John was careful. Resting both hands on the floor either side of Sherlock's head, he kept the riding crop bowed, pinning his lover to the floor quite nicely, without pressing hard against teeth or tongue.
And damn if having this large, slightly manic creature held down and under his control wasn't enough to make John's cock ache. With a growl he leaned down and kissed Sherlock and between the whip's leather and his lover's wet, hot mouth…well John started pumping his hips against Sherlock's erection before he knew what he was doing.
And good god it was good. So good he knew he could come right now, fully dressed, like some teenager, but this wasn't about him, not tonight, no, so with a groan he slowed, stopped. Then, as he was about to slide down his lover's body and toward that cock, he had a very good—and very scary—idea.
He ducked his head down again, kissed Sherlock hard on the mouth, and whispered, "I have to get undressed," and just as he started to release the riding crop, Sherlock's hands ghosted (gingerly) over his and took their place. The world's only consulting detective was now holding himself down with the whip.
"Oh my." John let out a ragged, extremely turned on breath.
It took him a second to tear his gaze away and gather his wits, but when he did John quickly stood and just as quickly stripped off his clothes. He lingered briefly, looking down at his lover, watched the fast rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, then looked at the man's cock, which was as hard as the rest of his long, lean body.
"Oh my," he said again, but for an entirely different reason.
Had John been about to let any other man on earth fuck him in the ass for the first time, he'd have insisted on a condom, of course. But this was, well this was Sherlock. Anti-social, arrogant, abrupt, rude Sherlock who had not only never had a boyfriend in the entirety of his thirty four years, but whose cock had also never had carnal relations with anything more alluring than a fist. Or John's mouth.
So no, no condom necessary, he knew that his lover was disease-free. Heck, if Sherlock so much as carried a cold germ it was probably frightened of him. Lubricant however? That would be nice.
John was back from the bedside table in a flash, and straddling his lover's hips. "It's time," he said, blinking a slow gaze down at his silent sweetheart. "It's your turn." With that he squeezed three times more lube on Sherlock's erection than was absolutely necessary.
When he was done John got into position as if he did this every day, then he hovered a moment, nervous, but not half as nervous as his lover. Sherlock took the riding crop from his mouth, was about to say, "We don't have to do this John, I'm fine without it," but already ready and in an anticipatory daze John shoved the crop back into place, then bore down slowly, until he felt the tip of Sherlock's cock enter him. Both men arched their backs.
John continued to lowered himself onto Sherlock's erection in tiny increments, goosebumps hiving his skin, a crazy-quilt of sexual pain and pleasure centered in the very last place he had ever expected to feel it.
Then, bowing his head and biting one of Sherlock's shoulders—bonus marks that'd be visible in the morning light—John pushed until his lover's cock slid all the way inside him.
They were both still for a few seconds, each processing some rather stunning physical sensations, then John started slowly, carefully moving. Up. Down. Up. Down. It was…kind of good. Over time up-down soon became faster. Slower. Faster. Slower. Then harder, and harder still. The longer Sherlock's cock pumped inside him, the more the pleasure outweighed the pain. It helped, yes it very much helped, that his sweetheart had started writhing under him like a man possessed.
Yes, Sherlock had masturbated when he hit puberty. Then he and another boy had jerked each other off when he was fifteen. And most recently John had gone down on him probably every single day for the last eight weeks. Yet none of these came remotely close to the feeling, the incredibly tight brain-scrambling feeling of penetrating John's absolutely amazing ass.
Sherlock tried to think the sensations through, to analyze what he was feeling, he really did, but every time he attempted to engage that magnificent brain of his another deep thrust would short-circuit reason and all he could think was: slower, no, slower than that…faster, fasterfaster…I adore you John, I adore you…
Every push inside his lover made him harder, every near-withdrawal made him moan, yet it's quite probable that Sherlock Holmes, with long years of experience denying himself food, sleep, and sex, could have held off his orgasm and continued fucking his lover for a good long while. John Watson, however, did not have the same aesthete's disposition.
"Come," John murmured frantically, rocking faster over Sherlock's body, sweat slicking his skin, "come come come come."
Sherlock groaned, his eyes clamped shut, teeth biting hard on the riding crop. No that feral sound said. It also said make me please please make me.
"I want you to come—" John bit hard at Sherlock's other shoulder. The same keening as before started building in the back of Sherlock's throat— "come, come come inside me, inside me, I need it I—"
Sherlock's entire body went hard, his back made a perfect arch, and the most incredible orgasm he'd ever had washed through his thin, wounded body.
