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resonantNot work safe.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
It was puzzling where to go from there. They'd had a rhythm worked out, and it had been functional and pleasurable, but now they'd broken it.
Was John going to expect this to continue? Did he think that he had *solved* Sherlock?
There was a case of minor interest involving the theft of free-range chickens -- Sherlock *did* still solve cases from time to time; it wasn't as though he were the sort of idiot whose brain wasn't fit for contemplating anything but carnal matters. Though it was true that it had been difficult, before, not to lose hours to feverish fantasy. And today it was difficult not to brood, and ponder, and imagine ever worse outcomes.
John would come home from clinic and bear him off to the couch or the bed as if he were a normal man, and the insult was bad enough, but what would happen when, instead of a repeat of last night's fluke success, John instead got a taste of Sherlock's usual reactions? He would be impatient -- or, worse, *patient*, in that doctorly way of his. Sherlock would have to see pity or boredom or clinical interest on his face. That would be intolerable.
So John came home from clinic and said, "Had a bit of a --" and Sherlock, without changing his position on his back on the sofa, said, "Yes, a plastic knife fight, I'm sure it was terribly droll."
John blinked at Sherlock's tone, and some of the animation went out of his manner, and paradoxically it only made Sherlock want to hurt him again. "You're standing in my light," he said, and, "Not there; can't you see the spatters?" and "*Don't* tell me about Maryam's engagement ring; I can't bear it; I'll expire of boredom."
When he opened his eyes to gauge the effect, he was surprised to find John grinning. "Something amuses you?"
"If that's the way it is, I'll go on upstairs," John said. "You'll feel better when you've had a nice wank."
Sherlock turned his head toward John, quite against his will. "What are *you* going to do?"
"Thought I'd have one as well."
For some time after he went upstairs, Sherlock lay on the sofa simply being outraged, and insulted, and perplexed. And then, somewhat against his will, he found he was beginning to listen.
John usually took care of his masturbation needs in the shower, out of some misguided concern for privacy. But Sherlock didn't hear the shower start. Nor did he hear John's bedroom door lock.
Or even shut.
Was this one of those games he so despised, where John said, "Stay down here," but really meant, "I expect you to come up and join me, and I am going to be disappointed in you if you don't"? It was apparently the sort of thing lovers did, but it was not the sort of thing John Watson did; aside from certain fixed ideas about what did not belong in places where food was, John was refreshingly free from unstated rules.
Which meant he was most likely -- almost certainly -- telling the truth; he was most likely -- almost certainly -- upstairs quietly wanking.
Without Sherlock.
Lying in the tangled nest they had made of his bed --
Perhaps John was the sort who liked it standing up?
Sitting against the headboard? On his side like an artist's model? Straddling a pillow, kneeling on the floor, flat on his back with his feet braced against the wall?
He had seen John come some two dozen times now, so it was odd that he would find it so arousing to *imagine* it. Was John slow and luxuriant when he was alone, or hasty and businesslike? Did his neck and chest flush, as they did when he was with Sherlock? When he came, did he make that choked-off gasp that was so delightful? Sherlock loved to watch John, especially when he was greedy and demanding.
And then came a thought that froze Sherlock. Was this the way John thought about him?
It *was.* He instantly recognized the ring of truth. When the two of them parted, John wasn't done thinking about him. John, wherever he was, was picturing Sherlock. His mouth, his hands, his cock.
He'd probably be disappointed if he could see the mechanical way Sherlock went at it; he'd probably --
Well, Sherlock knew what he'd say, didn't he? He'd say, "Slower." He'd say, "One finger, anywhere you like."
Sherlock wasn't aware of forming an intention to get up; he simply noticed the stair as he was climbing it. John's door was open, and his room was dark, and he was on his back on the bed in vest and pants (between which his cock stood out with mouthwatering obsceneness), and he smiled cheekily and said, "Hoped you might join me."
