The Diogenes Club
An exercise in silence
Warning: Mature content.
Pairing: Sherlock x John
Summary: Sherlock combines two of his favorite pastimes: irritating Mycroft and debauching John. Established Johnlock.
John hated the Diogenes Club and its blasted requirement for silence. He wasn't a chatty person as such but just the knowledge that he wasn't supposed to talk put him on edge. Even with just him and Sherlock in the room the whole concept was oppressive.
He paced instead, walking back and forth in front of a closet door while he and Sherlock waited to be escorted into Mycroft's presence. Escorted! The bloody ponce!
At least in Mycroft's office he could speak again.
Sherlock, who at home had been god awful about this whole thing, seemed to have calmed down some and was typing something on his phone. John paid him no mind.
Right up until the point Sherlock unceremoniously grabbed him and threw them both into the closet.
"Sher-" John broke off at the expression on his partner's face as he firmly shut the door. He shivered slightly. He knew that expression.
Sherlock grinned at him. A cat about to pounce.
And pounce he did, shoving John up against the closet wall.
"Sherlock!" John gasped. "What – not here! Mycroft is just -"
Sherlock shoved his phone into John's field of vision, cutting off the doctor's protests. John blinked, focusing on the glowing screen and Sherlock's unsent text message with some difficulty. ^Silence, John. This is the Diogenes Club after all.^
John bit down on a groan. He can't possibly be serious.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and grinned, that utterly impossible grin of his. John shivered even as heat spiked its way through his body.
Another text was thrown in front of him, causing John to go cross eyed.
"Stop that!" John hissed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, turned his phone back towards him and added more text to his message. ^Completely serious,^ said the first line, quickly followed by ^The objective of the exercise is silence John. Do you require me to gag you?^
John froze, images of himself, bound and gagged and completely at Sherlock's mercy, accosted him. He moaned before he could stop the reaction.
Sherlock – god damn him – appeared positively gleeful at this, typing out another text at warp speed.
^Interesting. I shall have to test that particular reaction later.^
John blushed heavily, completely mortified but inescapably aroused. This is it. Sherlock is going to be the death of me.
" I –" John cut off as Sherlock raised a pointed eyebrow. Oh for -
John huffed and snatched the phone from his detective's fingers, quickly typing a message of his own. ^^We are not doing this.^^
Sherlock read his message and smirked. There was an unholy gleam in his eyes as he typed his response.
^As if you could stop me.^
The phone magically disappeared and John had barely opened his mouth before Sherlock was on him.
The kiss was obscene. Hard and demanding and dangerous and just about everything that made up Sherlock. John struggled to recall why he shouldn't be allowing this.
Then Sherlock reached for his zip.
Oh God, yes! John's mind babbled at him.
Apparently this was happening. He didn't mind quite so much anymore. Not when Sherlock's fingers were doing that.
God, those fingers.
Sherlock hands were strong and quick and sure. But it was his fingers that always did John in. Fingers that are long and nimble: violinist's fingers. And they plucked and played John until he was quivering with tension, until he was biting his own lip to keep from screaming.
Several times John reached out to return the favour only to have his hands smacked away. Sherlock was hyper focused on one thing and one thing only: completely undoing John.
Marvelous job he's doing too, John thought, half-giddy with the pleasure, his hands desperately grasping for purchase.
He only just got a grip – one hand grasping a built-in shelf, the other clutching onto Sherlock – when Sherlock did some magnificent little twisting motion with his hand, wrenching a helpless whimpering gasp from him.
Sherlock's gaze snapped up to meet John's.
Oh! John was lost, caught in Sherlock's eyes.
Those impossibly intense, brilliant, dangerous eyes. Watch me, John, those eyes said. Keep watching so I can make you come apart at the seams.
Sherlock's attention could destroy a man.
Or put him back together.
John hissed, trying to hold back more and more desperate noises. Finally, when he thought he was going to go insane from the effort, Sherlock surged forward, capturing his lips and thrusting his tongue inside John's mouth.
Spasms of pleasure rocked his body, John's hands grasping urgently at Sherlock in an attempt to stay grounded while Sherlock all but ate up the noises he made.
And all through it those fingers didn't stop moving.
John was trembling when Sherlock released him with one final, tender kiss.
John let himself fall back against the wall, hooded eyes taking in Sherlock's smug expression.
"Oh, shut up," he mumbled.
John's gaze drifted downwards to the tent in Sherlock's trousers. "...Wanna hand with that?"
Sherlock's smile gentled slightly, his hand reaching up to card through John's hair. He leaned in and whispered into his ear. "Thank you, but no, John. Just watch."
So John did. He watched in a daze as Sherlock moved away and reached into his own pants, jerking once, twice, before giving a full body shudder. Delicate eyelashes closed over stormy eyes for the barest moment.
John's heart soared. Because Sherlock let him see this. Let him see the self-possessed detective completely vulnerable.
Long, deep breaths mingled as Sherlock leaned forward, resting his forehead up against John's.
Sherlock's phone beeped not ten seconds later. Sherlock made no move to retrieve it. John struggled to focus enough to pull the damn thing out from the pocket of Sherlock's coat, grumbling under his breath the whole time.
1 new text message.
John frowned and opened it.
^^^ If you two are quite finished, there is a reason I called you here. - Mycroft^^^
John groaned and allowed his head to fall back against the wall.
He was never, ever, coming out of this goddamn closet again.