Tooth and Nail
"Mycroft's in loooooove with you."
Greg Lestrade's of an age where blushing over boys should be a thing of the past. Nevertheless he blushed. He also said nothing while continuing to help John walk at possibly one kilometre an hour.
"I mean you—hell, the whole Yard—have got to have noticed that bit. Even you lot can't be that blind."
Greg could see the door to 221B not far off. John giggled and his knees went out. The DI held on grimly, sort of dragged the little but surprisingly dense man forward.
"Did you see what I did there? I was rude! Like Sherlock!" John made his legs work, saving Greg's poor back. "'cept he's not really rude you know. IT'S ALL BLUSTER!"
It had been a good ten minutes since Lestrade had picked the extremely high doctor up at the dentist—Sherlock had forgotten—parked his cruiser in the only free spot around the block, and started the laborious journey to that dark door and still he hadn't figured out the random shouting.
"I loooooove him."
Greg smiled. The honeymoon was not quite a fortnight gone. John had been dopey and gooey and kissy with everyone since he and Sherlock had got back. The nitrous and whatever happy tablets the dentist had given the good doctor to cope with subsequent pain seemed to have just made him worse.
"And Mycroft loves you."
The blush was back. And John's knees were gone again. Greg waited patiently for the doctor to combobulate and wondered what drugs they'd given him, if they were legal, and where he could get some.
"Here we are, got your key?"
John threw both arms around Greg's neck and hollered, "THEY'RE IN MY POCKET!"
After the deafness faded—didn't take long—Lestrade gripped a drooping John around the waist with one hand, fished in the doctor's pockets with the other, then jumped a mile when 221B's door slammed open.
"I'll thank you to unhand my husband."
Greg has never been intimidated by Sherlock (Mycroft is another matter), but now that Sherlock's someone's spouse Greg finds him somehow even less formidable. He's not sure what that says about him.
"You forgot your husband at the dentist. I shouldn't give him back you know. Finders keepers and all that."
Sherlock extracted John from around Lestrade's person—"HELLO SHERLOCK!"—and said in a rush, "Thank you I'm sorry and Mycroft is you know," and slammed the door.
Gregory Lestrade stood in front of 221B for another ten minutes, blushing and thinking.
"I will not bite you, John."
John Watson stood on the coffee table and looked down at his husband, who looked up at him. John Watson's hubby was very scowly.
"Who's got a pretty face? Who? Who?"
Sherlock blinked up at John, who stared down at him with immense pupils and a salacious grin.
"It's the least you can do after you forgot me at the dentist after my root canal and all the drugs and the nitrous—god, love that stuff, it's brilliant—and I had to get Scotland Yard to come fetch me and Greg smells nice you know and—"
John stopped briefly to hiccup and then giggle. Then he just stopped because he forgot what he was saying. Then he swayed and said, "Whoopsie!"
It had been nearly an hour since the good doctor had left the dentist and still the drugs hadn't worn off. Sherlock knew drugs, he knew their physiological and psychological effects on humans, he had no clue what they would have given John that would account for—
"RECETAMOL! Remember! After your sunburn! Except your penis!"
John Watson, doctor, ex-soldier, tiny tyrant, and extreme dental phobe, did a floaty little dance step on the coffee table. The table wobbled. "I said penis! And you should bite me! Because I'm bothered and I'm hot and I'm very, very high!"
Sherlock's expression went sterner. Sternerer. Stern—he got stroppy. "You need to get off this table before you fall off this table, John."
John giggled and twirled. John is good at many things. Twirling is not one of them. The table wobbled again.
As soon as John stilled Sherlock slid a hand around the man's ankle, as if he could somehow keep him still, or make him safe with that small tether. "John, you're drunk. So drunk as a matter of fact that I think you were humping Greg's leg."
John ran his tongue over evil tooth number twenty nine. Today it had been vanquished with little files and drills and things. "He didn't mind, he's hot for your brother did you know that? I've been match-makin' 'em. That sounded dirty. I want to be dirty. Did you know I've always hated lower bicuspids? Uppity things. Also, you should bite me. Right here." John sort of gestured all over, pretty much indicating his entire body.
"I am not going to bite—" Sherlock shut up. Finally realized the obvious. He would get his brand new husband off the table, safe and unbroken, using sex. As soon as he stopped wiggling around. It took awhile.
Eventually Sherlock captured John's other ankle, looked up at him through dark lashes. "Oh, John…"
People are inclined to call that tone, the one Sherlock just mustered to immediate effect, purring, but it's not, clearly it's not. It's more like aural assault with intent to arouse.