"Put your hands on your head," Sherlock said, and was shocked at the hoarseness of his voice.
John's smile went even cheekier. "Make me," he said, and slowly rolled his hips up, pushing his cock through his fist.
It was beyond bearing. "Put them on my head, then," Sherlock said, and knelt down sideways on the bed, and bent to suck him.
He did love this, whether or not that made sense -- not just for the power but for the pure sensual overload of it. John was ordinarily noisy but wordless at this stage, but tonight he tugged gently on his handful of Sherlock's hair and said, "Thinking about me, were you?"
Sherlock didn't suppress a huff of irritation -- *obvious, John* -- and John laughed, breathy. "Funny, 'cos I was thinking about you. Always thinking about you, now, imagining how you might do it --"
"You've seen me," Sherlock objected.
John tugged in the other direction: "Don't *stop.*"
Sherlock didn't stop. Little by little he found himself reclining, wrong way on the bed, relaxing into sucking John off as slowly as he could manage it. John turned on his side, making everything easier to reach, and Sherlock took him deeper as a reward, and then his breath caught as he felt John's mouth on his own cock.
He twitched, half annoyed; it was distracting, but not enough so to make him leave off what he was doing in order to say so. John had a particular, slow, full-body writhe that he only did when his cock was in Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock wanted to enjoy it.
There it was, a circling of the hips, a shifting of the shoulders -- with mounting excitement Sherlock waited, breathlessly, for the next step, because if John decided he didn't want to stop, if he decided he was ready to come, then he'd start to tremble lightly through his midsection. There it was! Sherlock theorized that it was partly simple arousal and partly the effort required not to manhandle Sherlock or choke him. It was good, it was *delicious,* it had never been this good, he never wanted it to stop --
Christ, John was still sucking him, and he was coming.
There was a bit of a struggle, rather blurry, as Sherlock focused as much attention as he could on keeping his jaw loose and not biting John or hurting him in any way; his mouth wanted to suck, *hard,* in time with the spasms in his cock, and when he did, John let out a muffled wail and his hips pistoned up hard, and Sherlock flailed out with one hand -- *still* coming, dear god -- and found John's hip on the second or third try, and at last managed to work his oversensitive cock out of John's reach without missing any of John's own climax.
"You tricked me," he said to John, some time later.
"Didn't," John said. "If the only consulting detective in the world can't keep track of his own cock, that's not my fault."
"I have never gone to bed with anyone as devious as you are," Sherlock said.
"You've apparently never gone to bed with anyone who wasn't an idiot."
"There's very little alternative, is there," Sherlock said. And then he sat up suddenly as a suspicion occurred to him.
John's hair stood up in back. His eyes were heavy and his mouth wore the very same curling, self-satisfied smile that had, some months ago, made it impossible for Sherlock not to kiss him. He had tugged his pants back up, and he looked like any man. An attractive man; a pleasant man; at the moment a happy man; but not at all an extraordinary man.
Just a good-natured fellow who had somehow, blindly, obliviously stumbled on a way to bring Sherlock's recalcitrant libido into line.
Half a dozen ways, in fact.
Without a single misstep.
"What?"
Sherlock lay down beside him -- right way round this time -- and looked at his face from closer up, but nothing unusual revealed itself. "You've got a day off tomorrow, haven't you?"
"Yeah." He backed up enough to leave part of the pillow for Sherlock. "Why?"
Sherlock shuffled closer. "I've just thought of some things I'd like to try, that's all."
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
It was puzzling where to go from there. They'd had a rhythm worked out, and it had been functional and pleasurable, but now they'd broken it.
Was John going to expect this to continue? Did he think that he had *solved* Sherlock?
There was a case of minor interest involving the theft of free-range chickens -- Sherlock *did* still solve cases from time to time; it wasn't as though he were the sort of idiot whose brain wasn't fit for contemplating anything but carnal matters. Though it was true that it had been difficult, before, not to lose hours to feverish fantasy. And today it was difficult not to brood, and ponder, and imagine ever worse outcomes.
