Fic: A Matter of Affection - Sherlock/John - 2/3
Title: A Matter Of Affection
Rating: NC-17
Category: Sherlock/John
Length: ~7000 words
Disclaimer: The show Sherlock and that incarnation of its characters belong to the BBC, the show's writers and its actors.
Warning: Naughty bits herein. Oral sex specifically. No significant spoilers, however, except a passing mention of Irene Adler's profession.
Betas for this part: The lovely 01cheers overcame her dislike of Sherlock's cheekbones, and the_kinky_pet and rranne offered me in-depth advice on John's state of mind and my more convoluted sentences which was very much appreciated!
Continued from Part 1
"Interesting," said Sherlock, straightening up. His lips were rosy and wet. "I thought you would push me away."
He readjusted his scarf and looked away, as if searching for something on the horizon.
"You know what London lacks, John? Alleyways."
"Right," said John, deadpan. His mouth was still tingling and he was more than a little turned on. "Because the first thing I want to talk about after being sexually assaulted on the Edgware Road is the local architecture."
Sherlock looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Somewhere private we could go right now. Close by, not in full view but convenient for immediate use. It would have to be clean though. I wouldn't want to get dirty knees."
"Okay," said John, clearing his throat at the thought of Sherlock on his knees. "Pain, public sex… are there any other sexual fantasies you'd like to share with me?"
Sherlock's face lit up with a cheeky smile. "Loads. Let's get home."
This time, he spotted an available taxi and stepped out in front of it, making it grind to a screeching halt. They bundled in, John having to clamber over Sherlock's long legs because as usual, he had plonked himself down at the end closest to the pavement-side door. The cab slowly made its way back into the lunchtime traffic.
Sherlock looked out of the window and said nothing more about sexual fantasies, so John followed suit. To be honest, John was a little surprised that the subject had come up at all, as there had been little evidence until today that Sherlock had sexual fantasies at all. John decided he would try to fathom how far the fantasies went before attempting to put any of them in practice.
Meanwhile, Sherlock's thoughts seemed to have moved onto a different topic.
"After you left, Lestrade said I should go slowly with you," he said suddenly. "The others all went off to snigger in peace and Lestrade said he didn't think I should have mentioned sex. I didn't even notice I had," he said with irritation. "But then I told you I couldn't think of anything else. So I told him we've been 'sleeping' together for four days, and he felt compelled to give me some advice."
“Right.”
John tried not to mind about that. He reminded himself that he'd been living in some whacky alternate universe ever since he'd met Sherlock and he might as well relax and go along for the ride. So Lestrade was giving Sherlock advice about his sexual relationship with John; that was all right. Really.
"It bothers you," said Sherlock, observing him intently.
"Yes." John noticed Sherlock's forehead creasing almost imperceptibly and added, "But I'll live. It's not as if they didn't all think we were doing it anyway. I suspect fantastic sex is the only reason people like Anderson and Donovan could think of why I'd be living with a nutter like you in the first place," he added with a laugh.
Sherlock smiled, but his troubled expression returned almost immediately. "People have definitely been talking about us. Although he didn't tell me that, Lestrade has believed we were a couple for a while. He had rather a lot to say on the subject, so he has been considering it for some months, perhaps ever since you moved in with me."
"Yeah, I did notice how all the people you knew before me immediately assumed we were a couple," said John lightly, though now he thought about it, that had always seemed a bit odd. He'd house-shared with a man before without encountering quite so much innuendo.
Sherlock looked out of the window. "It doesn't matter. To be honest, I didn't listen to most of what Lestrade said. I'd just realised that you'd gone off with all the money we had on us and I'd have to wait for you to come back. I hope you have enough left for the cab, by the way."
"Sherlock! You're supposed to check that kind of thing before you hail a cab, you know," said John, inspecting his jacket pockets.
Sherlock frowned. "I shouldn't have told them Anderson was right, should I? He said something about the way we have sex."
