Fic: Dirty
Title: Dirty
Rating: Explicit
Pairings: Sherlock/John, fleeting Sherlock/OMC
Word Count: ~3,100
Warnings: Drug use, brief mention of domestic violence, and prostitution.
Betas: grassle and misanthropyray
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing with them.
Author's Note: This was just an excuse for me to write an explicit sex scene, which I've never done before. It ended up with more plot than I intended.
Summary: Fact: Sex is disgusting. Sherlock learns this at an early age. Fact: John Watson is a good man. Sherlock learns this later, but it's just as true. How can someone so good be involved in something so wrong?
He’s four years old when Mummy shouts, “Sherlock!” and roughly pulls his hand from under the band of his Y-fronts.
“Don’t do that. Naughty boys do that.” She looks so stern and disappointed. Sherlock files that expression away in his childish mind under Never Make Mummy Look Like That Again. “Now get in the bath and get clean.” She’s warmer then but still not enough to make Sherlock feel better. Be a good boy, get clean, and never make Mummy disappointed again. As Sherlock sinks into the warm bath, he tells himself he’ll never put his hands down his pants again.
He’s 10 years old when Mycroft comes home from university for the first time. Sherlock is so excited he rushes into Mycroft’s room without knocking. He stops just inside the door, his enthusiastic greeting sticking in his throat. Mycroft is reclining on the bed, with Georgina Weston from three houses down laid out beside him. They’re kissing, and her hand is moving under the front of his trousers. Sherlock only watches them for a few seconds before Mycroft’s shouts and expletives drive him from the room. Sherlock avoids touching Mycroft after that. Mycroft is dirty and tainted now. The childish reverence Sherlock held for his older brother died when he realized that Mycroft let someone touch him there and that, judging by the look on Mycroft’s face and the anger in his voice, he liked being touched like that. Sherlock doesn’t tell Mummy what he’s seen, just because he doesn’t want to see that look of disappointment on her face again even if it would be directed at Mycroft. It takes years for Mycroft to notice he has lost his younger brother, and he doesn’t even remember why.
He’s 12 years old the first time he wakes up with his pants sticking uncomfortably to his crotch. He’s read enough medical texts to know what has happened; he even knows why, but he still feels panicked. He has a shower immediately and stashes his pants under his mattress, to be burned later. He reads more books, hoping to find a way to make the nocturnal emissions stop. The only suggestion, that he touch himself, is unacceptable. Sherlock decides the only thing to do is to will them away. Surely he can force his brain to have dominion over his body, even in sleep. Over the years, Sherlock finds his plan is surprisingly successful. It happens again, but only a few times. Each time he scrubs himself nearly raw and burns his pants before anyone can see.
He’s 16 years old when he goes to university, a little young, but an advanced student. Sherlock can tell his parents are hopeful that interaction with more young adults will bring him out of his shell, even if they don’t tell him that directly. He did not get along with the boys at boarding school and he tries to act older than he is in order to fit in better with the other university students. Then he realizes what the other students are doing.
The sex is everywhere. He can smell it on them in the mornings, read it in their limping gaits across the quad in the afternoons, and hear it throughout his hall at night. That’s when he decides that he doesn’t want to be a part of this world, to seek equality with these degenerate, filthy people. They have no self-control; they enjoy tainting themselves in a way Sherlock cannot abide.
But it, the sex, is still intoxicating to him. Calling him with forbidden allure. He finds that willing his mind over his body is harder now than it was at any point in his previous years.
He’s 17 years old when he finally gives in. The pressure has been building, and the wet dreams have been getting more frequent. He tells himself he’s only doing it for practical reasons, and it doesn’t make him dirty or bad. At least he’s doing it alone. No one will know. He decides to masturbate in the shower, figuring that it will be cleaner that way. It only takes a few strokes, with hot water beating down on the top of his head and his left arm braced against the shower wall. His hand moves quickly and his hips snap forward. Cum shoots across his fingers onto the shower knobs and falls across his feet.
