WHOOPS WHAT'S THIS THAT CRAWLED OUT OF MY BRAIN AT FOUR IN THE MORNING. Aha. Probably majorly OOC and not very well written, but nerrr I liked writing it.

Anyway, enjoy!

Relinquishing control to John Watson was one of the hardest things Sherlock Holmes ever had to do.

But then he realised it was probably the best thing he'd ever done.

'J-John – ' Sherlock stuttered when John took a hold of his open collar and ripped the top of his shirt apart. Some of the buttons popped free and landed with little clicks on the wooden floor of their room where they rolled out of sight under dressers and their bed, and Sherlock thought briefly that that was his favourite shirt, but everything was forgotten when John's hand dipped into the open fabric and the other took a gentle hold of his neck to tip his head back so he could kiss the skin on his throat. Sherlock let out a staggered gasp at the feel of John's fingers splaying on his skin, the way his tongue moved across his neck – everything that was John at that precise moment – especially the way John forced him back against the dresser he'd first pinned him against literally seconds of getting back into their room after Baskerville, forcing his leg between Sherlock's knees and rubbing at the growing bulge in his trousers with his thigh.

'John – Christ!' Sherlock swore, jerking in pleasure when John's thumb found his nipple and brushed over it. His hands shot from where they'd been gripping the edge of the dresser and latched onto the tops of John's arms so that the legs that suddenly couldn't hold him up anymore didn't give out underneath him: even more so when the hand that had been holding his neck slipped down his chest to cup the hard parts between his legs. Sherlock practically whimpered then. Sherlock Holmes. Whimpering.
'Sherlock, are you alright?' John asked when Sherlock's grip on his arms doubled, his voice husky but concerned. His hand stopped when Sherlock's bowed head shook from side to side, but Sherlock reached down and laid his over the top of it to encourage it to keep moving.

'No – keep doing it,' he managed. 'For Christ's sake John keep doing it.'

John just stared at him, startled that he'd rendered Sherlock into a gibbering, horny mess with really very little effort at all, and Sherlock, so desperate for it to continue, kissed him hard. He forced John's mouth into complying with his own, using his height to his advantage, pulling himself up so he could loom over the shorter man and try to dominate him. John'd had the control; Sherlock had liked it and he wanted John to come get it back.

Which, to his immense pleasure, he did.

John fought Sherlock with all he had, raising himself up on his toes to kiss him back with as much force as he could muster. But if he thought Sherlock would simply submit, he was wrong: Sherlock was the one fixing his mouth to John's neck now, pulling at John's jacket so he could throw it on the floor and undoubtedly push him onto the bed. But John wasn't having any of it. Sherlock was awkwardly stooped from where he'd had to lower himself to get at John's neck, and John pressed his advantage – he laced his fingers in Sherlock's hair, wrapped his hand around Sherlock's wrist in a grip that would surely bruise him, and forced him to look up. Christ, John had never seen anything sexier: Sherlock's eyes were bright with fierce arousal, there was red on his cheeks and his lips were swollen with kisses. John almost melted where he stood, willing to throw himself at Sherlock and do anything he said, but this wasn't about Sherlock being in control. No, this was about John, and he knew it.

'Vatican Cameos,' he hissed – low and seductive. Something sparked in Sherlock's eyes as he understood John's meaning at once, and wordlessly he dropped onto his knees. John remained on his feet, his stance wide, and allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of his fingers locked tightly in Sherlock's hair as the fly on his jeans was pulled down by deft fingers that John enjoyed watching dance over the strings of a violin more than anything else in the word.

'Yes, Sherlock. Fuck, yes.'


I've been told that I usually keep to character very well, but I'm not sure how this turned out in respect to that. First sort of proper M rated thing I've ever written: and I was probably a wee bit of a coward, as you can tell :L WHAT'S THE P WORD I DUNNO. Maybe if I write some more I'll be brave enough to actually write it properly.

ANYWAY, please review! :D