"Please kill me, John."
A few metres away water splashed gently over sand and rock. A clement breeze blew. Seagulls teased. And Sherlock spoke those four words softly, sweetly. Between violent gagging. And wretched choking.
John made comforting little tut-tut noises and held back Sherlock's hair.
"Am I dead yet?"
Now John didn't technically need to hold back Sherlock's hair, but he was doing it anyway, and he'd keep doing it so long as Sherlock kept throwing up.
"Because I'd like to be dead now."
John murmured something lovely, something tender. And reflected that this was not the 'vacation,' they'd expected.
"If you could arrange for that soon I'd be grateful."
Frankly neither had anticipated a vacation of any sort, but when Mrs. Hudson told them—she did not ask—that they were leaving 221B and staying at her ex-sister-in-law's B&B in Brighton, neither was foolish enough to open his mouth.
"Ask Mycroft, I'm sure he knows an assassin."
Still, she did mention something about repapering their sitting room (John thought he'd covered the newest holes remarkably well; apparently no), sanding the hardwoods (squid ink stains like you would not believe), and possibly sound-proofing the entire damned flat (about that she was lying), finishing up with 'or else.' So, off they went.
And here they were, the English Channel not four metres from their seafoam-green door, en suite rooms replete with loo, king-sized bed, fireplace, and four kinds of flavored lube.
Sherlock held up a wait a moment hand and wretched violently into the toilet. Again.
John blamed the clams.
At first it had all seemed so…so cinematic. Feed me in front of the fire, my love. Feed me clams on the half shell.
Sherlock dry heaved. Cinematically.
It was food poisoning. It had to be. And it had to have been the clams. John was sure it was the clams.
John needed to blame the clams and not the fact that he'd let Sherlock chase those chewy little bastards with jalapeno jam. A lot of jalapeño jam.
And because Sherlock's mouth had been kind of burny afterward, there'd been custard. A mountain of custard.
And then taffy. So much damned salt-water taffy Sherlock's vomit was a pretty pastel.
John shook his head. "Yes my love?"
Sherlock pressed a sweaty cheek into his doctor's cool palm. "I may be done dying now."
John kissed his sweetheart's temple.
"Let the pampering begin."
It's hard to tell if Sherlock's a big baby when he's sick because he really is, in fact, a big baby, or if Sherlock's a big baby when he's sick because John is partial to large, six foot babies.
Frankly it doesn't matter. The end result is Sherlock Holmes is a big baby, and John Watson is inclined to cosset them.
Today's mollycoddling began by settling a freshly-showered, pajama-ed, slightly fevered consulting detective on the plush carpet in front of the fire, surrounding him in plump pillows, laying at his elbow two mobiles, four medical journals, and all three of the room's remotes (TV, radio, and neither of them ever figured out what the third one turned on) (though later John would say Sherlock).
This was followed by John attentively listening while Sherlock proceeded to deduce Mrs. Hudson's ex-sister-in-law (former barrister; ex-hippie; inclined to offer free legal advice to friends; still partial to pot), the clams (the words red tide, neurotoxic shellfish poisoning, and V. cholerae were mentioned early and often), and the seaside grocer from whom they'd bought the clams ("cheap, mean, nasty"—admittedly not Sherlock's best work).
After that, when John deduced Sherlock's tummy had calmed, the big baby was fed toast and tomato soup—by hand, of course—settled comfortably into his downy nest by the fire, told a story (he liked to hear the strangest medical facts John knew), and petted until he fell asleep.
Weary, full, and pampered, that took but seconds. John watched him awhile, the dance of the gas-lit flame making the elusive highlights in his hair spark auburn, then eventually stole a pillow, lay next to his lover and, hands behind head daydreamed about nothing much.
John woke to nuzzling at his crotch.
Nuzzling: to rub or push against gently with nose and mouth.
Curled on their sides, top-and-tailed now so each more or less faced the other's groin, nuzzling was exactly what Sherlock was doing. The sun had long since set, the room was dark but for dancing firelight and John giggled. "Hey," he whispered, "what're you doing down there?"
Sherlock stuttered a sigh like a sleepy child, pushed his whole face against the warmth of John's pajama-covered crotch and, never really awake, fell asleep again.
