A/N – This is a sequel to my story Secure, but there will be no misunderstanding if you have not read that. This was started ages ago and finished at the request of ScopesMonkey. So here you go, Happy Birthday (part 1) my friend.
Warnings – Male/Male action to follow, serious slash and very mild bdsm. Be warned.
Disclaimer – I will happily hand over this idea to those who own these characters if they agree to put this on the TV. Until then, this is mine, they are theirs.
He was alone.
The only noise was silence. The only sight was darkness. The headphones weren't too tight, and the satin blindfold was soft where it rested against his cheeks. The cotton of the straps securing his arms to the headboard were tighter than usual but not so tight that he couldn't get out if he had to.
There had been vibrations earlier when Sherlock had been moving about the room, but now there was nothing. There was the silence and the darkness and the soft cotton around his wrist and the cool air sprouting goose bumps across his body.
He was alone.
At least he thought so; Sherlock might have just stopped moving. In the extreme case he'd fallen dead on the floor. More likely - assuming he was still in the room - he was sitting quietly in the chair watching John's every movement, cataloguing every breath. It was an experiment after all, a small experiment in revenge for John's attention with the ice cubes and the hot oil.
Somehow John had anticipated the revenge being a little more exciting.
Cinnamon, he thought. He could just say cinnamon and the whole thing would be over.
"Safe word?" Sherlock had asked, the satin blindfold tracing across John's shoulder as Sherlock prepared to put it on.
"Cinnamon," John had said, thinking of the lubricant in the drawer next to him. The lubricant that would be used, eventually.
"Cinnamon," the word had hissed out of Sherlock's mouth, the sound of it sending shivers up John's spine.
The blindfold had come up and covered his eyes.
"Remember," Sherlock had said in the seconds before the headphones followed. "One tap for yes," he tapped his hand on John's chest. "Two taps for no."
John had nodded, the sensation of Sherlock's fingers on his chest lingering longer than usual. "One, yes. Two, no."
"Mm-hmm," Sherlock had hummed in the instant before John's ears were covered and all sound was lost.
John had no idea how long ago that conversation had taken place. It felt like hours, but he doubted it. He certainly hoped it was more than minutes, but he could not swear to it. The silence and the darkness were distracting, misleading.
"Sherlock?" He had not been instructed to stay quiet, although he was uncertain of the volume. There was nothing. He waited, trying to count in his head. Trying to determine how long he waited, how much time was passing.
There was something on his leg, a bug perhaps. The sensation was so strong but lasted just a second. He knew as soon as it was over that he imagined it.
"Are you here?" Just a moment later there was an odd sensation, a movement of the air around him, and a hand on his thigh. He knew he was not imagining that. The touch was light as it trailed upwards, over John's hip and across his abdomen. The hand stopped, fingers resting across the middle of his sternum, and tapped.
Yes. Yes, he was here. The hand was gone. The nothing returned.
John tried to count again, tried to think about the events of the day, the plans for tomorrow. He thought about what still had to be done for their annual anniversary trip. He couldn't focus. He couldn't follow a train of thought.
The silence was deafening, and distracting.
He focused on it, the silence; it hummed, slowly forming into noises and voices. He could hear breathing, as if someone was blowing in his ear. He shivered, cringing against the sensation only to realise that he'd imagined it again. He sighed, forcing his muscles to relax. He wondered if Sherlock was smiling, finding the mental tricks humorous.
He tried to focus on the sheets underneath him, the soft cotton, freshly laundered. Sherlock had folded down the duvet and settled it on the foot of the bed. John curled his toes and was able to touch it, feel the more satiny feel of the blanket. He found the contact reassuring and relaxed even more. The sheets felt good underneath him, the slight smell of the detergent and the fabric softener not yet erased by Sherlock and he sleeping there. John turned his head slightly breathing in the scent of the pillow next to him. He held his breath, the scent of the linen calming him. It would only be better if it smelled like Sherlock. He took another deep breath and released it slowly.
"It doesn't smell like you yet," he said. He suspected Sherlock would appreciate the observation.
There was a hand on his chest again, so suddenly that he jumped. The fingers massaged over his heart a moment, flattening as the fingers tapped twice. Sherlock confirming that no, the pillow didn't smell like him. The hand was gone.
John breathed in deep again, then turned his head back. It only took a moment for the silence and the darkness to descend again.
