Warning for rimming. A veritable ode to rimming. And nursing. And a bendy almost!appearance of something else. I don't even know anymore…
"Can't you make yourself taller, John?"
It all started because Sherlock Holmes is embarrassingly easy to break.
"So help me I'll eat the kidneys of the next—" dramatic air quotes "—'police officer' who texts me—" more air quotes "—a 'clue.'"
For all the vast length of the man, for all the drama he trails with him every where he goes, you get the impression he's impenetrable as brick.
"When I said I needed quiet, Mrs. Hudson, that included you keeping your breathing low enough so only the deaf two flats over hear it."
Yet Sherlock's train of thought can be derailed by a passing glance. His temper unhinged by someone's ill-timed cough. In seconds he can synthesize a dozen datum into a narrative whole but sometimes he fails to get the correct sum of two plus twenty.
"Oh Mr. Chatterjee I assure you the sandwich was—what's the word, what is the word—unbelievable."
To be fair, Sherlock didn't mean to poison himself.
"Why is that dog looking at me that way?"
For all the experiments he runs, for all the terrible fumes he breathes, Sherlock's rarely managed to actually envenom his own body. He has managed to accidentally set fire to a fire extinguisher, unintentionally stab an MP in the arse with a Botox-filled hypodermic, and mistakenly email a photo of his beribboned erection to his mother.
"Don't be so clumsy with my gloves John, they're a special powder-free, chemical-resistant, nitrile-coated pair meant for refined experimentation, not the plebian chore of chopping onions."
Anyway, the point is, Sherlock rarely gets sick from his eccentric experiments, which is possibly why he thought nothing of simmering a coal-tar derivative and bisulphate of baryta on the hob for 30 minutes, adding a touch of barium sulfide and a skosh of denatured alcohol, all the while quietly (temporarily) poisoning himself with the noxious brew and completely disabling his verbal impulse control—and that control was small, weak, and enfeebled to begin with.
"Why on earth are you looking at me with that look, John?"
Yes, sometimes Sherlock is ridiculously easy to break.
Gloved right on up to his elbows with Sherlock's precious nitrile whatsits, fist clenched around a half-shredded carrot, John Watson glared at his lover, took a deep breath, and began counting to ten—
"And if you for one moment think—"
"—I don't know what you're—"
"—doing with that produce—"
John slammed a dull knife on a scarred counter top, stomped around the kitchen table, and loomed over his seated love.
"This look? Why am I looking at you with this look?" John stood tall, waved a carrot combatively. "Because, Sherlock, in the last two hours you've insulted Mrs. Hudson, said rude things to the neighbor's dog, and disparaged your future dinner—no, I don't care what you think I'm trying to hide in it—" Suddenly alert, John put the carrot behind his back as if Sherlock hadn't seen it.
"Anyway, you've either finally gone off the deep end or according to the nice doctor I talked with at the Poisons Information Service, you've finally done yourself a mischief, probably with that terrible stew you had bubbling on the hob this morning."
Though seated and a good foot lower than his loomy love, Sherlock looked down his nose self-righteously. "That dog breathes funny and looks like a cat, Mrs. Hudson sorted the post so all of the bills were upside down in relation to the advertisements, and—what now?"
"You've poisoned yourself Sherlock. As in absorbed into your person a substance which has made you a mouthy, discourteous, and ill-mannered."
"You realize discourteous and ill-mannered are the same thin—"
"—if you do not shut it right now and stay shut until the poison's out of your system
I'll tie you down and gag you."
Sherlock made an arrogant noise, opened his pretty little mouthy mouth and—
John put his hand over it.
Sherlock blinked, took a quick, shuddery breath, and said nothing.
John nodded curtly. "Good. That's good. Yes. Thank you." And then he took his hand away.
"I know you think you're the stronger of the two of us because of that time you carried me after the Pekinese mauled my foot, but really John, if you think you could—"
John put his hand over Sherlock's mouth, geared up to unleash a string of ghastly swearing but—
—realized that Sherlock had shut up again.
John took his hand away from Sherlock's mouth.
"—make me stop talking then I'll just have to—"
Doctorly hand over detectivey mouth. Silence. Doctorly hand removed from detectivey mouth.