Draping his arm over his lover's waist John grinned and tried a little sexy nuzzling of his own, breathing deep. There was something quite primal about Sherlock. It didn't take long after bathing for him to smell like himself again, and that was—well can you describe the smell of air and spice, dusk and fire?
John took another breath, pushed his face against the soft bulge between Sherlock's thighs for a moment, tightened his arm around his sweetheart, then followed him back to dreams.
John didn't so much wake an hour later as rise into a twilight sleep, a warm, comforting place where his belly was full, his mind comfortably empty, and his cock quite pleasantly hard.
For a long time John dallied in this delicious place, neither awake nor asleep, every muscle, tendon, and joint loose and warm, breathing easy, mind at peace.
He dreamed then, did John, a long strange dream of gypsies and silk, of dark forests dabbed with firefly light, of darker kisses and a face he couldn't see, of a hand cupping him, pressing, then sliding over him slick and careful, and in the dream—and in front of a fire, in a bed and breakfast in Brighton—John came.
The next time John rose from sleep, about twenty minutes later, he did the job fully and properly. He had some help.
What woke the good doctor from a restful and dreamless doze, on that plush carpet, in that snug room, curled up beside his one-true-love, was his one-true-love nuzzling again.
No, that's not quite right.
What woke John from that doze was Sherlock, still top to his tail, sucking him gently.
John sighed deeply, eyes still closed. He felt thin threads of sleep reach for him but he yawned them away, placed his hand on Sherlock's hip, thrust his own just a little and murmured, "S'nice."
Sherlock did not reply.
For long seconds John floated on sweet layers of sensation. There was that sense of peace still lingering, a warm blanket of all-is-right-with-the-world. There was a feeling of being warm clean through, as if he'd had the world's best massage. And then, of course, there was the sensation of arousal, a deep heat slowly building.
Another sigh, maybe another yawn, and John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair—instinctively feeling for fever along the way, finding none—said again softly, "Niccce…"
Sherlock said nothing.
Okay, yes, it took a long time for John to notice, he's going to admit that up front, all right? But the circumstances were extenuating, so he'll blame the post-coital haze (the forest-gypsy-dark-lover dream? remember that?) and the warm-comforting-sleepy-making fire, but the point is John did finally clue in and open his eyes, and look to see what was going on down below.
And what was going on down there was sucking, as previously mentioned. John's erect cock stood out from his body—more or less at a nice right angle—and firmly latched on to that hard but not-too-hard-I-just-came-20-minutes-ago cock was a consulting detective.
A sleeping consulting detective.
Every nerve ending in John's body suddenly sizzled-burned-sparked itself very wide awake.
"Oh dear fuck."
At the clear, crisp sound of his lover's voice Sherlock huffed out a breathy sigh, two fingers of his right hand—which loosely hooked around John's erection—briefly tightening.
Heart pounding somewhere up in his throat, John stared, mesmerized. Possibly gobsmacked. Confused, not confused, and oh so very turned on. Hell, as he damn well watched his cock got fuller, heavier. Which made Sherlock grunt in the back of his throat and suck with deeper pulls. Sucking John could so clearly see, what with Sherlock curled like a giant punctuation mark, and those two long fingers hooked over his cock to keep him more or less jutting straight out and straight in, right into Sherlock's busy mouth, and—oh dear lord.
Right about then Sherlock yawned, pushed the long pale fingers of his other hand into his own hair, clutching like a child, and settled back around John's erection with a contented sigh. John whimpered again and quite possibly came without actually, you know, coming. He's not sure what exactly happened but something zinged through his penis so sharply he actually curled in on himself, moaning.
That sound drove Sherlock's mouth into over-drive, causing him to suck twice as fast but—oh god why?—only half as hard. John was pretty sure his heart rate was now in the triple digits.
Yet of course the good doctor couldn't move. Because Sherlock was sleeping, gone to slumber, in the arms of Morpheus. So there was no thrusting to be done into that vulnerable mouth, god no. At most there was withdrawal but John would rather have a stroke than bring this—whatever this was and he'd think on that later, often, at inappropriate times, for weeks—to a premature end.
So the good doctor did nothing but watch what was happening between his legs, forget to breathe, and pretty soon get so very very hard he felt like an over-inflated balloon.
Things got worse. Much worse. Or better, depending on your viewpoint. Right about then Sherlock's entire body shuddered with another sigh and—heaven have mercy on a poor soldier's heart—he sort of kind of mewed.