"It's okay."
"I embarrassed you."
"Okay, I have about fifteen quid here," said John, counting the contents of his pockets. "That should be enough."
"You were angry with Anderson because you're ashamed for me. You don't want people to know I'm gay. And you're embarrassed because you don't want people to think you're gay either."
Because I'm not, thought John, though he didn't think there was any point trying to explain the finer points of sexual identity to Sherlock, particularly given the evidence before him. John wasn't sure what he was anyway; "gay" didn't seem an adequate description. He was just John Watson. He liked pretty girls with long hair. He also liked Sherlock Holmes, who was maddening and brilliant and wonderful, and very much a man in every way that mattered. A man who called himself "gay", John realised as he replayed what Sherlock had just said. Maybe Sherlock didn't need an explanation after all.
"You're embarrassed by our relationship," concluded Sherlock.
John rubbed his forehead. "Oh, god, Sherlock. No, I'm not. I think you're reading too much into all this. There's a difference between someone -- Mrs Hudson, maybe, or Greg, I suppose -- knowing about us and being supportive, and I, well, I'd have liked it to remain our secret a little longer maybe. But I know they mean well. And then there's how someone like Anderson sees our relationship. What he said was crude and I overreacted. But I've wanted to deck him for months anyway."
"Okay. I get it," said Sherlock dismissively.
John laughed. "No, you don't."
"No, I don't," agreed Sherlock with a sheepish smile.
John picked up Sherlock's hand and kissed it. "Look, never mind. It's okay if people know about us. The important thing is that I love you and I love what we do. So stop being such a worrywart."
Sherlock suddenly looked out of the window again, his hand limp on John's palm. It probably wasn't the best reaction John had ever got to telling someone he loved them, but given what he knew of Sherlock's saturnine moods, he decided not to read too much into it.
Mrs Hudson came out of her flat to give John an Amazon parcel when they got in. Sherlock rolled his eyes and flounced upstairs, leaving John to discuss the books he'd chosen with Mrs Hudson. She said nothing about loud noises in the night.
"I'm popping out to lunch with Marie from next door in a minute," said Mrs Hudson finally. "Want me to pick anything up while I'm out?"
John raised the Costcutter bag. "No, it's okay, I got us some sandwiches."
Sherlock leaned over the banisters on the first floor landing above.
"John, come here!" he said urgently.
"My master's voice," said John with a sigh. "Sorry, got to go."
Mrs Hudson laughed and John ran up the stairs to see what his partner wanted. That became obvious as soon as he walked through the door into their living room. The tongue in his mouth and the hand on his crotch tipped him off. John tossed aside the box and the plastic bag he was carrying.
"God, John,” murmured Sherlock, pushing the door closed and pressing John up against it. “I thought you were going to talk forever!"
John noted that Sherlock really had to be obsessed with sex to still be in the mood after their unrelated conversation in the cab. Unless something else had turned him on. Though their relationship was still in its infancy, it was already clear that Sherlock could be stimulated by things that weren't immediately apparent to John. Sherlock had ordered them both into his room the previous night while John was watching a repeat of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" and eating a bag of chips from the local chippy. Why those particular circumstances led Sherlock to want sex had remained a mystery.
Whatever the cause this time, John was now leaning against the door, head only just clearing the coat hook on the back, with Sherlock -- John could hardly believe it -- with Sherlock on his knees in front of him. Looking down, he could make out a prominent nose and a pair of ivory-white cheekbones beneath a mop of dark wavy hair, all in close proximity to his now inexplicably unfastened jeans. After that, to be honest, John didn't do much thinking for a while.
After twenty years of sexual activity, and having been blessed with a face that said "take me home to your parents", John had been the recipient of quite a few blowjobs. Most had been good, 99.9% had got him off, and one or two qualified as exceptional. This was admittedly only the second time Sherlock had tried this on him, and objectively speaking, it was probably towards the bottom half of "average". Fortunately, what Sherlock lacked in technique, he more than made up for in enthusiasm, and more importantly, in being Sherlock, giving John a blowjob.
