Thanks to the wonderful MornMeril who not only pointed out where my mistakes were, but also offered very helpful suggestions while making me laugh in the process.


The first time they had sex happened after a case that had lasted almost four days and ended with a chase across rooftops, Sherlock leading the way and John following not too far behind. Upon returning home, both men collapsed on the sofa with their coats still on and adrenaline pumping through their veins. Soon, John started laughing uncontrollably and Sherlock joined in, the low rumble like music to John's ears. Neither knew who stopped laughing first, but suddenly their eyes met and they couldn't look away. Sherlock's eyes were burning, staring at John with hunger and longing, and very soon they gravitated effortlessly towards each other.

The kiss was the result of several months of unresolved sexual tension, weeks of small touches and shivers, and days of heated stares. They had been dancing around each other for so long that the kiss seemed like the natural next step, the culmination of the tension. Very soon, their hands were everywhere, tugging at clothes and stroking warm flesh. In the heat of the moment, John slid a hand down to cup Sherlock's already hard cock through his trousers. The member felt hot and heavy under his fingers as he stroked feverishly. Sherlock was bucking against him, panting and moaning helplessly, and very soon he let out a strangled cry as his orgasm hit him hard. His eyes were closed and he was breathing incredibly fast, but John didn't move his hand. He could feel wetness seeping through the fabric of Sherlock's pants and trousers, and he had never been so turned on in his life. To know that it had been him who had that to Sherlock, that he had rendered him so vulnerable and helpless, well that was doing unspeakable things to John's groin.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and his cheeks were flushed from both arousal and embarrassment. John was very understanding, he said everything Sherlock needed to hear, told him it was all fine (it had become some sort of secret code between them at some point), that he was beautiful and that there were still a lot of things they could do, if he wanted to of course. A few seconds later, they were kissing passionately again, John on top of Sherlock while their tongues waltzed with each other and their hands groped and stroked. Within ten minutes, John could feel Sherlock's cock hardening again against his thigh and he moaned into the detective's mouth. He quickly opened Sherlock's trousers and sneaked a hand inside his pants. Touching the burning flesh slick with come was one of the hottest and dirtiest things he had ever felt and it was obvious that Sherlock was just as aroused from the way he was rutting frantically against his hand, trying to get more friction.

On that night, John learned a lot of things. He learned that Sherlock has a very sensitive neck, that he likes to have his nipples bitten softly, that his voice becomes even lower when he's aroused and that John whispering directly into his ear, telling Sherlock exactly what he wanted to do to his, turned him on. John also learned that Sherlock comes extremely quickly, but has a very short refractory period and can sustain a second erection within ten minutes of his first orgasm. He was also very pleased to find out that it takes Sherlock much longer to achieve a second orgasm, leaving him plenty of time to thoroughly satisfy one particular ex-army doctor.


In the week following their first sexual encounter, they had sex almost every day, but they were always naked by the time Sherlock had his first orgasm, and even though the sex was mind-blowingly brilliant, John couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock coming in his pants. He longed to back the tall man up against a wall in a dark corner and stroke him until he lost control. However, he wasn't cruel; he didn't want to put his friend in an uncomfortable position and leave him with drying semen in his pants for too long. If his fantasy were to happen, it had to be while they weren't too far from the flat.

The opportunity finally presented itself while they were on a date at Angelo's. An actual date, not a stakeout. There was no case at the moment and the evening had been very pleasant. They had started the meal facing each other, but Sherlock had joined John on his bench-seat just before dessert. Dessert that only John had ordered, but Sherlock was stealing bites from, even though he had insisted he didn't want any. It was obvious to both where the evening was going; Sherlock's hand was on John's lower back and he was stroking lazily while John ate his tiramisu with apprent pleasure. Once the last mouthful of the dessert was swallowed, John raised a hand to Sherlock's neck and pulled him down for a kiss that tasted just like mascarpone cheese, coffee, chocolate and a bit of the red wine they had had with their meal. John's lips travelled from Sherlock's mouth to his ear, leaving a wet trail along the way.

