Whoops, this was an idea given to me by a friend at school (whoop, Aleisha is too kind with her random prompts for Johnlock in P.E.) and was actually not supposed to be porn but ended up being porn anyway. Oh dear. Also first time writing porn as if that wasn't obvious.
Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to Mofftiss and Sir ACD.
The Nervous Game
As always, Sherlock was being insufferable. And, as usual, John was paying the sacrifices that came to agreeing those few years ago to become the detective's flatmate. He knew Sherlock has a brain the size of a planet, that it must be hard for him because he mustn't be able to turn it off from the looks of things. Lack of mental stimulation lead – understandably – to dark moods in which Sherlock sunk to unbelievable lows to contrast with his unbelievable highs.
However, when a plate smashes against the wall above his head, John draws the line.
"Bored!" Sherlock shouts the single word that may as well be his catchphrase, another plate raised. It is, in most ways, like living with a bloody five year old that happens to be a genius who also smokes more than can be ever be seen as remotely healthy (that's after disregarding the health issues concerned with smoking in the first place, of course).
"Sherlock, for God's sake!" John cries out and ducks in order to avoid being hit by another porcelain projectile as it soars through the air and smashes against the table behind and to the right of him. It just so happens that it smashes against the varnished woodwork and John's eyes widen in horror, "That is mahogany!"
"I don't give a damn about the mahogany, John!" Sherlock seethes and slinks back into the living room to throw himself face first into the leather sofa.
"You scratched the woodwork!" John shouts in dismay, still in the kitchen and quite frankly appalled at Sherlock's blatant disregard for everything and anything nice that they own.
"I need a case!" comes the muffled-into-leather cry as John finally makes his way into the living room in order to give Sherlock a rather long lecture on how to treat one's own possessions and the possessions of others.
"It's been twodays, Sherlock!" John shouts back at him, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation, "Get a hobby, find some way to entertain yourself. You're a grown man for goodness sake!"
"John, just shut up!" Sherlock bites back, turning swiftly with misplaced grace onto his side before pushing himself up with limbs that look far too skinny into a seated position. He pushes his hands into his hair and tangles his fingers into the strands tightly, "My mind is stagnant. It's starting to degrade, John. Can't you see? I. Need. A. Case."
John pauses in his shouting battle with the consulting detective and sighs before trudging across the room to Sherlock, laying his own hands over the ones that his flatmate has tightly coiled into his hair. The detective flinches at the contact but untenses slightly as John gently tugs at his fingers to unknot them from the curls of hair. They drop into Sherlock's lap and John takes a step back, sitting down on the surface of the coffee table.
"We should play a game or something," John says, voice quieter now that the bout of rage has passed, "I know a few good ones from when I was still in school."
"I hardly see what sort of stimulation playground antics can offer my mind, John," Sherlock growls though his voice lacks its usual threatening edge of defiance.
"Oh shush, it offers both a mental and a physical challenge even if it is a bit...juvenile," John replies with a slight shrug, "It's called 'The Nervous Game'."
"Oh my, John. Do go on. I'm ever so interested in this representation of your childhood decadence," Sherlock answers, words practically dripping with the sarcasm he forces upon them as he speaks.
"Well one person puts their hands on the body part of another person and then asks 'are you nervous?' If they aren't, the person then moves their hands to another place and they repeat the question," John shrugs as he explains the scenario and blatantly ignores the sarcasm with which Sherlock had asked the question. He shifts a bit on the top of the table as Sherlock eyes him cautiously, "The game ends when the person says they're nervous to avoid the situation from getting too awkward."
"Go on then," Sherlock says and it's so sudden that it actually causes John to blink in confusion. Sherlock merely sighs at his flatmate's apparent idiocy, "Play the game. I'm...'consenting', if you will."
"Oh right, yeah," John stumbles over his words but moves forwards so he can lay his hands gently onto Sherlock's arms, giving them a small squeeze before asking, "Are you nervous?"
"Simply quaking in my boots," Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes and apparently stuck in an unending flux of sarcastic comments.
"Lay off it," John gives him an exaggerated eye roll in return and moves both his hands down onto Sherlock's knees, giving another small squeeze as he repeats the question, "Are you nervous?"
"No," Sherlock says simply, though absently he's aware of a funny sensation that tingles through his legs, his heart rate speeding up slightly.
John hums and moves his hands to hold Sherlock's own, running his fingers down the other man's palms softly before he wraps his fingers around them. He rests his two first fingers softly and nonchalantly over Sherlock's pulse and he can feel it thump in a solid, steady beat against his fingertips. While it isn't exactly racing, it does seem just a tad fast...