Recovery took awhile, for both of them. But no one was in a rush. There were no vibrating mobiles vying for attention, no criminals to dash after, no experiments that needed tending. So the two of them lay there on the bedroom floor, one small man wrapped in the arms of his rangy love, and in the shadowy light they listened to one another's breathing slow, then steady.
John quite possibly may have dozed a moment, cradled there against lover's chest, but then Sherlock shifted slightly, rolled quickly, until John was beneath him.
Resting on his elbows, he took a long while to just look at every plane of John's face as if he'd memorize what he saw. He murmured "beautiful," and touched his lover's mouth, eyes, nose. Then very softly he whispered, "Anything. Everything."
John smiled, pulled his sweetheart down by dark curls, kissed him. "Next time, love," he whispered back. "This was for you."
Which came first, Sherlock's arrogance, rudeness, abruptness and then the world's rejection—or did the rejection cause the arrogance, rudeness, and abruptness?
Do you even have to ask?
Because, like every other human being on earth, Sherlock had not escaped the liability and the blessing of a heart. And sometimes, when John loved him this…perfectly…he was pretty sure he felt it breaking.
"I love you, John." Four words. Just four. No embellishments, no grand gesture, no drama need apply. Not right now.
Finally the world's only consulting detective shook off his post-sex melancholy and got a glint in his pale eyes, "Next time? I'm afraid that won't do. So I think I'll just do you."
Before John could ask when Dr. Seuss had got naked and crawled on top of him, Sherlock looked down critically at his boyfriend (by the way, he still gets flushed when he says the word out loud in public, as if everyone on earth knows how magical it is, how unreal that he, Sherlock 'Freak' Holmes, has a sweetheart). When he looked, here's what Sherlock saw: John's mostly-absent erection; a slight prominence of crow's feet and laugh lines, indicating dehydration; that John was hungry, as evidenced by his main tell: a hand pressed against his stomach; and finally he saw that that hand trembled just a little. The conclusion? Tonight had taken a lot out of his lover; he was tired. All right then, no more games.
"What do you call it when the sex happens fast, little foreplay?"
John smiled lazily. "A quickie?"
Sherlock sat up suddenly, still astride the doctor's hips. "Yes! Perfect."
John ran his hands tenderly over Sherlock's battered thighs. "I'm a little whipped my love. You're a lot of work you know. It's really okay. We can continue this tomorr—uh…uh…"
As John talked Sherlock had slowly begun to rock his hips, lightly, gently, tongue pressed against his upper lip.
Never looking away from his lover, Sherlock bit his bottom lip and…well it was softer than a moan, louder than a sigh… kept rocking against John's cock, a little more slowly.
Pursed lips now, a sound like humming, and then Sherlock ran the long fingers of one hand over his own body, from hip to chest, lingering briefly at a nipple, stroking it until it was erect. At about that point he moaned softly.
Sherlock made his breathing a little deeper, faster, then pressed both palms lightly to his chest and ran them very…slowly…dooooooown—arching his neck, closing his eyes—down his chest, down his flat belly, down to his own cock, all the while rocking, rocking, rocking those hips against John.
Sherlock didn't stop there though, he kept those hands going, until they were at last on the prize he wanted: His lover's once-again raging hard-on.
Clues, signs, hints, every day John gave them by a smile, a nod, a word, when Sherlock did something normal or something sweet; every night he was just as illuminating, with the arch of a back, a stuttered moan, a desperate plea. Every day John taught his lover what he liked, needed, wanted. He made it so easy to please him…and to be pleasing.
The tall man bowed over the smaller one and with a greedy moan took John's cock in his mouth and started to suck, and just like every other time he went down on John, Sherlock's moaning grew with each thrust, as if he were the one about to come, and of course that only made John arch his back higher, spread his legs wider. Sherlock loved that naked abandon, the knowledge that he could do this to John, make him yearn, make him want, make him this fucking hard.
Groaning, panting, John pushed his fingers into Sherlock's hair, thrust deeper, the worry of weeks ago gone because Sherlock had many times since then proven he could take it. So he abandoned himself to that beautiful mouth, hips bucking hard and fast, and when he felt a hand squeeze his testicles that was pretty much all she wrote. John started humping the face of his one-true-love like a school boy.
