s also full and pliant, giving under the slightest pressure from his finger. This is vulnerability, Sherlock thinks. His heart swells, as it often does, at the demonstration of trust. A trust that Sherlock feels he’s not done a great deal to deserve from this man, but also that he intends to do everything in his power to keep.

To prove that he can be worthy of John.

John's face furrows slightly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, unknowingly catching Sherlock’s finger too. It makes Sherlock’s breath hitch in this throat.

He never wants to miss a moment.

Then John shuffles closer. Pressing their bodies together, tightening his grip with his legs, one arm snaking around Sherlock’s ribs to splay across his back. He’s still fast asleep, of course. And his face is now scrunched up on one side against his pillow.

Sherlock cradles his jaw. He can't help but press a kiss to his forehead.

Just for today, it might be nice if nothing happened.

Chapter Text

Sherlock is a writhing, moaning, desperate mess beneath him, and John thinks (not for the first time) about the sheer privilege of the position he’s in.

He’s the only person to have seen Sherlock like this. Ever. And that's because he’s the only person Sherlock has trusted enough to show this side of himself to. Sherlock Holmes, notoriously aloof and unattached, sneeringly dismissive of sentiment and emotion, and by all accounts friendless and reluctant even to acknowledge members of his own family, had seen something of worth in John from the moment they met. John doubts that he'll ever find out what it was. But it had been enough for Sherlock to invite and accept him into the chaos of his life without question.

And if someone had told John in those first moments that he would one day be where he is now - in Sherlock’s bed, as naked as the day he was born, half crazed with lust and love and preparing to fuck this incredible, brilliant, amazing man to within an inch of his life - he would have howled with laughter.

Funny how time can change one’s perspective.

Because that thought, this reality, is no longer nearly so ludicrous. The connection between the two of them is unfathomably strong, their codependence undeniable. It allows Sherlock to drop his protective barriers, to abandon without fear his impenetrable methods of self-preservation, because he knows that John will understand him at his most vulnerable and exposed. He trusts John not to let him down.

And John is so deeply humbled that he devotes every fibre of his being to proving, every day, that he can be worthy of that trust.

It all becomes so tangible when they're in bed together. Sherlock comes undone under John’s touch. He’s beautifully responsive, allowing John to see exactly how every movement affects him. He is vocal and open, he arches into caresses, he allows his body to take and enjoy everything that John has to offer him. John only wishes that he could offer more, because that's what Sherlock deserves, more and anything and everything he can possibly give.

Right now, all he can give is himself.

He fumbles a little as he positions his dick at the entrance to Sherlock’s body, his motor skills failing in the face of his arousal. Sherlock peels his eyes open and looks straight into his soul, his gaze lidded and his expression unguarded. He welcomes John with everything he has.

He is perfect, John thinks. He leans down to kiss him, to tell him so without words, and for a few moments they share the same air. This kiss, right now, it says more than all the words in the universe could. It says yes, and mine, and thank you, and I need you, and I love you. It says stay, it says we are unstoppable. It says I couldn't be without you. This kiss is everything.

Sherlock moans into his mouth. John answers with a shuddering whimper as he takes Sherlock’s lip between his teeth. He is perfect. They are perfect.

Chapter Text

The first time Sherlock has sex with John is actually the first time he’s had sex with anyone.

And, much to Sherlock’s disgruntlement, it shows.

His inexperience is exposed quite unexpectedly, the very first time that John finds the courage to climb into his lap and grind down against him. They'd been… involved, in an ‘official’ capacity, for two weeks and three days, but this was the first time either of them had dared to explore what lay beyond the heated kissing they'd so far enjoyed. Not for a lack of wanting; the timing simply hadn't seemed right.

But John decides that this is the right moment to try, and Sherlock’s body agrees so wholeheartedly that he comes in his trousers at the first firm rub of John’s clothed erection against his own.

It’s terribly embarrassing. Sherlock is grateful that John seems to just get it, and they laugh off the awkwardness together before Sherlock takes a shower and assumes, somewhat disappointedly, that John will take care of himself in the meantime.

The next time, they manage to get a little further. Sherlock is prepared now for his body to betray him at any given moment, and one of John’s most fabulous qualities is his ability to adapt, particularly with consideration for his lover. So John takes extra care to avoid overstimulating Sherlock, and Sherlock wills himself to be patient and controlled as John kisses his neck and unbuttons his shirt.

Neither of them could have known that Sherlock would be overcome by another sudden orgasm as John rakes his teeth across one of his nipples, his cock completely untouched. Sherlock wants to scream from the unfairness of it. To have complete mastery over his body in every other way, but to be at the mercy of his own biology now, is unacceptably frustrating.

John understands what's happened. John always understands.

“Are you disappointed?”

John has the gall to laugh at that. “I just got Sherlock Holmes off by biting his nipple. In what universe would that be disappointing?”

Sherlock glances down, and realises that he doesn't want a repeat of last time. “Let me touch you,” he blurts out. “My shortcomings shouldn't have to limit you.”

John’s pupils dilate, and then Sherlock has both hands inside his boxers, stroking and cataloguing every response to ensure he gives John the best experience he is able to. John goes weak against him. The pride Sherlock feels is almost enough to outweigh his lingering embarrassment, and this time they at least end up sharing the shower afterwards.

It’s progress.

John reassures him that it’s normal to have heightened sensitivity when these are really his first sexual experiences, but Sherlock cringes at that. He despises the thought of being like any ordinary person, especially since John appreciates his more unique traits. So he dedicates his private time to researching and reading and practicing, testing any theory that might serve to improve his stamina.

And it’s worth it, so worth it, when Sherlock finally manages to hold himself in check for long enough to get to the event he’s been craving. The moment John penetrates him for the first time, he can't even think anymore. They're both sweaty and needy, and John is perfect, careful but passionate as he takes this last piece of Sherlock’s virginity. And when Sherlock comes with John buried deep inside him, it’s a fire like nothing he’s ever experienced in his life, and he knows instantly that he can never be without John again.

They lie together, awake and messy and utterly sated, in the dim glow of the evening when it’s all over. And Sherlock smiles, and John smiles back.

Chapter Text

One not particularly special day, Sherlock asks to watch John the next time he feels the need to masturbate, and John can't for the life of him think of any good reason to refuse.

After all, Sherlock has seen him in just about every imaginable position by now. He’s seen him debauched, shameless, on his back, red-faced and panting and covered in a sticky mix of their ejaculate, so they're a bit beyond the realm of embarrassment. And it’s not like masturbation is an unfamiliar activity for him, either. Hell, he’s even fantasised about Sherlock watching him, especially in the time before they got together, when fantasies were all he had.

To be honest, he’s not even sure why he’s looking for a reason to refuse. Just that his last few remaining shreds of dignity are insisting that he should.

The best that he can eventually come up with is, “Why would you want to watch when you can join in?”

A small smile plays on Sherlock’s lips as he replies, “You know how much I enjoy watching you. It will be an enjoyable and educational experience.”

And John finds that he can't really argue with that.

So that's how, later that evening, he comes to be sprawled comfortably across their shared bed, one lubed hand stroking himself and the other cupping his balls, while Sherlock sits attentively in a chair he’s placed directly at the foot. He’s surprised at how easy it is to… well, not forget that Sherlock is there, but certainly to outwardly ignore him. Simultaneously, the knowledge that Sherlock’s observational focus is trained entirely on him, while he performs what would normally be one of the most private acts, is unbearably erotic.

He’d decided before he began that he wasn't going to rush, and he’s settled into a steady, languid rhythm, simply allowing himself to enjoy his own touch. He knows how to keep himself buzzing without getting too close. He’s not watching Sherlock, but he can feel the burn of his gaze as he undoubtedly takes in every detail.

Thing is, it’s rare indeed that he has an opportunity to surprise Sherlock in any way; but the more he had considered this consensual voyeurism, the more he had realised that this would be one of those opportunities. And since Sherlock hadn't specified that he wanted to see what he would normally do during a masturbation, John figures he can take a few liberties, throw in a curveball or two.

He brings the hand on his balls up to his cock too, so that he’s pumping himself with both hands. The additional stimulation feels good, of course, but he keeps his primary objective - the transfer of lube to his dry fingers - in mind. He indulges for a few moments, thrusting into the tunnel of his hands. Then, hoping that Sherlock hasn't already deduced what he’s about to do, he draws his knees up to his chest (no doubt giving Sherlock the most unadulterated view of his anatomy) and reaches one hand as far down as he can to slide the tip of a finger into his own arse.

He hears the hitch in Sherlock’s breath, and can't help but grin with accomplishment even as he moans from the pressure and the burn. It’s not easy in this position, and he doesn't do this often, but he has experimented enough to know how to maximise the pleasure he gets out of it. He pushes his finger as deep as he can, angling for where he knows his prostate sits, shuddering with relief and satisfaction as he just manages to brush against it.

A small whine, not his own, carries through the room.

From there, he lets himself get carried away. He thrusts his finger in and out of himself as he gradually strokes his cock faster, building up his speed until his hand is a blur and his pace is furious, hearing the slap of skin on every downstroke. He’s seeing stars. He feels the pressure of his orgasm building in his groin as all the muscles in his body tense, and he comes all over his own abdomen with Sherlock’s name on his lips.

When he comes down from his high and blinks himself blearily back into reality, it’s to the rough rustle of fabric and the slick sound of skin on skin. He looks down the bed, through the gap between his bent legs, and Sherlock is there, hunched over and gripping the arm of his chair with white knuckles while the other hand moves frantically inside his own pants. It’s only a matter of moments before his movements stutter and his whole body convulses with the intensity of his own orgasm.

The sight of him takes John's breath away. He thinks vaguely that, if he were a younger man, he might already be attempting to rally for a second round, although this time with a little more interaction.

They both breathe heavily, and eventually Sherlock looks up, catching his gaze. John tries for a sentence. “Educational enough for you?”

Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards. “Exceptionally.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock had never expected that he would love giving John oral sex as much as he does. But then, he grudgingly concedes, life does still have the ability to surprise him from time to time.

Turns out, he can't get enough of it. His own sexual satisfaction becomes decidedly secondary in his priorities when he has the promise of getting John's cock into his mouth. Something about having that hot weight on his tongue, being completely immersed in the scent and the taste, it’s almost cathartic. It gives him a purpose, something to focus on. Knowing that he’s giving John pleasure, hearing the sounds John makes and feeling the twitches of his muscles under his hands while he sucks him, it only enhances the experience.

It’s especially fulfilling when John gets a little bit rough with him; there's something heady and arousing about the moment John releases his tight grip on his control and lets go of his inhibitions. Rationally, Sherlock understands that he’s worried he’ll hurt him by accident, but his careful approach sometimes drives Sherlock to the edge of despair. Because Sherlock craves being pushed to his knees, having his hair pulled, experiencing uncontrolled oral ravishment. Just the thought of it makes him dizzy with want.

And then he gets the tangible payoff of John’s come pulsing into his throat. Or, if John is feeling particularly filthy, he’ll pull out just in time to shoot over Sherlock’s face. It’s incredible for Sherlock either way, so he rarely expresses a preference and usually allows John to make that choice in the moment.

Whether or not John wants to return the favour afterwards (and he usually does, because John is considerate like that) is almost inconsequential.

So it’s with the singular intent of getting his lips wrapped around the throbbing heat of John’s erection that he crawls under the kitchen table one morning while John is eating breakfast and generally minding his own business. Obviously, John isn't hard yet; and because he’s used to Sherlock’s eccentricities, he doesn't even pay the slightest bit of attention to what Sherlock is doing, not until Sherlock unceremoniously yanks down the elasticated waistband of his pyjama bottoms, and he yelps in surprise.

“Sherlock, what are you-”

But he cuts himself off with a groan as Sherlock grips his thighs and takes his still-soft cock entirely into his mouth without preamble or fanfare. Sherlock moans too, staying still, revelling in the sensation of silky flesh against his tongue, waiting for the moist warmth to coax John into hardness. He imagines how John might look above the table. Maybe his fists are clenched, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut as his brain tries to catch up with events.

