It was all set up. Everything was where it was supposed to be. White silk heaped over the couch in multitudes that would make a spider cry, hills and valleys shimmering beneath the pale yellow lighting of the shaded lamps posed around just so. Rose petals were scattered gaudily about, staining the air with their bittersweet scent. A golden saucer laid on the floor with an unopened bottle of wine sitting on it beside two tall, slender-stemmed glasses. The golden foil was still intact around the top of the bottle, as well as the dark red velvet ribbon tied neatly in a bow – matching the bows tied around the stems of the wine glasses.

Everything was in order. He was just missing the guest of honor. Black silk robe tied messily around his trim frame, Sherlock Holmes stood by the door awaiting his lover's return.

Their sex life, as of late, had been strained to say the very least. Sherlock was restless, John could tell, but ever since his recent promotion at the surgery, he came home more and more frequently exhausted. Tonight was the first time in two years he was getting the night off, for personal health as his boss had put it, unable to keep from noticing the way he would stare distractedly out of windows during long work hours. He'd called Sherlock at 8 o' clock to let him know he was going to be home in twenty minutes, giving the detective just enough time to put together his plan.

Camera nestled securely on the table beside the couch, Sherlock stretched himself out languidly like a black cat with his arms thrown over the arm rest above his head, and he waited.

John came up the stairs to the flat not five minutes later, for once not feeling so tired he ached down to his bones when he moved. He was looking forward to a nice, quiet, uninterrupted dinner with his lover and then maybe a round or, if they were lucky, two in the bedroom before he got some much needed sleep.

"Hey Sherlock, is dinner-" John stopped, the end of his question dying on his lips as he took in the sensual scene before him. Sherlock's black robe and dark hair stood out in stark contrast against his pale skin and the silk that seemed to take on a gentle glow in the soft lighting. The red rose petals that were the only real color in the whole display drew the eye and held it, bringing a new level of romantic eroticism to the picture. It was all beautiful and stunning and made his mouth go dry at the thought of what it could mean.

"So...uh..." John squeaked. He suddenly felt hot, tugging nervously at his collar. "This is unexpected."

A satisfied smile crossed Sherlock's lips as he pulled himself to a stand. "Right on time, John. Take off all your clothes. Naked, please."

He walked forward to help the shorter man out of his jacket, which he tossed carelessly to the ground.

"R-right now?" John asked. Sherlock's incessant hands tugging at his shirt answered the question and he knew better than to argue. Even if he wanted to.

Within minutes he had stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. The boxers he wore purely for modesty's sake. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing just yet and standing around like a naked idiot until Sherlock told him what to do wasn't the most appealing idea. The shirt he kept on because, no matter how many times Sherlock assured him he didn't mind the scar on his shoulder, John still found the marred skin disconcerting and tried to keep it covered as long as he could.

"Must you complicate things, John? I said naked. Clothes off. No arguing." Sherlock said, untying his robe teasingly, only to re-tie it tighter. "And when you're completely naked – on the couch. No, don't speak. Do as I say."

He went about adjusting the few lamps pointed at the couch as he waited for John to do as instructed.

With a sigh John pulled the white tee-shirt over his head and tossed it on the ground. Next he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers and drew them down his legs, exposing his thick, muscular thighs and his half-hard erection to the cool air of the flat. Once he was completely nude he sidled past his lover to sit awkwardly on the edge of the couch, wondering where the hell this was going.

Sherlock looked at John and scoffed. "Honestly, John. Relax. You're in your own home. Do try to seem like it."

He launched himself at John, pinning him to the arm rest. Their bodies flush, silk sliding against bare flesh. Arms reached up, retreated, and then the body was gone. Sherlock stood looking unbelievably self-satisfied, camera in hands.

"Now, do I need to direct you, or do you think you can do this yourself?"

"This is pretty kinky Sherlock, even for you." John said, trying to inject some humor into the situation to help himself relax. He knew they had been experiencing a bit of a lull in their sex life but this was not the remedy he had expected.

He had to admit, he did like the idea. It was different and it was sensual, and now that he knew what was going on he felt a little more confident. He tried to settle himself into a remotely sexy pose. He leaned back against the couch, his legs opening of their own accord, and threw one arm lazily over the back of the couch.

