The First Time…Sherlock Heard John Swear a Blue Streak

In this, his first thirty five years, Sherlock has:

* Tasted more than a dozen kinds of blood, including human, sheep, goat, cat, fox, dog, and parakeet.

* Had his arse thoroughly groped by a twenty-eight stone sumo on a dramatically lit dance floor.

* Stuck his ungloved hand into a pile of live maggots to fish out a half-eaten, severed foot.

* Stripped off and swam naked in the Thames to reach a crime scene before Anderson.

Which is the moderately dramatic, somewhat bile-raising, slightly long way of saying Sherlock Holmes is not a delicate flower, easily startled or nonplussed.

So it was surprising that hearing John's use of vigorous invective for the first time, early in their relationship, truly surprised Sherlock. And then it did something else entirely.

Of course it was unequivocally Sherlock's fault that John felt the overwhelming urge to swear himself blue. Sherlock, of course, would say the error was John's. After all he had insisted they take the tube.

"I can still feel it John."

Six words. That was all it took to start John's heart pounding. He glanced right. Half a dozen feet from him, a woman stood holding a grab rail, reading her Financial Times.

"Don't, Sherlock."

A half dozen feet behind John two seniors bickered.

"So thick."

Another few dozen riders were scattered throughout the car.

"Really, don't."

John was pretty sure no one could hear them.

"And heavy, very heavy."

He hoped no one could hear them.

"Please?"

It was hard to tell however…

"And it's hotter. Hotter than the rest of you."

…over the deafening roar of his own blood.

"Oh god."

They'd been lovers for nearly four months now, and Sherlock was just starting to get over his sexual self-consciousness. Being Sherlock, he did not tip-toe into confidence, he careened into it wildly, with the white-hot intensity of a supernova.

"Do it again, John."

Hence, teasing-tormenting-turning his lover on in public.

"Please stop."

By saying extremely sexual things.

"But deeper this time."

Each sentence, overheard on its own, did not necessarily sound sexual.

"You need to stop."

Unless you knew Sherlock.

"And harder. So. Much. Harder."

And you were John.

"Oh god."

Today it was a sort of revenge. For making Sherlock take the tube to and from a case. ("It's called money, Sherlock. As in we need to save some.") Not that Sherlock needed a reason to exploit his new-found power.

"Please don't."

A power that did not necessarily require words.

"I mean it."

No one looked twice at the man slowly sucking the tip of his thumb, as if lost in thought.

"I'm not joking."

But John, who woke up this morning to find Sherlock lavishly sucking his own fingers—"I'm teaching myself how to fellate you better"—knew what the sensuous git was really playing at.

"Oh god."

There are more than a dozen and a half stops from Heathrow back to the Baker Street tube station. The trip—including a change at Green Park—takes about an hour.

"You can't do this."

More than enough time to run through an entire repertoire of lewd conduct.

"You're killing me."

Chin lifted high, Sherlock ran long fingers down the gloriously vast expanse of his neck.

"I'm going to kill you."

He let the tip of his index finger drag suggestively through the hollow at the base of his throat.

"Oh god."

At this point John had been so hard for so long that he was light-headed from lack of blood to his extremities. Yet it would only get worse before it got better.

"I'm going to die."

Because Sherlock essentially had no shame.

"If I'm dead I'm of no use to you."

Still, he can be discreet, so only John saw him run his middle finger up the darkly-clothed length of his own cock.

"Then again, maybe you'd like me better that way."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth John regretted them.

"Never, John."

Because he knew he'd just invited Sherlock to again use his words.

"I'm begging you, Sherlock."

It was almost imperceptible, the slow, rhythmic thrust of Sherlock's hips.

"Oh yes please."

John tried to close his eyes, or at least look away.

"Stop?"

But he was a sandy-haired cobra, entranced by a six foot flute.

"Beg me John…I'm begging you."

Euphemistically speaking.

"Oh god."

Sherlock stilled his hips on an outward thrust, arched his neck, sighed.

"Ooooh, John."

It's just a little over a quarter mile from the Baker Street tube station to 221B. Call it a five minute stroll.

"The average length of an erect human penis is approximately fourteen centimeters."

Which can feel like a very long time when you're walking funny.

"I need to measure yours, John."

And are breathing as if you're in the middle of a bloody half marathon.

"Preferably on my knees."

And so damn damp down below you need a change of pants.

"With my mouth."

It took John three goes, but he finally thrust the key into the lock's hole as hard and as deep as it would go.

"Or I could always use my hand."

Sherlock took the lead inside. He did not shut up while he spread his long legs to slowly mount the stairs.

"Or maybe I could use my cock, John."

John was mesmerized into utter silence by the hypnotic sway of the plushness in front of him.

"I could measure mine and then…thrust it…next to yours."

Finally Sherlock unlocked the door of their flat. John stepped past him and his mouth promptly sort of burst into flame.

"Jesus fucking Christ on a fancy fucking motor bike Sherlock—" The good doctor started peeling clothes off with reckless abandon "—if you don't bloody well bugger me right now and so god damned hard I get a fucking nose bleed I am going to cry. Fuck me why the absolute flaming hell are you still bloody well dressed would you fucking get on me and get your god damned dick in me for all that is god damned fucking holy?"

For several seconds Sherlock blinked so hard he made himself dizzy. Then he began yanking clothes off as fast as they would fall while a now-naked John crowded close and whispered sweet nothings.

"Shag me."

Sherlock's frantic fingers briefly snarled at the collar of his shirt.

"Fuck me."

No such issue presented itself at trousers or pants.

"Lick me."

Sherlock kicked one shoe off so hard he put a hole in the wall.

"Suck me."

Sherlock fell on John like a starving animal. John growled.

Twenty minutes later they were a gently snoring heap of tangled limbs on the sitting room rug.

And that was the very first time Sherlock heard John swear a blue streak, but certainly it was not the last.

Oh fucking hell, no.

There's a first time for every little thing. This new series will be about them. The first time John gave Sherlock a blow job in public (that's next); the first time Mycroft kissed Greg (yeah, the stories will be about everyone); the first time the 221B boys had make-up sex (not what you're thinking); talked about kids; or bought Sherlock patent-black stilettos.

Two delicious gifs that went through Tumblr like fire—and MarieLikesToDraw's command that I write something based off them—are what inspired this series. In the meantime…what first times do you want to read about?