Fair warning: excessively fluffy smut. There is no more plot left here, friends. Just porn and feelings. Enjoy it :D
John and Sherlock took a morning train. Two suitcases packed. They had reservations at a nice hotel, by the water. John read for most of the train ride. Sherlock went through all the information he could find about the accidental deaths he'd been hired to investigate and had several workable theories by the time they arrived.
They checked into their hotel and grabbed tea at a nearby café before heading down to the local police station. They talked with a very nice young woman, PC Elton, about the four recent deaths. Nothing particularly useful. But Sherlock miraculously managed not to make enemies of everyone at the station—and they convinced PC Elton to show them down to the harbor where a lot of so-called accidents had happened.
Sherlock wandered off, poking about, probably looking through security footage and bombarding random dockworkers with questions. John mostly stood by the water and enjoyed the scenery. The fresh, salty air. He loved the city, certainly, but it was nice to be elsewhere. Slightly removed from the constant chaos that was London.
The sky was perfect, nearly cloudless. The water was fairly calm. He found it frighteningly easy to slip into the sort of peaceful tranquility he hadn't felt for years. He wasn't particularly concerned about the case. Sherlock didn't seem to be either.
Because it wasn't long before he walked up behind John and rested his chin on the smaller man's shoulder. They stood like that for a while, looking out at the vast expanse of horizon.
"Did you figure it out, then?" John asked.
"Yes. One of the deaths was actually an accident. The other three were definitely on purpose. But the funny thing is, all three victims suffered from terminal illnesses. I'm pretty sure it's all about collecting life insurance policies. They pay our triple if somebody dies on the job—so the impending death club decided to all commit suicide together so their families could get more money."
"Huh. So no murders after all?"
"No. Dreadfully boring, isn't it?"
"Are you going to tell the police that the accidental deaths were actually suicides?"
"There'd be no point in it. Might as well let the families have the insurance money." Sherlock circled his arms around John in a loose hug.
"That's awfully nice of you," the doctor smiled.
"I also don't want to spend the two days it would take to get all of the idiots at the police station to understand what happened. I can think of several more productive ways I could use that time." Sherlock nipped John's neck lightly.
The smaller man hummed in reply.
He and Sherlock had kept to their agreement lately. Or rather—kept to John's request. They'd taken things slow. Eased back into the relationship without having feverish sex multiple times a day. Of course, they hadn't been able to refrain from touching each other at all. There'd been a few sessions of frantic rutting, or the desperate blowjob here or there.
But there'd been no penetrative sex since that morning at St. Bart's on the floor of the supply closet. God. That was nearly three weeks ago. John would be lying if he said he didn't miss it—having Sherlock inside him. In fact, he felt the first vague prickles of arousal just thinking about it.
He leaned back and looked up at Sherlock.
"Want to go have a long walk on the beach?" He grinned.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. But he returned the smile. They wandered off the docks, along the waterfront. They found a nice, mostly unoccupied stretch of sand, took off their shoes, and strolled casually. Walking close to the water, occasionally into it, just to wet their feet and shiver at the cold.
By the time they got to the end of the beach, they were far away from the docks. In fact, there wasn't a soul in sight. They sat in the sand for a while. John rambled aimlessly about his uncle that used to live on a houseboat. John and his father used to visit occasionally. They'd all fish, right off the side of the deck and catch their dinner.
Sherlock might have listened. Mostly, he seemed preoccupied with tracing aimless patterns across John's thigh.
When the doctor ran out of things to say about his uncle, fishing, and the sea respectively, Sherlock pressed a light kiss against his lips. The light kiss turned into a rather more heated one that was all tongue and moaning into each other's mouths. Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had them both sprawled out across the sand. They rolled, so Sherlock lay on his back, with John on top of him.
The moment reminded him of a strange youthful recklessness. The kind of feeling he used to get as a teenager, when he kissed girls in the back of cars, on warm, summer nights.
They could fuck right there. No question. Or rather, they could rut against each other with all of their clothes on—because John was absolutely not going to get undressed. He'd spent far too much time in a desert not to know the horrors of getting sand stuck in places it was never meant to be.
