Nothing-Upon-Nowhere
Characters: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 2700
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sherlock talks John into an old rowboat on a secluded river. And then he gets bored with the whole thing.
Notes: Prompt. Many thanks to afullmargin for making sure this thing didn’t fall completely flat.
Nothing-Upon-Nowhere
When Sherlock first brought up the idea, and later dragged John out to some tiny cottage in Nothing-Upon-Nowhere, he had assumed, as one does whenever in the presence of Sherlock Holmes’ odd behaviour, that it had been for some case or other. After two days of peering cautiously out the window and looking over his shoulder whenever he went outside, John realised that he had missed something vitally important about the nature of their stay.
And because he lacked the extreme deductive superpower ascribed to Holmes, John found that the easiest ways to clear up such issues was simply to ask. Even if it did tend to annoy Sherlock.
Especially since it annoyed him.
“Sabbatical, John,” Sherlock said from where he lie sprawled out on the small sofa. “Leave. Exodus. Taking a breather.”
“We’re on holiday,” John said. “Jesus, Sherlock. I thought we were hiding from someone.”
“We are, technically,” Sherlock said.
“Mycroft doesn’t count,” John told him. He lifted Sherlock’s feet to be able to sit down. “So, rather than being a lazy sod in London, you’re being a lazy sod out in the sort of middle-of-nowhere village that creepy death cults and space aliens like to overrun?”
Sherlock sat up just enough to look at John. “What?” he asked.
“If there’s one thing I learned from Doctor Who, it’s that you’re more likely to be killed by zombie pensioners from space when you’re isolated like this than when you’re in London.”
Before Sherlock was able to argue the complete nonsense of the current conversation, John pressed his thumbs into the bottom of Sherlock’s foot. Instead of arguing, Sherlock let his head fall back against the armrest of the sofa and let out a very satisfied moan. For someone who claimed to not be bothered about his own physical needs, Sherlock certainly could be a right hedonist at times.
Slightly more secure in the knowledge that there weren’t any snipers hiding in the shrubbery across the road, John left the cotta early the next morning to have a look at what Sherlock had brought him out to. It had turned out to be a rather charming, if overgrown, parcel of land on the bank of an equally charming and overgrown river. Not at all the sort of place he’d ever expect Sherlock to have gone willingly, let alone for no reason other than boredom. It was too quiet. Too peaceful. Too isolated.
But despite all this, John had found himself carefully stepping through knee-high weeds to inspect a small dock on the riverbank. Tied to the dock was a rowboat which seemed, near as John could tell, to be in a suitable working order. At least, it was floating, and there was only a minimal amount of water on the bottom; he assumed this was how a rowboat was meant to look. How many parts were there to go wrong, after all?
“I’m surprised that’s still here.”
John started at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He looked up to see him slowly approaching the bank, pausing only to frown at something on the ground.
“Why?” asked John. “What’s wrong with it?”
Sherlock smirked lightly. “Mycroft and I sank it,” he answered. “Four times.”
“H-never mind.” John shook his head, not wanting to know the sort of things those two got up to as children. If they were as dangerous as they were when they were at odds with one another, John could only imagine the holy terrors they had been when they got on.
“Want to take it out?” asked Sherlock.
Without waiting for John to answer, Sherlock began to unhitch the mooring lines and tossed them into the bottom of the boat.
“What? Right now?” John asked.
“Why not? As long as we head down-river, things stay smooth for about three miles.”
John watched as Sherlock revealed yet another hidden wealth of knowledge and positioned the oars into the oarlocks.
“You won’t sink us?” asked John.
Sherlock seemed to consider this. “I can’t promise I won’t get bored, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.
Already doubting his sanity, John stepped toward the boat. Sherlock held it steady in the water with his foot as he helped John into it before stepping in easily and settling into the bow. He used one of the oars to push them off from the dock, letting the river’s lazy current catch the boat and do all the work for them.
“So, you did this often, then?” asked John, letting his hand dip into the water.
“Every summer,” Sherlock said.
He pulled off his shoes and socks, letting them drop to the floor and leaned up against the edge. In his plain white shirt and black trousers, he looked surprisingly like he belonged out there on the water. Not sure what else to do, John followed Sherlock’s lead and took off his shoes and socks before rolling his trousers up to his knees.
“Wish you’d told me what was going on before we left,” he said. “I’d have brought some shorts.”
Sherlock snorted. “Just take off your trousers if you’re that uncomfortable,” he said. “There’s no-one around for miles.”