"How's this?" he asked.

Sherlock's adam's apple bobbed and the camera drooped for a moment, entranced expressions crossing his face as he looked the man over. His tongue brushed over his lips, breath coming out slow, blowing out through a gently bowed smile.

"Perfect." He drew out the word, slow and honey sweet.

He lifted the camera to his eye and with a click, John's visage was captured. Naked and open and willing and sweet. Confident head tipped back, eyes boring down, looking at Sherlock, opening him up.

He shivered. Desire.


"Move. John. Another."

John shift, lifting his legs up onto the couch and leaning against the arm instead of the back. He titled his hips a little towards the camera, not showing everything. Giving up just enough to tease. His left hand fell off the side of the couch while he brought the right up to run through his sandy blond hair.

"Like this?"

Not fair, John.



Lifting the camera again, he snapped. Fingering a flower petal, Sherlock instructed John to lift it, to bite it. John did as he was told, slipping the edge of the petal into his mouth.



Feeling inspired now that the use of props had been brought into the game, John smirked and reached for the bottle of wine. He held it as he moved to the center of the couch. Legs splayed, leaning back, brought the bottle between his thick thighs, keeping one hand on the neck of the bottle to steady it.

Sherlock nearly dropped the camera. Heat surged through him and he adjusted his robe. How John could remain so mind-blowingly sexy after so many years was beyond him.


Feeling. Sherlock soared.


"Another, John. Another." He was breathless. Mouth dry, throat dry, gasps dry. Paled.

John smirked. He could tell this was as arousing for Sherlock as it was for him and he was determined to keep it up.

Setting the bottle aside for now John stood and walked around the couch. He half sat on, half leaned against the arm rest – the one Sherlock so often used as a pillow – and crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head to smirk at the camera.


The detective's erection was evident behind the thin black film of his robe. Straining for a view. Aching. Driving, wanting. Wanting to feel. Desire.

Sherlock's eyes raked over John's frame, and the camera drooped again. He was so sturdy. Broad, wide and strong. Tanned, thick, not a part of him dainty or delicate or gentle. Mellow and sweet, tawny and stocky. Curved and straight at once, sloping and square.

Tongue ran over lips, teeth exposed, Sherlock's pulse quickened.

"Another, John."

"Am I the only one who's getting his picture taken today?" John asked teasingly. Just as the words passed his lips his eyes lit up with inspiration and the next second he was gone, his powerful legs taking him up the stairs to his room.

Seconds later he was back. He fell back onto the couch, sprawling over the silk, his old dog tags hanging from his lips.

Sherlock nearly cried.


He fell to his knees to take a shot from another angle, the light casting beautiful shadows over every groove of John's rippling body. Penis standing upright now demanding attention.

Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away. John moved them to his erection, wrapped the cool chain around the base and let out a hiss.


Captured. His expression, tense and head dropped back, closed eyes and open teeth. Desire.


"Again, John." Sherlock whispered, needing. If he didn't keep taking pictures, he'd lose control and launch himself at John, the animal gnawing at his gut would take over.

John smiled. The naked craving in Sherlock's eyes was intoxicating and it made his cock throb with need.

He wove the chain through his fingers, the dog tags resting against his knuckles and took himself in hand, stroking once languidly from base to tip. It wasn't surrender, just temporary appeasement but it felt so good and knowing that Sherlock was watching was so arousing that his eyes closed and his head fell back.

A moan escaped Sherlock and his head bowed. He couldn't keep his head up; the pulse that shot through him was too powerful. It commanded all of his attention for a fleeting second as heat rocketed through his frame. Shook him deep. Desire.

He raised his head as John repeated the motion and lifted his camera swiftly.


"John." Voice gentle and breathy, dripping with lust so powerful John could taste it.

"Sherlock." John answered, his voice rough and deep and all sorts of sugar.

He slid down the couch so he was lying completely on his back, his legs thrown over the opposite arm rest. His eyes opened and he looked at Sherlock, wanting to see the expression on his face. Once again he stroked himself but as he did so he brought his free hand to his lips to lick the soft pads of his fingers.



