Bad Dogs Last Longer

God. The line of John's shoulders, straight and commanding, the black cloth of his jacket a delectable sort of package that accentuates the soldier in him. The white, crisp shirt, tight over the plains of his compact chest, the buttons straining slightly as he turns to grab a glass of champagne from an offered tray. The buttoned jacket synched at the waist, that slight curve, Sherlock could run his tongue against it, mouth watering at the notion. The perfectly tailored trousers, why doesn't John wear them all the time? Sherlock takes a strategic step back to look at John's ass, round, tight (Oh, God, would he be tight, Sherlock can feel the phantom pressure around him now). The way the black material bunches ever so slightly at the front around John's bulge, and Sherlock can imagine his cock and balls, cupped delicately by the briefs- black, or white, Sherlock is sure, for John doesn't do uniforms half-heartedly. But the most delicious piece of all is the tie, crimson, a tight bind around John's neck, spilling down his front. How much tighter would Sherlock have to make it to force John to beg him to stop?

"Earth to planet Sherlock. Is everything ok up there?" John is saying, and Sherlock is forced to look at his lips. They are curved in a teasing smile. That's what John likes, isn't it? To tease.

"Is this you being funny?" Sherlock scoffs, looking away. John's rough fingers look so delicate wrapped around the champagne flute. They could do more of a stretch, they could grip harder, more. Sherlock would be able to take it.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare, I know you only like laughing in crime scenes," John says, and the side of Sherlock's lips twitch. Can anybody blame him for wanting to devour this man? Sherlock looks back at John's eyes. They are bright and blue, alive.

"You know me so well," Sherlock says in a low voice, and John's grin spreads.

"Oh, come, come, boys, don't stand there by yourself, sit for a while, let me thank you properly!" Sherlock looks at the frustrating source of interruption, the host of the event, an affluent man by the name of Gerald Whitwash, who they had proved innocent of murder a few days prior. He looks like a man who has enjoyed being rich greatly, with a wide, gluttonous belly and manicured nails. Not a day of manual labour would be spotted in his life, if someone cared to look. Sherlock dislikes him with the same distant disdain he feels for many, but John had insisted in attending, since Mr Whitwash had been adamant on paying them. Sherlock, for a reason that is now beyond him, had obliged, and it seems what they say is true; no good deed goes unpunished. The evening had been sheer torture. Seeing John strut around in that suit had been a level of hell beyond that.

"No need to thank us any further, Mr. Whitwash, the party has been great," John replies, smiling amicably.

"Oh, please, how many times, my boy- call me Gerald," the man says in a booming voice, his moustache positively trembling at the words. "Do come, I have an excellent brandy you must try. And you met my daughter earlier, yes? She's around your age, Sherlock. Single, too," he says, and winks at him. Sherlock gives him a tight lipped smile, and from the corner of his eye he can see John repressing one of his own.

"Fantastic, Sherlock is also in the market," John says, and Sherlock cuts him a look. If only he knew what he intended to buy in that metaphorical market he wouldn't be looking nearly so smug.

"Excellent, excellent! Come, come," Gerald says, motioning forward, away from the main reception room and to a smaller venue with dimmer lights and expensive looking armchairs strategically placed in open circles where the crème of the crème sits. Sherlock tries not to wrinkle his nose at the dull sight. The conversation going on in this place could be summed up into an IQ score of 70, at most. They are lead to a corner where two women, Whitwash's daughter and wife, are seated, donned in long dresses, their legs crossed demurely.

"Oh, the man of the hour!" the wife smiles as they approached, "Do sit down, Sherlock. You too, John." Sherlock sits down, purposefully leaving the seat beside the daughter empty for John. John throws him an amused look before turning to the daughter with a charming smile. Sherlock regrets his actions instantly. He watches as John sits down, the material of his trousers stretching against those round knees. His legs are left slightly parted, the crotch a tempting display. Sherlock licks the corner of his lips.

"How lovely to see you again, Cristina," John says to the woman after greeting the mother. Cristina smiles coquettishly.