Just watching him perform the act was almost more stimulating than the act itself. The hem of his long coat was sweeping the floor and John could just see the turned up collar beneath Sherlock's hair. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes crinkling in a smile even though his lips were occupied, and John felt a familiar tightness in his groin.
"Sherlock, I'm there," he warned in a quiet voice. "Oh, Jesus, I'm so there."
Experience had shown that blowjobs were more likely to be repeated if he didn't catch his partner unawares at this point. But instead of stopping, Sherlock closed his eyes and kept going. Which John thought was one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to him.
Unfortunately, Sherlock rather spoiled the moment by pulling away as soon as John was done, coughing and spluttering.
"Oh god, that is disgusting," he wheezed.
"Spit it out, then, you silly sod," said John, bursting out laughing.
"Too late." Still on his knees, Sherlock shuffled towards the coffee table in front of the sofa and gulped down some cold tea from a cup made that morning. "I am never doing that again. That was horrible!"
"Oh, I don't know, I enjoyed it." John fastened his jeans, still buzzing from his orgasm and finding the whole thing hilarious. He hung his jacket on the back of the door, and walked over to pat Sherlock on the head. "It's all right, I'll still love you if you don't suck me off."
Sherlock leaned into his touch and suddenly wrapped his arms tightly around John's hips, pressing his face hard against John's lower stomach. John's heart missed a beat. He stroked Sherlock's hair.
A few seconds later, Sherlock loosened his grip and stood up, back to his usual self. He gave John a knowing smile as he removed his own coat and scarf.
"Don't need these on anymore," he said, a hint of mischief in his small bright eyes.
"Oh, was that for my benefit?" John chuckled. He toed off his sneakers and sat down on the sofa.
"I thought it would make up for the lack of any convenient alleyways."
Sherlock glanced at the kitchen, perhaps thinking about getting a drink to clear the 'disgusting' taste from his mouth. But John patted the space beside him, and Sherlock came over to him instead. He sat bolt upright and John had to fold one leg underneath him to reach his lips.
"You're too tall," he said reproachfully.
Though he seemed tense, Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile. "Ah, so that's why you never slept with men before me."
"Yes. I'm way too short," said John deadpan, before pressing his lips to Sherlock's.
"I should brush my teeth," said Sherlock, shrinking away.
John held Sherlock's face between his hands. "Don't worry about it."
He opened his mouth against Sherlock's, sliding his tongue in. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock responded enthusiastically, though he was frowning when John pulled away to get into a more comfortable position.
"You don't mind the taste." Sherlock looked faintly disgusted.
"No, cold tea is my favourite," said John with a grin.
His mind flitted back to a time at med school, when a girl had crawled up his body after a particularly satisfying bout of oral sex, and opened her mouth against his... Well, he'd tell Sherlock about that some other time.
"But you can brush your teeth or get a drink if it bothers you," added John when he'd reviewed a mental replay of the last few seconds. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just kissed you like that."
"Why not?"
John cleared his throat. "Because it bothered you. I should have paid more attention."
"I won't break," said Sherlock simply.
John thought about the occasions when he'd seen Sherlock driven to tears or into a complete rage by things most people would have simply dismissed, and decided that he'd keep his own counsel as to when Sherlock should be handled gently.
"John, I've been thinking about sex with you all morning," said Sherlock, interrupting his musings. "I think we should do that now, before we have to go out again." He removed his shoes and socks as he spoke. "You can start by kissing me again and not treating me as if I'm made of glass."
On the other hand, maybe John would just do as he was told. As usual.
John chuckled at that thought and straddled Sherlock's lap. "Okay, what would you like, then? The same?" He tilted his head towards the door. "Since we've established I don't mind the taste."
"Um, no. You don't have to." That could either be a 'yes, please' or a 'hell, no', but Sherlock gave John a hopeful smile and added, "I wouldn't mind a repeat of last night if you're up for it."