Sherlock let out a breath, soft and twisted and wet. His hips jerked forward as a throb rocketed through him and made his whole body pulse at once. He slipped from the balls of his feet to his knees, his body not wanting to support his weight.

"Please, John. More. Just… just one more."

The temptation was almost too great. The desire to launch at John like a hungry animal was almost overtaking him. He wanted to take him, to feel him, touch him. Taste him.

"If you insist." John teased but he didn't move. Sherlock's eyes wee bright and his cheeks were distinctly red. It was beautiful. He wanted to see more of that. "How do you want me?"

"On the floor. Spread your legs. Arms on the couch." Sherlock ordered swiftly, his throat dry as he swallowed.

His body was thrumming now, aching. Pores alight. He wanted to cry, sensation rippling through him, curling its tendrils around him. A pulse at the peak of his desire, nestled deep between the tensed mounds of his bottom. He cried out as John moved, one leg lying flat and the other crooked up. Arms stretched and flexed out to either side of him on the cushions.


Setting the camera on the floor, Sherlock lunged. Settling his weight into John's lap so quickly the soldier didn't have time to react. Teeth crashed and tongues melted, tanned hands guided pale hips. Sherlock's fingers dug rows into his John's blonde hair, pulling tightly. Neck back, teeth biting, harsh sucking, and then a kiss.

Rocking. Desire. Sweat-slicked flesh rubbing, Sherlock's robe slipped aside. Kiss.

John moaned into Sherlock's mouth. Lips against lips, flesh kissing flesh. He had missed this. The need and passion had been limited between them lately. His head was spinning.

Sherlock's hands were everywhere, touching all of him and John wanted to return the favor. He pushed the robe out of the way to grip Sherlock's pale buttocks, gripping the tender flesh hard enough to bruise.

A breathy moan tore from Sherlock's throat as he pushed back into the touch, need fluttering through him. His penis pulsed against John's stomach, and he hissed at the cool contrast of the chain wrapped around John's fingers on his bottom.

"No," he moaned, kissing John's temples tenderly. "Not yet. Patience, love. Wait."

He pushed off of John's wait, his lower extremities pulsing at the desperate moan that left the soldier as he was robbed of contact. He leaned over, kneeling in front of John, and popped the cork out of the bottle. The sharp, sweet scent of wine wafted out of the bottle, and Sherlock poured a small amount into both glasses. He smirked at the breathless, frustrated look in John's eyes as he took the glass.

Sitting with his legs folded beside him, the glow of the light behind him gave him a pretty sort of halo; utterly undeserved. John knew him far too well for that.

He tipped his head back and sipped from his glass, running his tongue slowly, slowly across his lower lip. "Drink, John. The night is young."

"I don't see why we can't use it all." John huffed. He could appreciate Sherlock trying to be romantic but this was painful. He needed passion, friction, the sweet feel of skin on skin. Sherlock's teasing was vindictive.

But he looked so beautiful like that, like some kind of cruel angel. Or perhaps a gentle demon would be the better way to describe it.

A coy smile played on Sherlock's pale lips. Painting his mouth dark with another sip of wine, he suddenly went down without saying a word and wrapped his lips around the head of John's cock, swallowing it to the hilt without a breath of warning.

John shouted, shuddering so violently at the sudden contact that he nearly spilled his wine.

He hastily set the glass aside and immediately filled his empty hand with a fistful of Sherlock's ebony curls. For too long they had been reduced to quick, unfulfilling fucks before bed. This sudden, sensual experience had his nerves firing off faster than lightning, nearly pushing him over the edge before they had even truly begun.

Sherlock hummed, content. Like a cat who'd just caught a mouse, he was now playing with it before going in for the kill. He laid on his belly, curling his legs behind him as he slipped his head back, suckling at the tip of John's penis.

He moaned heartily, lapping away the liquid accumulating beneath his tongue. Lips and teeth scraped, swallowing each buck of John's hips.

Moving silently, Sherlock fetched the tube of gel lube he'd hidden in the folds of the fabric nearby before John arrived. He opened his eyes, staring up through thick ebony lashes as he continued to lather John's cock. Satisfied with the tightly closed lids over John's eyes, Sherlock opened the cap and slathered two of his fingers.