"Are you nervous?" John asks, fingers rubbing gently in circles against the sensitive skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrists.
"No," Sherlock answers, though his voice seems quiet as if he's afraid of saying too much lest he stutter over his own words. He is.
John nods and slips his hands away, hesitating slightly as he thinks about where to place them. After a few seconds he makes up his minds and slips his hands up Sherlock's legs from the knee to rest them on top of his thighs firmly. He keeps them about halfway up his flatmate's thighs, not having the guts himself yet to quiet go much farther. However, he is adventurous enough to rub the seams in Sherlock's trousers on the inside of his thighs with his thumbs, unable to ignore how the detective's breath seemingly hitches at the sensation. Sherlock tenses under John's hands and bites at the inside of his lips as he tries to stay defiantly still.
"Are you nervous?" John asks, face leaning slightly closer in towards Sherlock.
"No," Sherlock says too quickly, fighting to stop his voice from stuttering or cracking or doing anything stupid.
The hands slide up Sherlock's thighs to slip around his waist and the detective sucks a breath in through his nose, the urge to say 'yes, yes he is nervous, please stop the game' is rising up in him but he's stubborn and he refuses to give in so easily – even if the contact is having some...interesting effects on his body. But the whole scenario is unpredictable. He doesn't have even the faintest idea where John is going to put his hands and oh, he swears there's a hidden promise behind these actions.
"Not nervous," Sherlock says as fingertips squeeze his sides gently, answering before John even asks the question. John simply raises an eyebrow at him but doesn't say anything, merely runs his hands across the fabric of Sherlock's shirt to press them gently against Sherlock's stomach.
"Are you nervous?" John manages to actually ask this time, voice impossibly quiet as he taps an undistinguishable rhythm against the fabric concealing Sherlock's stomach.
"No," Sherlock whispers, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he manages to place the type of heat that's bubbling up inside of him, his cheeks becoming warm.
John moves his hands up and pushes his fingers carefully into the dark curls of Sherlock's hair, fingernails scratching lightly against the skin of Sherlock's scalp as he guides his fingers farther into the messy mass of tangles. He forces Sherlock to look him in the eyes and he can see with startling clarity the way his pupils are obviously dilated; he imagines his own are in much the same state. It takes every part of him to be able to move one of his thumbs to rub it gently over the delicate skin of Sherlock's lips.
"Are you nervous?" John asks, surprised as his voice stays far steadier than he really feels. Apparently Sherlock is entirely unable to give him a verbal answer, instead giving a little shake of his head to reply with a 'no'.
It's clear where this game is heading now and John is able to – without hesitation – slide his hands up Sherlock's legs once again, fingertips slipping between Sherlock's thighs and stopping just before the crease in the detective's trousers. With gentle force, he spreads Sherlock's legs slightly and leans up from the table to push himself forwards so that he's practically nose to nose with Sherlock as he rubs firm yet soft circles against his flatmate's inner thighs with his thumbs. He splays his fingers across the fabric and feels the warmth as Sherlock exhales a shuddering breath against his cheek.
"Are you nervous?" John breathes the question.
"No," is Sherlock's just as breathless answer, voice just pitched slightly higher than it usually would be.
After taking a breath in, John slips one of his hands forwards to cup the front of Sherlock's trousers with a firm grip, hand pressing insistently against the bulge that he can feel there as it presses back against his hand. He leans forwards, lips brushing unintentionally against Sherlock's cheek as he leans to whisper in his ear with a gentle, soft voice.
"Are you nervous?" he asks, lips pretty much pressed against the skin of Sherlock's ear.
"Yes," Sherlock shudders out and John takes it as initiative to lean the full way forwards and press his nose to Sherlock's neck, simply breathing in the air that had once hovered over the skin there.
He moves completely off the coffee table and scratches his fingers up the front of Sherlock's trousers as he draws his fingers away, feeling the detective's hips try to stutter towards his hand at the contact. John straddles him, drawing his face away from Sherlock's neck as he pulls back to get a proper look at him. His cheeks are tinted pink, his eyes are wide and his hair is dishevelled from where John had pushed his fingers into it. Breathing in, John repeats the motion and tugs Sherlock upwards so he can press their lips together.
As he leans forwards, he effectively presses Sherlock back into the back of the sofa, pinning him in place beneath him. It's obvious that Sherlock isn't used to this kind of contact; isn't used to being touched. John feels it's a sort of personal duty to him now to teach Sherlock what it's like, to teach him how it feels, to teach him how good it can be. His hands pull out of Sherlock's hair, fingertips trailing down his cheeks and jaw and neck before they come to stop at the first button of the purple shirt he's wearing.