"—disabuse you of this—"
John muzzled his lover again. "Oh dear god."
"You actually can't stop." John took a deep, wondering breath. "Sherlock, you've…you've sort of given yourself a kind of Tourette's Syndrome."
Sherlock said nothing. John removed his hand.
"That could potentially be very—"
John put his hand back over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock sighed.
"If I take my hand off your mouth right now and you can stay silent I will personally go to St. Bart's and collect that bucket of left feet Molly said you could have."
Sherlock sat up tall.
"I will also feed you a loganberry jam and sticky toffee pudding dinner via my mouth."
Sherlock's eyes got wide and bright.
"And then I'll take off all my clothes and do anything you tell me to—sexual or otherwise—for the rest of the night."
John could feel Sherlock's jaw go a little slack and his plush mouth form a nice little O.
"But only if you stay utterly silent when I remove my hand. If you don't…I don't."
Sherlock's eyes shifted back and forth quickly, evidence that his brain was whirring, spinning in place, about to pop its clutch.
Sherlock nodded vigorously, and it says much that John didn't know—would never know—what thrilled his sweetheart most, the thought of the feet, the sweets, or the sex.
"I am about to remove my hand from your mouth and what I need to hear is exactly nothing. Nothing at all. Not a sigh. Not a giggle. Not a single word. For ten seconds."
Everyone absorbed this information. Then John lifted his hand from Sherlock's mouth one finger at a time, until his entire—
"Get the feet now. Right now. They belonged to a tribe of barefoot nuns—are nuns a tribe? Or a flock? Anyway, about the pudding, I want it to be warm. Not cold, not hot, warm. And when you say sexual or otherwise—"
John may have been a little bit forceful with the re-application of his hand. His sweetie winced. "Oh god."
Sherlock's eyes shouted: What? What?
"This poison? It's made you domineering—more domineering—and suggestible."
Sherlock thought about this. John thought about this. Then John had another thought when he felt the shoving. The squirming. The wetness.
"Uh. I think this has made you domineering, suggestible. And oral."
John removed his hand from Sherlock's mouth to hear his reply.
"Did they say how long the contaminate would stay in my system because now that you mention it I'm feeling a little bit obsessed with the idea of the feet and the toffee pudding and frankly I'm a little alarmed about where I'm taking that obsession—" Sherlock tried hard to keep his gaze level but it went—*bam*—to John's crotch and then back again.
Here's the thing: Sometimes knowing what your problem is makes your problem worse. Expect side effects and what do you know, you get side effects. Kind of like that.
"—and also I'd like you to know that right now this absolute second in which I'm speaking I'm trying to not talk but I can't. I'm trying. I can't. Nnnng—" Sherlock bit his own lips but his lips vanquished his teeth and so "—John, make it stop. I…John…John…do something John. I need you to—" Sherlock took a deep, sharp breath. "—give me something to do with my—"
John shoved the carrot in Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock grunted in relief.
John blinked at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked at John.
"Clearly we need to keep your mouth covered or your mouth full."
John nodded at his own diagnosis. Sherlock nodded back. Then bit the carrot.
John experienced a moment of enlightenment.
Ordinarily Sherlock did not willingly consume corn, carrots, or peas unless John 'hid' them in the pasta sauce or on those little pizza things Sherlock liked. With an all-purpose nod John turned with a decisive click of the heel, Sherlock rose…
"Did they say how long the—"
John switched off the hob (on which gently burbled pasta sauce with shredded carrots and mashed peas 'hidden' in it; this was successfully accomplished because there was enough sugar to scandalize even a novice home cook), Sherlock right at his back…
"—effects would last? Because now that I think about it there's an experiment I—"
John tugged open the fridge…
"—could do concerning how much voluntary control a person can exert over theoretically involuntary—"
Without turning around the good doctor shoved a stick of celery in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's mouth received the celery and was glad of the celery. Sherlock's mouth began masticating the celery. John turned back to the fridge, trying not to get excited as he looked for more healthy food.
He did not move fast enough.
