Sooooooo... this started off as a PWP, and it was supposed to stay that way, and they were supposed to have really hot and heavy sex and stuff. But. They got domestic and mushy and just. Yeah. lol
Also, hello Sherlockians! I am new in town. Just started watching the show this year, but I know how everyone in this fandom is suffering. I imagine it will start taking its toll on me soon, too. D:
But, as I said, I'm new. So this is my first Sherlock fic. I tried to work on characterization, but I'm afraid I'm not very good with it. But tell me what you think!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. Sherlock and John belong to the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (but these versions of them are Mark Gatiss's and Steven Moffat's, the bastards).
"John... John, please."
The doctor almost took pity on Sherlock for saying please - because, seriously, when does he ever use niceties? - but pretended not to hear him as he thrust in harder, brushing Sherlock's prostate with the tip of his cock. The detective beneath him arched his back, creating a pleasant dip in his spine; John leaned down and placed a kiss on his lower back, right above the cleft of his arse. His hands took turns gripping and massaging Sherlock's slender hips as he rocked back and forth, his fingers leaving dark bruises on pale flesh. "Don't worry, Sherlock," he said between huffing breaths. "I'll take care of you."
"You'd bloody well better!" He cut himself off with a moan as shudders shook his body right down to his core. John's aim was near perfect, hitting that bundle of nerves practically each time; Sherlock liked perfect better, but was willing to settle. But only for John. "John. I'm so close."
"I know, just - god - just hold on a bit longer." They ceased talking - at least, John did; Sherlock continued his litany of John, please, oh! John's rhythm never faltered, thrusting in and out of that tight heat, slick with lube and the sweat that was trickling down from Sherlock's back to pool between his arse cheeks. John couldn't help thinking about the condom he was wearing; it was past the expiration date on the package (not by far, but still), but they hadn't been bothered to go buy another box. He only hoped it wouldn't-
His brain shut off as he felt his orgasm sneaking up on him quickly, pooling in his gut, his sac tightening and becoming heavy as it slapped against the skin of Sherlock's upper thigh. He groaned as the next few thrusts became too much and he came, filling up the condom with his release.
Sherlock moaned and then yelped, but John didn't think anything of it as he canted his hips shallowly, milking every last drop out of himself. He pulled out and collapsed on the bed, dragging Sherlock by the waist to lie down with his back to him; John noticed Sherlock hadn't come yet, so he gripped Sherlock's weeping erection with one hand while his other one found its way back to Sherlock's entrance. He slipped two fingers inside and immediately felt why Sherlock had yelped.
The condom had broken.
He sighed heavily against his flatmate's back, his breath condensing to mix with the sweat there. "Knew we should have bought more..." he murmured.
Sherlock grunted in response and pressed back against the fingers, reminding John of why they were knuckle-deep in his arse. John chuckled and began twisting them while simultaneously stroking Sherlock's cock, looking to bring him to completion. Sherlock started moaning and writhing against John, pressing back so there was no space left between their bodies; John could tell when Sherlock was about to come when the detective stilled suddenly and became very quiet. The next moment there was a warm wetness on his hand as the muscles in Sherlock's arse contracted around his fingers. John made sure to stroke him slowly, gripping just a bit harder to make sure he got every last drop out of Sherlock, before finally withdrawing completely.
Sighing, Sherlock let himself sink into the sheets as John got up and went to the bathroom, disposing of the defective condom and grabbing a towel to clean themselves. He spent special attention to Sherlock's arse and legs, making sure there wasn't any semen there that could dry and become uncomfortable for the detective.
"Sorry about that," John mumbled as he climbed back into bed; he lay down on his back, and Sherlock rolled over so he could rest his head on John's shoulder (his good one).
"Not your fault."
John smiled; normally Sherlock pinned the blame on John, but he supposed sex just put him out of sorts. He turned and wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer so their noses were touching. "Thanks."
"Why are you thanking me? You were the one that decided this would be a more productive distraction than crap telly." Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath, hardly willing to deal with John's confusing emotions.
"It was more productive. It was so productive, in fact, that I can't even remember what we were doing before this."
"I was attempting to recreate the conditions necessary to facilitate-"
John decided to stop listening, instead closing his eyes and delighting in the warmth and closeness of his partner; when he could no longer hear Sherlock's natterings, he opened his eyes to find the detective watching him closely. "Hmm?"
"You were ignoring me."
"Quick one, you are." John yawned, his nose scrunching up, his eyes screwed shut. When he opened them again, it was to see one of Sherlock's rare grins. "What?"
"Is it wrong to find you adorable when you yawn?"
"Piss off," he said, but he couldn't help but smile back, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss against Sherlock's lips, chapped from the cold weather they'd been having lately. He yawned again and rolled once more onto his back. "Go to sleep, Sherlock."
"I don't need to sleep."
The reply was expected, but that didn't make John any less annoyed. "Okay, fine, but at least be quiet enough to let me sleep, then. This last case has left me absolutely bushed."
Sherlock pressed a lingering kiss against John's cheek. "Of course, John." Grabbing a book off the bedside table, he settled his back against the headboard, smiling when John curled his arm around his waist and stuffed his face between him and the pillow. "Oh, next time you're out, be sure to pick up a new box of condoms. I'd rather not have a repeat of tonight."
John groaned and then spoke; his voice was muffled, but it sounded suspiciously like, "Fuck off." Sherlock had never been more amused.