"I think it'll be a minute or two before I'm up for anything," said John with a laugh. "I'm no spring chicken, you know."
Sherlock frowned, his features in analytical mode as he traced the lines on John's forehead and ran the tips of his fingers through the grey at his temples.
"That's true," he said thoughtfully, though there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You're getting past it. With my cheekbones and brilliant intellect, I should have no trouble trading you in for a younger model."
"You wish!"
John shifted his weight onto one leg and tried to push Sherlock over sideways. His aim was to get him lying on his back on the sofa, but as Sherlock was as fit as he was, and taller, it turned into a bit of a wrestling match; John pushing downwards and Sherlock struggling to stay upright. John's instinct was to back off and let Sherlock win, but he noticed that Sherlock's pushes were perfunctory at best. So he put all his skill and weight into the struggle, until Sherlock suddenly flopped onto his back, breathless and transparently excited even though he wasn't yet physically aroused.
Straddling Sherlock's narrow hips again, John pinned Sherlock's hands above his head, making him squirm with an undignified whimper. John thought about Irene Adler's line of business and wondered if that was the kind of pain Sherlock had had in mind when he mentioned it earlier. If so, John was going to be hopelessly out of his depth. Despite his numerous partners, he had only ever had near misses with kinky sex; girls who seemed to like it rough or conversely, who tried scratching and biting him. But nothing had ever involved props or actual pain.
He stalled for time by unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt completely and pulling it along his arms; with the cuffs still done up, it caught on Sherlock's wrists, restricting his movements. Sherlock could easily have disengaged his arms or ripped the fabric, but he remained where he was, arms outstretched over the arm of the sofa as if John had tied them there. Encouraged, John stood on the floor and undid Sherlock's trousers to pull them down his legs, just low enough to allow him to bend his knees but constraining his calves. Though the restraint was minimal, Sherlock seemed content to allow it, watching John through hooded eyes.
Continued in part 3...
Rating: NC-17
Category: Sherlock/John
Length: ~7000 words
Disclaimer: The show Sherlock and that incarnation of its characters belong to the BBC, the show's writers and its actors.
Warning: Naughty bits herein. Oral sex specifically. No significant spoilers, however, except a passing mention of Irene Adler's profession.
Betas for this part: The lovely 01cheers overcame her dislike of Sherlock's cheekbones, and the_kinky_pet and rranne offered me in-depth advice on John's state of mind and my more convoluted sentences which was very much appreciated!
Continued from Part 1
"Interesting," said Sherlock, straightening up. His lips were rosy and wet. "I thought you would push me away."
He readjusted his scarf and looked away, as if searching for something on the horizon.
"You know what London lacks, John? Alleyways."
"Right," said John, deadpan. His mouth was still tingling and he was more than a little turned on. "Because the first thing I want to talk about after being sexually assaulted on the Edgware Road is the local architecture."
Sherlock looked at him as if he were an idiot. "Somewhere private we could go right now. Close by, not in full view but convenient for immediate use. It would have to be clean though. I wouldn't want to get dirty knees."
"Okay," said John, clearing his throat at the thought of Sherlock on his knees. "Pain, public sex… are there any other sexual fantasies you'd like to share with me?"
Sherlock's face lit up with a cheeky smile. "Loads. Let's get home."
This time, he spotted an available taxi and stepped out in front of it, making it grind to a screeching halt. They bundled in, John having to clamber over Sherlock's long legs because as usual, he had plonked himself down at the end closest to the pavement-side door. The cab slowly made its way back into the lunchtime traffic.
Sherlock looked out of the window and said nothing more about sexual fantasies, so John followed suit. To be honest, John was a little surprised that the subject had come up at all, as there had been little evidence until today that Sherlock had sexual fantasies at all. John decided he would try to fathom how far the fantasies went before attempting to put any of them in practice.