Voices - he was certain he could hear talking. He tried to focus on them, tried to hear the words. They were too far away, too quiet. The telly, maybe. Perhaps Sherlock had turned it on to alleviate his boredom while John just lay there. John shook his head though, realising that wasn't right. It didn't sound like the telly. It sounded like talking. Like they were talking about him. He heard his name, he was certain. There was someone else. Someone else was talking with Sherlock.
He twisted in the straps, shifting his body, wanting to hide. They were watching him. Maybe it was an actual experiment; he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to invite people over for sensory deprivation experiment.
Let's watch what happens to John when he can't see or hear. Let's watch what he does. How long before he panics?
But he was naked. If there were people there Sherlock wouldn't have allowed him be naked. Sherlock did not share; hell, Sherlock didn't like it if a waitress smiled too much. But it could be someone else, of course. Maybe somebody had broken into the flat. Maybe they were trying to hurt Sherlock. Maybe they were going to hurt John.
He shifted again, his muscles becoming rigid. The sound of his blood pumping joined the voices, his heart was pounding. There was a hand on his ankle and he pulled away from it, kicking at the touch.
"Sherlock?" The touch felt wrong. The touch felt strange. It wasn't Sherlock. "I- Is–" He gulped. "Is that you? It doesn't feel like you."
The hand was on his ankle again, tight and sure. There was a squeeze and an unmistakable tap. It was Sherlock, and it felt like Sherlock. There was a weight on the bed, his body tilted to the presence. His heart was still slamming against his ribs but it was slowing. The hand trailed upwards, over the hip again and across his chest. It pressed into the mattress and the weight settled next to him, a chest pressed into his side.
The scent of his husband flared through his nostrils. There was a breath against his lips in the split second before a soft mouth pressed against him. He accepted the kiss. Sherlock's tongue pressed against him and he opened, welcomed it. The taste, the sweet taste of his husband combined with the scent shivered up John's body. He tugged Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth and sucked on it. The chest vibrated next to him.
It was a moan, or maybe a groan. He didn't like not knowing. He didn't like the silence, he hated not hearing Sherlock. He turned his head slightly, the kiss deepened. Sherlock's body relaxed against him, the weight easy, familiar. There was another vibration, different than the first, longer. And John felt the noise as he swallowed it, felt a sound vibrate out of his own chest in response. Sherlock's hand dragged up his chest, thumb brushing over his nipple.
John's body twitched at the contact, a jolt of warmth shooting through him.
Sherlock pulled back and John lifted his head. He wanted more, wanted the taste, the sensation, and the familiarity. He felt the groan rattle through him and a finger came to his lips. He wondered vaguely if the touch was because he was too loud, but dismissed it. Sherlock loved when he was loud. He puckered his lips and the finger pressed deeper.
There was another shift in the weight. John focused on it, tried to determine what was next. There was something on his cheek. It was soft, just a brush as something moved past. Lips pressed into his shoulder. Hair, it was Sherlock's hair, the soft curls brushing against him. John turned his head again, burying his nose, inhaling their shampoo.
The tongue traced the collar bone. "Sherlock," John said, giving no thought to his volume again. He pushed up into the contact wanting more, wanting to grab the curls and wrap his fingers through them. The chest vibrated, the sound lost again. "I don't like not hearing you."
There was a chuckle against him and a stronger vibration. It shook his chest and settled in his groin. Sherlock was being loud. The thumb brushed his nipple again, an index finger circled before pinching. Sherlock squeezed, twisting back and forth like a tiny knob. John arched, the cool air hitting his back as he left the bed.
Sherlock pulled harder, the skin stretching tight with the shiver of pain.
"Yes," John hissed, his tongue pressing into the roof of his mouth, the air escaping him, vibrating against his lips. Teeth pressed into his skin, the pressure shooting up his neck and a mix of sensations coursing through his body.
And then it was gone. The loss of contact was so sudden that John was certain he'd misunderstood, that he'd missed something. He collapsed back into the mattress, his breath catching in his throat.
"Sherlock," he gasped. He chest aching, his shoulder stinging. He felt the mattress rise again, and he flattened out again. The weight was gone, he was alone.
The skin surrounding his nipple tingled with the memory of the touch. His shoulder was cold where Sherlock had been lapping at him.