The heat between them didn't necessarily fizzle out. If anything, it grew the longer they stayed pressed against each other. But the frenzied snogging slowly melted into slower, more exploratory swipes of tongues. Eventually Sherlock pulled back, tracing a hand down John's side.
"Do you want to go back to the hotel?" He asked in a low voice. Almost a purr.
"Yeah," John smiled.
He sat up and helped Sherlock dust some of the sand out of his curls before they made their way down the beach.
They put on their shoes when they reached the road again. John's socks felt gritty with the leftover sand, but it wasn't so awful. They opted to walk back to the hotel, rather than catch a cab. It was a bit far. But it seemed a shame not to savor such a pleasant afternoon.
And perhaps they both wanted to let the anticipation build. To really enjoy the slow burn of waiting for something they both wanted desperately.
The sun began to sink lower in the sky. They made a small detour at a pizza place they passed to get some dinner.
The restaurant was small, and cozy. It smelled a bit dusty, like the hardwood all of the booths and floors were made of. Sherlock and John crowded into a corner together, invading each other's personal space as they ate wonderfully greasy pizza, and curried chips. John had a couple of pints and Sherlock stole a sip here or there.
It felt like a proper holiday. Unhurried, relaxed, Sherlock smiled a lot more easily than usual. He laughed at John's awful jokes, and for once, it didn't seem like his mind was elsewhere. They'd both fallen into the moment and stayed there.
Sherlock eventually paid the bill, and they continued their walk. On an impulse, they picked up a bottle of wine. John doubted Sherlock would really drink much of it. But it didn't matter. They didn't have any pressing engagements tomorrow. Nothing dark and sinister loomed in the distance.
For once, they were allowed to just be people. Real, actual, fairly normal people. Not a genius and his sidekick. Not a freak and his long-suffering pet.
They made it back to their room just after sunset. John took a quick shower, to rinse off any residual sand, and the general grime of travel. Brushed his teeth. Slapped on some aftershave, even though he knew he probably wouldn't be going anywhere. Then he threw on a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans.
When John finished, they switched places. Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of running water followed shortly. The doctor opened the wine and poured it into two glasses. He sipped it casually, sitting at the foot of the bed, and looking out the window. They had a nice view of the coast, and the pinpricks of light along it.
After perhaps ten minutes, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. John's mouth went a bit dry. He took another sip of wine before setting the glass aside.
The taller man advanced slowly. Smiling. When he got almost within reaching distance, the towel dropped to the floor. Maybe John's breath caught when Sherlock's knees sank down on either side of him and he suddenly had a lap full of naked consulting detective.
Sherlock's arms circled around John's shoulders and their mouths melded together once again. No hurry now. They had all the time in the world. An entire week to themselves. John could hardly believe it. Part of him still knew that Lestrade could call at any moment with a particularly interesting case—and Sherlock would itch to go back to London.
But right then, the two of them were a self-contained universe. Oblivious to all things outside their luxurious hotel room, with a soft king-sized bed.
Sherlock pulled back slightly, grabbing the hem of John's t-shirt and tugging it upwards. The smaller man lifted his arms agreeably. The skin to skin contact made him ache somewhere deep in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to hold Sherlock like this forever. To never let him go.
He felt the other man's cock beginning to fill out, pressing warm and eager against his abdomen. John's body echoed a response. Building a fire together. It was different now than when they'd first started. Perhaps there was just more purpose to their physicality. Perhaps they'd found a slightly more even ground to stand on.
"I want you," Sherlock whispered into John's ear.
It sent a lurch of anticipation through the smaller man's body. He ran his hands over the vast expanse of Sherlock's skin—touching every place he could reach. Every point of contact seemed to buzz. To spur on the strange high that had flooded John's brain.
John fell back onto the mattress, dragging Sherlock with him. They rolled and clutched at each other, somehow divesting the smaller man of his jeans in the process. He didn't know if he'd ever experienced such a lavish feeling of nudity before. Perhaps it was something about being in a hotel bed—a honeymoon suite. Perhaps it was the soft, lazily happy expression on Sherlock's face. Perhaps the moment didn't really need a reason to feel glorious. It simply existed as a small tick of perfection in an otherwise haphazard lifespan.