Meanwhile, Sherlock's thoughts seemed to have moved onto a different topic.
"After you left, Lestrade said I should go slowly with you," he said suddenly. "The others all went off to snigger in peace and Lestrade said he didn't think I should have mentioned sex. I didn't even notice I had," he said with irritation. "But then I told you I couldn't think of anything else. So I told him we've been 'sleeping' together for four days, and he felt compelled to give me some advice."
“Right.”
John tried not to mind about that. He reminded himself that he'd been living in some whacky alternate universe ever since he'd met Sherlock and he might as well relax and go along for the ride. So Lestrade was giving Sherlock advice about his sexual relationship with John; that was all right. Really.
"It bothers you," said Sherlock, observing him intently.
"Yes." John noticed Sherlock's forehead creasing almost imperceptibly and added, "But I'll live. It's not as if they didn't all think we were doing it anyway. I suspect fantastic sex is the only reason people like Anderson and Donovan could think of why I'd be living with a nutter like you in the first place," he added with a laugh.
Sherlock smiled, but his troubled expression returned almost immediately. "People have definitely been talking about us. Although he didn't tell me that, Lestrade has believed we were a couple for a while. He had rather a lot to say on the subject, so he has been considering it for some months, perhaps ever since you moved in with me."
"Yeah, I did notice how all the people you knew before me immediately assumed we were a couple," said John lightly, though now he thought about it, that had always seemed a bit odd. He'd house-shared with a man before without encountering quite so much innuendo.
Sherlock looked out of the window. "It doesn't matter. To be honest, I didn't listen to most of what Lestrade said. I'd just realised that you'd gone off with all the money we had on us and I'd have to wait for you to come back. I hope you have enough left for the cab, by the way."
"Sherlock! You're supposed to check that kind of thing before you hail a cab, you know," said John, inspecting his jacket pockets.
Sherlock frowned. "I shouldn't have told them Anderson was right, should I? He said something about the way we have sex."
"It's okay."
"I embarrassed you."
"Okay, I have about fifteen quid here," said John, counting the contents of his pockets. "That should be enough."
"You were angry with Anderson because you're ashamed for me. You don't want people to know I'm gay. And you're embarrassed because you don't want people to think you're gay either."
Because I'm not, thought John, though he didn't think there was any point trying to explain the finer points of sexual identity to Sherlock, particularly given the evidence before him. John wasn't sure what he was anyway; "gay" didn't seem an adequate description. He was just John Watson. He liked pretty girls with long hair. He also liked Sherlock Holmes, who was maddening and brilliant and wonderful, and very much a man in every way that mattered. A man who called himself "gay", John realised as he replayed what Sherlock had just said. Maybe Sherlock didn't need an explanation after all.
"You're embarrassed by our relationship," concluded Sherlock.
John rubbed his forehead. "Oh, god, Sherlock. No, I'm not. I think you're reading too much into all this. There's a difference between someone -- Mrs Hudson, maybe, or Greg, I suppose -- knowing about us and being supportive, and I, well, I'd have liked it to remain our secret a little longer maybe. But I know they mean well. And then there's how someone like Anderson sees our relationship. What he said was crude and I overreacted. But I've wanted to deck him for months anyway."
"Okay. I get it," said Sherlock dismissively.
John laughed. "No, you don't."
"No, I don't," agreed Sherlock with a sheepish smile.
John picked up Sherlock's hand and kissed it. "Look, never mind. It's okay if people know about us. The important thing is that I love you and I love what we do. So stop being such a worrywart."
Sherlock suddenly looked out of the window again, his hand limp on John's palm. It probably wasn't the best reaction John had ever got to telling someone he loved them, but given what he knew of Sherlock's saturnine moods, he decided not to read too much into it.
Mrs Hudson came out of her flat to give John an Amazon parcel when they got in. Sherlock rolled his eyes and flounced upstairs, leaving John to discuss the books he'd chosen with Mrs Hudson. She said nothing about loud noises in the night.
