The Science Of Seduction
By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
John sighed like a man who'd had his first sip of water after walking through the desert for forty days. Or like a man who'd gone a week without his lover and had been subsequently unsexed for seven days. He wasn't sure which was worse, but he suspected that it was the lack of sex.
Plump lips smiled against his neck as Sherlock nipped at his pulse lightly. "I see you've missed me," he rumbled in that toe-curling voice of his.
"Ha. And you say you hate stating the obvious," John breathed, the 's' drawing itself out when Sherlock's sweat-slick skin slipped against his own. The taller man was sliding down, trailing sloppy kisses down John's quivering body. Teeth dragged across the doctor's hip, and he bucked and moaned as a warm tongue followed, soothing the bite teasingly.
One of the most delightful things John had discovered about Sherlock was how playful the man was in bed. He was far more open and warm in the confines of their bedroom than he ever was beyond it, although several people had remarked at an apparent change in Sherlock. They seemed to think he was gentler, less abrasive, but he was still Sherlock to John, so he supposed it didn't matter.
What did matter was the way Sherlock was blowing warm air over John's erection, something he knew John loved, and the way his fingers were stroking John at the crease where his legs and arse met. They were slick with lube, inching closer and closer to their destinating with every pass, and it was driving John mad. When Sherlock touched the tip of his tongue to the tip of John's erection, the doctor broke.
"For God's sake, Sherlock, please!"
Moaning, Sherlock took his entire length into his mouth in one long, smooth motion, slipping one finger into John at the same time. He teased John for what seemed like hours, until the smaller man was a writhing, gasping, babbling mess, before he took pity on him and slid back up until they were nose to nose. John liked it when Sherlock kissed him after a blowjob; they tasted wonderful together.
The first time they'd had sex had been two weeks after what Sherlock liked to call their first date, insisting that since they'd ended up taking their Chinese back to the flat and spending the evening watching reruns of QI, it wasn't really a date. When he'd explained this to John, the doctor had only rolled his eyes, promting Sherlock to pout.
"You didn't enjoy our date, John?"
"Sherlock, eating a candy bar at a crime scene does not count as a date."
"But...John, we shared a candy bar at the crime scene."
Which was so pathetically sweet, John had agreed that that could be their first date (while secretly thinking that their first date had probably been at Angelo's, waiting for a serial killer and talking awkwardly about Sherlock's sexual preferences). After all, considering who they were, a crime scene probably was the perfect setting for their first date.
It had been a thrilling problem for Sherlock, and John had watched with the same awe and admiration that he always did as his brilliant boyfriend put together puzzle pieces the rest of them didn't even know existed. He made him eat, forced him to rest (which was much easier when he insisted that he wanted Sherlock with him when he slept), and when Sherlock had solved the case and had subsequently crashed, John had been there with open arms to catch him.
They'd made love that night, slowly and so sweetly John's heart had squeezed painfully. It had been gentle and curious and quiet, an extended exploration of each other, building on what they already new in beautiful ways. John remembered how it hadn't felt any different from holding Sherlock's hand or kissing him or arguing with him over coffee, but at the same time there had been a universe of difference. It was a new, exquisite facet of their relationship, but it was no more exquisite than any other facet of their relationship.
Since then, they'd learned new ways to explore - slow and torturous, fast and desperate, hot and playful - every time different, every time as incredible as the first.
This time was frenzied, teeth and tongues and a strange mix of dirty words and sweet nothings. A week had been seven days too long for both of them, and it was as though they were trying to fit seven days into twenty minutes.
Sherlock moved inside John at a breathtaking pace, filling him in ways John had never known he could be filled, tangling his long fingers in John's hair and fitting their bodies together easily. Needy, whimpering sounds were being pulled from John's throat with every stroke, and Sherlock caught them in his mouth, tasting John's tongue for more.
The ending was dazzling and shattering, like an electrical storm thundering within, and John clung to Sherlock possessively, murmuring against his jawline.
"Mine," he breathed, loving how it made Sherlock hold him tighter. "Mine, mine, God, mine. Always, always."
When they'd got their strength back enough to race each other to the shower, they spent as long as they could under the spray, touching and tasting and breathing each others until the water turned cold and they were forced to tumble back into bed together.
It was a miracle that they'd gotten here, honestly. Considering how emotionally dense Sherlock could be, and how dense in general John could be, most people were of the mind that they'd only managed to end up together through fate. John knew better of course, and it was a good thing Sherlock had explained the whole hostage plot over their Chinese, because otherwise John might have smothered him in his sleep.
It had been Mrs. Hudson, most likely inadvertantly, who had given Sherlock the idea. She had been talking about a soap opera she followed wherein one character proved his love to another by demonstrating that he was willing to submit to torture to save his beloved. This, apparently, was what had started Sherlock planning to suss out John's true feelings via a convoluted and unnecessary plot. John really hated soap operas.
The next player had been Lestrade, who had been even less in the loop than Mrs. Hudson, and had unwittingly agreed to supply Sherlock with all of the cold cases he currently had. The DI had assumed that Sherlock was bored. In reality, Sherlock was searching out the perfect 'villain' for his plot. John really hated cold cases.
The third player had been Mycroft. Mycroft, who had know exactly what Sherlock was planning, and had provided the location, the blocked phone, and the unfamiliar voice (an office aide with strep throat, John learned), who had advised Sherlock on what to say, who had watched this entire messy affair unfold and had meddled just enough to make things as complicated for them as possible. John really, really hated Mycroft.
He was tempted to send each of them a fruit basket. Or kill them. Even now, three months later, he was unable to decide. Perhaps a poisoned fruit basket would be appropriate - the best of both worlds.
Speaking of deciding...
"Buck-naked," John murmured, lips moving against Sherlock's curls as they cuddled (lay together for warmth, Sherlock would correct if he said it out loud), still feeling tingly and boneless. It seemed a bit odd, height-wise, that Sherlock should be the one tucked up against John's side with his head on John's shoulder, but they fit so nicely that way, John never said anything. Besides which, it made him feel taller.
He felt Sherlock stir, and the detective propped his chin on John's chest. "I beg your pardon?"
John smiled. "I was just thinking I liked you best buck-naked."
"I'm fairly certain the term is 'butt-naked'," Sherlock corrected sleepily, returning to his previous position.
"That sounds awkward, though. I've always heard it 'buck-naked'."
"John," his lover said in his 'talking-to-a-stubborn-fool' voice (which he used quite often around John), "I don't care if it's 'buck-naked', 'butt-naked', 'bare-naked', or whatever other sort of naked you name. So long as it's you and me, naked, together, who gives a good God damn what it's called?"
Laughing, John kissed Sherlock on the top of the head and closed his eyes. "I love you."
The End For Real!
A/N - Eeee!
I can't believe it's over! *dies* Or is it?
There are plans for a companion piece to this, which will be essentially the same story, only from Sherlock's POV. Anyone who wants the answers to such mysteries as 'What was Sherlock thinking when he dressed up as Hamlet?' or 'How did Sherlock feel when he was kissing John and John was pushing him away?' should let me know, because I still haven't decided if I actually want to write the danged thing. This one was torturous enough.
Anyway, there may or may not be a Christmas special in the works, so stay tuned, okay?
Review! Please! I neeeeeeeed iiiiiiiit!
Song for this chapter: 'Doot Da Doot' (The Unlovables)