"Sherlock?" he questioned, with no response. The silence started to swell in his chest, the darkness closed in around him. He inhaled a slow breath and held it, then let it out slowly and took in another one. He got a hint of something warm, something familiar.
John took another breath. The scent came to him again. He turned his head, trying to determine where it was coming from. He could not. It wasn't strong as if Sherlock were next to him, but fainter, farther away.
"I can smell you," John said. He took a deep breath, held it. "You're in the room, I can smell you." John smiled. There was another vibration in the floor, Sherlock was moving.
"I can feel you, too," John said. "The bed moves when the floor vibrates." The floor vibrated again and a hand rested on both of his ankles, a thumb tracing up either Achilles.
"I like that," John said. "Do you know that?" There was quick tap against his right ankle. John smiled. "Of course you know. You know everything." John took a deep breath, getting a stronger scent of Sherlock.
He realised, suddenly that with every breath, the silence went away and the darkness eased. John chuckled.
"Is that the purpose of this?" He felt the giggles trying to move out of him. "Let's see what John's other senses can do?" The hands brushed up his shins, fingers and thumbs gently digging on either side of the bone.
The right one stopped and there was a quick two taps. No, that wasn't the purpose. John flinched, as thumbs traced into the ticklish skin in his inner knee. The thumbs traced down and he giggled again.
"That tickles," he said.
There was a shift in weight at the foot of the bed, and he felt the heat of Sherlock's body close to him, a puff of air against his right knee. A second later there was kiss placed into the tender skin.
He twitched; it tickled and shot right through his groin, an odd combination of sensations. Small kisses trailed up his inner thigh, the rough tongue darting against his skin each time. The muscles in his abdomen tightened and the blood diverted. He could feel himself getting harder.
Something flicked against his growing cock just as Sherlock latched onto the soft skin just below where thigh met groin. John's legs drifted apart, opening himself. Sherlock sucked, hard.
"God," John said, bending his knee and resting his foot against Sherlock's ribs. He felt the smile form around him and Sherlock sucked again. John could feel the capillaries breaking, the bruise forming. Sherlock sucked harder, just to the point where it was painful. The sensation throbbed up, John's cock twitching in response.
Sherlock pulled away, brushing against his cock again. His nose, John thought. "You're smelling, too."
"Do I smell good?" John asked, the question sending a shiver down his spine.
One tap. A nose brushed through curls and was followed by lips. Sherlock's chin brushed along the side of John.
"Mmmm," John hummed.
There was another smile as the lips moved down, kissing next to his cock. He brushed against Sherlock's cheek, the beginnings of the day's stubble rubbing him. He focused on it, the way the stubble moved against him, the roughness catching on the foreskin, brushing the sensitive head.
John thrust up, dragging across his husband's cheek. The movement stuttered against the rough hairs and John's whole body shuddered.
"Oh," he exclaimed, the volume of it scratching his throat. He felt himself swell and the warm ooze as the first drops started to leak out of him. Sherlock shifted, lips leaving the curls and a moment later closed around the head.
Long fingers circled his the shaft. The tongue started lapping at the tender slit and then pressed against it. John bucked up as Sherlock started to suckle.
"Jesus," John's throat scratched again. He was being too loud, entirely too loud. He tried to correct it in his head, tried to figure out how to be quieter, but he could not. He lost focus and called out Sherlock's name as the other hand came up and cupped his balls. His brain shut down, the darkness moving from the outside in.
He throbbed again, leaking more. A thumb pressed into the space between his balls, moving easily over the tender sacks. The gentle touch griped the muscles in his groin and he thrust up, forcing the head of his cock against Sherlock's teeth. He grunted, wanting to fold in on himself. It hurt, badly. Sherlock's mouth left him, the fingers released him, only to return in a comforting gesture.
His whole body cringed and the pain slowly subsided. Sherlock's fingers brushed over him. His lips replaced his fingers, tenderly cradling the head.
"It's fine," John said and an instant later Sherlock's lips parted and John eased into the glorious warmth again. "Oh God," he cried as Sherlock cupped his balls again, pushing them up. He could feel the slight rough texture on Sherlock's finger tips. He'd never noticed before, never paid attention to the contours of the long violin playing fingers.
"You're fingers are rough," John said. "I never notice-" His breath hitched as Sherlock's finger traced over his tight hole. "Oh god!" The finger pressed against him slipping in up to the first knuckle.
It felt huge with no lube, his body stretching around it awkwardly. He could feel the muscles giving way accepting the intrusion.
