"You misspelt suck, you cretin!"
The first incident occurred six days, eleven hours, and forty-two minutes before they got married.
"If you're going to grace the wall opposite this home with your jejune artistic vandalism—oh!"
Lanky body unceremoniously yanked back inside the flat, eight of Sherlock's spidery digits just missed being slammed in the sitting room window.
"John, what are you—oof!"
He did not miss getting John's shoulder applied to his solar plexus or hitting the carpet at speed.
"John Hamish Watson what are you doing?"
What John Hamish Watson was doing—beside angrily planting his pajamad arse astride Sherlock's hips—was having enough already.
"I've had enough already, Sherlock. You have been a complete prat for the entire eighteen hours—"
So help him, John paused.
"…and twenty eight minutes."
"—and twenty eight minutes since we got properly engaged, and leaning out the window, while wearing nothing but a flaccid dick and your righteous indignation, yelling at a sixteen stone tagger spraying rude words on the wall opposite, has successfully just trod on my last frayed nerve."
Flat on his back, righteous indignation all over his pretty face, Sherlock scowled up at John but wisely said nothing, not one damn thing. Because no one, including Sherlock, could possibly begrudge John even a single one of his thread-bare nerves.
In the week just passed John Watson had been giddily engaged and then abruptly unengaged almost immediately after.
As a result, John had poured his proud heart out in a remarkable letter to Sherlock, one that was perhaps the single most important factor in changing the course of both their lives forever.
As a direct result of that he'd half-near broke his own heart by causing Sherlock to fall to his knees weeping in the middle of Angelo's.
John had then become vigorously engaged again and proceeded to sob so hard he'd had to breathe into a paper bag for five minutes.
And after that John'd gone on to shag his drunken fiancé on their kitchen table so relentlessly that they both required three paracetamol and a good lie-down after.
And finally, finally, he'd had to literally tackle Sherlock to the floor to prevent him from ordering a vicar online ("No job too big, no event too small, we'll marry you anywhere!) so that they could be married that day. ("But why can't we?" "Because Mrs. Hudson would kill us with extreme malice and then give our corpses a good talking to you idiot!")
So yes, no one, least of all Sherlock, was going to begrudge John the state of even one of his tatty nerves. And yet…
"John, John, Joooooohn."
If any six foot man can have a two-year-old's tantrum while stretched out on the carpet and held down by his fiancé's bottom, Sherlock Holmes is that man.
"We can't change the date you big git so just stop asking and stop venting your spleen at giant tattooed taggers who know where we live—"
John wriggled his bum, the bum firmly planted across his fiancé's recently-used-and-currently-resting bits. "—and who would probably take a quite vigorous interest in the consulting cock you've been waving to the four winds like a giddy stripper."
To put a full stop to his rant John wiggled his arse again, crossed his arms, and said, "All right then?"
Sherlock stuffed his thumb nail into his mouth and kind of chewed on it.
John, not getting it at all, wriggled once again, harumphed this time, then said, "I can't hear you."
Sherlock tugged his finger out of his mouth and said softly, "John."
"Sherlock, don't do it."
"I'm warning you."
"If you ask me one more time why we can't get married now I'm going to draw an anatomically-detailed diagram of how Mrs. Hudson will take us apart and where she'll hide the pieces, then I—"
Sherlock underscored his next dramatic "John," with a clarifying shove of his hips.
John closed his mouth. Then opened it in a perfect little, "Oh."
In the last eighteen hours and thirty two minutes there had proved to be several side-effect to John and Sherlock's becoming re-engaged.
Hearts-brimming, kiss-everyone joy was the first and by far the most expected.
The appearance of Even More Annoying Than Usual Sherlock, who wanted nothing more than to get John to the alter before he changed his mind, was the second.
John was fidgeting on the third: Suddenly there were damned erections everywhere. No, seriously, it was as if they'd gone on special offer and the boys had stocked up.
"You can't be hard again," whispered the good doctor, squirming on the thing that could, indeed, be hard again. "It's possibly not possible and maybe not even safe."
Sherlock made no verbal reply, though he throbbed his dissent in a place that had, in the last eighteen hours, become notable for its throbbing. John responded with an automatic arse-wiggle over the noted area.
Speaking of which…
"I can't go another round, love. I really don't think my arse can take it."
They both blinked at each other, suddenly fixated on John's arse taking it.
"I mean…not that we can't…there's always other things we could…" John completed this elucidating thought by pushing two fingers into Sherlock's mouth. In response Sherlock sucked so hard he took John in up to the last knuckle.
They both blinked at each other, suddenly fixated on Sherlock taking John in up to the last knuckle.
Yes, well all right then.
Other things it would be.
Being as none of John's fingers were yet as sore as John's bum, everyone happily let Sherlock fellate those digits for a good long time. While Sherlock sucked, John did his part by pumping those fingers into and out of his lover's mouth. Sherlock made it worth John's while by moaning darkly and taking those fingers in so deep it would trigger the gag reflex in any normal person.
(It had been proven nine hours previous—after the table-top shag, but before the one on the stairwell—that when properly aroused neither John nor Sherlock seemed to have a gag reflex at all or any but the most basic oxygen requirements.)