John would come home from clinic and bear him off to the couch or the bed as if he were a normal man, and the insult was bad enough, but what would happen when, instead of a repeat of last night's fluke success, John instead got a taste of Sherlock's usual reactions? He would be impatient -- or, worse, *patient*, in that doctorly way of his. Sherlock would have to see pity or boredom or clinical interest on his face. That would be intolerable.
So John came home from clinic and said, "Had a bit of a --" and Sherlock, without changing his position on his back on the sofa, said, "Yes, a plastic knife fight, I'm sure it was terribly droll."
John blinked at Sherlock's tone, and some of the animation went out of his manner, and paradoxically it only made Sherlock want to hurt him again. "You're standing in my light," he said, and, "Not there; can't you see the spatters?" and "*Don't* tell me about Maryam's engagement ring; I can't bear it; I'll expire of boredom."
When he opened his eyes to gauge the effect, he was surprised to find John grinning. "Something amuses you?"
"If that's the way it is, I'll go on upstairs," John said. "You'll feel better when you've had a nice wank."
Sherlock turned his head toward John, quite against his will. "What are *you* going to do?"
"Thought I'd have one as well."
For some time after he went upstairs, Sherlock lay on the sofa simply being outraged, and insulted, and perplexed. And then, somewhat against his will, he found he was beginning to listen.
John usually took care of his masturbation needs in the shower, out of some misguided concern for privacy. But Sherlock didn't hear the shower start. Nor did he hear John's bedroom door lock.
Or even shut.
Was this one of those games he so despised, where John said, "Stay down here," but really meant, "I expect you to come up and join me, and I am going to be disappointed in you if you don't"? It was apparently the sort of thing lovers did, but it was not the sort of thing John Watson did; aside from certain fixed ideas about what did not belong in places where food was, John was refreshingly free from unstated rules.
Which meant he was most likely -- almost certainly -- telling the truth; he was most likely -- almost certainly -- upstairs quietly wanking.
Without Sherlock.
Lying in the tangled nest they had made of his bed --
Perhaps John was the sort who liked it standing up?
Sitting against the headboard? On his side like an artist's model? Straddling a pillow, kneeling on the floor, flat on his back with his feet braced against the wall?
He had seen John come some two dozen times now, so it was odd that he would find it so arousing to *imagine* it. Was John slow and luxuriant when he was alone, or hasty and businesslike? Did his neck and chest flush, as they did when he was with Sherlock? When he came, did he make that choked-off gasp that was so delightful? Sherlock loved to watch John, especially when he was greedy and demanding.
And then came a thought that froze Sherlock. Was this the way John thought about him?
It *was.* He instantly recognized the ring of truth. When the two of them parted, John wasn't done thinking about him. John, wherever he was, was picturing Sherlock. His mouth, his hands, his cock.
He'd probably be disappointed if he could see the mechanical way Sherlock went at it; he'd probably --
Well, Sherlock knew what he'd say, didn't he? He'd say, "Slower." He'd say, "One finger, anywhere you like."
Sherlock wasn't aware of forming an intention to get up; he simply noticed the stair as he was climbing it. John's door was open, and his room was dark, and he was on his back on the bed in vest and pants (between which his cock stood out with mouthwatering obsceneness), and he smiled cheekily and said, "Hoped you might join me."
"Put your hands on your head," Sherlock said, and was shocked at the hoarseness of his voice.
John's smile went even cheekier. "Make me," he said, and slowly rolled his hips up, pushing his cock through his fist.
It was beyond bearing. "Put them on my head, then," Sherlock said, and knelt down sideways on the bed, and bent to suck him.
He did love this, whether or not that made sense -- not just for the power but for the pure sensual overload of it. John was ordinarily noisy but wordless at this stage, but tonight he tugged gently on his handful of Sherlock's hair and said, "Thinking about me, were you?"