"I'm not actually enjoying this whole produce ploy you know, so if you think—"
Without turning around John shoved half a piece of wholemeal bread into Sherlock's mouth and he's lucky he'd finger-smeared jam on because Sherlock was about to spit it down the back of John's neck like a six foot toddler. Instead, detecting the sugar, he masticated lustily.
It didn't last. Then again nothing in space-time manages to keep Sherlock's mouth shut for long.
"There were those strange spongy-chocolately things Mrs. Hudson's cousin brought over from Austra—"
Without turning John shoved a spongy-chocolatey thing—"Lamingtons, Sherlock, they're called—ouch!"—into Sherlock's mouth.
Chewing vigorously and leaning against John's back, Sherlock looked into the refrigerator and was two seconds from making pronouncements, when John shoved a Brussels sprout between his lover's lips. It had jam on it.
Sherlock chewed in silence and John wondered why he hadn't long ago simply smeared jam on everything—vitamins, vegetables, pasta—everything.
Another Brussels sprout with jam. More chewing, swallowing, and then, "What do—ermf."
It was disgusting, he knew it was disgusting, but frankly it was right there, so yes, John took the half block of Irish butter, smeared jam on it, and shoved it into Sherlock's mouth. Pressed against John's back and gazing in that fridge as if the interior contained a corpse, Sherlock sucked contentedly.
John shook his head. Wouldn't it just figure he hadn't gone shopping for days and there was little left in the fridge but tiny tubs of yogurt that three days from now would do a marvelous job of pinch-hitting for the poison required in an experiment?
"John, I think maybe—"
The good doctor sucked in a scandalized breath, turned. "Sherlock Holmes you did not just eat half a block of butter in twenty seconds."
Sherlock waved the butter in the air. "It needs more jam. And also I'm beginning to wonder if it was the fumes that drugged me or if perhaps it was more of a contact high."
John lunged toward the sink.
"It's a very interesting question really, and I'm certain given just a little time I can recreate the experiment, but I'll definitely need much more—"
John yanked out a dirty spoon.
"—bisulphate of baryta and possibly a bigger pot in which to mix the ingredients do you think we could get a bigger stove top even if we can't I think I should be able—"
The good doctor shoved a spoonful of jam into Sherlock's motor mouth, turned toward the cabinetry and began yanking cupboards open.
Behind him Sherlock sucked noisily.
Dry oats, dry pasta, salt, pepper, Marmite, bananas that had seen better days…John you lazy git.
With a harumph the good doctor turned and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock moved the spoon from one side of his mouth to the other and started biting it, teeth clenching so hard John feared for the man's enamel. The good doctor lunged again, pried open his lover's maw—"Good god man, release!"—and rescued the flatware.
"John no, no John, John John, John—"
John pushed his index finger into Sherlock's mouth right on up to the last knuckle. John needed to think but he couldn't think with all the noise.
And then he couldn't think because Sherlock was sucking and sucking and then he was tonguing and kind of fellating and working that finger as if with just the right encouragement the thing might, you know, ejaculate.
John tried tugging his finger free but Sherlock followed it and sucked harder.
The finger. It was Sherlock's panacea, his reason, his cure. It was the answer to questions he hadn't even asked.
"Sherlock let go."
Sherlock didn't let go, just sort of hunched over, eyes a little glazed. The finger. The Finger. The Finger.
He tried to say the word but he couldn't say the word because he was too busy sucking on the manifestation of the word to discuss its glory and so he continued to—
—suck and maybe he made a small sound that was kind of a sigh and—
—maybe he started to tenderly teethe and—
And finally the penny dropped.
There was no more food to feed Sherlock. Not unless John was going to get the rest of the butter in him with a side of dry pasta (yes, John's forgotten about the pasta sauce on the stove; John currently has very extenuating circumstances and they are six feet tall and extremely oral).
So it was time to fill Sherlock's motor mouth with other things.
Two seconds later Sherlock opened glazed eyes, the index finger of a nitrile-coated glove dangling from his mouth, the good doctor himself gone.
"I need them John. John. John John John John JohnJohnJohnJohnJoooohn…"
Climbing the stairs to the rare-used upstairs bedroom—John had a sense there was soon going to be a lot of sound—the good doctor reflected that if you hear your own name often enough it sounds like it belongs to an entirely different language.