“How do you know?” asked John sceptically.
“I’ve never seen another person out here since I was six years old,” Sherlock told him. “I’d say the odds are in your favour.”
John frowned at him. “I’ll keep them on, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He settled in further until he was as close to lying down as was possible. The end result had him reclined against the forward bench with his feet up next to John’s hip. “Just as well, anyway. I wouldn’t want to go swimming in this water. Come out with a dozen different parasites in your stomach.”
John pulled his hand out of the water and frowned at Sherlock.
“Thanks,” he said flatly.
“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock said with an irritating amount of honesty in his voice.
They fell into an easy silence, interrupted only by the sounds of the various creatures that made the riverbank their home. Eventually, John let his hand fall back into the water, tracing light patterns on the surface, while Sherlock occasionally looked up just long enough to be sure that they weren’t drifting into any weeds or brambles.
Just about the time John began to wonder if Sherlock had drifted off to sleep, he felt a light pressure on his inner thigh. He looked down to find Sherlock’s toes slowly making their way toward his crotch.
“Sherlock,” John warned, ignoring the sly grin on the other man’s face.
“Bored,” Sherlock declared.
“This was your idea,” John reminded him.
“And I’d warned you I might get bored,” Sherlock said. “Fix it.”
John stifled a laugh. “Doesn’t work that way,” he said.
Sherlock frowned. “You’ve never complained before,” he said as he used his toes to tease at John’s cock.
John pushed Sherlock’s foot away. “You’ve never demanded sex in a boat before.”
Sherlock sighed heavily - the way he did when he was trying to guilt people into thinking he deserved more than he was getting. John hated that sigh.
“I’ve already told you, there’s no-one else out here,” he said. “Unless you’re worried that a bullfrog might see.”
“I’m not worried about bullfrogs,” John said. “I’m worried about boats. Specifically, this boat.”
“It’s perfectly sound. The only reason it sank was because Mycroft is an idiot and tried to get more speed out of it than it’s capable of delivering.” Sherlock shifted where he lie, rocking his hips obscenely as he drifted further down to the floor of the boat.
“This was your plan the whole time, wasn’t it?” asked John. “Take me miles from the cottage and then get me to fuck you out here.”
Sherlock looked around for a moment. “We’re not miles away,” he said. “We just passed the mile mark about ten minutes back.”
John only glared at him as Sherlock rocked his hips again.
“But if I’d known you were going to be such a killjoy about it,” Sherlock muttered. “Should have known, I suppose.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” John demanded.
“Hmm?”
Sherlock had his eyes closed and was lightly rubbing his fingers across his stomach. With another rock of his hips, he let his fingers dip just below his waistband, where they lingered for just long enough to let John know that it wasn’t an accident.
“Damnit,” John growled lightly as he moved to his knees with all the grace of a new-born giraffe.
The boat lurched to one side under his weight and his hands darted out to grab hold of the sides to steady the craft. Sherlock now had his eyes open and was watching John with an unbearably smug smile spread across his face.
“Oh, shut up,” John said as he pressed himself on top of Sherlock.
“I didn’t say anything,” Sherlock pointed out.
“No, but you thought the hell out of it.”
Sherlock moved his hand between their bodies, pushing downward until his knuckles were brushing against the forming hardness in John’s trousers. His smirk widened as he rocked his hips against John’s. He used his knee to push John’s legs apart so that he was ostensibly straddling Sherlock’s thigh. As Sherlock pushed his hardened cock into the hollow of John’s hip, he twisted his wrist to be able to work at John’s zip.
“You really are serious,” John realised.
“Of course,” Sherlock said.
He snaked his fingers through the opening on John’s boxers and ran the pads of his fingers along the top of his cock.
“And you don’t seem as opposed to the idea as you were five minutes ago,” Sherlock pointed out.
“I thought you were joking until about five seconds ago,” John argued.
“Mmm, no,” Sherlock said.
After a bit of shifting, he was in a position to be able to rub his thumb against the head of John’s cock, sliding it beneath the fold of his foreskin with a light caress. John’s breath hitched slightly and he dropped his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, his protests quickly forgotten as Sherlock began to roll his thumb around the glans and foreskin. Sherlock gave it a light pinch between thumb and finger, eliciting a sharp inward hiss and sudden hip thrust from John.