He cries that time, just a little. He’s lowered himself to the likes of Mycroft and Sebastian Wilkes and the other dirty, bad people he knows. He’s forced to do it again a few times, always in the shower where he can scrub himself clean and wash away the evidence immediately. Each time pushes him further away from those around him.
He’s 19 years old the first time he tries cocaine. He’s just out of uni, and the only flatmate he can find in London has loads of the stuff. He gives Sherlock some, and it’s like the whole world picks up speed. It’s finally moving at the speed of his brain, and he can breathe. He starts using the drug daily, but it does have some disturbing side effects. While he’s high, with the world and his brain finally seeing eye-to-eye on the issues, he doesn’t mind the erections. The desire to touch himself gets stronger, but it doesn’t matter because everything feels so good.
It’s not long until he’s masturbating daily too: in the shower, under his covers, sometimes in the living room when his flatmate is out. He only touches himself while high and then immediately deletes the experience. After six months, his flatmate is touching him too. It still doesn’t matter because everything still feels so good.
His flatmate tries to initiate sex once without the foreplay of lines on their coffee table. Sherlock breaks his nose in a panic. He gets a couple of cracked ribs for his trouble. The flatmate gives Sherlock some ecstasy a few days later, and they make up in spectacular fashion. They move on to heroin soon after.
He’s 21 years old when he moves out. His flatmate got arrested and can’t have the drugs around. Sherlock has no use for him anymore. His flatmate doesn’t seem bothered.
Sherlock knows where to go, what signs to look for, so it’s not long before he finds another man who’s willing to give him a hit in exchange for Sherlock’s hand or mouth or arse. If Sherlock were honest with himself, he likes the sex almost as much as the drugs. Being able to let go completely and blame it on some outside force is exactly what he’s needed all along. He doesn’t feel dirty or bad when he comes. But Sherlock isn’t that honest with himself, at least not while sober.
He spends several years in the back alleys of London fucking and sucking for cocaine, heroin, methamphetamines; whatever he can get his hands on.
He’s 24 years old when he overdoses, and it’s Mycroft who comes to the hospital. He says Mummy can’t bear to see him like this, and Sherlock remembers her disappointed face from so many years ago. Mycroft berates him about his choice of associates, how dangerous his lifestyle has become. Sherlock doesn’t think of the drugs while Mycroft dresses him down; only of the sex.
Mycroft has enough influence to arrange for Sherlock to have a private suite at an exclusive clinic in the north. His family leaves him there for months without contact. Sherlock assumes it’s because they are ashamed that he let those men touch him. That they’re disappointed he was so weak. That they know he’s bad because he enjoyed it so much. It’s years before he sees Mummy again, but Mycroft inserts himself into Sherlock’s life with alarming regularity.
He’s 28 years old when he tries cocaine again. He can’t get off any other way, and the pressure’s been building. He’s waking up with sticky sheets, and he’s too old for that, but the thought of touching himself or letting someone else touch him is disgusting. It’s wrong, and bad, and dirty. The cocaine makes that feeling go away just like it did years ago. He doesn’t do it often, he’s always out of sight of Mycroft’s cameras, and he makes sure he doesn’t fuck the same person twice. Sometimes he remembers too much the next day and scrubs himself raw in the shower, just like he was 12 years old again. It’s enough to keep the need down and still keep himself from being too tainted.
He’s 32 years old when he meets John Watson. John who is so good, and right, and moral. John who stays with him despite knowing that Sherlock is none of those things, even if John doesn’t know the real reasons why. Sherlock stops using anything stronger than nicotine patches because he can’t stand to touch himself with John’s presence in the flat. The idea of anyone else touching him, bringing him off, just becomes more disgusting. But the pressure’s building.
He’s 33 years old when he realizes John Watson is a man, just like any other.