"Fingers, fingers, I need fingers, John."
This was not the first time Sherlock had said those words. It was the first time he meant that he required ones still attached to their source.
"Fingers, John, fingers, fingers, fingers, fingers, fingers."
Climbing those stairs right behind his lover, Sherlock's own surprisingly chilly digits danced over the good doctor's spine, as if the touch could magically cause fingers to appear there. This terrible miracle did not occur, so something much more common place did.
"If you think about it, think about it, think think think…fingers could be—"
John stopped, turned, braced for the inevitable.
Sherlock walked face first into John's chest—"Mmfff!"
John opened his mouth, probably about to caution Sherlock against treading on his last nerve when he was about to sexually service him, but something else inevitable happened just then.
Sherlock started nosing his nose across John's shirt front.
The good doctor forgot what he was going to say as he watched that nose go in search of, in search of…there!
Through a thin cotton tee Sherlock found the wee swell of a nipple and with a satisfied grunt latched on.
Nipples were nirvana, they were beautiful unfurled buds, warm as blood, delicate as…as…as nipples. Here, this, these were Sherlock's antidote.
John is a sucker for sucking, he'll admit that right now. It's not a physical thing, he's pretty sure his fingers, toes, nipples, and neck are no more sensitive than the next man's, but there's just something primal—
A dark, curly head tilted and John saw a contented face, a jaw working.
—about Sherlock sucking.
And John took that infantile sucking like a man. Standing straight-backed and tall on those creaky old stairs, John offered up his body in the manner of a man who has grown used to a certain amount of, um, self-sacrifice in the cause of domestic harmony, a man familiar with frequently, uh, submitting…
Sherlock huffed a soft, sweet breath.
…to his lover's intense needs…
Sherlock made a sound that sounded an awful lot like cooing.
… his wild demands, his unpredictable drives, asking absolutely n-n-nothing for…
Sherlock groped around for his own cock and grabbed hold of himself through his trousers.
…himself except maybe a little kiss and cuddle now and again, maybe a little…
Then Sherlock shoved his head up under John's shirt and when that actual hot nipple slid into his overworked mouth Sherlock keened as if coming.
John's knee gave out.
Instantly four hands reached to save him, two clutching for railing and wall, the larger pair clamping around one small man's waist.
"Shhher," John tried again, hoping that single syllable was enough to convey his mighty desire to continue north up the stairs so he could then immediately head south. So to speak.
Beneath John's t-shirt Sher, however, was intent on other things.
Pulling away from John's nipple, the good detective began rooting around with that snub nose in his dark cotton cocoon until…there!
Sherlock latched on to the other tiny bud with a high groan.
John's other knee gave out.
At this point there were no more hands to save him so down he went, his bum landing with a quiet thud on their first floor landing.
Arms splayed behind him, John was unsurprised to find a big head still bumping around beneath a layer of cloth. Sherlock had not only fallen with him, he'd managed to stay latched on, too.
Latched on, latched on, latched on. Why did those two words cause John's cock to shift inquisitively inside his pants?
John didn't know, didn't want to know. Would knowing change anything? It would not. So instead he simply thought about what was going on beneath his stretched-out t-shirt and what was going on under there was fucking magical.
There were sharp teeth tenderly biting. A squirming tongue lavishing tight skin with warmth and wetness. A mouth worth fucking sucking at him. And a deep baritone moaning in breathy, high-pitched pleasure.
Head lolling on his neck, John would probably have just let all of that be enough for a good long while but maybe Sherlock was starting to get hypoxia in there because he began squirming from crown to cock, trying, John thought, to penetrate—well, anything.
"Sher…Sssh…mmmmm," John gave up on the whole complete sentence thing. Instead he simply tugged off his t-shirt, turned, and with two suddenly dodgy knees, he simply started crawling toward the bedroom.
Speaking of suggestible.