"Likewise, John," she replies, and they engage in some kind of undoubtedly boring-beyond-belief conversation. Sherlock tries not to roll his eyes as Gerald tries to do the same with him, keeping his answers curt but not stepping over the line into impolite. Much. He watches John inconspicuously. He really does have an unnatural knack at flirting with women. Sherlock can read his body posture like a book; the way le leans in, keeping his voice low so that she has to do the same, his open, expressive face, a kind token that leaves women feeling at ease, the way he always touches somewhere near them- the arm of the seat, the air besides their shoulder, but never their skin, never their clothes, respecting their space. A perfect gentleman. Sherlock could break that little play. He'd pin John to the armchair, rip at his skin, he would have John trembling, gasping, take the lapels of his suit jacket and slam him back, he would have him incoherent, without a chance in hell to flirt, to even recuperate, before he completely demolished him. He'd let John fuck his mouth without taking a piece a clothing off, just unzip the trousers, lower the briefs, hold that thick, delicious length in his mouth, as far as it would go- farther, down to his throat, he would swallow around John, make him break, make him scream. Wouldn't that shock dear old Cristina, and he narrows his eyes slightly as she touches John's arm, a melodic laugh spilling from her lips. Unbearable, that she gets to feel the smooth material of his jacket whilst Sherlock sits here, in this tedious hell.

Sherlock puts his fingers against his forehead, frowning.

"Are you alright, my boy?" Gerald asks.

No, I'm about to murder you daughter in a room full of witnesses. "Oh, I think I just had one too many glasses of champagne," Sherlock says, trying to sound pitiful. "Maybe a bit of fresh air will do the trick," he goes on, keeping up the act. Anything to get away from them- and from John, who is looking at him now, perfectly aware Sherlock hasn't had anything to drink all night.

"Oh, well, the balcony is right over-"

"Yes, thank you, I'll just step out," Sherlock says, quickly standing up before one of them can offer to go with him. Sherlock strides away, locating the balconies with ease and stepping out. The air is cold, and they are almost completely deserted. Sherlock takes a deep breath. He loves the feel of the polluted London air in his lungs. Almost as good as a cigarette.

Sherlock counts back from fifteen and, as expected, John appears beside him at the last number. Sherlock smiles a little to himself.

"Too much 'dull'?" John teases as he comes to stand beside him. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"We passed the limit of 'dull' two seconds after we got here. Since that was two-and-a-half hours ago I'm well into morbidly tedious," Sherlock drawls and John chuckles, a warm sound in cold air. Sherlock could eat it right from his lips. He looks at John, the material of his jacket stretching as he leans forwards to rest his forearms against the stone railing that overlooks the house's extensive gardens. If he pushed his face, his lips, his tongue, against that solid back, those shifting bones, that curved spine, what would John do? Sherlock takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He doesn't need to be led into temptation; he can get there himself.

John straightens up and Sherlock turns away from him, but John catches him by the bicep, stilling him.

"Sherlock, are you ok? I expected you to be bored, but you're acting strange, distracted. And you keep looking at me funny. Is there something going on?" John says, looking around suspiciously, as if searching for a threat. Sherlock bites his tongue, once, hard, feeling a simultaneous rush of affection and frustration. How can it be possible for somebody to be so utterly blind? The frigid air stings Sherlock's throat, a welcome distraction.

"I'm not looking at you "funny", John, I am far from amused. I am simply looking at you," He replies quietly.

"Why?" John asks, sounding truly puzzled, and Sherlock turns to look at him, unwilling, as ever, to beat around the bush.

"Well, if you must know, I've been thinking about fucking you all night." Sherlock's voice is casual, but his eyes are intense and boring into John's, who seems to still completely. The blood drains from his face before two spots of colour appear on his cheeks. He opens his mouth, closes it. He says nothing, simply staring as Sherlock, his hand still wrapped around Sherlock's bicep. His fingers tighten slightly.

"Is that a joke?"

"No." Sherlock runs his eyes along John's form, and at once notices the now more pronounced bulge at the front of John's deliciously tailored trousers. The smile that curves Sherlock's lips is nothing short of predatory.