John was so lost in the waves of pleasure rolling through him, centering at his groin and Sherlock's talented tongue, that at first he didn't even notice the slick fingers sliding between his cheeks until the digits pressed against his opening.

His first reaction was to tense, all his muscles seizing up then relaxing when the soft, sticky fingers began rubbing at the sensitive skin. This was right, he knew this.

Relaxing, those skilled fingers slipped past the tight ring of muscle he was in heaven. He was caught between the bliss that was Sherlock's tongue and the euphoria brought on by the soft fingers rubbing his most sensitive bundle of nerves that Sherlock was impossibly good at finding. He was lost. His whole body was writhing in ecstasy. His arms flailed for a moment before gripping the slippery silk. His legs kicked and stomped the floor in a bid for purchase on the wooden surface.

Sherlock hummed again, quite pleased with himself. Feeling John from the inside, he claimed him. Violated him deeply, closing the gap between his knuckles and John's hole. Sweet and open, bloomed wide like a flower, sucking him in. Petals slick, swallowing his fingers. He sent ripples through John's body, anticipating his release with every second the soldier gasped.

Sherlock breathed John's moans. Lids opened, he peered up, shaft half-vanished behind plump, reddened lips. Haze settled in his pale irises as he made eye contact with John.

John opened his mouth, wanting to say something but his words were swept away by those lusty eyes. Instead he threw his head back, giving voice to a deep, guttural groan. He bucked his hips, pushing forward into Sherlock's mouth then pressing back down against the invading fingers. He was so close, so very very close. Heaven, he could taste it.

His head snapped forward and he met Sherlock's eyes again. He wanted to warn him, to tell him what he was doing to his body. He meant to say something but the words were lost in the loud, resounding cry that claimed his voice as he lost himself in pleasure.

His vision went white as he exploded on Sherlock's tongue. His skin was on fire, his nerves jumping and sizzling with heat of it. He could hear the blood rushing through his veins and the frantic pounding of his heart. And it was amazing.

Slowly, patiently, Sherlock swallowed him. Took what was offered, greedily. Hungrily. He lapped at the organ long after it had begun to soften, before he finally pulled back. Sitting back on his haunches, he threw back what was left in his wine glass and swallowed with a content sigh.

Standing, his own erection obvious beneath the film of his robe, a sultry smile crossed Sherlock's face. "My turn." He said, lifted the camera, and dropped it in John's lap.

John looked down, then up at Sherlock, his hazy brain trying to make sense of Sherlock's words. Then it hit him. The camera, the shoot. He grinned.

"Let's see what you can do." He stood, taking the camera with him and moved to where Sherlock had been standing before.

Facing away from his lover, Sherlock untied the cord about his waist. The black silk glided like water down his back and bunched at his elbows, and then with a twist of the detective's wrist, he'd discarded it to contrast with the white silk on the floor. He looked over his shoulders, naked as the day he was born, smirk all sly and pretending.

John licked his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. White skin, blending almost seamlessly with the white silk, contrasting with the black of his robe. It was beautiful. Like a feast spread out just for him.

He lifted the camera.



So forceful. Demanding.

Sherlock slinked onto the sofa, back sliding across silk, hooking his knees over the arm rest. Spread his legs, stretched his arms languidly over his head, tangling his fingers together. Turning his head and obscuring half his face in his ropey arm, he stared hungrily forward. Mustering every ounce of lust in his body, drawing it from every pore, he stared at John like he wanted to eat him alive.

"Lord help me." he whispered. His hand started to tremble. He felt the first sparks of desire prickling his skin. He wanted Sherlock, needed Sherlock.


He could wait.


He didn't move much. Just enough. Bringing his feet onto the sofa, pointed his toes and pushed. Hips raising, back sloping elegantly, Sherlock still laid his shoulders on the white silk, his arms still tensed over his head. He tipped his head back, exposing the column of his neck, locked his eyes closed with thick lashes, and parted his lips.

