Quick update, right? I wrote this in about an hour so there might be some really stupid mistakes...it might also be 4:12 in the morning and I literally feel my brain falling asleep. This has a bit of GUN PLAY , so just be warned. It's nothing to graphic, just implied about what is going on while Sherlock focuses on the John's gun and why it might be erotic to him. Well, hope you like it! Enjoy.

His Gun

Cool metal swept over his lips, slightly pulling the flesh back before moving on. The muzzle of the gun stopping of the edge of his collarbone. John dipped his head down to capture his lips. Sherlock arched his back as the gun moved just over to the left by three centimeters and then down by one to stop perfectly above his heart. Just the slip of John's fingers and that would be it. And John knew that without even looking. John had memorized the spatial positioning of the organs of the body back in medical school. He could point to your liver just by feeling your shoulder. John forced the round end deep into the pale tissue, still leaning over Sherlock and wrestling tongues. He pulled back, the erotically messy strand of spit breaking as he did.

Sherlock pale fingers crawled up the legs straddling him. He gripped John's hips and rolled his own to create friction. John dragged the metal tip lower, bringing it to a stop directly in the middle of Sherlock's breast bone. Glancing down, he could see the safety off. And that alone made for the most erotic sound to trickle from his throat. John chuckled above him, leaning down and capturing a dusky nipple between his teeth. Sherlock groaned, making the effort to keep his hands above his head where John demanded they stay. If he moved, John would take his gun and leave. He had before, leaving Sherlock hard and panting on the bed in their empty room. But what was so erotic about the gun?

It was metal, steel specifically, Browning L9A1, a standard issued handgun of the British Army during John's deployment. Standard. It wasn't special. No, it wasn't the gun, it was John. It was the way the gun sit so pleasantly in his hand. So beautifully snug in his right hand, even though he's left-handed for nearly everything else. Sherlock had seen the tremor of John's hand before, not as noticeable as it had been, but he'd seen it. John's hand didn't even twitch a finger ran over the trigger, touching by not squeezing.

It was dangerous, of course it was. Who would let an ex-soldier straddle his hips holding a gun, with the safety off, pointed directly into his chest. No man with sense. But sense was boring. Sherlock rolled his hips once more, begging for something. John gave a smirk, trailing the muzzle down pale skin to dip into his navel. Sherlock barely contained his frustrated growl. John returned the roll and released his abused nipple, moving on to the second. Sherlock didn't bother to bite back the moan spilling from his lips as John pulled the gun back up Sherlock's side and stopped between two ribs.

John was dangerous. A crack shot marksman who wouldn't lose sleep over killing a man. Not even a wink. But John also had strong moral principal. The actual danger of the situation was limited. Sherlock trusted John, even as his life could end with an accidental squeeze of his hand, the same hand that had tremors. But John had years of military training that perfected the flinch in his fingers. They wouldn't pull the trigger. There was no need to.

Maybe it was the fact John could shoot that gun with such accuracy that it made him envious. Of course, he knew had to shoot. He was a great shot, but John, the good doctor he was, could shoot a man across an alley from the next building and intentionally aim close enough to the heart close enough not to cause instant death. Or in the middle of a dark forest in between a man's eyes, dropping dead to the floor. Or from a rooftop a block away with a different gun, of course, but the same skill behind that trigger.

Scotland Yard carried handguns. Well, obviously they would, but it didn't compare to John. They were trained in the academy to aim for low points, target unimportant regions in order to detain and restrain. But John was trained to kill. One bullet. One try. Death. No ands, ifs, or buts about it. Whoever the target was would be dead with one shot if it was needed. Not a single man Sherlock had met at Scotland Yard could compare to John's marksmanship. Maybe Lestrade. Maybe with a rifle and scope, but John didn't exactly need it. If it was in range, he could get it.

That fact alone made Sherlock's blood race, pumping his heart faster as arousal sank in. No man, or woman, had ever been as close to causing him arousal as John could with a gun. He'd seen so many with guns. Hell, he was on an army base for a day and not one made his face flush. He'd seen the Yarders at a shoot out, even had one aim at his head once. But it didn't make his skin hot like John did. It was that John had a calm, false overtone to his military core that could fool anyone. His hand didn't shake because he wanted away from the stress. No, he craved the danger, to feel the tilting edge as it overwhelmed him and heated his body. It was the threatening aura John could muster up with a simple square of his shoulders, part of his feet, squint of one eye as he aimed, and the squeeze of his fingers and …...oh god, that's fantastic.

His groan was muffled by the muzzle sitting in his mouth, the cool metal heated by his tongue. He swirled it over the round opening, slipping just the tip in, tasting the metallic surface that had been burned from friction. John pulled himself down, rolling his hips when he was fully seated. Sherlock gripped at the pillow under his head, trying desperately to keep his hands over his head. John placed his second hand on the gun, shifting his grip to steady as he pulled himself up on his knees and began to ride. Sherlock tossed his head back, causing the muzzle to leave his mouth. Saliva came with him, dripping down his chin as a sharp thrust down ripped a deep moan from him as his hips instinctive went up, meeting John's movement. John held the gun close to Sherlock cheek, rubbing the muzzle over his cheekbone and down his jaw, smearing the now cold spit. He pulled the gun down to point directly in the middle of his throat, prodding his trachea. John urged their motions faster, setting a punishing pace that left them both panting. As he felt the coil of pleasure in his lower abdomen twist tighter, he grabbed the underside of the headboard.

No, it was just John and his blond doctor leaned down, changing the angle of Sherlock thrusting into him. His gasping breath found his ear, teeth nipping for just a second before whispering hotly into his ear….


Very short because the last two were so long. Hope you liked it. Thanks for reading!