"Oh, good," he says in a low voice, and John releases a steady breath.

"Maybe we should go home." Sherlock's eyes rise up to meets John's once again, an electric connection, a complete understanding. And perhaps Sherlock can be blind too, for some things, if he hadn't quite anticipated the sudden want he sees in John, that granite determination that solidifies in him before a fight, before danger, before something he needs, and is willing to take.

"I think that may just be the best idea you've ever had. John." He rolls the name on his tongue like hard candy, barely a sound, just those bowed lips shaping the word, the tip of his tongue pressing against his palate on the last phoneme. John steps a little closer, and Sherlock can't help but shiver slightly as John's mouth breathes over his ear.

"You better stop that, Sherlock, or you will regret it," John says lowly.

"Payback, as they say, is a bitch," Sherlock says teasingly, and his tongue flicks out once to taste at the lobe of John's ear. John's rough gasp is a sound that immediately goes up on the Wall of Fame in Sherlock's mind palace. He'll be going back to visit it in the darkest parts of the night. John pushes at Sherlock suddenly, pressing him against the balcony railing, his fingers tighter, now, around Sherlock's arm, a leg inserting itself between Sherlock's and he moves, a single slide, a thrust, against Sherlock's covered cock, the friction a momentary and overwhelming torture before he steps back completely. Sherlock clenches his teeth, but John moves farther away as the other man makes to grab him, a teasing smile on his lips.

"Two can play at that game," John says simply, and Sherlock is aroused by the mere act of defiance, of play, of fight.

"You should know by now that I rarely lose at games, John," Sherlock says, but John just widens his smile, straightening his jacket slightly.

"Shall we bid our farewells?"

"Lets."

Sherlock can't keep his eyes off John. He is a man which, once he knows what he wants, is fixated upon it until he has it, until he takes all of it, breaks it apart to discover every one of its details and nooks. And tonight, donned in that well tailored suit, that thing is John.

John, on the other hand, barely glances at Sherlock as they say their goodbyes, and Sherlock grows increasingly inpatient as they keep getting interrupted by different guests who seem not to understand that a "goodbye" means the end of a conversation, instead of the initiation of one. Finally, however, they are out of the cursed place and into a cab. The ride is silent and tense. John is looking out of the window, and if Sherlock were more of an insecure man he would wonder if John had changed his mind, but he sees clearly that isn't the case. John's hands are clenched slightly on his lap, the silver cufflinks on his wrists glinting as the passing streetlights spill and disappear in. His shoulders are tense, a clear sign that he is not at ease, but in a state of anticipation. Sherlock can practically taste John's rapid heartbeat in the air.

Their flat is all shadow as they close the front door behind them. The air is warm from the closed windows and low heating and John moves to take his jacket off, but Sherlock grabs his wrists, stepping in front of the shorter man.

"Don't," Sherlock says, looking down at him. John uncurls his fingers from the lapels of his jacket wordlessly, and Sherlock lowers his arms to pin them at his sides. John just stands there, looking defiant, indomitable, but Sherlock is just as resolute; he will conquer this land.

Sherlock lowers his face until his breath is a phantom on John's chapped lips. It slips through John's parted mouth and coats his tongue with the taste of strawberries, served with Devonshire cream in a traditional English fashion at the party. Sherlock's cheekbones cut the dim light, throwing skeletal shadows over his skin.

Everything is so still. So quiet.

"Sherlock," John whispers, and the haunting is broken. Sherlock grabs at John's lapels and pushes him back, back, against a wall, his hand momentarily leaving John's jacket to turn on a lamp, before returning. John squints his eyes in the sudden light, and when they open again they seem bluer. The pupils contract and then dilate, wide, and Sherlock feels a deep sort of hunger at the sight. A long, pale finger caresses the material of John's jacket, a delicious drag of thread against skin. Sherlock tilts his head, and his tongue licks at John's mouth, running the tip against his teeth, slipping it slightly under his top lip and then out. The underside of the tongue is cooled by John's exhale, and Sherlock moves away, running his nose against John's cheek teasingly, dipping lower to place the ghost of a mouth on his jaw line before catching the top edge of John's collar between his teeth and pulling. His breath is wet and hot over his neck and John moans slightly, tilting his head back against the wall to expose more skin to take, to rip into. Sherlock drags the flat of his tongue against the side of John's neck and bites the wet spot, humming heatedly against it, and John's breath hitches and stutters in a desperate tangle, his hands coming up to grip painfully at Sherlock's bony hips, pushing them against his own lifted ones. Crotches press against thighs and hips, the friction of it its own alive, feral creature. Sherlock moans and bites down harder.