At least his body doesn't seem to have any trouble getting with the program, and within moments Sherlock’s mouth feels decidedly and deliciously fuller. He adjusts his weight on his knees and wastes no time, getting to work on enjoying one of his favourite activities.

And he is relentless; he’s in no mood for teasing this morning. He sucks with a single-minded intensity, wanting to draw John deeper into his throat, delighting in how quickly John’s hips start to urge forward off the chair. He needs the salty, bitter taste of John to fill him, and he needs it as quickly as he can get it.

Thankfully, employing the element of surprise appears to have worked in his favour, and it’s not long before he hears John’s whimpers becoming more urgent.

“Oh God, Sherlock… I can't… oh, fuck…”

His thighs tense under Sherlock’s fingers as he comes, and Sherlock refuses to let up on his suction until he’s sure that every last drop has been drawn out for him to swallow. Only afterwards does he ease back, working out the slight cramp in his jaw as he pulls John’s pyjamas back up, before finally emerging back out from under the table.

John is staring at him with a sort of rapt, sated bewilderment, apparently speechless for a moment, and it’s really rather endearing. Sherlock decides not to explain himself. He climbs to his feet, the taste of John fantastic on his tongue, and leaves to get dressed for the day without a backward glance.

Chapter Text

They’re barely into the taxi before they’re all over each other.

The case has been one of their closer calls for a while. They'd tracked the pair of murderers to an old warehouse, and of course Lestrade and his team had been in hot pursuit, but the confrontation had been violent, with John suffering a heavy clout to the back of the head and Sherlock narrowly escaping a blade pressed against his throat.

It had been terrifying. The possibility that one or both of them might not have been leaving the warehouse alive hadn't really sunk in while the action was happening, but when it was all over and they were coming down from the adrenaline high, being checked over by paramedics in the backs of ambulances, it had hit both of them like the proverbial tonne of bricks.

So now, even though they’re aching and tired and grubby, they need to feel each other. Sherlock in particular, for all his cool and sarcastic exterior, can barely stomach the thought that, once again, he could have lost John tonight. Feeling that proof of life, warm skin and breath and the pulse of blood through John's veins, is all he can bring himself to care about right now.

And luckily, John is right there with him, hands fisted in the lapels of his coat, devouring his mouth with a matching desperation. They’re crammed up against each other in the backseat, physical contact wherever they can get it, Sherlock’s arms wrapped tightly around John’s back as he practically tries to haul the man into his lap. They moan into each other, needy and grateful.

They hardly separate to get back into the flat, just long enough for John to pass a couple of notes through the partition to the driver. As soon as they’re inside and the door is closed, Sherlock is on him again, smothering him with hungry kisses and touching everywhere he can reach. John lets him, drinks him in, gasps against him, presses his hips forward. Sherlock grinds back against him, tugging him close, and soon they’re rutting against each other with an animalistic intensity. They pant and they grunt.

There's nothing tender or sweet about this, but their need for each other is absolute. Sherlock needs to be satisfied that John is really here. The sickening crack that rung in Sherlock’s ears when John was hit, the sight of him crumpling to the ground, the thought that he might not get back up again… all of it is going to haunt Sherlock, he knows it.

But John is warm and moving and making a series of wonderful sounds in the back of his throat, and he’s biting Sherlock’s lip and digging his fingers into his skin through his clothes, reassuring and real.

Sherlock comes first, spasming as his knees turn weak, covering John with his body and growling as he buries his head in his neck. He wants to crawl inside John’s skin and feel his heartbeat. And John isn't far behind him, his orgasm evident through the stuttering rhythm of his hips and the increased volume of his utterances. The whole thing was quick and primal, and they haven't even taken off their coats yet.

They slump together against the door, feeling and breathing and touching. They don't need to speak yet, they just need to be .

Chapter Text

Since entering into a relationship with Sherlock, John has found that moments of solitary privacy are very few and far between. Although Sherlock has never really had a solid grasp of boundaries or personal space, he at least used to leave John mostly to his own devices when he was in his own room, or using the bathroom.

But apparently that is no longer the case. What was previously ‘John’s space’ has now become ‘John and Sherlock’s space’, and any ideas Sherlock may have had before about John’s right to time alone have clearly been discarded.

John isn't bothered enough to make a big deal out of it; he’s always been more social than solitary anyway, preferring the company of others, and he’s been addicted to Sherlock’s particular, unique brand of company almost since the moment he met him.

Having said that, Sherlock is currently out of the flat, and John can't deny that being able to enjoy a bath in peace - no chemical leaks, no gunshots, no genius madman barging in to take a piss - is absolutely blissful.

It’s been a tedious day at the clinic, and the cold winter weather has done nothing to alleviate the perpetual ache in his shoulder, so the hot, relaxing soak is doing him the world of good. He’s not pruning yet, but the tension in his body is dissolving more and more by the minute, the steam warm and soothing as he breathes deeply, and he has absolutely no intention of leaving the water any time soon.

Then the front door slams, and he hears Sherlock’s voice and heavy footsteps carry through the flat. “John!”

John quickly assesses his tone, and concludes what whatever it is Sherlock wants, it’s not an emergency. He mourns the end of his private time as he calls back, “I’m in the bath. Give me a few minutes.”

He almost laughs at himself as he catches himself hoping that Sherlock might actually wait. Sure enough, those hopes are dashed seconds later as the bathroom door swings open and Sherlock breezes into the room. He stands, staring at John, and John returns a quizzical look as he waits to hear the reason for this interruption.

When nothing seems to be forthcoming, and Sherlock’s stare is starting to unnerve him, he prompts, “What's the matter?”

Sherlock comes back to reality, sort of. “You’re in the bath,” he states.

John raises an eyebrow in confusion. “Yes.”

“Can I…” Sherlock’s voice cracks, just a little, and he clears his throat before trying again. “Can I touch you?”

His face starts to take on a hint of extra colour. He’s shy. The realisation is impossibly adorable, and John's bewilderment immediately gives way to an enormous grin as his cock starts to harden with undeniable interest. “It’s sweet that you're asking. Let me get out and dry off, and we can make ourselves more comfortable.”

“No!” Sherlock is on his knees beside the bath before John has a chance to move, shedding his jacket and rolling his shirt sleeve up above his elbow.

“Sherlock-”

“I want to see whether it’s different underwater.” And Sherlock plunges his hand into the water, wrapping his fingers around John’s cock.

It does feel different, John thinks as Sherlock’s hand moves on him, but that's certainly not a bad thing. He leans his head back against the rim of the tub and closes his eyes, giving himself over to Sherlock’s curious attention. He knows he’s being watched closely, but far from making him uncomfortable, it just arouses him further. His orgasm takes him by surprise amid the unusual yet familiar sensations; he jerks into Sherlock’s grip, riding the peculiar experience of coming underwater.

“That was…” he struggles to find the right word, and licks his lips, eventually settling on, “...new.”

He has no interest in remaining in the bath afterwards, and pulls the plug as Sherlock shakes the excess water from his arm and hand. As he gets out and towels himself down, Sherlock stays where he is on the floor, just watching, his own erection tenting his trousers unmistakably.

John swallows. “Go and get into bed, love. It’s your turn.”

Sherlock almost runs, and John doesn't bother to get dressed before he follows.

Chapter Text

“Not yet.” Sherlock’s voice is low and throaty, with an undertone of need and an unnatural sounding hitch that betrays his own physical exertion. “Don't come yet.”

On the small screen in front of him, John’s hand stills, fingers wrapped firmly around the base of his cock. A frustrated groan sounds through the phone speaker.

It’s not the same as having John here with him in person, as he had known it wouldn't be. Sherlock had felt quite justified throughout the duration of his several-day sulk when John first informed him about the medical conference which would take him to Edinburgh for two nights, even though John had countered that he was being clingy and ridiculous.

And now Sherlock is absolutely sure that he can't allow John to leave for one of these pointless events again. This video call is a far cry from high-definition, and the poor lighting in John’s hotel room isn't helping at all. All his movements look slightly jagged from the live lag, and his voice is too grainy. Nothing like the smooth, delicious tone he uses when his lips are pressed directly to Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock draws his feet up, placing them flat on the mattress, giving himself the leverage he needs to thrust up into his own fist. His movement isn't urgent, not yet, but his breath is coming heavily. John must be able to hear him.

Good , he thinks.

“Slowly,” he says out loud. “Use both hands.”

The video feed jerks as John adjusts his position starts to stroke himself again. “How do you expect me to hold my phone without a free hand?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He’s using his front-facing camera for this, only letting John view his face and bare shoulders, so he knows John will see the pointed exasperation. “I know you're not a genius, but surely you can figure something out.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” The screen goes black for a moment, but Sherlock can hear the sound of rustling bed sheets through the speaker. He waits.

Then he gets bored of waiting, so he moans a little more theatrically than necessary in an attempt to spur John on.

Moments later, the screen lights back up again, though it’s impossible to see anything until John stops moving. Then the screen stills. He must have propped the phone up against something, because now both of his hands come into view, one immediately taking hold of his dick again while the other drops further down to massage his balls.

A pleased sigh comes out of the speaker. Then, “Better?”

Sherlock hums an affirmative.

He wishes the view could be better. He wishes he could see the tiny amount of precome that must be leaking by now. He wishes he could see the throb of John’s pulse in the vein running along the underside.

And he wishes even more that he could smell John, that he could touch him and taste him and take him in his arms and rub up against him.

But he has no choice but to make do with this poor excuse for a video call.

“Come home, John.”

John chuckles, the screen jumping where it rests on his abdomen, and he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock. “You’re too impatient.”

Sherlock growls, moving his own hand faster.

He wonders if he can catch an early train to Edinburgh in the morning.

Chapter Text

Sherlock is heavier than he looks, and as he wraps his legs around John’s waist, locking his ankles behind his back, John is grateful that he’s been keeping up with a basic strength and fitness routine.

For someone so gangly, he’s surprisingly compact.

Fortunately, Sherlock has the presence of mind to lean a lot of his weight against the wall behind him, meaning that John can focus some of his energy on the task at hand, rather than wholly on keeping them both upright.

Still, despite the exertion, he can't deny that this position is absolutely delicious.

Sherlock has no leverage to lift himself; all he can do is cling to John, completely at his mercy, impaled deeply on his cock, as John's arms anchor under his thighs and arse. His breaths come in jagged gasps, his fingernails dig deep into the flesh of John’s shoulders.

And John’s vision is hazy, unfocused. He drops his head forward, taking one of Sherlock’s nipples messily between his teeth, grunting with every short thrust of his hips. It’s unbelievable, how much tighter Sherlock feels around him like this. There's nowhere to pull away, no escape from the sensation for either of them, just more and more of this marvellous, slick heat, and the overwhelming knowledge for John that there is nowhere in the world he would rather be right now.

Sherlock whines, all of his muscles tightening at once, eliciting an answering groan from John. He must have hit his prostate. He buries his face in Sherlock’s neck, licking the sweat-covered skin messily, pressing uncoordinated, open-mouthed kisses against his pulse point. “You like this, yeah?”

Throwing his head back, exposing more of that glorious throat, Sherlock keens. “John…”

John bites him, sucks the skin into his mouth, intent on creating a deep purple hickey to contrast the smooth pale tone of his skin. His legs are shaking. “Christ,” he pants, “you’re fucking gorgeous.”

One of Sherlock's hands is in his hair now, fisting hard, yanking his head up to kiss his mouth. It’s full of teeth and tongue and heavy breathing, and at this moment, John can't imagine anything hotter. He buries his fingers deeper into the flesh of Sherlock’s arse cheeks, prying them further apart, changing the sensation only a little but still enough to elicit a gutteral moan from Sherlock’s core.