John had been trying to twirl again and thinking about squid and also octopi but he stopped doing both immediately and eyes wide and tongue doing a samba, looked at Sherlock.
"Come down here so I can bite you John." Sherlock clicked his pretty, pretty teeth together.
If it hadn't been for Sherlock's hand wrapped round his ankles John probably would have taken a flying leap at his reedy love. Instead he started a straight-legged walk off the end of the table and was saved from a painful face plant when Sherlock sort of caught-carried him.
John still won't say too loud how the hell much he loves it when Sherlock carries him, so instead, once Sherlock put him down, John shoved his face against Sherlock's chest, shivered and said, "Mmmmmm, I want you to, I want you to, I want you to."
Sometimes it doesn't take much—as in almost nothing at all—for one of them to drag the other over to hell yes. Even if one is saying hell no because the other is so high on pain meds he should be tied down until he isn't a menace to himse—
"God damn it John!"
It takes a lot to get Sherlock to spontaneously swear, but simultaneously yanking his head back by the hair, biting his neck, and squeezing his cock will pretty much do it.
For a moment neither of them were sure if Sherlock was turned on or in pain so everyone just gave Sherlock a second to figure that one out and when he moaned three seconds later—like distant thunder catching up to lightning—things proceeded apace.
"Do that again."
John bit Sherlock's neck, and though a phalanx of goosebumps marshaled themselves like good little soldiers, Sherlock growled, "No."
Sherlock's good little soldier said softly, kinda husky, "What do you want me to do love? I'll do anything. Even that thing with the—"
Sherlock loves that raspy voice John gets sometimes when he's sleepy-aroused or, apparently, high-aroused, it makes him giddy. "No, no, no—oh, yes, well yes, we'll do that later, but…scratch me again, John. Scra—guuuuuh."
John raked the nails of one hand down Sherlock's back. Sherlock's brain stopped working, along with his knees. Both went down for the duration.
John followed and said bossy and breathy, "Now BITE ME."
There they were on their knees and wedged between the coffee table and the sofa, one stone cold sober, the other off in some la-la land where squid talked and octopi recited pi—meaning they were basically intellectual equals for once—and neither saw anything remotely strange in the proceedings. Of course not.
Sherlock grabbed a handful of John hair, tugged his little love's head to the side and dug those pearly whites in to tender flesh.
"HOLY mother of GOD I think my nerve endings just CAME!"
Sherlock grunted, shifted a few centimetres, bit again. The good detective tried holding on as his sweetie tugged his shirt from his trousers, wriggled a hand under, and scratched him hard and fast, but Sherlock arched back toward the pretty pain with a groan and an "Oh dear god."
About then John started giggling and tearing at clothes, one hand tugging at Sherlock's shirt, the other at his own, doing a spectacularly bad job at both and so giggling more. "It's hard to get naked!" he yelled. After a moment he gave it all up as a bad job, tore Sherlock's shirt open until buttons went flying. "I've always wanted to DO THAT!"
The moment his long pale front was exposed Sherlock started breathing heavy, waiting. For some reason he didn't want to ask, he wanted John to just do, which was pretty fortunate because right now John was a little wind-up toy stuck on fast forward, full steam ahead, and all aboard.
"My name on you, can I do that? I want to do that." John didn't wait for a reply, he just pushed Sherlock back and back until the tall man was stretched out on the floor, bare-chested, hands reaching for John's belt-loops as the good doctor straddled him.
Then, trapping the tip of his tongue between his lips, John scratched the first letter of his own name on Sherlock's belly.
Sherlock hissed, then whispered "Harder," so low John shouted back, "WHAT?"
Sherlock reached up, grabbed John's head in his big hands, tugged him down until bare chest met bare chest. "Harder John, harder."
John went right ahead and giggled randomly again, pumped his hips a couple times, mashing cock against cock. "Who's got a pretty little hard-on? Who? Who?"
The only appropriate answer was of course—
"Oh yes," as Sherlock tugged John's wrist to his mouth and bit the tender skin below the palm. "Mmmmmy turn now, mine, mine."
John pushed himself up—Sherlock still clutching at his hand, nibbling at soft skin like a delicate, thoughtful vampire—while John meditatively ground his hips over Sherlock's, and looked down at the broad canvas beneath him. Well, clearly he'd already signed his artwork—a bold flourish of a J rose beautiful and angry on Sherlock's belly—John went about creating the art.