"I wish I could suck your cock right now," John whispered and when he felt Sherlock swallowing hard, he slid a finger over his Adam's apple.

"I want to suck on that gorgeous cock of yours until I can't breathe, I want you to thrust until I'm almost choking, until the only thing I can taste is you," John continued as his finger slid lower, following the trail of buttons on Sherlock's shirt. The detective's breathing quickened as he softly moaned John's name.

"I want to take you as deeply as I can until you come," John added as he put one hand on Sherlock's inner thigh, stroking up and down in a very slow tantalising motion.

Sherlock was hard, of course he was, with John whispering very dirty things directly into his ear. He had never read anything about it in anatomy books, but apparently the ear was directly linked to the cock. There was something deliciously naughty about John being this filthy in public and he wanted nothing more than to leave the restaurant and take John home to let him do anything he wanted to him. Instinctively, Sherlock parted his thighs, allowing John better access.

"Even if I suspect Angelo would actually approve of me giving you a blow-job under this very table, I won't. But I want to make you come right now. I want to feel your cock spasm under my hand, I want to feel your trousers getting damp," John said as he groped for Sherlock's cock.

Once his hand was firmly in place, he started stroking, applying just enough pressure to keep Sherlock on the verge of orgasm for a few minutes. Sherlock had buried his face in John's neck in an attempt to stifle his moans, and John was still whispering profanities.

Every second, Sherlock felt himself getting closer to climax. He tried to prolong the moment, to think about other things, but he was a violin and John was playing him to completion extremely quickly. When he couldn't hold back anymore, he bit John's neck hard enough to leave a mark and, just like a teenager, he came in his pants while John was fondling him. He could feel his hot semen dripping onto his balls, and his pants starting to stick to his softening cock. He felt dirty and completely at John's mercy; it was amazing.

Soon after, they left the restaurant and hurried home where John couldn't even wait to reach their bedroom, pinning Sherlock against the closed door of their flat as he sneaked a hand down Sherlock's underwear.


John couldn't put what had happened at Angelo's out of his mind. Sherlock's stifled moans against his neck and his helplessness had been such a turn on that he had had difficulties walking home afterwards. He wanted it to happen again. Soon, if possible.

And happen again it did, this time in a cab on the way home from Scotland Yard where Lestrade had needed them to give a statement regarding their latest case. While they had been in the DI's office, Sherlock had noticed a pile of files on the desk, had deduced that they contained cold cases and had asked to look them over. Three hours later, the sun had set, Sherlock had solved four cases and was feeling quite good about himself. He was grinning when they got out and he snaked his arms around John's waist to hug him tightly from behind while they were waiting for a cab. Sherlock wasn't often the one to initiate physical contact in public and so John greatly enjoyed the small gesture of affection. He was almost disappointed when a cab finally pulled up.

As soon as the vehicle drove off, Sherlock attached his lips to the patch of skin just under John's ear.

"Will you fuck me when we get home, John?" he asked and suddenly it felt as though there wasn't any blood left in John's brain, as it all chose to rush south,

"Oh yes," he replied.

"I don't think I can wait until we're home," Sherlock said in that voice he knew would drive John crazy. Then, he grabbed John's left hand and guided it to his half-hard cock until he could thrust discreetly against it.

John got the message quickly; he squeezed gently – and repeatedly – while Sherlock kissed his neck. His coat in addition to the darkness were effectively covering what they were doing effectively and if they could just keep quiet, the driver would never know what was happening in his cab. After a few minutes, John unfastened Sherlock's belt and undid his trousers. Then, he slid a hand inside so he could fondle him through his pants and feel the damp patch of pre-come. Sherlock was getting close, John could tell from the way his cock twitched when he squeezed it tighter and, after a few more strokes, Sherlock gasped and came.