"John," Sherlock moaned into the doctor's mouth. He pulled the doctor in just a little bit closer. "Take me."
The words floated on a whisper. John couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined them. But the way Sherlock moved against him, stared with wide, eyes…
"Really?" John murmured. "You don't have to."
"I want to."
It felt almost as if the earth's magnetic polarities had reversed. Everything John knew about what him and Sherlock were had shifted.
The man that had tied John to the furniture, and whipped him until his skin broke, and ravaged him in countless inappropriate, public places—wasn't really the same man staring into John's eyes right then. Was he? John didn't know which thing was real. If Sherlock really had changed or just become a more complete person. If he'd always been like this and had simply hidden parts of himself away—or if he was seeing brand new pieces of Sherlock's personality develop right before his eyes.
All he could really know was how much it meant, that Sherlock was offering him this freely. Without hesitation. Without fear.
John knew he'd rush if he didn't make himself slow down and savor the moment. All the pent-up eagerness might spill out anyway. After all, he never thought he'd actually be able to have Sherlock this way. He'd come relatively close a handful of times… but those had all just felt like desperate flirting with an impossible situation.
This was actually happening.
John rolled them carefully so Sherlock wound up on his back. Feet on the bed. Knees bent, raised on either side of John's torso. John rocked his hips and slid their erections together. A small, breathy sound escaped Sherlock's mouth.
The doctor didn't want to draw back to grab the tube of lubricant he'd stashed in the nightstand—next to the courtesy bible. But he was only gone for a minute. Then he slotted easily back into place.
Still, he noticed Sherlock had tensed. Looked a bit more nervous than he did aroused. The doctor took a deep breath.
"Sherlock," he said softly, "are you sure about this?"
"Yes… just… go slowly."
John nodded. The best course of action was probably to distract Sherlock. Get him too lost in sensation for worry. Perhaps he was just scared because he'd never done this before. Either that, or he'd only done it a handful of times, and still carried around a lot of bad memories because of it. John would have to be careful. Stop at the first sign of trouble.
They got tangled up in each other. Kissed like they were drowning as John ground their hips together.
Sherlock didn't seem to notice when John flicked open the cap of the lubricant with one hand, and managed to smear some of the liquid onto his fingers. He migrated downwards. Licking and sucking the skin on Sherlock's neck. Then his chest. His taut stomach. He took the head of Sherlock's prick into his mouth and swirled his tongue lazily as he slipped a finger between Sherlock's plush arse cheeks and began teasing at his entrance.
Sherlock let out a steady breath. The sensation was almost overwhelming. The perfect, wet heat of John's mouth—mingled with the tense anticipation of the slick finger nudging against him. It would be easy to panic. After all, he'd spent so much of his life avoiding this exact moment and the strange vulnerability that it entailed.
But if John could trust him after everything they'd been through—he could certainly trust John as well.
He tried to focus on John's mouth. But he couldn't entirely ignore the finger circling his arsehole. Teasing at it. Stroking across it. Trying to get the muscle to relax. The feeling wasn't exactly unpleasant. His body soon gave in. Relaxed just enough to let John's finger sink inside.
Sherlock bit down on his lip.
Really, it wasn't so much. The intrusion felt odd more than outright uncomfortable. The stretch was slightly out of place. But not painful. John continued to bob up and down on Sherlock's cock, albeit with a bit less focus, as he slid his finger a bit further in.
When he nudged against the right spot—that tense little bundle of nerve endings—maybe Sherlock let out a little whining noise.
John set up a slow rhythm, teasing at Sherlock's prostate. Just barely grazing across it with every motion and before long, Sherlock couldn't really keep himself from squirming. John pulled back, mouthing at Sherlock's hipbone and thigh before sitting up.
A moment of sizzling eye contact held before John pushed another finger in.
That one felt a bit uncomfortable. Sherlock breathed through it. Because John didn't stop. He just kept up the teasing, sending exotic shocks of pleasure racing through Sherlock's nerve endings.