"God, God," John is saying, and the prayer fills the air with panted breath. John grabs at Sherlock's hair and drags him up to meet his religious mouth to sin, their tongues pushing against each other in a battle that John wins, slipping inside Sherlock's mouth, flooding with sensation. Sherlock pulls at John's jacket and then slams him against the wall, once, out of sheer and utter frustration and want. John grunts breathlessly and Sherlock takes the opportunity to invade John's mouth, his cock straining inside his trousers already, a wildness capturing him, the scent of John ready for hunting. Sherlock pulls at the lapels of John's jacket once again and John tenses in anticipation for the hit, but is instead dragged forward, stumbling against furniture blindly, almost falling twice before they reach the dining room table. Sherlock impatiently shoves most of the clutter off the surface, and papers and bowls flutter and shatter down. John makes a noise of protest, knowing perfectly well who'll be the one cleaning the mess, but Sherlock couldn't care less. He grabs the back of John's thighs and pushes him onto the table.

"Sherlock, for God's sake!" John exclaims but Sherlock ignores him, climbing up after him, forcing him to shuffle back. He straddles John's lap, covered knees hard against the solid surface of the table. John frowns up at him, leaning his weight back against his hands.

"You are way too used to just taking what you want," John grumbles. Sherlock raises his eyebrows, moving slightly against John's crotch. John's eyelids flutter.

"Are you going to tell me you don't want this just as much? Because if your pupils were any more dilated they would rupture your sphincter papillae."

"Oh baby," John says in a deadpan voice, "If you keep talking like that I'm going to come right now." Sherlock purses his lips as John tries not to grin.

"Fine," he says, leaning down so that his face hovers over John's. "No talking. You may come to regret that." He pushes John roughly against the table so that his back slams back. In retaliation, John grabs at Sherlock's plum coloured tie and yanks down, mashing their mouths painfully. Sherlock growls but John opens his lips with his tongue, a heated raid. Sherlock rocks his hips against John's, who moans into the kiss, bucking up to meet him, hands coming up to tangle and pull at Sherlock's hair. Sherlock bites at John's lips mercilessly, hard enough to leave marks, and John licks at Sherlock's teeth, at the sharpest parts of him, the danger a trembling brink. John's hands push Sherlock down harder, but Sherlock pulls away, grabbing John's wrists and slamming them back. John lets out a small gasp.

"We have to do something about these," Sherlock says slowly. John lifts his chin, as if in defiance; do your worst.

Sherlock doesn't need the invitation.

"Don't move," he says, and lets go of John suddenly, sliding off the table, leaving a completely dressed, rumpled, and very aroused John confused on the table. John watches as Sherlock disappears up the stairs, and tries to push down the instinctive trepidation of having Sherlock loose in his bedroom. He strains his ears to try and suss out what Sherlock could possibly be up to, and is just about to go after him when Sherlock's descending footsteps sound.

"I said don't move," Sherlock says, and John rolls his eyes.

"Yes, Master," he says sarcastically, but Sherlock throws him a considering look. John waves a hand in a negating gesture in front of his face.

"Don't even think about it. There is no way I'm calling you 'Master'," John says, and Sherlock shrugs, but John can see the smile on his lips. Sherlock moves around the kitchen for a moment before setting some things down on the nearest counter. Before John can see exactly what awful things he has picked to play with, Sherlock climbs back on the table, much more gracefully than an erection should allow.