“Love fucking you.” Every word is punctuated by a thrust of his pelvis, driving himself deeper, the range of movement small and yet startlingly effective. “So tight. So hot.” He tries to focus his gaze on Sherlock’s face. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

The endearment slips out thoughtlessly, but Sherlock appears to be beyond caring. Apparently it’s all too much, being so full of John, surrounded by him, the constant friction of their bodies against his own aching cock and the stimulation of his prostate, and John's words are enough to tip him over the edge. He comes hard over their bellies as he wails toward the ceiling, his entire body quivering as John fucks him relentlessly throughout.

“Perfect…” John can feel his own orgasm approaching rapidly, spurred on by the endlessly stunning sight of his lovers release. He chases it down, dropping his head back into Sherlock’s neck, and as he comes he growls incoherent curses into the heat of his skin.

As he comes down from the high, he becomes more painfully aware of the strain that their position is putting on his body. Sherlock’s legs tighten around him.

He decides that he won't move until he absolutely has to.

Chapter Text

It’s hot, so hot. The heavy London air is oppressive and inescapable, thick to breathe, choking. The sun beats down relentlessly outside, a monstrously merciless presence, and there's no escape from the heat. Not in the shade, not in the non-existent breeze, and certainly not within the walls of 221b.

Sherlock trembles on his hands and knees, beads of sweat trailing down his limbs, pooling in the dip of his lumbar spine. He sucks in deep lungfuls of the unpleasant air, John’s touch searing into the skin of his hips. His hair is damp, the roots clinging close to his scalp, curls stuck to his forehead.

John is shaking too as he pulls back, slowly, almost too slowly. The catch of his skin against Sherlock’s rim is excruciating agony, and unbearably addictive. Sherlock’s mouth hangs open, his head dropped between his shoulders, and John pushes back in again at that same slow pace, all the way until their bodies are flush together, and then stills, scalding at every area of sticky contact.

Sherlock curls his fingers into fists, gripping the sheets beneath him. His toes clench, arching. He wants to demand more more more, he wants to make John fuck him harder and faster, he wants John to overwhelm him until he can barely remember his own name.

But this heat is making him crazy. It’s all he can do to hold his position, quivering under the strain of it, sweat dripping at the tip of his nose as he takes the lazy thrusts John is giving him. It is overwhelming him, but not how he had expected, nor how he’s become accustomed to, and trying to process and quantify this different experience is dizzying.

John shudders above him. Their thighs stick together uncomfortably, but his breath is a welcome and cool, if brief, gush of air against the bare expanse of Sherlock’s back.

Still buried deep, John grinds his hips in a circular motion, and Sherlock’s eyes cross. His cock hangs, heavy and leaking, in the space underneath him, and he wants to touch himself but he fears that he might combust if he does.

If he were feeling more rational, he would roll his eyes at himself for the thought, but the capacity for rationality left him long ago.

He’s completely consumed by John rubbing languidly against his insides, every point of contact burning. By John making him sweat on the outside, fingers gripping his slippery skin with an irresistibly understated strength. The two of them moving together through the thick humidity, John’s presence grounding and at the same time taking him to an incredible high. He’s lost all concepts of time. The rest of the world might as well cease to exist.

How had he ever survived without this? It’s better than any drug.

John’s thumb moves across his hip bone, just a little, but Sherlock’s nerves sizzle in response and a tiny moan escapes from his throat on his next breathy exhale. He inches his hips back, almost imperceptibly, but encouraging John to grind deeper, and John obliges.

It’s perfect. And the heat will endure for days.

Chapter Text

“All the nice girls like a soldier.”

“It’s ‘sailor’.”

At the time, John had put this seemingly insignificant mistake down to Sherlock’s lack of familiarity with social expressions. Now that he thinks about it, Sherlock might have quite unintentionally been admitting to his own preferences.

Or maybe it was completely intentional. With Sherlock, it’s usually impossible to tell the difference.

Either way, it has become evident since they started their relationship that Sherlock is by no means unaffected when John gets stern and commanding with him. He’s not admitted it in so many words, but there's definitely something about John’s military side that gets him going. And John is more than happy to oblige; the opportunity to have his arrogant, petulant partner become obedient and almost docile doesn't come along every day.

And then there are days like today. Days when Sherlock seems to go out of his way to be difficult and infuriating, and he makes John want to scream, his last shreds of patience in tatters.

If John didn't know better - and perhaps he doesn't - he might say that Sherlock does it deliberately to goad him into donning his ‘Captain Watson’ hat, considering how quickly he submits when this happens. Again, it’s not easy to tell what Sherlock’s thinking processes are. Though why he can't just ask, like a normal person, especially when it’s something he knows John is willing to give him…

He stops himself mid-thought, grinning. He’s answered his own question with the word ‘normal’. Nothing about Sherlock is normal, after all.

Then he quickly schools his expression back into something dispassionate and vaguely bored, so as not to ‘break character’, as it were. But it’s not easy, not with Sherlock naked and on his knees on the carpet in front of him, three fingers buried awkwardly inside himself.

“Make an effort, Holmes,” he instructs, resolutely ignoring the eroticism of the situation. “You know you’re going to need a better stretch than that to take me.”

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock’s voice is strained. He tries to angle his wrist differently to get better access for his fingers, and John is entranced by the protrusion and movement of the tendons under his skin as he continues to scissor himself open. He is just beautiful.

Sherlock whimpers. It’s quiet, but John hears him clear as day, and he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Sherlock’s back is to him, but he knows that the sound of his movement will be obvious. “Is this doing it for you, Holmes?”

“No, Captain.”

“No? Sure sounds like you’re enjoying yourself. Maybe this is enough for you.”

“No, Captain!” The reply is immediate, almost desperate. “Please, I want… I want…”

“I don't give a damn what you want, Holmes,” John snaps, hoping he doesn't sound as needy as he feels. “You’ll get whatever I see fit to give you. And you’ll fucking thank me for it. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock whimpers again.

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

“No, Captain,” Sherlock pants. “I understand, Captain. Thank you, Captain.”

Jesus, seeing this side of Sherlock does things to John. It’s a minor miracle that he doesn't come in his pants like a bloody teenager. “Glad we got that clear. Take your fingers out and stay where you are.”

Sherlock obeys without a word, and John gets down on the floor behind him, touching his own fingertips to the slick mess of lube around his rim. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs, slipping out of character just for a moment, and Sherlock shudders.

Then John refocuses. The doctor in him assesses the quality of Sherlock’s stretching job and, after concluding that it will suffice, drives four of his own fingers inside with very little warning. Sherlock arches his back and howls.

They’re done this before, though only a few times, but enough nevertheless for John to have picked up on Sherlock’s consistently positive response to being filled . One day, he resolves that they’re going to have a proper conversation about it, and maybe - hopefully - it'll pave the way for a whole new avenue of experimentation for them both. For now, though, he concentrates on the tightness around his fingers, on spreading them just a little, on aiming for Sherlock’s prostate, and within seconds Sherlock is overcome by an intense climax, clenching his muscles in pulses and shooting powerful spurts of come all over the carpet.

John keeps his fingers where they are until he’s sure that the bursts of pleasure have subsided, and Sherlock’s body starts to relax. Only then does he withdraw them and, without really thinking, wipes them off on the smooth flesh of Sherlock’s arse cheek. “That was terrific,” he breathes. “What do you say?”

And he hears the grin in Sherlock’s voice as he replies, “Thank you, Captain.”

Chapter Text

“Relax, love. Stay where you are, I’ve got you.”

John’s voice is calm and soothing, like a warm blanket, if a little rough around the edges from his post-orgasmic haze. So Sherlock trusts him and stays just where he is, sated and listless on his belly, while John gets comfortable between his legs.

The vaguely gross sensation of his own come cooling against his skin and the mattress beneath him aside, Sherlock can hardly imagine any reason why he would want to move yet anyway.

Then John is touching him, gentle fingertips playing at the sore, stretched skin of his rim, and Sherlock can't help but hiss, flinching away from the contact. Everything feels so oversensitive. But John's other hand strokes along the back of his thigh and over his bum, kneading tenderly at his flesh, and it’s not long before the tension drains from him again. He takes a deep breath.

John's fingers haven't left him. And now that the initial shock of the touch has passed, he attempts to control himself a bit better.

At first, John keeps it external. He’s exploring and pressing, dragging his nails lightly through the mixture of lube and his own semen that Sherlock can feel leaking out of himself. It leaves sticky trails in seemingly aimless patterns, and Sherlock suppresses the urge to shiver.

It’s almost painfully intimate.

“Does it hurt?”

John's concern is genuine; Sherlock shakes his head against the pillow. “It doesn't hurt. It just feels…” Used. Intense. “... raw.”

John hums. “Tell me if it gets too much, yeah?”

“Mmm.”

They lapse into quiet again, and John continues with his digital explorations. When one finger pushes into Sherlock, it meets with little resistance, although the feel of it now, after having had John's cock in him, is quite different to how it felt during his initial preparations. Sherlock squirms a bit, but he doesn't fight it.

Then, carefully, John pushes a second finger in alongside the first. He keeps his movements to a minimum, but still Sherlock can hear the wet sound of slippery friction, can feel the pressure as those fingers displace some of John's come from his arsehole and it drips down his cleft towards his perineum.

“How are you doing, love?”

Sherlock clenches his anus experimentally. He still feels so open from their incredibly satisfying fuck, but without the promise of an orgasm in the near future, John’s fingers are almost too much. “I’m fine.”

A third finger slips in, and again the resistance from Sherlock’s body is minimal, but nevertheless the addition makes him gasp. Every push squelches, and the fluid leaking out of him feels obscene and filthy.

“Look at you,” John says, and Sherlock feels his warm breath against him. “So full of me.”

A moan escapes from Sherlock’s mouth, unbidden. He’s not even hard, couldn't possibly achieve another erection so soon after the last one, but John has a way of making him feel desirable, wanted. That John is enjoying the mess he's made of his body brings him satisfaction in its own right.

A fourth finger puts the stretch into the realm of uncomfortable, but instead of flinching again, Sherlock is surprised to find himself trying to spread his legs wider, almost arching back into it. Wanting more than anything to accommodate and take.

Something to be explored at a later date when he’s not so spent, he thinks. And John presses a kiss against his coccyx, as if in silent agreement.

Chapter Text

Sherlock has made it his personal mission to establish the most effective ways of ruining John. And whenever he sets his mind to accomplishing a task, he becomes singularly focused and grimly determined until said task has been completed.

Unfortunately for John - or maybe fortunately, depending on how he looked at it - the likelihood of this particular mission coming to a static and natural conclusion is virtually zero, and that is because John is complex and enchanting and forever seems to be revealing new clues about the endless methods to achieve his undoing.

Today, Sherlock is testing a new theory. It isn't the first and it certainly won't be the last, but he is assuredly confident of a successful outcome.

He knows John likes his mouth. His gaze often lingers on it, and he frequently licks his own lips while he stares, without even realising he’s doing it. And Sherlock is proud to acknowledge that he has been a quick study in terms of performing oral sex on John, challenging himself each time to bring John faster to orgasm than the last. His record at the moment is three minutes and forty-four seconds, and John had almost passed out from the intensity of it. His ultimate goal is to break thirty seconds, and when that happens (because it will ), hopefully John will survive the sexual devastation.

But he digresses. Today is devoted to something new, rather than something improved.

John is understandably wary as he bends over the arm of the sofa at Sherlock’s request, jeans and pants pooled at his ankles, his bare bum exposed to the cold scrutiny of the otherwise-empty room and the penetrating strength of Sherlock’s stare. Sherlock hasn't told him what's coming; he intends it to be a surprise. And Sherlock takes a moment just to pass his hands over John's flesh, awed as he always is by the unwavering trust John has in him. It’s a vulnerable position, and Sherlock is filled with a renewed sense of determination to give John everything he deserves.

Right now, he surely deserves a mind-blowing orgasm.

“Can I have a hint?” John's voice breaks him out of his aroused reverie.