It didn't exactly feel like spiraling out of control. Not in the same way all his games with Moriarty had. After all, Sherlock wasn't exactly powerless. He could say stop at any point, and he had zero doubts that John wouldn't obey him instantly.
No. This wasn't surrender. It was a gift. He was letting John do this. And, well…. it wasn't exactly objectionable. It did feel rather nice at that particular moment.
John took his time. Scissoring his fingers. Slowly coaxing Sherlock's muscles into a state of easy relaxation. It grew progressively easier to focus on the throb of pleasure, rather than any lingering discomfort.
John withdrew his fingers and slicked up with a bit more lubricant before pushing three into Sherlock's body. The detective grunted. It felt like a bit much. A lot. But not necessarily more than he could handle.
Especially when John rubbed against his prostate and sent little sparks of something wonderful ricocheting through Sherlock's body.
He felt reasonably loose before too long. Three fingers didn't seem like such an intrusion anymore. He knew John's cock was a lot thicker—but he could take it. He wanted it.
"I'm ready," Sherlock said in a voice that wasn't entirely his own. He sounded a bit shaky. Raw. Scared?
John licked his lips. His eyes were wide and dark. Skin flushed with arousal. But he still didn't leap the second Sherlock said he could. He kept up the steady motions of his fingers.
"I don't mind taking our time," John said quietly. Soothingly. "There's no rush."
"I know," Sherlock fell into a near whisper, "but I want you inside me. Now."
John's mouth fell open. He looked almost starved. Like Sherlock was a nice cut of meat to be devoured.
The doctor slicked his cock liberally and situated himself between Sherlock's legs. Leaning over him, supporting himself with one arm and positioning his cock with the other. Sherlock tried not to tense. Tried to remember that breathing, no matter how dull, was actually necessary.
The blunt head of John's cock pressed against him. It felt big. Perhaps too big. He wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and focused on the tiny details of his face. The little freckles you could only see when you got really close. The near-unsettling deepness of his eyes.
"I love you," John's voice rumbled like a seismic shift.
He pressed forward a bit more insistently and Sherlock's body gave. The head of the doctor's cock popped in past the first ring of muscle and Sherlock gasped.
It burned. But the pain wasn't clear and sharp. It was muddied by the excitement of it all. The signal slightly confused by Sherlock's arousal. And John stayed perfectly still. Staring down at him, waiting for something.
The doctor wrapped his hand around Sherlock's prick and gave it a slow stroke. The detective shuddered slightly at the feeling. He licked his lips and gave John a curt nod. The smaller man let go, supporting himself with both arms, and pressed further into him.
The head of John's cock nudged against the right place and a small moan escaped Sherlock's lips.
"There?" John asked in a low, husky voice.
John withdrew only to thrust back in slowly, grazing against the exact same spot. It sent a wave of heat coursing through Sherlock's blood.
The doctor began to fuck Sherlock in languid, shallow motions. Sure. Unhurried. It made the detective's head spin. Every breath felt shaky. His heart pounded in his throat. He couldn't think about anything but the warm body above him. Pressing into him.
He pulled John downwards—following a sudden impulse for more contact. The doctor's stomach slid against Sherlock's prick as he continued to move. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist instinctively. The doctor nipped at Sherlock's neck.
Then he began to pick up speed.
"How does it feel?" John all but groaned.
Sherlock could barely gather is thoughts into coherent words. His body was a flood of conflicting signals. Burning. Crumbling. Yes. Fuck. More.
"It feels like you're taking me apart."
John slowed a bit, looking down with suddenly worried eyes. "Should I stop?"
Sherlock held onto him tighter. "No."
John thrust into him with more intention. Their lazy motions became more measured. Purposeful. Driving forward with a goal.
A constant flicker of pleasure danced across Sherlock's nerve endings. Kept him anxious. Because it was nowhere near enough. Just a tease. Just a taste.
But then every so often, John entered him at a particular angle, or intensity, and a deep, aching tension clutched at him, and almost made him see stars. He began to push back against John's motions. Trying to catch the sensation and hold onto it.