John knew that Sherlock was very sensitive right now, but he couldn't take his hand away, not when he could feel Sherlock's come soaking through the fabric of his cotton pants. He tried to keep his hand as still as possible and, when they were close to their flat, he removed it so Sherlock could fasten his trousers before once again grabbing John's left hand. Sherlock brought it up to his own face and when John cupped his cheek, Sherlock leaned into the touch until his mouth was pressed against John's hand. He inhaled deeply – smelling himself on John – and, in one obscene gesture, licked a long trail across John's palm.

Once the cab pulled up in front of their door, they couldn't get out the vehicle, into the building and up the stairs fast enough.


The alley was dark and smelled like a mixture of wet garbage and asphalt. Rain was falling mercilessly, it had been like this all day, but Sherlock and John had nonetheless spent the last two hours on a stakeout. Somehow, Sherlock had deduced that a small group of robbers were using that particular alley as their meeting point, which explained why he and John were concealed behind some foul-smelling dustbins. They had abandoned all hope of remaining dry at some point during the first hour of stillness and it was now very hard not to move when drops of icy water continually ran in small streams down their collars. Sherlock and John were pressed against each other in order to share some warmth and John's head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. The taller man was gently stroking John's neck, but his eyes were focused on the rendezvous point of the miscreants. When the gang finally arrived, Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and started filming them while John texted Lestrade their exact location. The DI was quick to arrive; he and his team had been surveying another alley not too far from there. After the robbers were arrested and John promised they would go to Scotland Yard the next day to give their statement, everyone left; leaving Sherlock and John alone and soaked in the dark alley. As soon as it was just the two of them, John pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace.

"I'm so tired and wet, I don't think I can move," John said.

"My coat is soaked, my shirt is soaked," Sherlock replied while gently biting John's earlobe, "my trousers are soaked…"

"Not surprising, we've been outside for hours, I'll be surprised if we don't catch colds."

"John, my trousers are soaked," Sherlock insisted.

"I know, so are mine," John said and Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh.

"You are not getting it, my trousers are so wet, no one would be able to tell if… something happened," he said seductively while slowly rubbing his groin against John's hip.

"Oh!" John said as realisation hit him. He slid a hand under Sherlock's coat, grabbed a handful of his round arse and pulled him even closer, guiding the slow thrusting movement Sherlock was still making. "You like it, don't you? You actually like coming in your pants like a dirty teenager!" he said and Sherlock moaned obscenely, his head falling back.

Still rubbing Sherlock's arse, John attacked his exposed throat. Wet curls were tickling his cheek as his mouth pressed hungry kisses to the damp skin. The rain was still pouring down hard, but neither paid it any attention. Sherlock continued thrusting against John's hip, but with more force, and he was making small desperate noises as the need for more friction overwhelmed him. John was torn between the desire to prolong the moment - to tease and torment Sherlock until he begged - and the wish to make him come, take him home and fuck him hard. Or to make him come, take him home and be fucked hard, he didn't care about the specifics, but some fucking had to happen in the near future or he expected to lose his mind.

Finally, the longing won and John stepped back until there was enough room between them to palm Sherlock's cock. It felt hot, despite the cold water clinging to their clothes, and Sherlock shuddered when John squeezed and rubbed. John knew Sherlock wouldn't last very long, he was panting and his hands were clawing desperately at John's back. It only took a few more strokes before Sherlock was bucking and moaning as he felt the delicious spasms of orgasm running through his body. He leaned on John while he tried to control his breathing and once he had calmed enough to walk, he grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the street to find a cab.

"I'm tired, you're topping!" Sherlock called and John followed as quickly as he could, considering the erection tenting his trousers.