Like a happy cat John sunk the nails of his left hand into Sherlock's body, until he heard his sweetheart draw in a long, almost relieved breath. As Sherlock's eyes drifted closed John dug in and dragged nails from Sherlock's left shoulder, down across nipple, sternum, and ribs, Sherlock's back rising up from the floor until he was arched and moaning.
Oh dear god.
Right now some part of John was stone-cold sober. He's never been the sort of man who gets drunk and doesn't know what he's doing. He's the sort of man who—once in a very great while—gets drunk and allows himself to finally do the thing he wishes he'd been doing.
Hurting Sherlock was never easy for John, but doing it…dear god doing it aroused him, had done since the first time Sherlock arched that long, needy body toward an in-motion riding crop.
So you better believe John knew what was happening, knew very well that he was hurting the man writhing between his legs, but he also knew that when they shared this kind of pain, it fed something in them both.
So the good doctor dug nails harder into Sherlock's beautiful, resilient flesh.
"No…no, noooooo," Sherlock moaned, throwing his hands over his head, arching his back, then letting it drop so he could arch again. "No, John…"
This was new between them—this consent through denial, this struggling to get away but craving to be trapped—and so Sherlock thrashed beneath John, he crossed his arms at the wrist—can you hold yourself down with nothing at all?—as if bound and he begged, "Please John, no…no."
John Watson has danced at the edge of something dark his whole life, looked into blackness and seen nothing. Then a little over two years ago Sherlock was suddenly there—and together they waltzed at the edge of that dark. So right now, just now, drunk, silly, happy John was also that shadowy John, the one who will now always stand near the brink because he wants to jump into it with this man, again and again.
And by jumping, today we mean two clawed hands positively raking over tender, succulent flesh, raising up red wounded tracks and then laughing, dear god laughing because that's what the man beneath him was doing, loud and long.
"Oh Johnny, John, my drunk little John," giggled Sherlock, freeing himself from his own bondage, reaching out for and capturing a beautiful cruel hand. He tugged John's arm toward his mouth, tongued at the inside of a wrist again, then gathered up the delicate flesh in sharp teeth and bit down until John's breathy laugh turned into a moan in the back of his throat.
"No," John said, because he liked it too, liked granting permission with negation, and so he hissed his dissent as he leaned into Sherlock, and then he tried to pull away and—
The coffee table is lighter than it looks. It skittered a good half metre away and if John was hurt when his shoulder clipped it on his way to being pinned to the floor he was not aware of it.
The good doctor was exquisitely aware of three things however.
* Sherlock's cock was long, hard, and happy to be there.
* His own cock was still a bit on the stoned side so it was slower on the uptake, but it was, you know, uptaking.
* Every time Sherlock bit him John got harder.
* Every time John looked at the angry red flesh across Sherlock's chest and belly dear small John got harder still.
Okay, that was four things. Which brings us to a fifth, also kind of new between the newlyweds: Allowing their size difference to matter-a-whole-hell-of-a-lot-thank-you.
As in now, right now. Sherlock started it, using his big body to cover John's, allowing all his weight to hold John down, making long arms into a pretty cage either side of John's shoulders, fingers fisting in John's hair to keep him still.
"Don't move," he whispered and scraped teeth over John's chin. "Be still," he warned, and bit at his husband's jaw. "Let me," he hissed and drove teeth into John's lovely, lovely neck.
"GOD I WANT TO COME!"
The thing about John and Sherlock, if you don't already know this, is they can swing from tap-dancing at the edge of the void to this, from pain to pain as pleasure to pleasurable pain to stoned on pain medication to giggling during sex on the sitting room floor.
Speaking of sex…
"Get on me, Sherlock," John said, eyes bright, wide, and hungry. "Get on and ride."
Too much American television during the honeymoon might possibly explain the phrasing, but the sentiment—the I need my cock up your arse my darling—well that was one hundred percent fucking John.
And because they hadn't already wandered through enough sexual deviations in the last fifteen minutes—pain, dominance, submission, possibly something vaguely dental—Sherlock added another…force.
Yes, John Watson is smaller than Sherlock. Sherlock has nearly a stone and a half on him (it's true), but John is exactly, precisely, and fully as strong as Sherlock.
Doctor John Watson can make you.
"Sherlock…" that very man sighed, muscles going tight, getting ready. "…no."
And John smiled.
Sexual predilection number six: Mind games.