"It feels different, why does it feel different? Oh god, please, Sherlock." He pushed down, trying to force more. Sherlock's tongue flattened along the underside of his shaft. The pressure increased and Sherlock sucked. John could picture his cheeks hollowing out as his head started to move up. Every muscle in John's body tightened. He couldn't move the sensation the only thing he was aware of. He twisted his wrists in the cotton straps and pulled on them.
He slipped out of Sherlock's mouth and the sudden lack of contact sent chills across his body.
"Oh god," John said, his body relaxing back into the mattress. "Please, Sherlock, please?" There was a hand on his hip and a quick, single tap.
"Yes," John hissed. The bed shifted around him again and Sherlock's weight settled on his chest. Reaching into the drawer, John thought. And a second later the weight was off is chest and Sherlock was between his legs.
He noticed the scent first, not the cinnamon that he expected. Sherlock almost always used the cinnamon.
"Mint?" There was a quick tap on his leg, before the fingers moved to the back of his knee. John lifted his leg and Sherlock positioned it over his shoulder. There was a kiss on the inside of his knee in the spilt second before two cool fingers traced over his balls and across his tight hole.
John lifted, trying to force the fingers in. Sherlock tapped twice on his balls, painful shivers shooting up his spine.
"No?" John said, "Plea—" Sherlock pushed the fingers into him and he arched off the bed. "Oh god, yes." Sherlock's shoulder was digging into his calf. John thought that it must be uncomfortable but the thought floated away as Sherlock curled the fingers inside of him. John arched up higher, a noise coming out of him he couldn't identify without hearing it.
The fingers started to scissor and something was shoved under his hips - a pillow he thought. He didn't care; his cock throbbed dripping onto his stomach.
"Please," he managed and Sherlock's fingers pulled out. John gasped and a moment later felt the pressure of Sherlock pressing against him. "Please," he said again. The weight shifted on the bed and he could feel Sherlock above him. John dropped his leg and let it rest on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss onto John's neck. John brought his other knee up and cradled the thin hips.
Sherlock pushed in and John gasped. Sherlock's breath stuttered against his neck.
"You feel so good," John said. "So good." Sherlock pulled back and pushed forward again finding a quick rhythm. John brought his legs up a fraction more and Sherlock dragged across his prostate with each thrust. The familiar tightening started in his groin. His hands tightened on the straps.
"Touch me, Sherlock. I can't—" It was too much, each thrust pushing him closer. "Oh god, Sherlock…"
The body above him moved. Sherlock was shaking, John realised.
"You're close," he said and the head nodded against him. It turned slightly and the breaths started to pound against his neck. "Come on, Sherlock, come on."
Sherlock adjusted and long fingers wrapped around John again. He groaned as Sherlock started to pull on him. The strokes were determined, almost forceful. John pushed his head into the pillow and let the sensation sweep over him.
"Oh, I'm coming," John cried and he exploded over his abdomen and Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock slowed and with a forceful thrust exploded into John. John groaned, he thought, and Sherlock pulled back only to thrust forward again.
"I love you," John managed as he started to come back to himself. Sherlock was shaking above him, the breaths too fast and too shallow against John's shoulder.
A few seconds later a hand came up and the headphones came off. The sudden sound of the room was deafening. He could hear Sherlock's breathing, the traffic outside, faint music coming from somewhere. It was so loud, a cacophony he wouldn't have noticed any other time.
"I love you, too," Sherlock whispered. "So much, I love you so much." John smiled and turned his head.
"Kiss me," he said his voice sounding strange, too loud, and unfamiliar. Sherlock's lips pressing against his took that thought away. It took everything away. Sherlock moaned against him and it vibrated through John's body.
Sherlock pulled away and rested his head on John's shoulder. John heard the shuffling and felt long fingers trace up his arm. A moment later there was a quick tug and his hands were suddenly free. He twisted his wrists increasing the blood flow back to his fingers then pulled off his blindfold and blinked at the sudden brightness of the dark room.
Sherlock propped up and the grey eyes smiled down at him. "Did you like that?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious about John's reaction.
John nodded, dragging his fingers through the soft curls and stopping on the back of the damp neck. "I did, I prefer hearing you, though. I love to hear you." Sherlock smirked and settled his head back on John's shoulder.
"I will take that into consideration for next time."