Sherlock clambered onto the landing and, though both his legs worked just fine, he crawled behind that beautiful, tempting, succulent behind and even as he chanted "John, John, John, John, John," he slicked his tongue around his mouth and he knew, he knew that that was what he needed-wanted-had to have…
"Have, have, John…John…"
The bedroom was still (John wasn't, tugging his clothes off with wild abandon) and quiet (Sherlock wasn't, resorting to a babble of lusty nonsense) and the moment John crawled onto the bed Sherlock flipped him onto his belly, grabbed a double fistful of ex-army doctor arse and separated—
Quite possibly partially blind from want, it took Sherlock one full second to track his sweetie as he bounded from the bed.
"If that's what you need then I need—" John started inching toward the attached toilet.
"Don't go," mourned the man on the bed, voice as woeful as if the good doctor were marching to war, not to the loo.
"I can't wait John you know I can't wait and it's not me being me for once except of course it is, I bet your response to those fumes would have been lip-licking and jaw-clenching and scowling in my general direction but that doesn't matter what matters is that I so badly need to—"
John shoved Sherlock's fingers in Sherlock's mouth.
Everyone's brows shot up when this actually worked to keep the man quiet.
It also worked at other things. Groping his own cock briefly John said, "Sher," and vacated the scene with alacrity.
Ablutions that would ordinarily have taken a few minutes took less than half of one. Call it twenty-five seconds give or take a frantic two. From the other room Sherlock said nothing, though John heard the occasional grunt and moan, which only served to move him along more quickly.
Pleased with his speed, the good doctor reentered the bedroom only to be presented with a sight he'd seen exactly never.
Actually, for very long seconds John wasn't quite sure what he was seeing. And then he knew but didn't believe it. And then he believed it and became amazed he hadn't seen it before. And then John unhinged his jaw and let it drop clear down to his breast bone.
Because there on the bed was a man trying to bend himself double to get at his own cock with his mouth.
Right about then John had himself a thinky thought. Why, when he's watched Sherlock masturbate with his brother's brolly, seen him finger-fuck his own arse, been sucked off by him beneath a restaurant table, why after all that and more did the sight on the bed scandalize him so much he went stock-still on the spot?
John had no idea, not one, not even a fraction of one. And ultimately it didn't matter. Because John stood breathless in that bedroom doorway and he waited to see if Sherlock could actually do it.
After a riveting fifteen seconds of grunting exertion the conclusion in both their minds was this: Must try again. Later.
Shaking his head to clear it from a fog of lust and unbidden visions of Sherlock orally getting himself off, John drifted toward the bed in a hormone-addled daze.
"Sher," he said, again unable to complete the thought, but half the thought was enough apparently for the moment he saw his sweetie walking toward him, cock raised in a smart salute, Sher swarmed off the bed and tackled his lover to the rugged floor.
And without so much as a "This all right for you darling?" Sherlock flipped him onto his belly again and he spread him.
If the phrase 'latched on' gets John's cock stirring, the concept, the words, and the actual action of spreading John are all it takes for Sherlock to become so aroused he can watch himself actually leaking.
Maybe the toxins were at last washing from his system. Maybe his desire was so big it stopped his tongue, or just maybe he'd surrendered all higher function to his animal brain and that brain wanted just one thing.
Sherlock started as he always did when offering his lover this kind of adoration: He bowed over him and he tenderly bit.
Two hundred pounds: That's the bite pressure the human jaw can exert. Perhaps that's why some are aroused by a tender nip of teeth along delicate flesh—it's the control that tempts, it's the willful restraint that teases. Or maybe it just feels good when pearly whites…
…dig in to blood-blushed and pliant flesh.
As his lover nipped, John curved his spine, arched his back again and again, a sinuous wave that invited more biting, harder nips.
Sherlock gratefully lavished him with these as if that was everything, all of it. Yet they both knew what was coming.
Though not just yet.
John didn't even try to say it this time, he simply thought it, yet even in his head it was breathless and needy.
So Sherlock gave him what he needed.
Because he knew it would cross wires in both their heads Sherlock did it again, he nosed around, pressing his face against the curve of John's bum as if searching. He made questing sounds, grunted inquisitively, pushing the sharp planes of his face against warm skin and then he bit again, a little harder, because he loves the feel of muscle through John's flesh, so different from his own arse which, he's pretty sure, is simply flesh. Acres of it.