His experiment with the toenails and bleach went shockingly well, and he couldn’t wait to tell John. He throws open the bathroom door to tell John how he discovered the correct temperature for the bleach to dissolve the toenails at the correct rate to match the victim’s time of death. It’s all wiped from his mind when he sees John’s hand wrapped firmly around his cock in the shower. John’s so engrossed in stroking himself that he doesn’t notice the curtain’s gapped open or that Sherlock’s standing in the doorway. Sherlock runs.
He doesn’t really speak to John for a few days, but John doesn’t notice. He just assumes Sherlock’s in a mood or that his brain is occupied with something else. Which is true, in a way. Sherlock’s brain is occupied with John Watson. Wondering how John could be the moral, good, right John Watson Sherlock knows and still do that.
Did Sherlock miss something? Is John not that man? Sherlock dismisses that train of thought immediately. He knows John, knows his character, and he didn’t miss something so obvious. Other options are not as simple to dismiss. That sex isn’t bad or dirty. Unlikely, in Sherlock’s mind. That sex with John Watson isn’t bad or dirty. This is significantly more likely to Sherlock, so he watches.
Thinking about John in the shower, John coming, is driving Sherlock mad. It’s making the pressure almost unbearable. Sherlock doesn’t want to go back on the drugs, but he doesn’t know how to relieve the ache any other way anymore. He decides to try without the drugs, like he did when he was in uni. He waits until John is out for the day, then braces himself under the warm shower spray with his arm holding him up against the wall. Sherlock strokes himself and thinks about John standing in this spot doing the same thing. He remembers what John’s cock looked like and thinks about how it would taste. He cries out, John’s name on his lips as he comes, but he doesn’t cry when it’s over. He still feels wrong somehow, but not like it used to be. John Watson may be better than cocaine.
Sherlock masturbates regularly to thoughts of John. John’s hands, lips, his voice; any other piece of flesh Sherlock is able to catch a glimpse of when John’s jumper rides up. He thinks that’ll be enough, that John will never need to know what he’s doing, but a new type of pressure is building.
He’s 34 years old when John Watson kisses him. It’s after a particularly exciting chase, and John pushes him back against the wall at the foot of the stairs to 221B. His teeth bite down on Sherlock’s lower lip, and his tongue pushes in. Sherlock freezes and waits for the panic to set in. The desire to push John away, to break his nose like he broke his first flatmate’s nose years ago, never comes. Instead, Sherlock’s feeling completely different desires, desires he’s never felt while sober.
John pulls back and starts to mumble, “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I don’t…” but Sherlock is on him before he can finish the thought. Sherlock wants to feel this clear-headed wanting forever. He wants John’s hands, and mouth, and cock, and he certainly doesn’t want John to pull away. He’s kissing John again while his hands steer him backward up the stairs.
Sherlock maneuvers John into his bedroom. Lips and teeth are still clashing together while hands scramble at clothing. John bites at Sherlock’s neck, and he has to keep from screaming. He’s never felt anything so good and right. When John’s hand pushes into Sherlock trousers, Sherlock does freeze. What’s left of his higher brain functions are screaming for him to keep going and move! But that old fear is seeping back in.
John stops, “Sherlock? What’s wrong?” His face is creased with worry lines, and Sherlock knows he loves him.
“Dirty…” Sherlock manages to whisper out, not really wanting to tell John but also unable to deny him something he truly wants.
Good, wonderful, thick John chuckles, “Yeah, the things I’m going to do to you, the things I’ve wanted to do to you, are going to be so dirty.” John grasps Sherlock’s cock through his shorts and gives a firm squeeze. “Hot and dirty.”
Sherlock moans. It doesn’t sound dirty or bad or wrong when John says it. It sounds very good. Before he can say anything else, John’s hand is properly in his shorts and stroking his cock. It doesn’t feel dirty or bad or wrong when John does that either.