He takes a moment to consider it. Then he decides that no hints are necessary at all. So, in lieu of a verbal response, he spreads John’s arse cheeks as far apart as he can and leans straight in, dragging the flat of his tongue all the way up across the sensitive flesh hidden therein.

John makes a sound that Sherlock has never heard before, driving up onto his tiptoes and arching his back so suddenly that Sherlock is mildly concerned that he’ll injure himself. He licks again, up and down, making sure he keeps his tongue soft, and the tension remains strung throughout John’s body as more of those new sounds spill from his lips.

Intoxicating.

Sherlock has done his research regarding this particular activity, and he takes John apart steadily as he employs the theoretical techniques he's learned in practice. But he's more surprised to discover how much he enjoys doing it. This close, he can smell everything about John, can taste him in a way that can't be replicated, and he finds himself simultaneously trying to experience John on a deeper level as he attempts to bring John physical pleasure.

When he first presses his tongue forward, past the tight barrier of muscle, John’s sounds become positively desperate. He pushes himself back blindly, white-knuckled and demanding more, and Sherlock groans with smug joy as he obliges, holding John as still and open as he can while he tongue-fucks him. John babbles, not real words, grinding himself against the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock can feel how close he is.

It’s not without disappointment that he whines when John's hand is suddenly fisted in his hair, pulling him back and away, and both of them are gasping for breath while Sherlock waits for an explanation.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John eventually forces out in a voice that's barely his own, his grip on Sherlock’s hair slowly relaxing. “Are you trying to kill me? I could come just from that.”

Sherlock eyes the saliva-slick skin in front of him, licking his lips deliberately. It's irresistible. “Wonderful,” he replies simply, and dives right back in.

Chapter Text

Sherlock had proposed the idea as a sort of competition - which of them would be able to bring the other to orgasm in the shortest time?

And John had had no objections whatsoever. Although he has found himself becoming slightly perplexed by Sherlock’s preoccupation with fast orgasms; he supposes it has something to do with his relative sexual inexperience, and his tendency towards learning through experimentation.

But that's not a complaint. If Sherlock wants to practice his techniques for getting John off quickly, then John is all for letting him get on with it. And even more so if John gets the chance to simultaneously reciprocate.

In fact, he thinks that the two of them might be pretty evenly matched on this one, all variables considered. He still makes himself the favourite to win, though. He’s not earned himself the nickname ‘Three Continents’ out of nothing.

He’s lying on his back, and Sherlock is propped up above him. He’s enjoying himself even more than he expected. It’s easy, in this position, to run his hands over Sherlock’s thighs, knead the cheeks of his arse, play his fingertips over the sensitive and intimate ring of muscle. And all while he sucks on the delicate head of Sherlock’s cock, loving the feel of it in his mouth and the way that Sherlock’s knees are shaking slightly where they're caging his head on the pillow.

Meanwhile, his own dick is halfway down Sherlock’s throat, and that feels damn good too. He moans to show his appreciation, making sure that the vibrations carry through to Sherlock through his tongue, and can't help but feel smug at Sherlock’s answering sharp inhale.

The smugness doesn't last, since Sherlock is never one to let himself be outdone. He recovers his composure quickly and redoubles his efforts, lowering his lips down John's shaft further. His tongue is suddenly everywhere, seemingly stimulating all of John’s most sensitive areas all at once, and he is absolutely unrelenting. John can't help but thrust his hips up further into that warmth, swallowing another groan, and for a few seconds he forgets that they’re competing for time, wholly focused on the unbridled beauty of Sherlock’s mouth and determination. He can't get enough of him, and he can hardly wait until he spills himself into that glorious throat.

Then he comes back to himself, remembering that his goal today is to make Sherlock come first, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to allow Sherlock to best him in this endeavour just like he does with almost everything else. So he tilts his head back to change the angle, concentrates on relaxing his throat, and uses his hands on Sherlock’s arse to pull him down, sucking him deeper and deeper until he feels the bump of soft skin against the back of his mouth. He doesn't let Sherlock move away, keeps him in place instead with a firm grip, creating a tight seal with his lips and mercilessly swirling his tongue in every way that he’s so far discovered drives Sherlock wild.

The first taste of Sherlock’s release hitting his tastebuds is wonderful, as always, and the knowledge that he won their little contest is almost equally satisfying.

If he happens to climax inside Sherlock’s mouth less than a minute later, we'll, that's neither here nor there.

Chapter Text

“Oh god, Sherlock… So good, so fucking good…”

Sherlock is powerless to disagree. He peels his eyes open, even though it’s nearly impossible to focus, and tries to memorise everything about John at this moment.

John has one hand gripping his hip, and the other braced against the mattress by the side of his head. He’s up on his knees, with Sherlock’s hips slightly elevated, as he fucks him with a steady, needy precision. His eyes are lidded, unseeing; he’s completely lost in the sensation of being inside Sherlock. His hair is sticking to the sweat on his forehead, his jaw is slack, there's a flush to his skin that spreads from his cheeks, down his neck and onto his chest. He’s stunning like this.

“Love this, love you… Christ… so tight, every time…”

It’s a stream of unfiltered praise spilling from John's kiss-swollen lips, and it’s quite wonderful. Sherlock hooks his ankles tighter behind John's back, though he can feel the tremble in his muscles. John must be able to feel it too, because he shifts, aiming more consistently for Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock’s next inhale is a sudden gasp, and the corresponding exhale a deep, satisfied groan.

John pauses and leans down, awkwardly, to press a quick and messy kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder before coming back to an upright position that lends itself much better to fucking. He resumes his assault on Sherlock’s prostate. “I can't… I can't… Please, tell me what you need, love… let me hear you…”

Suddenly, amid the overwhelming physical pleasure, Sherlock experiences a moment of absolute mental clarity, and he gasps again. He’d known it already, but he can feel acutely it in the deepest recesses of his soul, just how much he needs and loves John. Perfect John, exactly the way he is, with his unflattering jumpers and his complaints about body parts in the kitchen and his sarcastic sense of humour. Sherlock wouldn't change a thing about John, not for anything in the world, not even for an infinite supply of locked room murders.

He blindly gropes around until he links his hand with the one John has pressed by his shoulder, lacing their fingers together so tightly that under other circumstances it might be painful. John squeezes him right back. He grabs at John's bicep, tensed and strong, with his other hand, and he does his best to focus on John's face. “John…”

John cuts him off with a particularly accurate thrust. “Talk to me. Talk to me, love.”

“I love you, John. Marry me.”

John stops, completely buried in Sherlock, balls brushing against Sherlock’s arse, as he takes a second to process what he’s just heard.

Sherlock isn't worried. He waits, the sound of their heavy breathing the only noise in the room.

Then John laughs. It’s a beautiful, carefree, incredulous sound. And he starts thrusting again, harder this time, purposeful, and Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head as he keens.

“You total bastard,” John grinds out, his joy absolutely audible. “You knew I was going to ask you. You fucking knew.”

Sherlock can't help but laugh too, even as heat starts to pool insistently in his groin at John’s relentless stimulation.

“Couldn't let me surprise you, even this once.” And John's speed increases as he gets close, a lopsided grin on his face. “I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

Sherlock’s orgasm blinds him momentarily. His back arches and John's name is on his lips as he clenched uncontrollably around the cock in his arse, his release spilling over his belly. He can't think, can barely even breathe, his entire universe narrowed to John John John.

By the time he comes back to himself, he realises that John has slowed and his chest is heaving, and he can feel John's semen leaking out of him around his softening cock. It’s unbearably wonderful to realise that their orgasms were almost simultaneous.

“Is that a ‘yes’, John?”

John pulls out of him carefully. Their hands remain tightly linked. “I’m still going to ask you, you prick.”

Just as Sherlock props himself up a little, John leans down, and they meet in the middle to kiss deeply. It’s the most perfect moment that Sherlock had never expected would happen to him. He interprets it as a ‘yes’.

Chapter Text

John is out for revenge. And in this particular context, revenge is going to entail a suitably blinding sexual experience for Sherlock, to repay him for that unexpected rimming stunt he pulled several weeks ago.

No one had ever done anything like that to John before. If he’s completely honest, his mind was blown. All the time Sherlock’s tongue was inside him ( inside him , fucking hell), he had no concept of who or where he was; all he knew was that he needed more of that hot, wet intrusion, and that he would absolutely die without it.

He wants Sherlock to know that same feeling. Except he intends to up the ante a little too, because Sherlock bloody Holmes or not, he refuses to be outdone by a sexual amateur.

Adding a little danger - the danger of being caught - might just do the trick.

He’s already half hard from the thrill of it when he steers Sherlock (who is typing away on his phone and paying no attention whatsoever to where John is leading him) into a dead-end side street, and it’s only as he plants Sherlock into a discreet corner facing the wall behind a skip that Sherlock takes stock, somewhat bemusedly, of where he is.

“John?” he queries. No fear. Curiosity, yes, and uncertainty too, but not fear.

John reaches around him from behind, makes quick work of getting his trousers down his thighs. No pants. Of course not. “Stay there.”

He drops to his knees, and Sherlock does what he’s told.

He’d love to tease first. He wants to nip the peachy flesh of Sherlock’s bum. He wants to hold him open with his thumbs and blow cool air over his hot skin until he's shaking, he wants to let his tongue dart out so quickly that it almost doesn't happen at all. He wishes he had the time to turn Sherlock into a quivering, incoherent mess before he even begins.

Next time, when they're back at Baker Street, he’ll have all the time in the world. But this time, he’s hyper-aware that if someone comes around the corner, they'll have approximately three seconds until they’re spotted; while that knowledge makes his cock ache deliciously, it doesn't create an ideal environment for teasing.

So he just presses Sherlock against the wall, to keep him from moving around too much, and goes to town on his enticingly exposed arsehole.

At the first flick of his tongue, Sherlock’s legs almost give way, and he lets out a wail that sounds alarmingly loud in the relative quiet of their little corner. Sherlock must be aware of it too, because every moan that comes after is either bitten off or stifled into his own fist. More’s the pity; John adores it most when Sherlock is unabashed and unfiltered.

He does everything with his mouth and tongue that he can think of, hoping he’ll remember the techniques that affect Sherlock the most, but it turns out that he doesn't have to because everything seems to be equally effective. It’s not long before Sherlock is pressing back against him, bodily demanding more and deeper, and John has to dig his fingers harder into those slender hips to keep him still. His own cock strains painfully against his jeans.

He lets go with one hand, reaching it further forwards to grasp at Sherlock’s erection, and Sherlock goes off like a rocket at the touch. He spasms so violently that he nearly knocks John flying backwards, unable to hold back a howl as he paints the wall with streaks of come.

John holds him until he seems to have recovered enough to support his own weight again, stroking his skin, redressing him carefully. He’s always so beautifully pliant straight after an orgasm, and he doesn't move even as John gets back to his feet, his knees cracking uncomfortably. Then he cranes his head around, just far enough to look John in the eyes, and he says, “That… was terribly unhygienic.”

John sends him back a shit-eating grin, grinding against him. “It was worth it.”

Chapter Text

A look is all it takes sometimes. An accident, unplanned. Sherlock catching John's eye from across the room, a glance charged full of sexual tension out of absolutely nowhere, and suddenly they'll be all over each other, joined at the mouths and hips, rutting against each other like out-of-control teenagers.

It’s how Sherlock has come to be on his back right now, on the floor in the living room they share, the delightful weight of John pressing into the entire length of his body. John is hot, so hot, heat bleeding through his clothes and Sherlock is feeling a little confined himself; his suit was not designed with this sort of activity in mind, but his hands are too busy in John’s hair and around John’s back and trying to get underneath John's shirt to do anything about it.

John is addictive, moreso than any drug he’s ever taken.

And John's lips and teeth are at his neck, his voice gravelly and unmistakably aroused as he says, “This is not fair.” Grinds out the words, and grinds their hips together too, so Sherlock has no option other than to let his head fall back, baring his throat, inviting and encouraging, as his feet try to find purchase against the floor.