"Tosser," John mumbles, and Sherlock raises his eyebrows as he straddles John again. The renewed friction, trousered legs sliding, and then the perfect fit, have them pausing for a moment, a united exhalation of shivered breath. Sherlock opens his eyes and pushes down John slowly this time, as if suggesting the worst, the best, is yet to come. For a moment they simply look at each other, and John can hear his own heartbeat, a rabbit chase in his neck, a wild sort of hunting he's afraid, desperate, to lose.

And then, from the inside pocket of Sherlock's jacket, appears a scalpel. John's breath hitches slightly, but he watches calmly as the instrument is twirled once in Sherlock's long, pale fingers.

"Are you nervous?" Sherlock asks quietly. "It would be perfectly normal, having you in a supine position with a weapon in my hands," he continues darkly. John looks amused.

"Sherlock, I wasn't scared of you that first day when you had a victim's suitcase in the flat. You've done nothing so far to change my opinion of you," John replies. "And I think you are underestimating how much I can take. I may be on my back, but I am anything but supine," he says, tilting his hips up slightly, and Sherlock has to let a hand fall against the table for support before they still again. Sherlock licks at John's mouth, the want, for moment, almost too much.

"We'll see about that," he whispers against John's mouth and straightens up. "I think it's about time we removed your shirt, don't you, Doctor?"

"Oh, are we playing Doctor now? How-" but John is cut off as the edge of the scalpel is placed against his throat.

"Stop talking," Sherlock says. The space between them is charged and hot, a momentary tug-of-war, and then, to Sherlock's surprise, John swallows forcefully, causing the scalpel to dig into his skin, drawing blood. Sherlock yanks his hand away, and the trickle of blood soaks into the white collar, the same wanton shade as John's tie. Sherlock simply stares at the other man, who is smiling, now. John had been right; Sherlock had underestimated how much he could take.

It wouldn't happen again.

Sherlock runs his thumb along the shallow cut and John tenses slightly at the sting, closing his eyes as Sherlock pulls at the collar of the shirt. When the hand is removed there is a perfect, red fingerprint on the white material. This is what Sherlock wants, what he has always wanted, to cover John's clothes, his skin, in fingerprints; to make a crimes scene out of him. When Sherlock is done with him there will be no doubt as to who the perpetrator is.

Sherlock lowers the scalpel between John's collarbones, pressing the flat of the blade against the white shirt. The rise and fall of John's chest steadies slightly, controlled, and they look at each other, each in possession of their own kind of determination. John licks his lips, and Sherlock smiles, if the baring of teeth could be called that. The blade makes a soft sound as it slides, pushed below the topmost button. A moment of stillness. And, then, a swift movement that cuts neatly, a jolt to the system. The button tumbles away. The material of the shirt gapes slightly, a window to shadowed skin. Sherlock bends down and licks at it, and John takes a deep breath, pushing his bones to meet Sherlock who, after a moment, pulls away, leaving the spot to cool. Their eyes meet and John's say, more. The scalpel is lowered again to cut away at the next button, and the next, Sherlock's lips dipping each time to savour John, who is still, and silent. Sherlock understands John's psyche at an intellectual level; his need for danger, for the battlefield, for blood and adrenaline to mar his breath, but, sometimes, he struggles to truly comprehend the trust he has in a man like Sherlock. How can someone who has gone through life with no friends gain, so suddenly, this? The trust necessarily for John to allow Sherlock to use a blade during their first sexual experience with each other is...is...

Is there.

And the why of that is a puzzle to be solved.

As they are revealed, the muscles of John's abdomen tremble and clench with anticipation. Everything is tense, and Sherlock can practically smell the sweat from John's palms, sliding against the material of his trousers, fighting temptation. Finally, the buttons are massacred, lying like dead beetles around them, and the shirt hangs open except from where it is still clenched around John's neck by the crimson tie, which now rests on John's nude chest, a poisonous snake. Slowly, Sherlock traces the outline of the tie with the tip of the scalpel, barely touching the skin. John tries to hold still, but it is difficult to breathe, and now and again the scalpel cuts slightly into skin, just a ghost of red blooming. Sherlock drags his tongue against one of the cuts and John moans and arches slightly, beyond frustrated. Sherlock lifts slightly and presses the flat of the scalpel against John's nipple. The cold of it makes John shudder, and Sherlock presses his tongue against the other side of the blade. His hot breath fogs the metal and spreads against skin.