When John pops the first button open Sherlock's hands come to rest gently on his hips and that one single motion makes his chest tighten in a round of feelings that he can't even begin to understand.
Quick work is made of Sherlock's shirt before it's pushed open and slipped off, discarded onto the floor near the sofa. Sherlock slips his hands under John's shirt and jumper before pulling the both of them up and over John's head, sending the two clashes of fabrics to the floor in order to join Sherlock's shirt. John presses his chest against Sherlock's own and feels his breath stutter and catch in his throat before he grinds his hips down against the ones beneath him, burying his face in the skin of a certain slender pale neck as he gasps at the sensations.
Then they're moving as Sherlock shifts and moves so that John is laid back on the couch and Sherlock is hovering above him and looking rather uncertain. John grasps his hands gently and leads them to the front of his trousers, the action apparently being clear enough for the detective to understand as he unbuttons and unzips John's trousers and tugs them down, along with his underwear. They join the other items of clothing on the floor and they, too, are soon joined by Sherlock's own trousers and underwear as he takes them off himself.
John spreads his legs and Sherlock moves between them, ducking down so their mouths press together in a clumsy sort of endearing kiss, unpractised but amazing. Once more, John has to lead Sherlock as he takes his hand again and – as he pulls away from the kiss – slips the four fingers into his mouth, sucking. Sherlock gives him a little nod to show him that he knows what to do after that and John closes his eyes, focusing on thoroughly coating Sherlock's fingers in a layer of saliva. Sherlock pulls them from John's mouth and brings them down between John's legs to press one gently against his entrance.
Biting on the inside of his cheek, John forces himself to relax, biting down harder when he feels the tip of one of those slender, too long, violinist fingers slip inside of him. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes, well aware that Sherlock is watching him. Sherlock thrusts his fingers in and out of John, gaining some sense of rhythm before he slips in a second finger and causes the man beneath him to gasp and tilt his head back against the arm of the chair. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Sherlock leans down and nips gently at the skin of John's neck as he adds the third finger after a few more thrusts.
By the time John is grinding down, gasping, against Sherlock's fingers, he's more than ready. Sherlock pulls his fingers out and takes a moment to appreciate the sight before he spits into his hand and coats his prick in a combination of saliva and pre-come. He's pretty sure they're both clean, John being a doctor and he himself having not participated in any form of sexual acts for at least a decade, so he doesn't worry about needing a condom. Instead, he just lines himself up with John's entrance and plants his hands on either side of his blogger's shoulders as he pushes in carefully with slow, gentle, not-quite-thrusts.
It catches him by surprise when John wraps his legs around his waist and pulls Sherlock in to the hilt quickly and all at once, throwing his head back against the sofa cushions with a low moan that racks Sherlock's insides and possibly makes him harder than he already is. He forgets to move until John makes a keening sound and bucks his hips back against Sherlock's own. They manage to establish a decent rhythm, hard but gentle and deep thrusts as Sherlock pulls out and pushes into John over and over, the other man meeting him halfway each time Sherlock pushes in and giving a strangely satisfying whimper whenever Sherlock's cock brushes against his prostate.
It doesn't take long for the rhythm to break as each of them approach their orgasms, Sherlock's hand wrapping around John's prick as he speeds his thrusts up – John caught between wanting to grind backwards into the thrusts or upwards into the hand. Before long they're coming, Sherlock first as he rides out his orgasm with shallow, quick snaps of his hips, arms shaking as he manages to keep the pace of his hand against John's dick. John comes when Sherlock presses his thumb against the head of his cock and massages it, accompanying it with a few thrusts. He releases over his own and Sherlock's stomach, calling out some variant of a swear word as he does so.
After a few seconds, the air filled with obscene panting, Sherlock pulls out and grabs his purple shirt from the floor to clean the both of them off, somehow mustering up energy despite how his hands shake as they grip the item of clothing. He lays on top of the still panting John as he tries to catch his breath and trails gentle kisses along his collarbone.
"I sort of...expected that to happen," John chuckles, apparently rather pleased with himself.
"You've ruined it now," Sherlock grins and he nips at the skin of John's neck.
They don't bother moving for at least an hour, and they probably end up falling asleep for most of that anyway. The hour is spent cuddling and kissing for brief amounts of time, curled in one another's arms.
I solemnly swear that this is porn without plot...