Searching, searching, Sherlock grunted and bit and his long-fingered hands slid slow along the backs of John's thighs, then between them, and when finally he parted those fine legs the search was quite over and with a soft, soft, softer still sigh Sherlock nosed himself right between John's arse cheeks and he started to feed.
The first time they did this John was sure he wouldn't…couldn't…just wasn't going to…
He was wrong.
And maybe "wrong" is what made this exactly right, John doesn't know. All he knows is he's a doctor and he never thought that this would be something he would give or get but he does both and every time, every single time, he's amazed his body doesn't just respond a little, it's fucking lavish.
Hips cocked high, John opened himself wide, made himself as available as he could, and he pushed between his legs with the palm of his hand as Sherlock pushed the tip of his tongue into him, so soft and slick and insistent he slid right in.
Then out again.
This is what Sherlock does, of course. He gives and gives and then he stops giving, because that's what makes getting again feel so good.
So instead of poking that squirmy tongue back inside he licked, bobbing his head with the steady rise and fall of John's hips as he humped his own hand, and then that seemed like a damn fine idea, so Sherlock wriggled a long arm between carpet and cock, which left him with just one hand with which to spread John, but John was doing a mighty fine job of spreading himself, back arched, knees braced against the floor and judging from the sounds he was making Sherlock was certain that if he just slid on inside again John would come so Sherlock…
…didn't do that.
Instead he went back to biting, little nibbles, but these much closer to the sensitive pucker at the center of John's bobbing arse. The good doctor remarked on these ministrations with a softly susurrated, "Sh, Sh, Sh," and wanked a little faster.
Sherlock responded by pushing between John's butt cheeks with the bridge of his nose, demanding. Obligingly the doctor canted his hips higher, opened his legs wider.
Sherlock grunted, high and insistent and pushed harder until at last John slid his knees under him.
And then, left shoulder and cheek propped on the floor, John reached round with his right hand and spread himself wider.
And that was the end of that.
Sherlock groaned, clamped his mouth over John, and pushed his tongue all the way in. He then proceeded to thrust into and out of that tight little ring with the same rhythm with which John masturbated.
John, John, John… He doesn't need to say it any more, the toxin's gone from his system finally, but he ever and always wants to voice this one simple, perfect word.
Most days he says it with his mouth, some days with deed, like right now by spreading just that little bit more what's already open and offered, Sherlock covered John's moderate bum with his own immoderately large hands and, thumbs either side of that squirming tongue, he opened John up, he went deeper, and there and then John groaned and started to come.
Sherlock went still, focused and intent and so very aroused by the feeling of John's body clamping down on the tiny bit of flesh he had inside him.
It took awhile for the aftershocks to fade and for that long minute the good detective remained motionless. When finally the spasms were done Sherlock knew John's bad shoulder would be aching so he didn't give him time to focus on the pain.
Instead he did it again, third time's the charm, he flipped John over. And there it was, he knew it, John had managed to cup his hand over his cock as he came, and so Sherlock ran long fingers through the wet and quite unceremoniously he pushed those fingers into John.
A gratifying twitch was the doctor's response and with that Sherlock withdrew, lined himself up, pushed himself in, and started to ride.
"Sherlock," John moaned, "Sh-Sh-Sherlock."
Maybe the poison really was a contact high and maybe John was the one looped now because he damn well didn't shut it for the next four and one half minutes as Sherlock pushed into him slow and deep.
"Now, now, now, now, now Sh-Sheeeer…mmmmm…n-n-n-ooooooow…oh, oh, oh…"
Giddy with the garrulous input Sherlock listened to those sexy babblings and kept listening and probably got distracted with the listening but it was good, it was fine, John brought him right round with a slow slide of two fingers into Sherlock's mouse-quiet mouth.
And that really was the end of that, with the groan of one simple, perfect word Sherlock pressed the long length of his body against his lover and started to come.
Well then. This is the longest Feeding Sherlock so far. The coal-tar derivative and bisulphate of baryta et cetera were mentioned in "The Chemistry of Sherlock Holmes," I invented the disabling effects mixing the two would have. Thank you Tony for that information! And thank you times infinite to Livia Carica for giving me the nursing kink. I think some anonymous angel's responsible for the whole rimming thing.