"Sherlock, I swear to God," John groans, his hands coming up to clench at Sherlock hips, moving up to the ass, pressing down, down, in hope of some relief, something more. Sherlock thrusts, once, the sensation making his hands tremble, tries to breathe without gasping, fails. His thumbs come up to press against John's collarbones, a hard line, and then the scalpel moves below one, splitting the skin slightly, and there is more blood, now, it spreads against Sherlock's hand, staining them both, the evidence of their lust, of their need for danger, and everything quickens. Sherlock lowers his mouth to capture John's, and it's not even a kiss, that type of coordination beyond them, just a slide of tongues, of white teeth, something which is more bestial than anything else. The cuts on John's skin are stinging, the scalpel wet and coloured. Sherlock lifts his head and John goes to follow him, but the blade is pressed below his jaw and he stills, panting. Their cocks, pressed together through material, stop thrusting, and the stillness that follows is painful and red. Sherlock moves slowly to loosen John's tie and cuts away at the hidden button. The shirt is pushed down John's round shoulders, the old scar. The scalpel is set aside. Sherlock removes the shirt until the cufflinkled wrists permit nothing more. He grabs the now loose material of each sleeve and crosses it into opposite hands behind John's back so that John has to let go of Sherlock, his arms forced back and into a crossed, bound position, wrists pressing against the small of his back. The uncomfortable arrangement makes John arch his spine, his weight held by his shoulders, and Sherlock steps on the shirt material with each of his knees so that John's hands are immobilised behind him.

"Look at me," Sherlock says, and John opens his eyes into a narrowed position, watching Sherlock, who drags the flat of his nails up, from the waistband of John's suit trousers to the now loose tie around his neck, and then down, harder, scratching through hair and skin, bending down to dip his tongue into John's navel, who bites his tongue to ward off a moan, the onslaught of stimulation making his skin burn, his head spin. Sherlock bites down on a nipple, hard, and John arches further, a cry escaping now, a panted, God, God, but God isn't listening.

Despite the fog of want, Sherlock can see the strain he is putting John's injured shoulder through, and lifts each knee, letting go of John's shirt. The hands uncross at once and John allows his back to rest against the table, panting. Sherlock removes the cufflinks, leaving them amongst the debris of buttons before the shirt is completely discarded. John watches Sherlock as he removes his plum coloured tie, before doing the same to John's.

"What...?" John says as Sherlock ties the end of one tie around one of John's wrists, and gives the same treatment to the other.

"You can say stop whenever you want," Sherlock says simply.

"I'd like the possibility, but you have to actually start doing something for that to be an option," John says, frustrated. Sherlock bites John's bottom lip and then moves up to tie the other end of each tie to its nearest table leg so that John's arms are left to stretch at the pull. The bend Sherlock has to make to tie the knots leaves his crotch perilously close to John's face, who tries to strain up to catch the material, but the ties don't give enough slack and John lies back down with an angry huff of breath. Sherlock smirks as he slides back down. John watches as those slim, long fingers unzip Sherlock trousers, which are pulled down slightly along dark briefs to tangle on strained thighs. Sherlock's cock springs up, against a clothed stomach, and John makes a strained, desperate sound at the sight, closing his eyes for a moment and pulling at the ties, but to no avail. He opens his eyes again and inhales sharply as Sherlock's hands wraps around himself, tight, moving slowly along the length.

"You fucking tease, you utter tosser," John is saying, his feet flat on the table, knees raised, cock staining in his own trousers as he tries to thrust up, but Sherlock avoids him with a smirk. His eyes are dark and bottomless, a wishless well. With a stuttered gasp John watches as Sherlock's thumb spreads the precum over the glans, and then removes the hand to hold it up against John's lips. John drags his tongue out, wetting the skin, tasting Sherlock on his fingers and catching one between his teeth, sucking on the digit. Sherlock slips it out, though, a wet sound, and wraps his hand around his cock once again, the newly lubricated skin-on-skin an easier ride. John moans, knowing that it's him, his spit, on that pink cock, and not being able to stand it.