Ordinarily a little finger sucking won't really get anyone in 221B anywhere particularly fast or easy. However, for the next week—after the engagement but before the wedding—life in 221B is going to be far from ordinary and the men inside are going to be the very definition of fast and easy. Early and often. Hard and deep. As well as "do it again," "oh dear god," "did you just come twice?" and "I think I sprained something."
So though, ordinarily, a bit of finger fucking is just a precursor to other things, today it was the thing. For Sherlock.
Grabbing at the carpet with two hands, shoving at it with the soles of both feet, the good detective let it be known to anyone within hearing distance—and at his volume, that was the entire block of flats and probably the tagger across the street—that if there was something better than half of John's hand thrust down his throat and fingering his glottis he couldn't possibly imagine what it was.
John, meanwhile, was enthralled. Because if anyone could embody dramatically sexy as all god damn hell when he wanted to that anybody was Sherlock. It was all John could do to not simply grab hold of himself and start wanking.
Not that he didn't try, because he did. But frankly he couldn't get purchase, not with Sherlock bumping his bulge up against John's beleaguered arse, eventually becoming so vigorous in his devotions that the good doctor was on tempestuous seas indeed.
However, things didn't last long.
When Sherlock's lips started trembling around John's fingers the good doctor knew his lover was close. John's response of course was to simply grow denser, specifically in the region of his behind, thereby providing Sherlock access to greater friction.
John was rewarded for this largesse with pretty teeth marks on his knuckles and the hot, wet sensation of Sherlock coming against his cloth-covered arse.
If John had been keeping count—he wasn't—he'd have noted that this was Sherlock's fourth orgasm in the last eighteen-plus hours. He'd also record the fact that this was his fifth erection in the same period. (Sherlock too has had five erections in the last day, but sometimes, just sometimes, you have to thigh-strangle the things into submission and talking to your landlady about the merits of ascots over ties is indeed one of those times.)
Anyway, John's not tracking these things, instead he's wondering if everyone else who's ever gotten engaged after an intense fling with grave emotional turmoil has had to deal with not one but two libidos gone wild. He's intensely curious about this but will probably never know because it's not precisely tea and scones conversation. And besides, he's English and generally the English pretend that other English do not have sex.
That's neither here nor there. What is here right now is John's fifth erection in the last eighteen-plus hours. What John would like to dispatch as soon as possible is his fifth erection in the last eighteen-plus hours.
After a nice leisurely refractory period of forty-eight seconds Sherlock was ready for another mouthful. He made this clear by flipping John onto his back, tugging his jim-jams down, and shoving John's cock in his mouth.
John's response was a full-body rash of goosebumps and a shout of, "God yes!"
That shouting gave Sherlock an idea and that idea was to turn around until his can-you-even-believe-it, erect cock was hovering over John's face.
"Yes," said the good doctor, never not up for a mouthful of consulting detective.
With an arch of the neck and a groan he took his fiancé all the way in, and then to complete the (short) circuit, got in his fiancé by sliding two unlubed fingers into one slick hole.
It was that—the knowledge that Sherlock was still wet from this morning's languorous shag—that took John from half-hard to all hard.
And it was that—John growing heavy and thick in his mouth—that took the world's only fiancé'd consulting detective from all hard to coming for the second time in five minutes.
And, good lord, it was that—usually-slow-burning Sherlock, who can raise the sexual frustration level of the whole street, teetering on such a hair trigger—that had John planting his feet firmly on the floor so he could get his coming cock as deeply into that voluptuous, greedy mouth as possible. Which, apparently, was very.
It was exactly twenty eight seconds after pulling his mouth off John with a slurp—Sherlock was proud of the length of his restraint—that a certain consulting detective said, "I'm not sure you know this John, and it's merely by way of information, but the City of Westminster Magistrate Court, which is only zero point six miles from this spot, have openings this afternoon for civil partnership ceremonies at two fifteen, three forty five and four pm. Now, so long as we're discreet and don't tell anyone—"
John shoved his dick back into Sherlock's mouth. It was the only way he could think of to shut the man up.
Get the boys engaged they said. It'll be fun they said…
Consulting lunatics leaning out windows bare bones naked started off the next six days, seven hours and fifteen minutes, and to everyone's hand-over-heart-dear-god-this-was-a-long-time-coming relief a very perfect wedding will end them.
And in between there will occur many, many conventional things. Tuxedos will be fitted, invitations made, and a guest list drawn. Wedding cakes will be sampled, stag parties thrown, and a vicar selected.
And because 221B contains two quite different but remarkably complimentary kinds of crazy, between now and the nuptials there will occur also many, many, many unconventional things.
After John and Sherlock's engagement but before their wedding there will be a very public argument about flowers. There will be an illicit kiss, inappropriate touching, and an infeasible number of erections. Mrs. Hudson will get drunk and disorderly, a threatening phone call will be made, and ten men will go to the opera. In dresses.
And there will be me, there is always me. I'm Aurora Aurelia Abbington, the skull on the mantle, the Greek chorus, the keeper of the inmates. And I have another tale to tell.
Are you ready?
Please…someone has to be.
Write a stag party fic Diane Duane said, it'll be fun she said. I thought so too, then to double the dare asked you to kindly provide words I must use in the story. Of the fifteen chosen, jejune, tempestuous, and fidget appear here—thank you Jomk, Sherlockscarf, and Suchanadorer. And thank you times a thousand, Verity Burns, for another flawless double entendre title. So…what exactly do you folks think happens over the next seven days?