John shudders through a moan so deep it reverberates throughout Sherlock’s entire being, and it is delicious. He needs to hear more of it, but his brain is fogged, he can't think clearly when John is taking up so much of his space and when John is pulling his hair and being so fantastically distracting. He can't fathom with any coherence how he's supposed to elicit more of those noises when all his body wants to do is press up , into John, and draw John down into him.

He finds some of John’s skin, the back of his neck, and he clings to it like a lifeline. “John,” he says, though he barely recognises the tone that comes out, filled with a desperation he’s so unused to feeling, “your voice, John, I need-”

He’s cut off, as John pulls his shirt collar aside to lick at his bones, hot breath on his skin making his words catch in his throat. “You want to hear me, Sherlock?” Oh, it sounds so gutteral and dirty and perfect. “You want to hear what you do to me?”

Yes, more than anything, Sherlock wants.

And suddenly John is rubbing against him with even greater purpose and abandon, a litany of curses and prayers, interspersed with grunts and moans and a million other delectable sounds that Sherlock can't even begin to categorise, all low and masculine and ground into the hollow of his collarbone. To hear him like this is an unmatched privilege. His hand is still tight in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock is utterly defenceless against the orgasm that shakes him to his core, pulsing inside his trousers so hard that John must be able to feel it, and maybe he does because those groans get higher and become a stream of keening exhalations as his body trembles through his own climax.

And then he drops, his body a limp, spent weight on top of Sherlock, and they lie together until the discomfort of the floor and of come drying inside their clothes is impossible to ignore.

But before he can move at all, John has to cough and clear his throat, and that is surely a wonderful treat in its own right.

Chapter Text

John is dreaming.

He’s dreaming that he and Sherlock are on a stakeout. They've been huddled in the back of a hire car for hours, right outside the front of the British Museum. He doesn't even know what they're waiting for, but he watches out of the window anyway. It’s night, and the museum is closed, and absolutely nothing is happening.

And then, out of nowhere, Sherlock is all over him. Kissing him and covering him with his body, reaching into his jeans to start wanking him off. John bucks up against him, bumps his head on the window roller behind him, and is filled with terror that the sound might alert anyone outside to their presence.

“Don't worry, John,” Sherlock tells him, nipping at his torso because somehow he isn't wearing a shirt anymore. “They’re on the roof, they won't hear you.”

To dream-John, it makes effortless sense.

Sherlock retrieves his hand, and stares straight into John's eyes as he drags his tongue across his palm. He holds it out for John to do the same, and John wordlessly obeys, sucking one of Sherlock's fingers into his mouth at the same time. The grin that Sherlock sends him is devilish and seductive, and he groans loudly as the finger slides out if his mouth with a soft pop.

Then Sherlock is naked, and John realises he is too as that wet finger slides inside him, quickly accompanied by two more. Rather than burning and feeling uncomfortable, as it would in reality, the beauty of the dream means that it immediately feels blissfully pleasurable, and his dick is so hard that he’s worried he might explode.

“You can explode while I fuck you,” says the mind-reading dream-Sherlock, pulling out his fingers and replacing them so easily and naturally with his cock that it’s as if this was always how they were meant to be. It’s wonderful, everything John could ever want, and he reaches up to take Sherlock’s face in his hands and pull him closer. He moans, completely porn graphically, as Sherlock hits his prostate over and over again with a steady and unerring accuracy, and Sherlock moans right back, warm breath tickling the hair above his ear.

It sounds so real.

Another thrust, and the dream starts to slip away as he drifts toward wakefulness. He doesn't want it to end, clings to it, frustratedly aware that there's nothing he can do. “Sherlock,” he whines, as if there is anything that dream-Sherlock can do to keep them right where they are.

But dream-Sherlock just groans back, “John…”

And this time there's something far more real about his smooth, deep voice. John feels himself becoming conscious, and before he even gets there he’s overwhelmed by sensory input, the heat of a body pressed against him, puffs of breath against his skin.

And oh Jesus , the stretch of a cock moving slowly in his arse, slick and tight and incredible, and his eyes roll back in his head before he’s even opened them.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice, his real one, rumbles against his ear. When John does manage to peel his eyelids open, his blurry vision is consumed by that unmistakable head of dark curls. As he focuses his gaze, Sherlock lifts his head, and looks down at him with an expression of combined fondness and arousal. He never stops his languid movements, and John pushes back to meet his thrusts without thinking about it.

“How is it?” Sherlock's voice is lowered, outwardly confident, undertones of wariness. “You moaned in your sleep. I thought I woke you up. Were you dreaming?”

John hums, feeling content and full and still not fully awake, as he lifts his legs to wrap around Sherlock’s back. “Was dreaming of you. You were fucking me in a car.” His voice is full of sleep and unsteady from the sex he’s not had a chance to consciously adjust to. A wide smile splits his face as he realises how little it hurts, and how thorough a job Sherlock must have done prepping him while he slept; it sends a bolt of arousal straight through him.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Sherlock demands, and even in his not-quite-fully-aware state, John can tell that he’s worrying.

“You’re sweet,” he replies, before he can think better of it. “And this is one of the best ideas we ever had. I could get used to waking up like this.”

Sherlock kisses him, open and lazy, as he starts to gradually build up his pace, and John wraps his arms around his shoulders. The morning sun bathes them in a dusty light and maintains John's dreamlike state, although the feel of Sherlock’s skin under his fingers is undeniably real and infinitely better. He would choose the real thing every time.

Chapter Text

Between John’s tedious clinic job and Sherlock’s own Work, they don't often have a chance to take a break together, and even less to get out of the city for a few days. But John had planned this trip to Brighton meticulously and in secret, before Sherlock had spontaneously ruined his intended proposal (which he’d also planned out thoroughly, and insisted on following through with, despite Sherlock’s insistence that it was no longer necessary since they were already engaged). They've got a whole long weekend with no cases, no murders, and no drama; just the freedom to enjoy each other’s company and their coastal surroundings.

Sherlock had expected that he would be bored within a few hours of arrival, but he’s finding that he’s rather enjoying himself. John booked them a beautiful hotel room overlooking the seafront. They've walked along the beach eating chips. They lost track of time as they sat on a bench facing the sea, fingers tangled together, while Sherlock deduced passers-by and swelled with pride every time he made John laugh.

Being in London is like being swallowed in a sea of anonymity, where nobody cares what either of them do in their private lives; but being in Brighton seems already to have lifted a metaphorical weight from them both. Still nobody cares, and at the same time everybody accepts. The difference is subtle, yet the effect is significant.

And so, while Sherlock is initially stunned when John rolls on top of him as they’re relaxing in one of the local parks, which is by no means devoid of other people, he’s not entirely surprised. And with John smiling down at him, looking at him like he’s utterly precious and stroking a gentle finger along his temple, he can't help but smile back at him, his arms coming up to entwine behind John's back and hold him close.

If there's anything closer to the definition of bliss, Sherlock can't imagine what it could be.

“Hi,” John drawls, that silly smile still glued to his face. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow up at him.

“Dr Watson, I do believe all this sea air is lowering your inhibitions.”

“You might be right.” John rolls his hips, slowly and deliberately, against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock automatically presses back, the delicious friction stirring arousal in his gut. He tightens his arms. Their whole bodies are pressed together, torsos and groins and legs, fully clothed but still so warm and comfortable. The grass rustles under Sherlock's back as the two of them move together with absolutely no sense of urgency, and the sunlight filters gently through the leaves in the trees around the park’s perimeter. John comes down to kiss him, sweet and chaste, and murmurs against his lips, “But who cares?”

Sherlock kisses him again, deeper, running his tongue along the seam of his mouth, brushing against his teeth. “I’m reliably informed that people might talk.”

John is a little breathless, but he doesn't pull back and he doesn't stop the glorious movements of his body. His pupils are dark and his whole expression glows with adoration as he says, “A wise man once told me that people will do little else.”

They keep kissing, and once again they lose track of time.

Chapter Text

“You remember our safe word, right?” John asks.

Sherlock nods rapidly. He’s obviously keen to get on with it, but John will not be rushed. Yes, he’s a doctor, and yes, he will do everything in his power to keep Sherlock safe, but he needs to know that he has Sherlock’s uncompromised cooperation.

So John tugs a little on the thick collar around Sherlock’s neck, and prompts him again. “I need you to say it for me.”

He can practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes impatiently. “Yes, I remember our safe word. If you ask me anything and I can't speak, I will tap once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’. I will tap three times if I can't speak and I want you to stop. I trust you completely to use your judgement to ensure that I don't come to any harm, even if I'm begging you to continue. Now,” and Sherlock lifts his bare arse to grind up against John’s painfully hard cock, eliciting a sharp gasp from him, “is there anything else you want me to say before you choke me and fuck me into next week?”

John growls, almost feral. “No, I think that covers it.” He tightens his grip on the collar and pulls it back, forcing Sherlock’s head to crane back as he slides his dick inside in a single, smooth movement. They groan in unison, although Sherlock sounds strained and gravelly, the pressure on his windpipe already affecting him.

And John isn't immune to the added stimulus either. He can't tear his eyes away from the black leather around Sherlock’s neck, contrasting so beautifully with his pale skin, his own hand keeping the pressure just tight enough to have Sherlock gasping hungrily for the air he can't quite get enough of. It’s intoxicating. And maybe it’s his imagination, but he's sure he can feel Sherlock clenching around him even more than usual. He pulls a little more, increasing the arch in Sherlock’s back, changing the angle incrementally.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock,” he grinds out. “You’re incredible.”

Sherlock can only gasp as he struggles to suck in a decent breath, fisting his hands in the sheets beneath him and trying to impale himself deeper.

There's nothing gentle about this fuck. John pounds into his gorgeous partner, relentless and hard, and he knows he won't last as long as he would like to. Sherlock has already brought him to the edge tonight, sucking him all the way into his throat and only pulling back in the nick of time. It would be so easy to lose himself completely now, but he forces himself to keep a fraction of his consciousness on Sherlock's wellbeing.

From what he can see, Sherlock’s face is turning red, his mouth hanging open as his body demands more than the minimal amount of oxygen it’s being permitted. His eyes are glazed, unfocused, unseeing almost. Christ, he’s beautiful. John can feel the start of his orgasm stirring.

“How are you doing, love?” he manage to ask in a voice that doesn't sound entirely his own. “Had enough yet?”

Sherlock’s palm slams twice against the mattress, rapid and certain, before resuming a white-knuckled grip in the sheet.

So John keeps fucking him, so fast it’s almost brutal, deep enough that he’s soon seeing stars. And when Sherlock’s body spasms underneath him, and John realises that he’s coming without his own cock being touched, an almost silent, wheezing scream torn from his lungs as his semen shoots out across the bed… well, it’s an image that John is sure will be burned into his memory for years to come.

He lets go of the collar as every muscle in Sherlock’s body goes limp, focusing on chasing his own release. Sherlock immediately inhales, loudly and deeply, his body obviously grateful for the air it’s been deprived of. And when John comes inside him, it’s with a deep and guttural moan as he digs his fingers so hard into Sherlock’s hips that it will probably bruise.

He’s absolutely exhausted as he gingerly pulls out and flops down, sweaty and spent, beside Sherlock, who seems to be equally incapable of movement. He reaches out to run a finger across the collar, and Sherlock visibly shudders, his eyelids drifting closed.

John has almost fallen asleep himself when Sherlock speaks, his voice deliciously rusty. “Can we do that again, John? Preferably quite soon?”

“You’d better hope so,” John replies, still feeling high on endorphins. “You’re more gorgeous than ever when you can't speak.”

Sherlock kicks him weakly in the shin.

Chapter Text

Sometimes - not all the time, but sometimes - John sings in the shower, and Sherlock finds it utterly endearing.

Today is one of those lucky days. Sherlock stands outside the bathroom door, just listening, enjoying the muffled sound of John’s voice under the spray of the water and the occasional clanking of the old pipes.