A gasp, a rush of heat. John's whole body tensed, like a hunter ready to spring on it's prey. The taut muscles, the smooth flesh, soft lips and that beautiful throbbing cock. It was too tempting.

The camera came up again.


He would immortalize this sight.

Swallowing hard, whispered desire. "More. Please."

Sherlock knelt up and stood. One foot flat on the floor, his other foot raised, flat on the cushion. Knee over the armrest, Sherlock leaned back. Arching his back, he raised his arms over his head once more. This time, fingers threaded through hair. Gentle at first, then rough, yanking back. Expression sweet and pained and wanting, so, so badly. He moaned.

John was breathing quickly now and he could feel his blood rushing south. If this kept up he knew he would be achingly hard again in a matter of minutes.


"Beautiful." he breathed. "Again."

Moving swiftly, Sherlock glided to the floor. He sat, crooked his legs beside him, and turned so his back faced the camera. Bottom slightly hidden by his feet, he folded his arms over the couch in front of him, turned his head to burn his eyes into John's. A smile crossed his lips, sultry and toying.


He was beautiful. John could barely keep from throwing the camera aside and jumping on him right then and there. He wanted to run his hands over his back and thighs, mark that perfect skin and claim it. Waiting was torture.

Sherlock hummed, turning. Legs spreading, erection straining – red against the white of his belly – knees crooked and feet flat on the floor. Arms open, inviting, elbows on knees. A frame, perfect for someone to fit inside, chin dropped, eyes burning through lashes as he stared at the camera. A sort of carnal smile spread across his lips.

"You're cruel Sherlock." It was little more than a whimper. John would have done anything to leave the camera behind and join the picture. Each pose was a tease, a terrible terrible tease.


"More. I need more Sherlock."

A catlike smirk crossed those perfect, pale lips. Sherlock knew what he was doing to John, what he was stirring within him. He stood, placed his knees on the couch cushions. Turning, back facing John, he extended his arms languidly over the back of the couch, and arched his back forward, like a cat stretching. Bottom pushed out, erection hanging down between his legs, engorged and heavy with blood. Turning his head ever so slightly, just one silver eye visible, alight with lust and just the hint of a dare.

He smirked and wiggled his hips. "Picture, John. Take the picture." He breathed.

Head snapping up, John's eyes were torn from Sherlock's lovely bum. He nearly fumbled the camera in his haste to lift it and take the picture. His cock was nearly erect now and he knew he couldn't take much more of this.



Sherlock was swift, moving agile. Leaning down, he lifted his bottom in the air. Ankles hooked over the arm rest, arms stretched out as far as they would reach, fingers playing teasingly with rose petals. Humming like a cat, head turned, eyes boring into John's. Back arched low, chest rubbing against the white silk, pale flesh, pale fabric one in the same.

He exhaled, slow and hard, closed his eyes, listened.

John sucked in a low shuddering breath and held it. His entire being singing with desire. His hands itched, needing to reach out and grab a hold of Sherlock and claim him. It was all he could do to hold himself still long enough to lift the camera.


There was the snap and that was it. John all but threw the camera aside in his rush to get at to the couch. He grabbed the lube from where Sherlock had left it and climbed onto the silky cushions behind him.

One hand placed on the detective's back he held him still while the other quickly wetted himself.

His blood was on fire. Took hold of the man's hips and pressed forward.

The noise Sherlock made, trapped somewhere on the spectrum of grunting and groaning, and he jerked away. The intrusion was so sudden, so large, he could hardly stand it. At the very same time, so unbelievably welcome that he couldn't bear to move away.

He was pushing back, sucking more inside, deeper, deeper inside.

Sherlock's head turned on the silk so he could look John in the eye, lips parted, irises lidded, a hearty moan escaping his throat. It was deep, starting in his chest, rumbling up his esophagus and exploding past swollen lips. All force, like thunder.

"John." He hissed, his voice gone with the raw moans. "John, please."

John smiled and leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss to the soft skin where the base of Sherlock's neck met the top of his spine. He knew what his lover wanted but he was determined to savor this feeling. His work at the surgery had denied them this kind of intimacy for too long and he was far too happy to linger now, enjoying the heat and pressure surrounding him.