The orgasm took a long time playing out and while it did Sherlock stayed still, feeling the salty warmth as John spurt in his mouth. When he was sure it was done he waited a while longer, then gently pulled away and swallowed. John had told him the first time they'd had sex that he didn't expect or need him to do that; Sherlock had looked at him as if he were insane. All of it, everything, anything…so long as it was John. As if to prove the point, Sherlock would always linger and carefully lick away the come that continued to trickle for a minute or two after.
Eventually the room grew quiet, and John's breathing returned to normal. Sherlock kissed his lover's hip bones, his belly, then slid up and rested his head on the smaller man's chest.
For a moment all was blissfully silent. Then Sherlock looked up at his sweetheart and said very softly, "I was wondering John…did that count as one of my meals?"
It was eleven o'clock in the morning, the English sun was actually shining, and Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were standing around the Covent Gardens carousel with one consulting detective and his colleague, pretending to listen, and trying not to look.
It was pretty hard.
"—and it's so obviously Madagascar if you'd just use your brains and think about it—"
Everyone knows Sherlock tends to strut while he pontificates, ever-keen to draw the eye, to make sure all present know exactly how smart he is. Well today, take that usual flare, square it, and give it a nice post-coital zing.
"—and when you take into consideration the cat hair on his left sock—"
Elaborating on the deductive details of the case he had just now closed, twenty minutes after having arrived, Sherlock talked at length, paced slowly, gestured extravagantly and each of the three Scotland Yard detectives tried very, very hard not to look.
"—but missing his bus this morning is probably what motivated him to—"
The pacing man's neck was the first place they looked, pretending not to. The rather interminable length of that neck was exactly the reason Sherlock usually covered up with fancy collared shirts and high thick scarves, but not today. Today his shirt and coat were collarless, the scarves were at home, and that expansive real estate was a billboard he seemed to be flashing all over town.
What kind of weird experiment was that, Anderson thinks, unconsciously touching his own throat.
Hickies, Donovan thinks, frowning. Someone actually gave the freak hickies.
Lestrade squints in the morning light. He needs glasses, he knows he does, but this is pretty clear. Teeth marks, those are teeth marks. On his neck. Someone bit him. Hard. More than once. It's difficult but Lestrade doesn't glance at John.
"—and obviously they were both bespoke suits, though they weren't his—"
The second place they tried not to look was Sherlock's mouth. To even the unobservant eye that mouth was alluringly swollen, with chapped lips as red as berries. So voluptuously sexual it was easy to imagine all kinds of things going into it and at least one thing coming out.
"—but the email never arrived of course—"
Donovan bunched up her face as if tasting something bitter, Anderson sort of frowned, and Lestrade lifted a shaking hand to press at the bridge of his nose, his movements so erratic that instead he poked himself in the eye. Hard. Just as well.
"—though I'll admit the candle wax did give me a moment's pause—"
The third thing the three Scotland Yard detectives tried not to notice was Sherlock's marvelously subtle limp. A pure fiction, that one, it nonetheless hinted at things they couldn't see, at things two of them couldn't even imagine, at things one of them was trying not to.
"—so he clearly thought there was no choice but to hide it in the carousel—"
Meanwhile, seated on the edge of that very same carousel, John silently watched three people watch his lover. He kept his face impassive, but enjoyed their clear expressions of consternation and conjecture. He was surprised he didn't feel any embarrassment—"Hi, we like kinky sex! Very hot, very kinky sex!"—and that he wanted them all to know that those marks were his, that Sherlock chose him.
"—and finally, did none of you ever think to wonder why he smelled of oranges?" The tall man laughed without humor. "I mean really." Sherlock stopped pacing, shrugged. "Honestly, sometimes I just want to wash my hands,"—he held up two ungloved hands, palms out—"of all of you."
As if prearranged, three sets of eyes widened in unison, and three heads tilted to the side, and everyone finally noticed the forth thing they quickly pretended not to see.
With a wide grin that reached all the way to his eyes, Sherlock rubbed his still-tender palms together with relish. Confident at last that everyone had seen precisely what he wanted them to see, he said, "Now. Next time could you please please come up with something a touch more challenging?"
As they walked off into a very lovely English winter morning, shoulders brushing, John muttered, "Good lord, you are a complete prat."
Sherlock laced his fingers through the doctor's. "Yes, but I'm your complete prat."
Good lord this was fun to write. I love John. I love Sherlock. Please let me know if you liked how things turned out, it has been so lovely to get your feedback. Thank you!
P.S. Thanks again FoxFire222 for the idea for the final chapter!