“Feel my blood enraged,” John sings. “It’s just the fear of losing you.”

Sherlock doesn't know the song, so he can't comment on John's tuning, but it sounds pleasant regardless.

He wonders.

“Don't you know my name?”

A thought, an idea, makes itself known in his head. A bit of fun. Why not? He grins to himself, and strips off quickly, right there outside the door.

“You’ve been so long…”

Sherlock goes into the bathroom. John has his back to him, and makes no indication that he’s noticed. Both of his hands are lathering shampoo into his hair. His voice sounds so much clearer without the door obstructing it.

“And I've been putting out the fire with gasoline.”

It’s only when Sherlock steps under the water with him that John stops singing, opening his mouth instead to question, probably, what Sherlock is up to. But Sherlock cuts him off before he can say anything, carefully lowering himself to his knees and using his hands on John's hips to turn him slightly to face him properly. “Don't stop singing, John. Your voice is pleasing. And I want to see how long it takes for me to break your concentration.”

John gives him a very familiar look - fond and indulgent, but also like Sherlock is completely mad. And, as requested, he goes on with his shower as if Sherlock isn't even there, tipping his head back to rinse out his hair and carrying on with the song.

“See these eyes so red,” he sings, his hips jutting forward as Sherlock takes his cock into his mouth, but otherwise suppressing any reaction. “Red like a jungle burning bright.”

Sherlock admires his resolve, and decides not to tease. Well, not much. He slides his head back and forth, keeping his lips tightly sealed around John’s rapidly hardening length, his pace steady but slow, occasionally letting his tongue flutter over the more sensitive head.

John's voice sounds a little more strained as he keeps singing. “Those who feel me near… pull the blinds and change their minds…”

Sherlock slips one hand around behind John’s arse, slipping a finger between the wet skin of his cheeks, not to penetrate him but just to press and be present. John’s hips jerk forwards again, pushing his cock further into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock moans around him.

John takes a shaky breath, and his voice wavers. “It’s been so long… still this pulsing- holy fuck, Sherlock, keep doing that. ”

Sherlock smirks around him and pulls off, using his hand instead for a moment to keep John stimulated and ignoring the whine of protest he receives in response. “I’m not familiar with the lyrics of this song, but that last part didn't seem to fit.”

John’s fingers thread through his hair, pulling a little, as he lets out a throaty chuckle. “How am I supposed to remember lyrics while you're blowing me?”

“Try harder.” Sherlock sucks him back down again, hollowing his cheeks, using his tongue to the best of his ability, and it isn't long before John's hips are undulating toward him repetitively, his breath coming as almost a continuous groan. But he’s not singing, so Sherlock stops moving, and looks up at him pointedly until he gets the hint.

It takes a few moments for John to get with the program, but he does eventually catch on, making a concentrated effort to keep singing. Only then does Sherlock start moving again, John’s delectable cock twitching in his mouth.

John makes it almost to the end of the next chorus, even though his voice is more of a series of breathy gasps by this point, and Sherlock can tell that he’s no longer bothered about holding the tune. He comes straight down Sherlock’s throat with a low groan, the tightening muscles under Sherlock’s fingers the only warning he gets; his fingers tightening in Sherlock’s hair, and his legs shaking with the effort of staying upright until the waves of his orgasm subside. And Sherlock gladly takes everything he has to offer, only pulling away when he’s sure John is completely finished, letting the spray from the shower wash away the few drops of overflow ejaculate he can feel dripping down his chin.

When John looks at him again, he seems absolutely wrecked, and Sherlock is proudly satisfied. And he wonders if they can find a way to deal with his own arousal before the hot water runs out.

The heat in John’s eyes confirms that he’s likely up for the challenge.

Chapter Text

They are both pretty drunk, to be fair. John is sure he never would have agreed otherwise. But with mixed drinks (never a good idea) in his system, and on a fairly empty stomach, when Sherlock slurs the suggestion into his ear it seems absolutely hilarious, and he can't summon a good enough reason not to.

So they slip out of the Yard party, probably not as discreetly as either of them thinks, and stumble their giggling and shushing way to Lestrade’s office. Sherlock tugs him along by the hand, barely able to move in a straight line. John keeps tripping over his own feet, and that's funny too, but he shushes himself for laughing too loudly before Sherlock has the chance to.

No one is around in these hallways at the moment anyway. It's strange that it's so quiet in a place that's such a bustling hive of activity during the day. Almost more disorientating.

John is surprised (why on earth is he surprised?) to find the door to Lestrade’s office is locked when they find it. Sherlock is also apparently bewildered by this turn of events, and he wrestles with the door handle with increasing frustration until he remembers that  somewhere in his mind palace are methods for picking locks.

Except the alcohol has robbed him of his normal dexterity, and it feels to John like they’re standing outside the fortress of the office for years before the lock finally gives.

They fall into the room together, John unable to keep his hands off Sherlock for another second. He’s kissing him, sloppy and messy and desperate (and receiving an equally enthusiastic reception) as he backs him towards Lestrade’s desk, and Sherlock makes no attempt to remain upright when they get there; he lets himself fall straight back, papers that might or might not be important scattering out of order and fluttering to the floor.

John laughs into Sherlock's mouth, shushes him again, kisses him. Sherlock’s hands are under his shirt, hot against his skin, while his own hands struggle with the button on Sherlock’s trousers. Neither of them are more than vaguely hard, the alcohol in their systems effectively taking care of that, but it doesn't seem to matter. Sherlock writhes anyway as John's hands reach his flesh; he moans with no regard for his volume, bucking his hips up almost forcefully enough to dislodge John. Something heavier than paper falls off the desk and lands on the floor. John doesn't look to see what it is.

He’s too distracted by the vision that is Sherlock, flushed and disheveled and wanton and stunning, moaning just for him.

“Oi!”

Suddenly the room is flooded with light, and Lestrade’s voice barrels loudly through the drunken haze of arousal.

John can't gather his wits quickly enough to respond, and it seems that Sherlock can't either. “Oh shit,” is all he manages to say, and he vaguely registers that the giggling he follows up with is maybe a bit inappropriate.

“‘Oh shit’ is fucking right.” Oops. Lestrade is furious. “Get out and go home before I put you both in a cell.”

It’s a struggle, and they're trying not to laugh the whole time, but they manage it somehow. John deliberately doesn't look at Lestrade’s face, because he knows he’ll only giggle again. This time, he’s the one dragging Sherlock out of the room by the hand, intent on getting him somewhere that they can finish what they've started.

Chapter Text

Sherlock eases himself down slowly, incrementally, his legs trembling with the effort. There's sweat beading on his forehead and on his chest, and he grinds his teeth as he tries to keep himself from simply dropping and injuring himself.

He can feel John’s breath puffing harshly across his back. John’s fingers are a grounding presence where they rest on his hips; they help him to stay focused, they soothe him through the inevitable stretch and burn. His own arms reach behind him, propping himself upright against the front of John’s shoulders.

He blows out a shaky exhale as he lowers himself another tentative inch or so, already feeling so full. It seems impossible that his body can take all of John like this. They've fucked before, many times now, but never quite in this position, and the difference in the feeling and the intensity is astounding.

John, for his part, is doing a champion job of keeping himself still while Sherlock sets the pace. It can't be easy for him, although he’s undoubtedly far more comfortable than Sherlock in his position slouched on the sofa. All he has to do is resist the urge he must feel to thrust upwards into the heat of Sherlock’s body. Not like Sherlock, who is struggling to support his own weight and impale himself at the same time.

He digs his nails into John's skin, feeling the answering hiss, and takes the next inch.

“Oh, Sherlock,” comes John's voice behind him, at least an octave lower than usual. “You feel amazing, love.”

It’s alright for him, Sherlock thinks. He’s not doing any of the hard work.

So Sherlock shifts his weight a little and sinks a bit further onto John's cock. He feels a tickling sensation against the flesh of his buttocks, and almost sobs with relief when he realises that it’s John's public hair, so he can't have that much further to go.

John moans, deep and gravelly in his throat, his fingers tensing against Sherlock’s hips. The sound gives Sherlock the bravery he needs to slide down until he feels John's balls and pelvis pressed snugly against him.

It burns and yet it’s unfailingly satisfying. His mouth falls open as an unidentifiable sound is involuntarily torn from him, finally able to release some of the tension in his arms and legs, allowing John to absorb his weight.

“I don't know if I can move, John.” Sherlock’s voice comes out as pleading. “There's… there's so much of you… It’s so much, John, please-”

He doesn't really know what he’s begging for.

John's arms slide around his waist, coming to lock in front of his belly, drawing Sherlock back against his chest. “God, you feel perfect. So tight, so perfect for me.” And now he does start to move, short and shallow thrusts upwards, nudging Sherlock steadily from the inside. His breath is warm and wet on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and he’s emitting a low stream of gasps and groans. A messy kiss is pressed against Sherlock’s hair.

And Sherlock finds he can do nothing but take it. His muscles continue to quiver, he couldn't contribute to the movements if he tried. He’s absolutely overwhelmed by John buried deep inside him, by the feel of John’s skin hot against his own, by the familiar stretch that seems so much more intense from this new angle.

He wants to call John's name, but then John's cock grazes his prostate, and all that comes out is a howl.

John fucks him harder, pounding against that same spot over and over, and Sherlock can register nothing else. Then one of John's hands wraps around his own aching cock, and he comes almost instantly, a brightness obscuring his vision, unable to care about where the pulses of semen might land. John is his entire universe. He shakes, and he clings, and he takes.

John is getting close too, he can feel it in his rhythm. And when John comes a few moments later, he sinks his teeth into the back of Sherlock’s shoulder to stifle his shout, and Sherlock idly hopes that he’ll have a visible bite mark to admire later.

In the afterglow, they slump together, breathing heavily. The air starts to feel chilly against Sherlock’s sweaty skin; he automatically snuggles his back closer to John, and secretly delights in the feel of the softening cock threatening to slip from his sore arse. John tightens his arms around him, kisses gently over the bite.

A sigh escapes him, one of unmistakable contentment. It couldn't have been anything else.

Chapter Text

By the time John realises that he’s made a mistake, it's too late and the damage has been done.

The slam of the front door cuts through the giddy haze of his arousal, wiping the smile instantly from his face as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. He’s on their bed, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, skin still tingling from the touch of Sherlock’s hands only moments before.

Filled with confusion, he grabs his phone from where he’d left it on the bedside table and fires off a quick text. Where are you going?

As he waits for a reply, he plays through the events of the last few minutes in his head, trying to figure out what could have spoiled the mood so suddenly and prompted Sherlock's wordless exit.

This relationship is still relatively new. John counts his blessings every time he’s allowed to touch Sherlock, and every time Sherlock seems to want to touch him back. They’re in the ongoing process of sexually discovering each other, and each new experience makes John's heart pound inside his ribs as he wonders how he got lucky enough to be allowed this. And Sherlock has been working privately on his stamina, after being frustrated by his initial sensitivity to sexual stimulation, although he thinks that John doesn't know that. John feigns ignorance, but secretly he’s both flattered and amazed by Sherlock's dedication to their mutual satisfaction.

Tonight, they'd not got far. They'd made it to the bed, John on his back and missing his shirt, Sherlock sprawled on top of him with his own shirt unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders. They were snogging like desperate teenagers, all teeth and tongues and hands, and it had seemed wonderful. John can't get enough of the taste of Sherlock.

His phone buzzes, and he opens the text immediately. I won't be laughed at. I need to think. SH

John’s brow furrows in bewilderment. What? Oh.

Oh.

“Bugger,” he mutters to himself as he sits up properly and scrubs a hand over his face.

He’d been running his hands freely under Sherlock’s shirt, marvelling at the feel of his skin. Then he’d found Sherlock's nipples, rolled them between his thumbs and forefinger, and pinched. Sherlock had gasped into his mouth, shuddering with his entire body, and John found it unbearably sexy that he could elicit such responses from this normally composed man.