Teasingly slowly he pulled back until he was almost completely free of his lover's body. Then he stilled before pushing back forward, letting Sherlock take him back in slowly, so he could feel every inch slipping past the sensitive ring of muscle.

Head tipping back, Sherlock's throat was alight again with deep, growling moans. He whimpered as he was fully made John's sheath, and wiggled his hips, drowning in sensation and desperately searching for more.

Hands grabbed at silk, rose petals crushed betwixt his fingers, their syrupy sweet smell filling the air as their pores were opened.

John smiled and leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss to the soft skin where the base of Sherlock's neck met the top of his spine. He knew what his lover wanted, but he was determined to savor this feeling. His work at the surgery had denied them this kind of intimacy for too long. He was far too happy to linger now, enjoying the heat and pressure surrounding him.

Teasingly slowly he pulled back until he was almost completely free of his lover's body. Then he stilled before pushing back forward, Sherlock taking him back in slowly, so slowly.

All sex and sweet, Sherlock keened, pushing and rutting back. It was too much, far too much, he couldn't possibly get enough.

Fingers pink, releasing the sheets with a sigh, the detective pressed back. Pressed hard, needing, eating John up. Eating him whole. Wide and stretching, tight, clenching, hips jutting back like a mad animal. Needing. Desire.


John groaned. Sherlock's voice, that deep, poisonous baritone, an amazing thing. The sound of his name, spoken in that heavenly voice. Sent shock waves through John's body and strained his controls.

He wanted more. The slow teasing was fun for a time but was desperate. He needed friction. The feel of skin sliding against skin and the sweet warmth around his aching cock.

Letting go of his control John pressed Sherlock down with a firm hand on the small of his back, holding him steady, and began to thrust in earnest.

Filled and reaching, Sherlock's fingers once more strangled the covers, Whining and wonderful, he grasped for sanity. Drowning, quickly. He felt alive, more alive than he'd been in weeks.

Just a moment. Living.

He was in the moment. He focused, always focusing. He was in his own body. He felt the sweat, slick, salt, sweet, sound. He tasted the air, the silk on his tongue. He listened to his pulse, thrumming like war drums. He listened to John, listlessly calling his name in bliss and agony. So good it hurt.

He was in his own body, and he felt every part of himself. He focused, just for a moment, on being.

He cried. Wept into the silk, alive and alight and on fire with pain and beauty and sensation. He would die here if he could, and he would be happy.

John arched his back, hips snapping forward to fill and then withdraw again. Sherlock was crying, gasping, quivering with pleasure, The thought that he could reduce a man like Sherlock Holmes to this, filled him with the most awesome sense of power he could scarcely believe it.

It was incredible. They seemed to work in complete sync. They moved together, gasped together, even trembled together. It was magnificent and every second drove John closer to the edge.

Sherlock came first, crying sweet and deadly. Bliss staining his pores, his pale body flushed, Sherlock screeched against the silk, tarnishing the flawless silk with the evidence of his delight. Forever stained, a mark of his agony and ecstasy. Draped around him, elbows and fingers digging patterns, almost like wings stretched on the softness to either side of him.

He sobbed and came, dying in John's arms, pleasure and pain all bleeding through him, rocketing together and crashing against the cliffs of his sanity. He was losing it, needing to feel John come. He needed the completion. Craved it, hungered for it. He would die without it. He felt sick, needy, the cure John's tide within him. He needed it.




Three more quick thrusts, three more pounding heart beats and John came to the sound of Sherlock screaming his name. It was breathtaking, beautiful, the very essence of pleasure.

His climax hit him like a tidal wave, like a tsunami that carried him away with his release. It was more than physical, it was like he was spilling all that he was into Sherlock, completing them both.

Melded now, limbs a tangle, they fell to the couch as if it was the only thing that would keep them alive. Breathing in synch, eyelids heavy, Sherlock was sure he would never move again. His nerves were ablaze, smallest movements from John sending white lights shooting before his eyes. He cried still, tears darkening the white silk, mixing in. Evidence of his pleasure that would fade with time, would dry. He would need to replace it often.

"My love."

Speaking sweet, numbly, pale knuckles brushing tanned forehead, they slept.