No, seriously, John searched for another word, he really did, but the high, breathy, squeaky, relieved little noise that came out of that long body could be called nothing less and nothing more than…than a contented mew.
And why in the name of all the saints that was sexy John didn't even want to think about. And he didn't have time to think about it frankly because Sherlock did it again, that satisfied, pleased little sound and John wondered how Sherlock could even breathe with so much…so much…John in his mouth, but he not only drew breath quite nicely, the man sucked, he suckled, he—John would not think this thought he wouldn't think it he would not no no no—
Sherlock god damn nursed.
Yes, he said it all right, okay, are you happy now? With a warm tongue pressed against the underside of John's erection, with that mouth, that mouth around it, with that loose half-fist wrapped around him and another gripping his own curls Sherlock sucked and mewed and sighed with such pure pleasure John felt like some new sort of deviant, some—
Oh dear god he was doing it again, he was pushing his face against John, slick lips sliding down John's shaft, nose digging into balls, forehead against thighs—I will not come I will not come I will not—then almost immediately he pulled back until just the top inch or so of John's cock was in his mouth and then slowly, lazily he started softly suckling again.
John understood now that he was most certainly producing something on which Sherlock was feeding and that something, not to put too fine a point on it, was pre-come. John could tell you that this tardy realization made him so hard he might never be soft again and oh good god he was now so slick down there Sherlock was—kill me now—fucking cooing.
At this point John thought he might just start hallucinating he was so over-stimulated, but unfortunately he was made of sterner stuff and so the good doctor remained as lucid as a man with a raging hard-on stuffed inside his sleeping lover's mouth could possibly be and—
No please no this is too much. Sherlock sighed, and now each suck was a deep contented pull and accompanying each swallow, each small pleased little sound was…a pump of Sherlock's hips.
John might have been seeing visions at this point, he wasn't sure, all he knew was that he was staring, mesmerized, at his lover's undulating lower half, which was six inches from his face but might as well have been jammed up against him because John could smell sex on Sherlock, so help him, a musky scent of arousal that made John's heart thrum from want.
Breathing in dizzying shallow gasps, John looked down again.
And yet Sherlock was not a man aroused, he was instead floating tranquilly down the River Lethe, serene in sleep, barely—
Stop, no stop, noooo.
Teeth, there was now the soft-wet-sharp-light scrape of teeth beneath the head of John's cock, the sensation so heart-ramping the good doctor's entire body broke out in goosebumps and sweat and possibly he began an outer body experience because you try having every nerve ending in your body awakened, then stroked, then set on fire, all while you can't thrust and see if you're able to keep your shit together without possibly going astral.
"Sh'lock," John slurred, his voice hoarse, croaky, barely sound at all. "Wake. Up."
There, that was it, he'd tried, he'd made the effort to stop the madness, but John's throat was now so dry he couldn't muster enough spit in order to swallow much less utter another word. About then some traitorous part of his brain reminded John that all he had to do was gently withdraw himself from that warm, wet, open, sucking, feeding mouth. It would take just the barest cant of his hips, a tiny tug, really, and he would be free of that tongue and those teeth and if he did it just right Sherlock would probably sleep on, his—
Sherlock grunted, brows drawn down, and tossed his shaggy head. John's cock slicked right out of his mouth.
The good doctor may or may not have sobbed. But just once. Twice. Only twice. Maybe four or five times, but—
Sherlock grunted again, his pre-come-wet mouth open, searching, and so John—always rock-steady in a crisis and this was certainly that—helped him, placing his own hand over the one Sherlock still had loosely around the base of his penis, and guiding everything carefully, gently—so very, very gently—toward Sherlock's mouth and—
The second the hot tip of that cock touched Sherlock's lips, the dreaming detective clamped on and slid his mouth down with a greedy sigh and again John may or may not have sobbed, and—oh who are we kidding? John did, he so did, and it was part relief, part delirium, part utter disbelief—nothing happens to me—and he knows he's said this before but he's going to die eventually and if he had to drop dead any time soon he felt this would be as good a time as any.
John didn't have time to reflect on that sentiment because Sherlock did it again, he made a hungry sound, something high-pitched, breathy, needy and so unlike his usual deep rumblings that John felt compelled to check his own pulse as the word aneurysm flashed briefly through his over-heated head.