And Sherlock, eyes still closed and a blush beginning to colour his cheeks, had cleared his throat and murmured, with what John can see in hindsight was hesitation and nervousness, “John… do you think… one day… maybe we could use nipple clamps?”

The request had been so unexpected that, for a second, John had just blinked. And then he had dropped his head back against the pillow, and he had laughed. He hadn't meant anything malicious. On the contrary, the thought of Sherlock wearing nipple clamps was almost too delicious, and he wished he could have conjured a set out of thin air right then and there.

He had felt Sherlock tense, and he hadn't realised anything was amiss when Sherlock climbed off him abruptly and left the room. He’d assumed his lover would be right back, and then the door had slammed. As Sherlock so often chided him, he’d seen but he had not observed.

Now, in the startling silence of the flat, he can observe that Sherlock had been shy . He’d been embarrassed about asking for something he wanted, so far outside his normal comfort zone, but he’d mustered the courage to ask John anyway because he trusted him.

And, like an utter arsehole, John had laughed.

He realises that the tension strung throughout Sherlock’s body had been a physical representation of hurt and betrayal. The resurrection of emotional barriers that John has been working hard to dismantle.

He suddenly feels like the most insensitive git in the universe, and he can only hope that Sherlock will forgive him with enough grovelling and an explanation of how just the thought of Sherlock wearing nipple clamps nearly made him come in his pants.

He texts . Come back. I wasn't laughing at you. You know I would give you the world if I could.

Then, without giving himself a chance to think about it, he goes to the living room and pulls open his laptop. It only takes him a few minutes to locate the product he wants on a website selling sex toys, and resolutely places the order.

He forwards the order confirmation email to Sherlock, before settling himself in his chair for an agonising wait.

Chapter Text

They’ve built up quite a collection of sexual aids over the course of their time together.

Mostly, they’re items that Sherlock has bought, either on a whim or after extensive research and consideration. After all, he loves to experiment in everyday life, and he’s learned that this trait extends to his sex life too. More often than not, John has been a willing participant.

The notable exception was the time when Sherlock had gleefully produced two new purchases - a home enema kit and a frankly monstrous glass dildo - and John had drawn the line at having either of them anywhere near his rear end. They'd still had some rather spectacular sex, so Sherlock hadn't complained too much, but he’d stashed the items away just in case John changed his mind somewhere down the line.

He still hasn't.

And then, occasionally, John will surprise him with purchases of his own. In fact, he was the one who had started the whole thing after the episode with the nipple clamps early on in their relationship. Sherlock can't deny that it’s reassuring to see John actively contributing to the more experimental side of their relationship, rather than letting Sherlock take the lead all the time and simply going along with it. He likes feeling that they’re on a sort of equal footing with it.

Yesterday, a parcel arrived addressed to John. Sherlock had shaken the box, and John had nonchalantly said that he was welcome to open it, without even looking up from the morning paper. The nonchalance, so obviously feigned, had piqued Sherlock’s curiosity and he’d torn into the package eagerly. It was clearly something they could use in the bedroom (or any other room that took their fancy), because John had acted like that before, and he’d shifted to a more comfortable position in his chair.

Inside the box, Sherlock had been delighted to find a textured anal plug, made of black silicone. It was slightly larger and longer than any of the others they had already collected, therefore promising new experiences. But what really had Sherlock grinning from ear to ear was the small, egg-shaped remote control nestled in the packaging next to the plug.

He looked over at John, and John was watching him with interest. This opened up a whole new world of possibilities. He barely knew where to begin.

Luckily, John had clearly bought this with an idea in mind. Within the hour, Sherlock found himself restrained on their bed with the plug snugly embedded in his arse, while John enjoyed a cup of tea in the kitchen and fiddled with the different functions on the remote.

Mrs Hudson had ended up banging on her ceiling with a broom in an attempt to make Sherlock keep his noises down, and John had gone straight down to apologise, leaving Sherlock right where he was and keeping the remote in his pocket the whole time. It had been an absolutely exquisite form of torture.

This morning, Lestrade had called and asked for them to come to a murder scene, and Sherlock was determined that he wouldn't waste the opportunity for a bit of payback. Which is how he’s come to be crouched over a dead body, rattling off deductions about a murder that appears to be entirely straightforward, while one hand fingers the remote inside his coat pocket and John fidgets restlessly somewhere behind him.

Sherlock pauses and half pretends to survey the rest of the crime scene, sparing a glance at John. John’s vision is unfocused, and he’s biting one of his knuckles as he shifts his weight between his feet. There's a touch more colour in his cheeks than usual. Sherlock ducks his head to hide his gratified smile, and presses a button to intensify the vibrations. John remains valiantly silent, but his spine straightens and he drives his teeth harder against his bone.

The rest of the idiots around them are completely oblivious, and Sherlock can't help himself. “John,” he says, beckoning with his free hand. “I need your input.”

He catches John's gaze, and John's expression is a warzone, embarrassment and arousal and frustration and desperation all rolled into a single delicious package. John gallantly makes his way over, and Sherlock times it so that he presses another button just as John is coming to crouch beside him. John almost collapses on top of the body, biting his lip to suppress a curse.

“Steady,” Sherlock murmurs, low enough that only John can hear him.

John just glares at him, making a visible effort to keep his breathing under control.

Oh, it is just marvellous! It's as if it’s Sherlock's birthday all over again. This boring case can't possibly end soon enough.

Chapter Text

Sex with Sherlock is, in a word, phenomenal. John can't think of a single better way to describe it.

It’s exciting and adventurous, while also being as natural as breathing. Sherlock can read John like a book, get right inside his head, give him exactly what he wants and what he needs. And at the same time, he’s a wildcard, throwing curveball after glorious curveball to keep John on his toes (as well as in a semi-permanent state of arousal, by this point). It helps, of course, that John is absolutely, monumentally, head-over-metaphorical-heels besotted with the gorgeous madman.

Which is just as well, because Sherlock has effectively ruined him for anyone else ever anyway. He’s pretty much programmed now to orgasm only when Sherlock is either in the room with him or ravishing him in his imagination.

But it doesn't stop him worrying a bit (a lot) that Sherlock will sooner or later decide that he’s had his fill of this particular arrangement.

He tells himself that he’s being too paranoid, that Sherlock is more than capable of maintaining passions and interests - like solving difficult crimes and playing the violin - in the long term. Except then he remembers how prone Sherlock is to boredom and inattention, about how Sherlock’s whims can change as swiftly as the wind, how something that completely rivets him in one moment can be summarily discarded as ‘dull’ the next.

As much as John doesn't want to believe that their relationship will be the next thing to be deemed unworthy of further attention in Sherlock’s complicated brain… well. Sometimes he just can't help it.

This is why he makes no effort to mask his aggravation when Sherlock reaches out to grab his phone from the bedside table and read a fucking text while John is three-fingers deep in his arse. In fact, as soon as he realises that Sherlock is distracted, he withdraws his fingers entirely, wiping the lube off on the sheet and flopping back onto the bed with a dramatic but not-entirely-faked huff.

To make matters even worse, Sherlock actually finishes typing out a reply before he turns around to see what's caused the hold-up. By the time he meets John's gaze, John’s brow is furrowed in thought and his fingers are laced tightly across his belly.

Since his previously enthusiastic erection has already waned, he decides to be upfront about the issue. “Is this boring for you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock has the gall to look like he has no idea what could have given John that impression. That sort of thing usually means that he’s about to say something that will send John's temper through the roof, so John cuts him off before he has the chance.

“I mean, this?” And he looks pointedly at the phone, still clutched in Sherlock’s hand, “It’s hard not to take it personally. I know we've talked a hundred times about how much I want you all the damn time, and how everything we do together is just electric for me, and how I just love you so much it hurts sometimes…” He takes a breath, realising he’s getting carried away, “...but if we're not on the same page, here… if you’re tired of what we're doing, then it’s only fair that you tell me.”

There. It’s out in the open, and the ball is in Sherlock’s court. The wait for a response, while Sherlock processes what he’s said, is agony, and though he’d tried to keep the depth of this insecurity from showing, he’s sure it remains evident in his expression, clear as day for Sherlock to see.

Sherlock turns around, crawls up John's body, takes his face in his hands. He looks very serious and a bit confused and really rather… well, almost anxious. “John,” he says, “you know that my ability to express sentiment is poor. Please be assured that nothing about you is boring to me. On the contrary, if I thought anything of the sort, then I suspect that this, ” he grinds his own erection, unmistakable, down against John’s thigh, “would not be possible. I couldn't do it.”

John exhales a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Relief floods him. He’d known, really, deep down, but Sherlock doesn't say it often, and to hear it from him goes a long way towards reducing this particular paranoia. He wants to express his gratitude, but when he speaks, all that comes out in a croaky voice is, “New rule: no phones in bed.”

Sherlock wordlessly launches the device to the other side of the room.

Chapter Text

Sherlock crowds John against the wall, and the thump of his back against the brick is satisfying. The club environment isn't exactly within either of their comfort zones, but it’s loud enough, dark enough, and crowded enough that no one else really pays them any mind.

They’re only here at all because of a case. Except, right now, the case is the last thing on Sherlock’s mind.

“Sherlock!” John gasps against the shell of his ear. Sherlock’s hands are tearing at the buttons of John’s shirt, grabbing rough handfuls of skin as it’s exposed, nails raking hard enough to leave fresh red lines in their wake. John clutches him helplessly, their hips slotted together. Hard flesh and bone pinning hard flesh and bone in place.

Sherlock knows, and has known for a long time, that he needs John as surely as he needs air. But nothing could have prepared him for the strength of his reaction, the depth of immediate jealousy and possessive rage, as he watched that woman elbow her way into John’s space. She had touched him, his John, with obvious intent.

The fabled red mist had descended. It had been disconcerting and unpleasant. And now, Sherlock doesn't feel completely in control of his actions. He’s consumed by a need to claim, to mark. He needs to feel John, and more importantly he needs John to feel him , him instead of this vapid, faceless female who had dared to lay her hands on his skin. He needs to delete her from John's body.

He latches his mouth just under the corner of John’s jaw and sucks, hard. John’s responsive groan is music to his ears. So he sinks his teeth in, too, and he alternates, ensuring that the dark purple bruise he creates will endure.

John's hands are tight in his hair, pulling but not pulling him away. Just pulling. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter at the stimulation; John knows very well how much he enjoys it.

He growls, traps John with his entire body. It’s easy with his height advantage. His hands wrap around to John's back, still under his open shirt, and he grabs at whatever he can reach. His nails digging tiny crescents into John's spine, his shoulder blades, dipping under the waistband of his jeans to do the same at the top of his arse. John arches against him as best he can in the limited space, chest heaving. He digs his own nails into Sherlock’s scalp.

“She touched you,” is all Sherlock can say, and he’s vaguely surprised at the low pitch of his own voice. His jealousy is humiliatingly obvious. He kisses John, intent on sucking the air out of him and replacing it with his own. He bites John's mouth, sucks John's lip between his own, grinding his hips with relentless pressure. Their noses bump and their teeth clash, and Sherlock knows with absolute certainty that nobody else can ever be allowed to approach John like she did ever again.

Because his emotions are now a mess and it’s catastrophic for his thinking processes.

And until he's managed to adequately erase every trace of that woman to his own satisfaction, the case that they came here to solve has no hope of holding his attention.

Chapter Text

John sits at the desk, typing on his laptop. He’s sourced an old pair of reading glasses for the occasion. He’s not sure what Sherlock will think of them, and personally he feels that they make him look far too old, but anything to make him… well, less like himself, might be helpful.

It’s the latest in a series of requests Sherlock has made, likely born of sheer curiosity rather than any genuine interest in the scenario. He’d given John detailed guidance on how he wanted him to behave, but John hadn't thought to ask about whether his appearance was relevant. So he’s donned the glasses and put together a suitably dull shirt-jumper-tie combination, and hopefully that will do.

There's a knock at the door. “Come in,” he calls.