"I'm popping out to lunch with Marie from next door in a minute," said Mrs Hudson finally. "Want me to pick anything up while I'm out?"
John raised the Costcutter bag. "No, it's okay, I got us some sandwiches."
Sherlock leaned over the banisters on the first floor landing above.
"John, come here!" he said urgently.
"My master's voice," said John with a sigh. "Sorry, got to go."
Mrs Hudson laughed and John ran up the stairs to see what his partner wanted. That became obvious as soon as he walked through the door into their living room. The tongue in his mouth and the hand on his crotch tipped him off. John tossed aside the box and the plastic bag he was carrying.
"God, John,” murmured Sherlock, pushing the door closed and pressing John up against it. “I thought you were going to talk forever!"
John noted that Sherlock really had to be obsessed with sex to still be in the mood after their unrelated conversation in the cab. Unless something else had turned him on. Though their relationship was still in its infancy, it was already clear that Sherlock could be stimulated by things that weren't immediately apparent to John. Sherlock had ordered them both into his room the previous night while John was watching a repeat of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" and eating a bag of chips from the local chippy. Why those particular circumstances led Sherlock to want sex had remained a mystery.
Whatever the cause this time, John was now leaning against the door, head only just clearing the coat hook on the back, with Sherlock -- John could hardly believe it -- with Sherlock on his knees in front of him. Looking down, he could make out a prominent nose and a pair of ivory-white cheekbones beneath a mop of dark wavy hair, all in close proximity to his now inexplicably unfastened jeans. After that, to be honest, John didn't do much thinking for a while.
After twenty years of sexual activity, and having been blessed with a face that said "take me home to your parents", John had been the recipient of quite a few blowjobs. Most had been good, 99.9% had got him off, and one or two qualified as exceptional. This was admittedly only the second time Sherlock had tried this on him, and objectively speaking, it was probably towards the bottom half of "average". Fortunately, what Sherlock lacked in technique, he more than made up for in enthusiasm, and more importantly, in being Sherlock, giving John a blowjob.
Just watching him perform the act was almost more stimulating than the act itself. The hem of his long coat was sweeping the floor and John could just see the turned up collar beneath Sherlock's hair. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes crinkling in a smile even though his lips were occupied, and John felt a familiar tightness in his groin.
"Sherlock, I'm there," he warned in a quiet voice. "Oh, Jesus, I'm so there."
Experience had shown that blowjobs were more likely to be repeated if he didn't catch his partner unawares at this point. But instead of stopping, Sherlock closed his eyes and kept going. Which John thought was one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to him.
Unfortunately, Sherlock rather spoiled the moment by pulling away as soon as John was done, coughing and spluttering.
"Oh god, that is disgusting," he wheezed.
"Spit it out, then, you silly sod," said John, bursting out laughing.
"Too late." Still on his knees, Sherlock shuffled towards the coffee table in front of the sofa and gulped down some cold tea from a cup made that morning. "I am never doing that again. That was horrible!"
"Oh, I don't know, I enjoyed it." John fastened his jeans, still buzzing from his orgasm and finding the whole thing hilarious. He hung his jacket on the back of the door, and walked over to pat Sherlock on the head. "It's all right, I'll still love you if you don't suck me off."
Sherlock leaned into his touch and suddenly wrapped his arms tightly around John's hips, pressing his face hard against John's lower stomach. John's heart missed a beat. He stroked Sherlock's hair.
A few seconds later, Sherlock loosened his grip and stood up, back to his usual self. He gave John a knowing smile as he removed his own coat and scarf.
"Don't need these on anymore," he said, a hint of mischief in his small bright eyes.
"Oh, was that for my benefit?" John chuckled. He toed off his sneakers and sat down on the sofa.
"I thought it would make up for the lack of any convenient alleyways."