Eventually, this little game of theirs started happening at home too. Previously, they would have undressed before things got too far, but they were both too aroused by Sherlock coming in his pants not to indulge as frequently as possible. John loved the control and the power, he loved that Sherlock got so excited that he couldn't wait. He loved the desperate sounds escaping his mouth and the way he couldn't help but thrust against him. He loved to feel the dampness of Sherlock's crotch, the smell of come and sex, and how dirty the whole thing felt. Sherlock loved the filthiness and the humiliation and he loved when it happened in public and how people – if they had any deducing skills – could know exactly what he and John had been doing. Also, there was something about the feeling of semen sticking to his cock and balls that made him want to rut against John like an animal in heat. He didn't understand those urges, they were illogical, but he wanted nothing more than to indulge.

One night, while Sherlock was out (he had received a text from Molly and had gone to the morgue to do god-knows-what to a fresh corpse), John took advantage of the situation to have a quiet night in. He had ordered Thai food, had popped in a DVD and had ended up falling asleep on the sofa, only to be awoken an hour later by a heavy weight on his torso. He slowly opened his eyes and realised there was a consulting detective sitting on him, his long legs straddling his chest and a mischievous grin on his face.

"Hello John," Sherlock said, still grinning.

"Sherlock. You look… cheerful," John replied sleepily.

"Cheerful is one way of putting it," he said as he grabbed John's hand and placed it on his hard cock. John instantly felt awake, and he made a few up and down motions with his hand while Sherlock groaned in bliss.

"I want to suck you," John announced and Sherlock quickly unfastened his belt before unbuttoning his trousers. He was about to slide down both his trousers and pants, but John stopped him.

"Keep the pants," he said and Sherlock obeyed, only easing the trousers down as much as he could.

John grabbed Sherlock's arse and brought him closer, until he could nuzzle his crotch. There was the evident scent of arousal, mixed in with the scent that was purely Sherlock; both easily distinguishable even through the soft cotton of his black pants. There was already a small patch of pre-come on the front of the underwear and suddenly, John felt the urge to taste, so he gave in to the temptation and started mouthing Sherlock's cock through the fabric. The sounds escaping the taller man's lips sounded a lot like whimpers and John smiled as he continued to lick and mouth his way up and down the engorged member. After just a few minutes of the exquisite torture, Sherlock was moaning John's name and bucking uncontrollably against him.

"John, I'm… John!" he muttered and his body shook as wave after wave of pleasure hit him. He could feel his cock pulsating as streams of come shot out of him and dampened his pants.

John was harder than he had ever been and his hips were thrusting upwards into thin air, seeking a friction he couldn't get, and he needed all his willpower not to palm his own cock through his trousers. Instead, he pressed a cheek to Sherlock's softening member, enjoying the damp feeling on his skin. Very soon, it wasn't enough and he nuzzled the fabric, once again marvelling at how dirty it felt, how deliciously forbidden it all seemed. While Sherlock was trying to control his breathing, John slid his hands inside Sherlock's pants and started slowly kneading his arse. Sherlock's eyes were closed and nothing in his face showed anything other than pure bliss and contentment. John always loved the minutes following Sherlock's first orgasm, he loved the suspended time and the anticipation, and he loved how he could feel his heart beating in his own cock. He knew that soon Sherlock would get his breath back, that soon he would get to peel down those damp pants and see the once again hard cock dripping with come. He knew that he would get to suck on the gorgeous member and taste Sherlock's release. Then, he knew Sherlock would slowly prepare him, enter him and thrust as if their lives depended on it.


John was a romantic at heart, but he didn't have many expectations for his one-year anniversary with Sherlock. In fact, he would have been happy with takeaway for dinner followed by some kissing, some touching and, hopefully, some shagging. However, Mycroft had other plans. On the morning of Sherlock and John's anniversary, the ever so watchful brother had sent an envelope containing two tickets for this evening's performance of Beethoven's Fidelio at the Royal Opera House. Sherlock had frowned and had told John they weren't going to accept a present from Mycroft, but when John had asked what the opera was about, Sherlock's eyes had shone and he had described the story with such enthusiasm, John had declared that they were going. Sherlock's breezy "fine, if you want to," hadn't fooled him at all.