"Oh god, Sherlock," John panted. "You're so tight… fuck… you're lovely. You're fucking perfect."
Sherlock responded with a small whimper. Because yes. That was it. John changed the angle of his motions slightly and Sherlock couldn't breathe anymore.
The feeling built slowly. He felt his muscles pull tight. The pleasure throbbed in a tumultuous crescendo.
"Please," he whispered incoherently.
It was difficult to tell whether or not John actually heard him. Perhaps it didn't matter. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and began to stroke him in time with every thrust. The world spun out. Stopped entirely and slid sideways.
Sherlock opened his mouth and let out a series of low moans. This only seemed to excite John further. He sped up. The taller man trembled. It felt like he'd reached the verge of something terrible. Met the edge and no longer wanted to go over it. It would be too much. He couldn't handle it.
But it seemed he'd passed the point of having a choice in the matter.
An odd feeling, a lot like free-fall set in. A complete and utter sense of powerlessness. His muscles constricted completely.
He felt each rhythmic spasm. His cock jerked and the pleasure crashed through him. Wrecked him entirely. He cried out before drowning on the wave of reward chemicals that swept through his brain. Adrenaline, oxytocin, dopamine.
John grunted and panted above him for a few more minutes before he shuddered and Sherlock felt just a little bit stickier. John withdrew and collapsed on top of him. Sherlock could feel John's come trickling back out of him. He wasn't sure whether he found it a bit sexy, or a bit distasteful. Perhaps both.
"Well, Jesus," John snorted. "I think you've killed me."
"Perhaps we've killed each other," Sherlock let out a long sated sigh.
They lay there for a long while, boneless and sluggish. Sherlock eventually found the wine and they sipped their glasses casually, soaking in the afterglow.
"Thank you," John said once he'd finished his glass. "That was fantastic."
"Yes, it was," the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards. "Perhaps I should be thanking you as well."
A lot of questions hovered in the air unaddressed. Where do we go from here? Will things always be like this? What about tomorrow? And the day after that?
But for the time being, none of them seemed to matter so much. They were together. Right then, it seemed like it could stay a steady, unchangeable fact. Sherlock and John. Always joined by a conjunction. Never separate again. It seemed like a rather grand idea.
"Is this our honeymoon?" John snorted, jarring Sherlock out of his thoughts.
"I thought one customarily had to be married before they had a honeymoon."
"Since when have we ever doing things the proper way?"
"Never," Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose this can be our honeymoon if you want. Does that mean you just proposed to me?"
"Good. I'm not sure I'm ready for that kind of commitment."
They stared at each other silently for a full thirty seconds before the both collapsed into a fit of laughter.
Soon the air grew a bit chilly on their sweaty skin, so they climbed under the covers and cuddled up against each other properly. Sherlock's mind swirled sleepily, still hazy from the sex and glass of wine. As he allowed himself to drift he thought vaguely about it.
He didn't need a piece of paper to tell him that John was his. But perhaps, somewhere down the line, it might be a good idea. For the tax benefits, and whatnot. Perhaps someday they'd move out of 221b and buy themselves a proper house. As long as John stayed with him, he didn't care much where they lived, or what their legal status was.
But maybe, at some far off point... after they'd smoothed out all the rough edges of this rather twisted love affair... it would be nice to settle down together.
And you people thought I'd never give you Top!John *cackles manically*
But... WAHHHHHHHHHH. No. It's not over. Shh. It's fine. There's still the sickeningly domestic epilogue. And probably a page and a half author's note of my feelings about you fantastic people.
Your reviews, follows and favorites have left me entirely speechless. When I started off on this crazy adventure, I never thought I'd find so many wonderful readers. I can't. This story has almost broken 100,000 views and I'm going to die because I can't believe it.
Let's all have tea over skype and cry about our emotions. That failing, you should come be my friend on tumblr (taylorpotato . tumblr . com). We'll waste entire afternoons squealing about gif-sets and cosplaying horribly.
By popular request, I've actually set down and started to work on a teen!lock story. The first chapter should be up before the month is out.
I love you. I really do. I'll see you next week for more disgusting flufyness!