“And when we’re done, and you’re sticky with cum and sweat, I’ll make sure you get clean again,” John’s voice floats back to him through the haze that’s threatening to push out all rational thought, and it feels like a weight has been lifted. Sherlock grabs John’s head and forces him into a harsh kiss while moving them to the edge of the bed. John’s hand never leaves Sherlock’s cock, and he’s so grateful.
They strip each other, and John pushes Sherlock onto the bed. John crawls over him, planting kisses from his hip bone to the side of his neck. John presses his full weight on him, and it feels glorious. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s rib cage and clasps his hands together on his back, keeping John locked to him. John rolls his hips forward, rubbing his cock against Sherlock’s. John kisses him, on his lips and across his neck. Sherlock wants to keep John pressed to him, with their cocks rubbing together, for as long as possible. John makes him feel grounded, and warm, and good.
John wiggles out of Sherlock’s grasp and moves down his body, with hands and mouth keeping Sherlock distracted from the doctor’s target. When John’s mouth closes over the tip of Sherlock’s cock, his hips surge forward, and he cries out. He’s never been on the receiving end of this, but now he understands why the men he’s known were willing to trade precious drugs for it. It’s amazing.
John’s tongue is swirling around the head, while his hand moves up and down on the base of Sherlock’s cock. When John licks across Sherlock’s slit, the detective nearly comes apart. He tugs on John’s hair because he doesn’t want to do that in John’s mouth, not completely sure he wants to finish in front of John at all. What if John is disappointed?
Before Sherlock’s mind can spiral too far down that rabbit hole, John squeezes his hip bones and says, “I want to fuck you. Please, can I fuck you Sherlock?” Sherlock’s thinking about how much better John’s mouth is than cocaine and what that might mean for the rest of the evening before John has a chance to finish his question.
“Top desk drawer…condoms and lube…” Sherlock pants as he props himself up on his elbows. John cocks an eyebrow as he moves off the bed, and Sherlock huffs, “Leftover from an experiment.” And John is back on him, kissing and weighing him down. They stay like that for a while, and then John’s fingers are moving in him, making him ready. Sherlock feels safe, and warm, and maybe even a little bit dirty. His hips are lifting up to meet John’s hand, and strangled noises are coming from his throat. When Sherlock hears the foil package tearing, he moves to turn over and rest on his hands and knees, to offer himself up to John.
“No,” John murmurs against the sweat-sticky skin just below Sherlock’s navel, “I want to watch you.” It’s another first, and Sherlock wants it.
John pushes inside him, and it’s all pressure and heat and goodness. One of John’s hands is tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and the other is planted by Sherlock’s shoulder, for leverage. The hand in his hair keeps Sherlock’s face turned toward John: beautiful, moral, good John. Sherlock wants to concentrate on John, on what John feels, why he wants to do this, if he’ll want to do this again. But how is he supposed to concentrate, to think, when something feels so right?
The hand pulls out of Sherlock’s hair and moves down to his right hand. John squeezes Sherlock’s fingers before pulling the detective’s dominant hand to his own cock. “Touch yourself, Sherlock.” John’s pace has slowed, and his strokes have got deeper. “Please, I want to watch you.” Sherlock’s fingers curl around his erection and begin to stroke. John would never mock him or hurt him. John is moral, and dirty, and good.
It doesn’t take long until John’s motion has stilled and Sherlock is coming. Spilling across his knuckles and smearing low across his abdomen. Some ends up in his navel, and a smattering lands on his sternum. John is sucking Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth as he’s pulling out of his arse. Licking them clean before he swipes his tongue over Sherlock’s abdomen, dipping into his navel. John crawls his way up Sherlock’s body and ends by cleaning those last drops of cum from his chest. He kisses Sherlock slowly on the mouth, teasing his lips open. Sherlock can taste himself and it’s good.
John pulls back and grins, “See? I told you I’d make sure you got clean again.” Wonderful, thick, moral John doesn’t know how true that is.
John makes him, makes Sherlock Holmes, good.