John tried to say the word, really he did. He slicked his tongue over his lips and opened his mouth but the only sound that came out was like something he'd once heard from an arthritic old dog and frankly why was he trying to speak anyway? What the fuck did he want to say?
For a split instant John reflected on this and the next instant he realized there was nothing to say. Except possibly carry on and if I die before you wake, just…tell them I went willingly.
Then Sherlock's hips started pumping again and that's when John's brain officially went off-line and his body took over.
The good doctor lifted a hand and gently placed it over Sherlock's cock, giving him something against which to press. He was rewarded for his largesse with more cooing—can't. breathe. can't. breathe—and Sherlock deep throating him so suddenly John was pretty sure he got a nose bleed from how sharply he inhaled.
Just as quickly Sherlock's mouth slicked back up toward John's tip where again he settled, each slow pull on John's cock accompanied by a pump of Sherlock's hips, each pump accompanied by a low murmur of pleasure and, John's pretty sure, a brief halting of his over-worked heart.
Ten minutes, an hour, a year—John never knew—passed in this fashion, a dazedly glorious time, a blissful, altered state where John moved only the muscles necessary to keep his lungs expanding, while a sleeping man expertly fellated him, a sleeping man who was treating his dripping cock a lot like something warm, nourishing, and milk-filled and every time John let his mind go there he marched it right back and toward—oh god yes!
Sherlock's body was waking now, Sherlock's body was wanting, Sherlock was pushing into John's hand aggressively, each thrust held for long seconds, while the good detective tossed his head and growled and so help him John started humming-singing-a-little-bit-dying from the absolute sparkly intensity of his lover's mouth sliding up and down his shaft—shaft, yes, shaft because John's cock right now was as stiff, straight, and solid as every shaft that has ever ever been—from the sound, the high, greedy sound Sherlock made, from pretty much everything.
It was only seconds more of Sherlock squirming and rutting and those teeth scraping, just a few more seconds but more than enough for John to remove his hand and replace it with his face, just a few seconds of Sherlock pulling at his own hair, humping with single-minded devotion, pajama-clad cock sliding every-which-way, over chin to cheek to forehead with a detour for mashing in John's eye and back down again and quite possibly the good detective, if conscious, would be there still but this was the sleeping, dreaming, feeding version and so Sherlock's body galloped on toward completion and without hesitation crossed that finish line wetly and with a deep, open-mouthed groan.
As Sherlock rode out the last of his orgasm against John, as he panted and sighed and slept on, John lay there suspended, frozen, quite possibly quantum locked for god's sake. What he was was exactly on the absolute edge between coming and not coming, hovering weightless, requiring very, very little to go from stiff as stone to seeing stars. The barest pressure was all he needed. A mild breeze. A good hard stare. It wouldn't take much. It wouldn't take more than—
Sherlock huffed out a high sigh, tucked his fist under his chin, and like a rare bloom folding in on itself his mouth closed around John and at the exact moment he started to suck John started to come.
The good doctor would like to tell you that the sounds Sherlock made were gluttonous, that his hand clutched round John's cock so tightly it may have constituted a health risk, he'd like to tell you that nothing in the history of time ever felt as good as that orgasm but he can say none of this with certainty because he was too busy yelling and praying and kind of passing out a little to really track what happened when and possibly to whom.
The fact that Sherlock still didn't wake up says a lot about…well, John has no clue what it says about anything really so never mind.
About the only thing John will commit to after all is said and done is that Sherlock was highly amused-slash-aroused by the new bedtime story John had to tell him much later that night, and John knows exactly the day, the very fucking hour, he developed a slightly embarrassing but lifelong fetish-slash-love for clams.
This glorious new form of, um, nursing, was inspired by a prompt from the wonderful a href=".com"LucyBun/a who may have said something delicious like "Sherlock falls asleep with John's cock in his mouth…" And then I may or may not have shrieked gleefully. And much of this story may or may not have sort of arrived in a glowy, hormone-hazed rush, and—Dear lord am I hyperventilating again?
As for the whole bad clam idea, that was, sadly, inspired by real life. Happily it was inspired by a weekend hanging out with a href=".com/"Livia Carica/a. Sadly, the last few hours of that weekend Livia was puking bad clams. Happily she felt better after the puking. Sadly the weekend ended. Happily I'll see her soon.