Mycroft had also organised a nice dinner in a very posh and chic private dining room of the Opera House, but they had decided to forego that part of the evening in favour of a quiet dinner at Angelo's. Sherlock kept saying that this was where they had had their first date while John insisted that a stakeout, while a nice enough activity for an established couple, wasn't first date material and that it couldn't be considered a date if one of the participants wasn't even aware that it was a date. It was one of their recurring bickering topics. Dinner was delicious and Angelo had outdone himself; their usual table had no less than five candles on it. Once they were done eating, a sleek black car pulled up outside and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course Mycroft knew that they had changed plans. Nonetheless, the private car would cost less than a cab and would probably be faster, so they got in, both relieved that neither Mycroft nor his slightly creepy assistant were inside.

Once in the Royal Opera House, they were escorted to the Royal Box; Mycroft had made sure they would not be disturbed. Sherlock was telling John all about the adjoining private Victorian water closet when the lights dimmed and the opera started. John wasn't surprised when he realised thirty minutes had passed and he had absolutely no idea what was going on. He would have to ask Sherlock during the interval. He soon abandoned his attempt to follow what was happening on stage and instead shifted his attention to Sherlock instead. He looked particularly handsome that evening, not that there was anything different about him; he was wearing the same kind of suit along with John's favourite shirt (the plum coloured one). As usual, he wasn't wearing a tie and the two first buttons of his shirt were undone. For a while, John let his thoughts drift to the patch of exposed skin and he remembered what it had felt like under his lips when he had kissed him there earlier. He let his eyes drift down the lean torso, noticing the strong, crossed thighs, and looked back up again to stare at Sherlock's face. He looked captivated, his eyes fixed upon the stage and his lips slightly parted. John's dirty mind was recalling the shape of those plump lips when moaning in passion, just as Sherlock looked at him and winked. He actually winked! John felt hot around the collar and decided it was probably best to resume looking at the stage.

During the interval, Sherlock explained what had happened on stage, but John was hardly able to follow. He understood that it was Beethoven's only opera and that there was a woman masquerading as a man in order to rescue her husband from prison, but, once again, he was distracted by Sherlock's mouth and what he hoped it would be doing later tonight. Thanks to the private loo, John didn't have to go out and use the public gents and when he came back, he noticed their seats seemed considerably closer to the edge of the box, but the lights were dimming again so he said nothing and took his seat.

The second act passed almost without incident (almost being the crucial word). John tried to keep his attention on the stage and nothing in Sherlock's behaviour hinted that his attention wasn't entirely focused on the opera. Yet, it wasn't.

Sherlock had decided he had seen enough after the first act, had spent most of the interval forming a plan and was now waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. Almost literally. When he felt the moment was right, he leaned towards John.

"I saw you looking at my mouth earlier. Were you thinking about what that mouth could be doing right now?" Sherlock asked with his low rumbling voice he knew would go straight to John's groin.

"Sherlock, shush!" John whispered.

"I want you to put your hands on me," Sherlock continued, unperturbed by John's demand that he kept quiet.

"There are people around!" John said quietly, but he didn't sound as determined as he had hoped.

"I pushed our chairs close enough to the front of the box, no one will see. Please John, touch me. I need it," he said and he knew the mix of his begging tone and the use of the word please would get the best of John's self-control.

Indeed, John looked around, and after assessing they most likely wouldn't be seen, he put a hand on Sherlock's thigh and Sherlock crossed his legs, trapping the hand between his legs.

"You can do much better than that," Sherlock said. "When I release your hand, I want you to try again."

Always up for a challenge, as soon as his hand was free, John reached for Sherlock's crotch and grabbed a handful of his genitals.

"Is that better?" he whispered.

"Yesssss," Sherlock hissed as he spread his legs to allow John better access.