"Sherlock, God, Sherlock please! I swear to God you'll be the one bleeding after this." John bites out. Sherlock laughs softly.

"Oh, John, don't make promises you can't keep," he says lowly, but slides down so that John's legs are forced flat on the table. The unoccupied hand unzips John's trousers and John closes his eyes in pure relief, lifting his hips even before he is unbuttoned so that the material can be tugged down. Finally, finally, his cock is freed to meet the heated air, though it is cool against his warm skin. Sherlock bends forward and catches both their cocks with one long hand and the sudden contact, God, the heat and friction, Sherlock watches John fall apart, arch against the table with an incomprehensible sound. His hand moves in torturously slow slides that unravels them both. John opens his eyes to look at Sherlock and Sherlock wants to completely demolish this man, that determined light in his eyes, wants to take complete possession of it, attach it to his own skin and sweat. He rocks forward to reach John's lips and rips into them, takes, and takes, as he knows how to do so well, and John gives, gives sounds and tastes and heat. Sherlock's knees ache against the hard surface of the table, and as John gasps, stop, God, Sherlock, fuck me now, the world splits into pieces of want and delirium. Sherlock pulls away, letting go of their cocks and John strains against the bonds again, slamming the back of his hands down at the fruitlessness of the action. Sherlock leans towards the counter where the previously collected items are; a condom packet and a bottle of extra virgin olive oil.

"No lube, this'll have to do," Sherlock says a little breathlessly, and John is at the point where Sherlock could have offered antiseptic soap and he would have taken the burn. Sherlock yanks John's trousers and underwear down a little further, pushing John's knees up against his chest. The smell of olive oil fills the air richly as it coats Sherlock's fingers and drips into gold patches on John's stomach.

"Sherlock," John says darkly, a warning, a come on, and Sherlock puts down the bottle slowly, smiling and licking his bottom lip. John unconsciously mirrors the action and Sherlock's smirk widens.

"John," he replies softly, and circles John's opening twice before slipping his middle finger in. John tenses, groans, and Sherlock pumps in and out, careful not to scratch. He lifts one of John's knees to place it over his shoulder and bites at John's clothed thigh as he inserts a second finger, scissoring slightly, and John is trembling now, his hips trying to rise up to meet Sherlock's teasing fingers. The noises that shatter the kitchen's silence are flying shrapnel, the remnants of an exploding bomb. In no man's land, Sherlock and John are dying.

"Sherlock, I need...this now," John groans, and Sherlock is so close to the brink already, an endless precipice of light before him. The pressure around his fingers is so sweet, so tight, that it is with some regret that he abandons it. He tries to rip the condom packet open but his fingers are slippery with oil and he has to wipe them on his shirt before trying again, and the plastic gives.

"What is taking you so long?" John growls, and his wrists are raw from pulling at the ties, but he can't stop.

"Shut up," Sherlock mutters, rolling the condom on, finally, and he slicks it up with more oil, just in case. As he looks at John, spread like a buffet on the table, his flushed face and parted lips, the bi-coloured ties straining, the muscles on his shoulders and biceps shifting at the movement, Sherlock knows he'll never be able to eat on the table again, or watch John cook with oil, without remembering this moment.

He removes John's trousers and briefs completely in awkward tugs before leaning forwards, his knees on either side of John's hips as well as feet, John's knees are pushes so far back, one hand placed flat on the table, slippery with oil, beside John's face, and John turns to bite and lick at it, tasting olives, tasting sweat. His other hand grasps his cock to guide it to John's entrance and there is not much preamble, cannot be, not now. Slowly, he thrusts in, an inch-by-inch exploration. The pressure and heat, despite the condom, is a rush unlike any other. The nerves on his cock blinds everything else, consumes all other sensation, and he is held on the pin-point of the present; nothing else exists but the feel of John.