Sherlock enters the room, and it’s immediately apparent that he’s not doing this by halves. John swallows the urge to break character before they’ve even started.

Sherlock is wearing a plain suit, the top few buttons of his white shirt undone as they usually are. But there's a tie with diagonal stripes secured loosely around his neck, and he has a rucksack slung casually over one shoulder. He’s also put on glasses, except they’re the type with thick, black frames currently favoured by the teenage population, and they set off his bone structure beautifully. He’s clearly an adult, but the get-up makes him look so much younger.

“Ah, Sherlock,” John says as he pretends to be less affected than he actually is. “You’re right on time.”

“You asked to see me, sir?”

Christ, that voice, it does things to John at the best of times.

“I did.” He picks up a stack of papers from the desk - he has no idea what they are, didn't think to check beforehand - and turns to Sherlock, holding them aloft. “Your marks are slipping. You’ve got so much potential, and I know you’re aiming high, but carry on like this and you're going to miss opportunities.” He stares, trying to keep his expression serious and a little bit stern as he drops the papers back down again. “Is there anything you want to talk about, or tell me?”

Sherlock worries his lower lip with his teeth, and takes a few steps closer. “I don't know why this is happening. I'm so distracted. But I have to make the grade requirements for Oxford, or my parents will kill me.”

John tries to imagine Sherlock’s delightful parents ever doing anything of the sort, and almost snorts at the unlikeliness of it. Then Sherlock catches him with a hard glance, silently reminding him to stay in character, and he dutifully schools his expression back to something more solemn, clearing his throat. “Well, there might be a way that we can fix this.”

“Really? Please, sir, I'll do anything.”

Even in this faked scenario, the sound of Sherlock begging is absolutely irresistible. “Anything?”

Sherlock nods firmly, his eyes darkening behind his lenses. “Anything, sir.”

Here goes. John is already half-hard in his trousers, vaguely surprised that he’s actually getting into this. He swivels his chair away from the desk to face Sherlock directly. “Come closer, then. On your knees.”

Sherlock drops the rucksack to the floor and falls to his knees between John's thighs so quickly that the thump against the floorboards seems to reverberate in the room. He looks up at John, and John looks right back, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs, willing himself to keep the act going. He gulps and takes a deep breath. “I’ll make you a deal. You can suck your way to the grades you need for Oxford.”

Sherlock licks his lips. John’s trousers are starting to get uncomfortably tight.

“Go ahead,” he continues. “Make it worth my while.”

Then Sherlock’s fingers are working on his belt, and he’s looking up at John through his eyelashes, and John wonders whether he’ll be open to revisiting this scenario again in the future.

Chapter Text

As a rule, Sherlock doesn't particularly enjoy eating. He has a bit of a sweet tooth, and can therefore sometimes be susceptible to bribes of cake or ginger biscuits, but for the most part he views food as a necessary chore to keep himself alive and functioning. His food consumption generally remains at the bare minimum.

John worries about malnourishment, because he just wouldn't be John if he didn't, and he’s always trying to find ways to persuade, trick, or otherwise manipulate Sherlock into eating more. It’s simultaneously endearing and irritating.

His latest ploy isn't a subtle one. It’s not even just transparent. It’s almost cruel in its obviousness, and Sherlock has half a mind to refuse out of pettiness, just to punish John for resorting to measures like this.

On the other hand, he wants.

“I’m going to fuck you, Sherlock,” John says. Sherlock is ready. They've spent what felt like a lifetime on foreplay and all the necessary preparations, and Sherlock is all but gagging for it. “How this goes is up to you, though.”

Then John produces a plate from God knows where , with two sandwiches on it, each of them cut into quarters. He places it on the pillow under Sherlock’s face, where Sherlock is on his hands and knees and solely interested in getting John's cock inside him, and Sherlock finds himself momentarily bewildered.

“For every bite you take and actually swallow,” John continues, “I’m going to ram my dick against your prostate.”

Sherlock whines, equal parts frustration and desire.

“If you clear the plate, I'll make you come so hard you won't be able to walk properly.”

Sherlock looks, and inhales. Cheese, pickle, lettuce, tomato, butter. Thick sliced granary bread with the crusts on. He forces his mouth and his brain to cooperate for a moment. “If I refuse?”

John leans close to his ear, a warm hand caressing his backside. “Then you get nothing, and I leave you here while I go and have a wank in the shower without you. Decision is yours, love.”

Sherlock glares at the sandwiches, then glares at John. “This feels like blackmail.”

“Maybe.” John's fingers drag along his cleft, teasing at his entrance. “What's it going to be?”

Sherlock petulantly grabs a sandwich quarter, bites half if it off, gets it swallowed with the least amount of chewing he can get away with. And John is right behind him as soon as it’s no longer a choking hazard, spreading his cheeks with strong thumbs, pressing inside him in a single, smooth motion until he's fully seated. They groan in tandem. Sherlock adores the feeling of being impaled like this, and no matter how many times they do it, it always feels like John is just the right side of too big, pushing his body to the very limit of what he can take.

He grips the sheets as John thrusts a few times gently, taking a moment to find the marvellous angle that has Sherlock throwing his head back and keening. But he only hits it once, and then he stills.

His voice is strained as he commands, “Another bite, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn't often feel like he could cry, but this is one of those moments. He blindly gropes for the rest of the sandwich quarter and stuffs it in his mouth, almost swallowing it whole as he discovers that eating while John's cock is buried in his arse is no easy task.

John makes good on the deal though, thrusts in three more times at that delicious angle before stopping again, and this time he doesn't have to ask before Sherlock takes another bite.

By the time there are only crumbs left on the plate, heat and sweat and desperation are coming off the two of them in waves. Sherlock's muscles are trembling as he gasps for breath, so incredibly turned on that he can hardly focus his vision. He can feel acutely the twitching of John’s erection inside him, the clenching of his own walls involuntary and rhythmic. His own cock hangs, heavy and straining, between his legs, and he’s on the verge of absolutely sobbing for John to just do something.

“Well done, love,” John says in his wonderfully gravelly sex-voice as he runs a hand up Sherlock’s spine, coming to twist his fingers into his hair. “Now, I believe I promised to blow your mind.”

And he does. He fucks hard, and he hits that sweet spot inside Sherlock every single time, and he holds him and he touches him and it’s only a matter of minutes before Sherlock is wailing incoherently, babbling half-words that make no sense as he erupts hard enough to hit himself in the chin with his own come.

He’s fairly sure he passes out for a few moments. The next thing he's aware of is that his body is limp, the side of his face pressed into the sandwich crumbs and the cool china of the plate. John is in the middle of riding out his own orgasm, his thrusts slowing, a warm trickle of fluid beginning to dribble down the back of Sherlock’s thighs. Then John pulls out carefully and collapses beside him; they’re both breathing heavily, and for now, at least, they’ve transcended spoken language.

He may not eat again until John makes another deal for it.

Chapter Text

“Gonna absolutely destroy you,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips. He has a hand behind Sherlock’s neck, keeping his head close, and the other curled around the protrusion of one of his hip bones.

Both of Sherlock’s hands hold John's face. The cool sensation of metal, the plain, silver band on Sherlock’s finger, pressed against John’s cheek is dizzying; he can't help but nuzzle into it, eyes sliding closed as the reality of the situation sinks in for the hundredth time.

In the end, they'd not told anyone. Mycroft had somehow known anyway, and sent a text with his sardonic congratulations. They'd dragged the two nearest members of Sherlock’s homeless network into the registry office with them to act as witnesses, and left hand-in-hand around half an hour later with a whole new legal status.

They’ll still be John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, informally. But on paper, they'll be John and Sherlock Watson-Holmes.

The thought sends a shiver down John's spine as he snogs the man he’s currently got pinned against the door of their lavish honeymoon suite. He’s never quite had the feeling like this, of everything being as it should be, before. Not to this extent. He’s in a bubble of rightness that can't possibly be popped.

Sherlock is kissing him desperately, his body shaking almost imperceptibly against John’s hands. His hips undulate, his erection is hard and straining and impossible to ignore where it digs into the crease at the top of John’s thigh. And John's no better off; his dick has commandeered ninety percent of his brain power, and the rest is completely overwhelmed by the knowledge that this incredible, brilliant, amazing man is now his husband.

He moans, grinding back against Sherlock. They do nothing but rut against each other for some time, losing track of the seconds and the minutes, until John finally wrenches himself away with an impatient growl. “Bed,” he gasps, almost losing himself in the hazy depths of Sherlock’s dilated pupils and sheer wildness. “We’ve not paid a fortune for this room to waste it.”

They stumble there together, reluctant to lose contact, clumsily kicking off shoes and racing to shed layers of clothing. By the time John shoves Sherlock across the enormous bed on his back and moves quickly to straddle him, he’s managed to lose his jacket and socks, with his shirt half unbuttoned and his trousers undone. Sherlock hasn't bothered with his socks or done anything with his shirt further than unlink his cuffs, but his trousers are already on the floor and, true to form, he’d obviously foregone underwear when he got dressed earlier in the day.

John takes a moment to drink in the sight. The flush high on Sherlock’s cheeks. The unkempt disarray of his curls. The heaving of his chest beneath shirt buttons that strain to contain him. The darkened hue of his kiss-swollen lips and the visible throb of his pulse in his mouth-wateringly hard cock. Christ, he looks completely debauched already, and so absolutely perfect that John fears he might burst.

He’s filled with the desperate need to be inside him. They’ve got the rest of the day, and all night, to take their time and enjoy each other slowly, but right at this moment, John can't wait to feel Sherlock clench and pulsate around him.

“Bugger,” he chokes, as Sherlock's hands come up to help rid him of the rest of his clothes. “Haven't unpacked the lube yet.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, please,” he says, efficiently removing John's shirt and moving to work on getting his trousers and pants down. “You think that wouldn't have been one of my first priorities when we checked in?” John kicks his trousers to the floor and sets his shaking fingers to work on Sherlock's shirt buttons, and Sherlock sends him a filthy grin. “I knew that once I got you into bed today, I would be reluctant to let you leave.”

As soon as they’re both naked (Sherlock having toed his socks off too), John can't help himself; he bends his head to take a nipple between his teeth, and reaches down to wrap his hand firmly around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock bucks up into his touch and groans, and the sound goes straight to John's own erection. He can feel it, heavy and pulsing, drawn to Sherlock’s body like a magnet, and he would be powerless to resist even if he wanted to. He bites his lip.

“Where is it?”

Sherlock stretches an arm out, retrieving the small bottle from under the pillow and pressing it to John until he takes it. John manhandles him onto the bed properly and gets him prepped with as little preamble as possible, working him open with an experienced efficiency until Sherlock is writhing down onto his fingers and every exhale is coming as a delectable whimper.

“John, please ,” Sherlock begs him, eyes clenched shut and fingers twisted in the sheets. “I need you. Hurry up and fuck me.”

“Bossy,” John admonishes, but he slides his fingers out, and truth be told he’s worked up enough that he’s tempted to just rut himself to completion against the duvet, so he's not entirely unsympathetic to Sherlock’s impatience.

Sherlock just draws his knees closer to his chest. Inviting. Presenting. Stunning.

So John shuffles closer and gets the head of his dick positioned against Sherlock’s slick, stretched entrance. But before he pushes past that tight ring of muscle, he glances up at the face of the man he loves, and he meets that lust-filled, technicolour gaze. The same gaze that saw straight through him from the moment they met, sparkling and fantastic, except now there's an unparalleled love in those eyes too, and it fills a void in John’s soul that he’d never wanted to acknowledge was there.

Sherlock must see it too, reflected back at him. “John,” he croaks, scrambling to link their fingers together and holding that eye contact like a lifeline. He feels it, because they are two halves of a whole entity, have been from the start.

“Sherlock…” John's voice is hoarse; he squeezes the long fingers entangled with his own. They squeeze him back, and for a moment, time seems to stand still.

Just the two of them against the world, and nothing else could possibly matter.