Sherlock didn't suppress a huff of irritation -- *obvious, John* -- and John laughed, breathy. "Funny, 'cos I was thinking about you. Always thinking about you, now, imagining how you might do it --"
"You've seen me," Sherlock objected.
John tugged in the other direction: "Don't *stop.*"
Sherlock didn't stop. Little by little he found himself reclining, wrong way on the bed, relaxing into sucking John off as slowly as he could manage it. John turned on his side, making everything easier to reach, and Sherlock took him deeper as a reward, and then his breath caught as he felt John's mouth on his own cock.
He twitched, half annoyed; it was distracting, but not enough so to make him leave off what he was doing in order to say so. John had a particular, slow, full-body writhe that he only did when his cock was in Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock wanted to enjoy it.
There it was, a circling of the hips, a shifting of the shoulders -- with mounting excitement Sherlock waited, breathlessly, for the next step, because if John decided he didn't want to stop, if he decided he was ready to come, then he'd start to tremble lightly through his midsection. There it was! Sherlock theorized that it was partly simple arousal and partly the effort required not to manhandle Sherlock or choke him. It was good, it was *delicious,* it had never been this good, he never wanted it to stop --
Christ, John was still sucking him, and he was coming.
There was a bit of a struggle, rather blurry, as Sherlock focused as much attention as he could on keeping his jaw loose and not biting John or hurting him in any way; his mouth wanted to suck, *hard,* in time with the spasms in his cock, and when he did, John let out a muffled wail and his hips pistoned up hard, and Sherlock flailed out with one hand -- *still* coming, dear god -- and found John's hip on the second or third try, and at last managed to work his oversensitive cock out of John's reach without missing any of John's own climax.
"You tricked me," he said to John, some time later.
"Didn't," John said. "If the only consulting detective in the world can't keep track of his own cock, that's not my fault."
"I have never gone to bed with anyone as devious as you are," Sherlock said.
"You've apparently never gone to bed with anyone who wasn't an idiot."
"There's very little alternative, is there," Sherlock said. And then he sat up suddenly as a suspicion occurred to him.
John's hair stood up in back. His eyes were heavy and his mouth wore the very same curling, self-satisfied smile that had, some months ago, made it impossible for Sherlock not to kiss him. He had tugged his pants back up, and he looked like any man. An attractive man; a pleasant man; at the moment a happy man; but not at all an extraordinary man.
Just a good-natured fellow who had somehow, blindly, obliviously stumbled on a way to bring Sherlock's recalcitrant libido into line.
Half a dozen ways, in fact.
Without a single misstep.
"What?"
Sherlock lay down beside him -- right way round this time -- and looked at his face from closer up, but nothing unusual revealed itself. "You've got a day off tomorrow, haven't you?"
"Yeah." He backed up enough to leave part of the pillow for Sherlock. "Why?"
Sherlock shuffled closer. "I've just thought of some things I'd like to try, that's all."
(no subject)
Date: 1/1/14 06:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/1/14 10:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/2/14 01:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/2/14 02:55 am (UTC)Lovely and sexy writing ♥
Thank you for sharing!
(no subject)
Date: 1/2/14 01:33 pm (UTC)Sherlock turns everything into a competition but since he's always so far ahead of everyone else, it doesn't look like a competition. Throw in physical hard-wiring to respond slowly, a tendency to get distracted and impatient, and a general disregard for the emotions and egos of others, and you've got a recipe for a set-in-his-ways wanker. (ba dum pa! I'm here all week.)
John's the perfect partner for him because John, while supremely self-confident, knows how not to let his own ego get in his way. He doesn't let the idea of 'fixing' Sherlock overwhelm the idea of 'enjoying' Sherlock. One may lead to the other but John's got a firm grasp of priorities! (also, ba dum pa! Tip your waiter!)
(no subject)
Date: 1/15/14 08:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/16/14 03:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/16/14 04:50 am (UTC)