Sherlock laughed, dipped his head down, bit at the meat of John's good shoulder once, then twice, then again and again until John moaned. Sherlock licked at his own teeth marks and whispered, "You're going to fuck me within an inch of your life, John Watson-Holmes."
The man so named laughed-growled-whispered, "Hold on. Hold on tight," and wouldn't it just figure that Sherlock Holmes-Watson knew exactly what his husband of twelve days, five hours—give or take thirty minutes—meant?
Sherlock pulled back just enough so that John could see his face, then like a cobra he swayed slow, slow and steady, until he'd crossed from John's good shoulder and over to his bad and then with a little hiss he opened his mouth, lowered his head…and he bit down and damn well held on.
John thrashed for real this time, of course he did, because it hurt. But the way they relieved that hurt was…unusual.
By shoving down half-done trousers and pants with frantic manic greedy clumsy hands then flaily pushy prehensile-toed feet. By one man spitting on his own hand and spreading it—and his husband's precome—over his own cock. And doing that twice more while teeth clamped down and that husband positioned himself, straddled, hovered, waited, quite nearly yelled but didn't, just bit harder and quite possibly held his breath—or let it catch each time John ran a hand over his leaking cock—and then finally John was ready and with a sigh, then a moan, then a "God yes," Sherlock Holmes-Watson felt John Watson-Holmes sink balls-deep into his arse.
After exactly three seconds—it took that long for even Sherlock's brain to manage the overload—the genius started riding his doctor hard and slow and he didn't let go.
Done just right, the right amount of pain—not one bit more—can insinuate itself with pleasure so inextricably that over time the pain will bring the pleasure. It had taken Sherlock more than a year to teach this simple fact to John, but John learned. Hell yes he learned. He still feels penitent when he hurts Sherlock, does the healer, but when Sherlock hurts him just right, just enough? Well the good doctor's learned to love that.
And you can trust Sherlock to deduce what was exactly just enough.
Just enough is teeth driving into the very edges of scarred skin so that most of the teeth do little more than gather up a healthy pinch of flesh, but the canine teeth, the sharp teeth? They dig into the very edges of the scar and they bring a rush of blood, wake nerves, fire up instinct so that the man who's bitten arches hips up in an attempt to dislodge the one who's biting but in responding to that oh-so-natural compulsion he drives his cock hard and deep into his sweetheart's unbelievably hot young arse, which crosses a whole host of wires in the head honest-to-fucking-god, until it's damn difficult to tell who is fucking, who is being fucked, and who even cares, just ride hard boys, ride hard.
Six minutes and twenty-eight seconds before John came—you didn't think Sherlock was going to let this be a fast fuck, did you?—Sherlock knew just enough had been reached and he opened his mouth, let go of John's shoulder, sat tall and still astride doctorly hips, and he spread his arms.
John pressed his palm flat over Sherlock's heart, counted the beats until he reached ten—call it five seconds, give or take—and then John grabbed hold of Sherlock's hair with the other hand, dragged his husband down on top of him again, and scratched the holy living hell out of his back.
Sherlock did not shut up for the next six minutes and twenty-eight seconds. Most of that was white noise, grunts, groans, sighs, but some of it was words, pretty, pretty words like:
"Fuck, fuck…cock…t-t-t…t-touch my—gggaaaaaaahhhhh."
Sherlock's orgasm was at the five minute mark, John's was another minute and a half away, give or take, and by the time the good doctor shoved in hard and deep and started coming, it was Sherlock who was pretty much fucked within an inch of his life.
Yes. Well. Whew.
As it so happened, the good doctor—who had very much self-medicated with that recetamol, by the way—did not come down off the drug for another hour, an hour in which he got on the coffee table (again), this time buck naked, and he twirled (again), and while Sherlock was as worried for his brand new husband's safety now as he was an hour ago, the younger man now had the energy of a bean for heaven's sake and so he just slumped on the sofa and muttered about John's technique, coordination, and originality and when John at one point grabbed hold of his own dick and sort of waved at Sherlock with it, it says far more than maybe you want to know that Sherlock damn well waved back.
I started this story weeks and weeks ago for the glorious Random Nexus when she had some dental work done and apparently day dreamed a bit about John high on nitrous. Sorry this took so long to finish, my dear! P.S. Yeah, I totally shoe-horned squid and octopi in there. You totally know why.
MORE! I'm no longer publishing on FFnet as they don't want NC-17 content, so please visit atlinmerrick dot livejournal dot com if you'd like to read more, or Tumblr or Twitter, and eventually everything will be on AO3—please follow!