"Move," says John; even tied up and fucked on the kitchen table he commands, lifting his hips for more, and Sherlock can't even think about stopping himself. He pulls out almost entirely before thrusting in again, a little harder, and John hisses a breath against clenched teeth; it is quite a stretch, John is so tight, but Sherlock has never been the merciful kind, and as John himself said, he can take it.

"Come on, come on, come on," John chants. Sherlock slides his knees back slightly and the forward again in a hard thrust, deepening the angle so that the force of it lifts John off the table, who is grabbing at the ties, now, as if they will save him from this. The table creaks and complains, but they pay it no mind. Sherlock puts John's other knee over his shoulder and continues the brutal rhythm, curving up to hit the prostrate again, and again, and John is a wild creature of noise, bound to wood and skin, to Sherlock. Sherlock's mouth is dry, his throat sore from the heavy breaths, and even if Moriarty himself rose from the dead to appear before him, he wouldn't be able to stop, to even think, and that is the final proof; Sherlock is destroyed, for the moment no longer belonging to himself and his kingdom, but to the man below him, who is coating the hard consonant of his name in spit and sweat. Sherlock almost crashes into John as his slippery hands slide on the table and he adjusts himself, nonetheless lowering a hand to grab at John's leaking cock. John moans loudly and writhes, and this is the most delicious moment of all. The moment just before, when control is all but lost, when the rush of the end is a pressure all around you, everything clenched and tight and raw, everything unravelling, and Sherlock tries to focus his eyes on John, who is looking up at him with the wild look of imminent orgasm, and everything breaks. John arches his back and comes, loudly, the table creaks and trembles on its legs, and the clench around Sherlock's cock tumbles him over the edge. He doesn't even know if he screams or says anything at all, everything is white and delicious, wave after wave, a flood.

When the tide subsides Sherlock is left trembling, the dead weight of John's legs over his bony shoulders too much, and he slumps forward. A long moment stretches as they both try to breathe, John's chest crushed under Sherlock, but words are beyond him, and they lay still.

When Sherlock feels sensation returning and movement becomes a possibility again, he slides out carefully, gripping the opening of the condom before removing it and laying it aside. He slides away and John's legs drop down to lay flat on the table with a hiss of pain as Sherlock tries not to fall flat on his face as he finds his feet on the floor. With as much strength as he can muster he disappears from kitchen. John tries to lift his head to watch him but his skull is too heavy and he lets rest with a soft thump. After a few long moments Sherlock returns, a wet towel in one hand, a dry on in another.

"Are you going to untie me?" John asks, and the corner of Sherlock's lips lift.

"No yet," he says, and proceeds to wipe John down with the damp cloth, a perverse sort of echo from his practiced position at the morgue. John watches him move, watches his face and his delicate hands. He rarely sees Sherlock be as gentle with anything other than his experiments, and the sight is almost endearing, though he won't open his mouth to verbalise the fact. John makes a soft noise as the cloth wipes at the cuts on his chest, collecting the blood, the fingerprints, and he sees Sherlock's slight frown of regret; not at having cut, but at having to remove the evidence away. If he could tattoo John with his fingerprints, that's exactly what he would do. The cloth moves lower and John shifts so that Sherlock can run the material against his entrance. He does not protest or blush; John is simply not that sort of demure man.

Once Sherlock finishes drying John down he simply stands there, looking down at him, the crime scene made: the bound body, the scattered buttons and cufflinks, the stained scalpel, the spent condom and its ripped condom packet, the olive oil bottle, and the most damning piece of evidence; the suit, ripped and scattered on the floor. John lets him, understanding, like no one else, Sherlock's needs. The moment passes, the data collected, classified, stored away, and Sherlock leans down to kiss John; a simple kiss, except for the finger that traces the deepest of cuts. Sherlock lifts, and his eyes are just as dark, as if they still haven't had their fill, as if there is still more to collect.

"Sometimes I think that if I were to kill anybody, it would be you," Sherlock says softly. John looks at him for a moment, before smiling.

"I think you mean that if you would die for anybody, it would be me," he replies, his voice calm, but strong, like him. Sherlock tilts his head slightly.

"Perhaps," he says.

In between the lines, they understand each other.