John bit down on Sherlock’s neck, using as many teeth as possible as he slid his tongue against the soft skin. Tightening his grip on John’s cock, Sherlock arched against him, pressing his own erection against John until it was almost painful. Something - perhaps everything - in this prompted John to push himself further into Sherlock’s hand, never once breaking contact with his mouth. His biting quickly turned to licking and sucking, leaving a wet, red patch on Sherlock’s otherwise pale neck.
Sherlock managed to separate himself from John to work his free hand between them, clumsily trying to pry apart his own zip. As he pulled free his own member from his trousers, he tried to sit up, pushing against John to move him. The boat rocked in the water enough to splash, and out of instinct, John tightened his grip on Sherlock and tried to make himself as close to the floor as possible. He pressed his whole body against Sherlock and dug short fingernails into skin. This only drove Sherlock further on, and with a tight grip on John’s hip, he pressed himself against John. Exhaling heavily against John’s neck, Sherlock’s lazy hip-rocking became more intense and needy, turning into jerky thrusts.
“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re gonna have us over,” John said, his body still tense as the boat moved about on the water.
“So?” Sherlock asked as he attempted to work his trousers off. “You can swim.”
Before John could argue further, Sherlock’s mouth found his ear and he bit down, eliciting a high whine from the back of John’s throat. Finally, he began to relax, letting some of his weight off of Sherlock. With John’s ear still in his mouth, Sherlock managed to slip his hands between the two of them to pull both of their trousers and pants away, finally letting skin come into contact with skin.
For all of John’s earlier protests, he seemed to have forgotten their situation, pushing himself against Sherlock with another high moan. Again, Sherlock pushed against John with enough force to lift him off, rocking the boat on the water. Before John was able to press himself against Sherlock again to steady the motions, Sherlock had managed to get his legs out from under John and spread apart. He arched into John, spreading his legs wide and rubbing his thighs against John’s bared hips.
Sherlock wrapped his hand round both of their cocks, long fingers not quite able to reach completely around. He ran his thumb over the heads of their cocks, teasing foreskins and smearing precum over both of them.
John bucked his hips, thrusting himself into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock began slow strokes down their lengths, slowly and lazily, pulling their skin tight with each downward stroke before working his way back up again. His pace quickened, becoming more frantic and needy as John bit down hard on his neck, drawing out a half-strangled cry from Sherlock. As Sherlock worked their cocks with one hand, his other dug manicured nails into the small of John’s back, causing him to rut against Sherlock and into his hand with increasing pace. John brought his hands up to pull at Sherlock’s hair, bringing him to climax with a sharp arch of his back and a stifled moan.
John quickly brought his mouth to Sherlock’s, driving his tongue in as deep as he could manage as he brought his own hand down to his cock and wrapping his fingers round it lightly. He moved his wrist as quickly as he was able with his hand crushed between the two of them while he tried to taste every square inch of Sherlock’s mouth.
His entire body tensed and he came with a noise somewhere between a shout and a whine before letting his full weight fall back down onto Sherlock. The two lie on the bottom of the boat, panting heavily and sticky. Sherlock managed to work his hand out from between the two of them and tried to dip it into the water to give it the appearance of cleanliness, but the angle made getting his arm over the edge impossible.
“Still bored?” John asked once he had his breath back.
“Mmm. No,” Sherlock said. “May be ready for a nap, though.”
John laughed lightly as he carefully pulled himself into a more vertical position, gripping the sides of the boat tightly to keep it from going over. Rolling his eyes at the mess, he pulled off his shirt and used that to clean the two of them up before tossing it aside near his shoes. He zipped his trousers back up and leaned against the aft bench to watch as Sherlock slowly put himself back together.
“Oh, blast,” Sherlock said as he sat back up.
“What?” asked John. He looked in the direction Sherlock was glaring, but wasn’t exactly sure what he was meant to be seeing. For a terrifying moment, he thought that maybe Sherlock had spotted something.
“We lost an oar,” Sherlock said.
John looked around, seeing that one of the oars had indeed been knocked out of the lock, and was now making its way downstream.
“You’re already mostly undressed,” Sherlock pointed out.
John glared at him, but it became increasingly clear that Sherlock had no intention of going in after it himself. Heaving a great sigh, John managed to slip out of the boat and into the water, which was a bit colder and quite a bit deeper than he’d expected.
“You owe me,” he said.
“Can I consider this act paid for in advance?” asked Sherlock.
“No,” John said sternly before making his way to the wayward oar. He wasn’t sure how, but he was quite determined to make Sherlock pay for this. And soon.