Sherlock glanced at the kitchen, perhaps thinking about getting a drink to clear the 'disgusting' taste from his mouth. But John patted the space beside him, and Sherlock came over to him instead. He sat bolt upright and John had to fold one leg underneath him to reach his lips.
"You're too tall," he said reproachfully.
Though he seemed tense, Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile. "Ah, so that's why you never slept with men before me."
"Yes. I'm way too short," said John deadpan, before pressing his lips to Sherlock's.
"I should brush my teeth," said Sherlock, shrinking away.
John held Sherlock's face between his hands. "Don't worry about it."
He opened his mouth against Sherlock's, sliding his tongue in. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock responded enthusiastically, though he was frowning when John pulled away to get into a more comfortable position.
"You don't mind the taste." Sherlock looked faintly disgusted.
"No, cold tea is my favourite," said John with a grin.
His mind flitted back to a time at med school, when a girl had crawled up his body after a particularly satisfying bout of oral sex, and opened her mouth against his... Well, he'd tell Sherlock about that some other time.
"But you can brush your teeth or get a drink if it bothers you," added John when he'd reviewed a mental replay of the last few seconds. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just kissed you like that."
"Why not?"
John cleared his throat. "Because it bothered you. I should have paid more attention."
"I won't break," said Sherlock simply.
John thought about the occasions when he'd seen Sherlock driven to tears or into a complete rage by things most people would have simply dismissed, and decided that he'd keep his own counsel as to when Sherlock should be handled gently.
"John, I've been thinking about sex with you all morning," said Sherlock, interrupting his musings. "I think we should do that now, before we have to go out again." He removed his shoes and socks as he spoke. "You can start by kissing me again and not treating me as if I'm made of glass."
On the other hand, maybe John would just do as he was told. As usual.
John chuckled at that thought and straddled Sherlock's lap. "Okay, what would you like, then? The same?" He tilted his head towards the door. "Since we've established I don't mind the taste."
"Um, no. You don't have to." That could either be a 'yes, please' or a 'hell, no', but Sherlock gave John a hopeful smile and added, "I wouldn't mind a repeat of last night if you're up for it."
"I think it'll be a minute or two before I'm up for anything," said John with a laugh. "I'm no spring chicken, you know."
Sherlock frowned, his features in analytical mode as he traced the lines on John's forehead and ran the tips of his fingers through the grey at his temples.
"That's true," he said thoughtfully, though there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You're getting past it. With my cheekbones and brilliant intellect, I should have no trouble trading you in for a younger model."
"You wish!"
John shifted his weight onto one leg and tried to push Sherlock over sideways. His aim was to get him lying on his back on the sofa, but as Sherlock was as fit as he was, and taller, it turned into a bit of a wrestling match; John pushing downwards and Sherlock struggling to stay upright. John's instinct was to back off and let Sherlock win, but he noticed that Sherlock's pushes were perfunctory at best. So he put all his skill and weight into the struggle, until Sherlock suddenly flopped onto his back, breathless and transparently excited even though he wasn't yet physically aroused.
Straddling Sherlock's narrow hips again, John pinned Sherlock's hands above his head, making him squirm with an undignified whimper. John thought about Irene Adler's line of business and wondered if that was the kind of pain Sherlock had had in mind when he mentioned it earlier. If so, John was going to be hopelessly out of his depth. Despite his numerous partners, he had only ever had near misses with kinky sex; girls who seemed to like it rough or conversely, who tried scratching and biting him. But nothing had ever involved props or actual pain.
He stalled for time by unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt completely and pulling it along his arms; with the cuffs still done up, it caught on Sherlock's wrists, restricting his movements. Sherlock could easily have disengaged his arms or ripped the fabric, but he remained where he was, arms outstretched over the arm of the sofa as if John had tied them there. Encouraged, John stood on the floor and undid Sherlock's trousers to pull them down his legs, just low enough to allow him to bend his knees but constraining his calves. Though the restraint was minimal, Sherlock seemed content to allow it, watching John through hooded eyes.
Continued in part 3...