Rating: Explicit
Pairings: Sherlock/John, fleeting Sherlock/OMC
Word Count: ~3,100
Warnings: Drug use, brief mention of domestic violence, and prostitution.
Betas: grassle and misanthropyray
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing with them.
Author's Note: This was just an excuse for me to write an explicit sex scene, which I've never done before. It ended up with more plot than I intended.
Summary: Fact: Sex is disgusting. Sherlock learns this at an early age. Fact: John Watson is a good man. Sherlock learns this later, but it's just as true. How can someone so good be involved in something so wrong?
He’s four years old when Mummy shouts, “Sherlock!” and roughly pulls his hand from under the band of his Y-fronts.
“Don’t do that. Naughty boys do that.” She looks so stern and disappointed. Sherlock files that expression away in his childish mind under Never Make Mummy Look Like That Again. “Now get in the bath and get clean.” She’s warmer then but still not enough to make Sherlock feel better. Be a good boy, get clean, and never make Mummy disappointed again. As Sherlock sinks into the warm bath, he tells himself he’ll never put his hands down his pants again.
He’s 10 years old when Mycroft comes home from university for the first time. Sherlock is so excited he rushes into Mycroft’s room without knocking. He stops just inside the door, his enthusiastic greeting sticking in his throat. Mycroft is reclining on the bed, with Georgina Weston from three houses down laid out beside him. They’re kissing, and her hand is moving under the front of his trousers. Sherlock only watches them for a few seconds before Mycroft’s shouts and expletives drive him from the room. Sherlock avoids touching Mycroft after that. Mycroft is dirty and tainted now. The childish reverence Sherlock held for his older brother died when he realized that Mycroft let someone touch him there and that, judging by the look on Mycroft’s face and the anger in his voice, he liked being touched like that. Sherlock doesn’t tell Mummy what he’s seen, just because he doesn’t want to see that look of disappointment on her face again even if it would be directed at Mycroft. It takes years for Mycroft to notice he has lost his younger brother, and he doesn’t even remember why.
He’s 12 years old the first time he wakes up with his pants sticking uncomfortably to his crotch. He’s read enough medical texts to know what has happened; he even knows why, but he still feels panicked. He has a shower immediately and stashes his pants under his mattress, to be burned later. He reads more books, hoping to find a way to make the nocturnal emissions stop. The only suggestion, that he touch himself, is unacceptable. Sherlock decides the only thing to do is to will them away. Surely he can force his brain to have dominion over his body, even in sleep. Over the years, Sherlock finds his plan is surprisingly successful. It happens again, but only a few times. Each time he scrubs himself nearly raw and burns his pants before anyone can see.
He’s 16 years old when he goes to university, a little young, but an advanced student. Sherlock can tell his parents are hopeful that interaction with more young adults will bring him out of his shell, even if they don’t tell him that directly. He did not get along with the boys at boarding school and he tries to act older than he is in order to fit in better with the other university students. Then he realizes what the other students are doing.
The sex is everywhere. He can smell it on them in the mornings, read it in their limping gaits across the quad in the afternoons, and hear it throughout his hall at night. That’s when he decides that he doesn’t want to be a part of this world, to seek equality with these degenerate, filthy people. They have no self-control; they enjoy tainting themselves in a way Sherlock cannot abide.
But it, the sex, is still intoxicating to him. Calling him with forbidden allure. He finds that willing his mind over his body is harder now than it was at any point in his previous years.
He’s 17 years old when he finally gives in. The pressure has been building, and the wet dreams have been getting more frequent. He tells himself he’s only doing it for practical reasons, and it doesn’t make him dirty or bad. At least he’s doing it alone. No one will know. He decides to masturbate in the shower, figuring that it will be cleaner that way. It only takes a few strokes, with hot water beating down on the top of his head and his left arm braced against the shower wall. His hand moves quickly and his hips snap forward. Cum shoots across his fingers onto the shower knobs and falls across his feet.