"You have to be very, very quiet," John murmured urgently and Sherlock nodded vigorously.

John stroked gently while Sherlock writhed and bucked against his hand. He knew the detective's body pretty well by now and he could easily tell when he was close to climax, so he decided to bring him as close as possible, as many times as possible. He squeezed Sherlock's cock until he could feel it trembling against his fingers and then, abruptly, he removed his hand. Sherlock gasped and thrust against thin air while he tried to adjust to the lack of contact.

"Jooooohn, what do you think you're doing? Put that hand back before I strangle you with my scarf," he whispered in what he hoped was a menacing tone, but he sounded a lot more desperate than threatening.

John couldn't help his smile, but he waited until Sherlock's breathing had slowed down to start groping him again. He started slowly, working up a rhythm until Sherlock had to bite his lips to refrain from moaning out loud. Once again, John stopped when Sherlock was on the verge of coming and he heard him mutter something that sounded very obscene under his breath.

"John, really, I don't know what you're doing, but I need your hand on me this instant."

John almost obliged him, delicately putting a hand on his knee and ignoring Sherlock's grunt of protestation. Once he felt it was safe to do so, his hand sneaked higher and he grabbed Sherlock's cock again. By then, Sherlock was grabbing the armrest, his knuckles white with the effort, and his dark curls damp with sweat. He was gritting his teeth so hard, John was afraid he would break something in his jaw, and when his hand once again left Sherlock's crotch, the taller man almost cursed. John did this again several times; bringing Sherlock to the brink of orgasm before denying him the release he craved.

When the audience erupted into applause a few minutes later, John squeezed Sherlock's cock tighter, gave a few enthusiastic strokes and finally, Sherlock came, his whole body trembling and his eyes tightly shut. Fortunately, the clapping drowned the strangled cry that he couldn't hold back. As usual, John kept his hand in place and he almost moaned too when he felt how large the damp patch was. Instead, he pulled Sherlock in for a very heated kiss while the unsuspecting people from the boxes around them exited the room. Once he felt strong enough to walk, Sherlock dragged John out of the Opera House and into the black car that was waiting for them.

In the car, Sherlock practically assaulted John, shoving his tongue into his mouth and a hand down his trousers. They were less than twenty minutes away from Baker Street and John had no desire to see the evening come to an end right there in the car, so he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled his hand away from his aching cock. Sherlock grunted, but continued to fuck John's mouth with his tongue and started pinching his nipples through his shirt, which prompted what would have been a very loud moan if it hadn't been swallowed by Sherlock's mouth.

Upon returning to their flat, they rushed up the stairs, tumbled through the kitchen and, fumbling, entered Sherlock's bedroom. John pushed him on the bed and, licking his lips, started unfastening Sherlock's belt. Sherlock was used to this; as soon as his trousers were opened, he lifted his hips so John could slide the garment off, taking a moment to remove his shoes and socks before letting everything fall onto the floor. While John was busy with his trousers, Sherlock had taken off his jacket and had started working on his shirt buttons. Once he was naked, save for his underwear, he grinned at John, knowing his partner would really enjoy this part of the evening. John settled between Sherlock's legs and finally let his attention fall to the man's pants. The dark and loose fitting—wait, what? Sherlock never wore loose fitting pants. John looked closer and indeed, those pants were his! They were too big for Sherlock and, contrary to the ones he usually wore, couldn't contain the mess. As a result, come had dripped down his thighs and he looked positively debauched. Nothing could have prepared John for the sight of Sherlock sprawled out on the bed, wearing John's pants. John's pants now coated with Sherlock's come.

"Those are mine," John said throatily; he felt like he was choking on desire and arousal, it made talking difficult.

"For once, you observe. Yes John, those are yours. I thought you would appreciate the gesture," he replied with an almost shy smile, but his eyes were twinkling with mischief.

"Oh, Sherlock…" John breathed as he hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled the fabric down to claim what was his.