He cries that time, just a little. He’s lowered himself to the likes of Mycroft and Sebastian Wilkes and the other dirty, bad people he knows. He’s forced to do it again a few times, always in the shower where he can scrub himself clean and wash away the evidence immediately. Each time pushes him further away from those around him.
He’s 19 years old the first time he tries cocaine. He’s just out of uni, and the only flatmate he can find in London has loads of the stuff. He gives Sherlock some, and it’s like the whole world picks up speed. It’s finally moving at the speed of his brain, and he can breathe. He starts using the drug daily, but it does have some disturbing side effects. While he’s high, with the world and his brain finally seeing eye-to-eye on the issues, he doesn’t mind the erections. The desire to touch himself gets stronger, but it doesn’t matter because everything feels so good.
It’s not long until he’s masturbating daily too: in the shower, under his covers, sometimes in the living room when his flatmate is out. He only touches himself while high and then immediately deletes the experience. After six months, his flatmate is touching him too. It still doesn’t matter because everything still feels so good.
His flatmate tries to initiate sex once without the foreplay of lines on their coffee table. Sherlock breaks his nose in a panic. He gets a couple of cracked ribs for his trouble. The flatmate gives Sherlock some ecstasy a few days later, and they make up in spectacular fashion. They move on to heroin soon after.
He’s 21 years old when he moves out. His flatmate got arrested and can’t have the drugs around. Sherlock has no use for him anymore. His flatmate doesn’t seem bothered.
Sherlock knows where to go, what signs to look for, so it’s not long before he finds another man who’s willing to give him a hit in exchange for Sherlock’s hand or mouth or arse. If Sherlock were honest with himself, he likes the sex almost as much as the drugs. Being able to let go completely and blame it on some outside force is exactly what he’s needed all along. He doesn’t feel dirty or bad when he comes. But Sherlock isn’t that honest with himself, at least not while sober.
He spends several years in the back alleys of London fucking and sucking for cocaine, heroin, methamphetamines; whatever he can get his hands on.
He’s 24 years old when he overdoses, and it’s Mycroft who comes to the hospital. He says Mummy can’t bear to see him like this, and Sherlock remembers her disappointed face from so many years ago. Mycroft berates him about his choice of associates, how dangerous his lifestyle has become. Sherlock doesn’t think of the drugs while Mycroft dresses him down; only of the sex.
Mycroft has enough influence to arrange for Sherlock to have a private suite at an exclusive clinic in the north. His family leaves him there for months without contact. Sherlock assumes it’s because they are ashamed that he let those men touch him. That they’re disappointed he was so weak. That they know he’s bad because he enjoyed it so much. It’s years before he sees Mummy again, but Mycroft inserts himself into Sherlock’s life with alarming regularity.
He’s 28 years old when he tries cocaine again. He can’t get off any other way, and the pressure’s been building. He’s waking up with sticky sheets, and he’s too old for that, but the thought of touching himself or letting someone else touch him is disgusting. It’s wrong, and bad, and dirty. The cocaine makes that feeling go away just like it did years ago. He doesn’t do it often, he’s always out of sight of Mycroft’s cameras, and he makes sure he doesn’t fuck the same person twice. Sometimes he remembers too much the next day and scrubs himself raw in the shower, just like he was 12 years old again. It’s enough to keep the need down and still keep himself from being too tainted.
He’s 32 years old when he meets John Watson. John who is so good, and right, and moral. John who stays with him despite knowing that Sherlock is none of those things, even if John doesn’t know the real reasons why. Sherlock stops using anything stronger than nicotine patches because he can’t stand to touch himself with John’s presence in the flat. The idea of anyone else touching him, bringing him off, just becomes more disgusting. But the pressure’s building.
He’s 33 years old when he realizes John Watson is a man, just like any other.
His experiment with the toenails and bleach went shockingly well, and he couldn’t wait to tell John. He throws open the bathroom door to tell John how he discovered the correct temperature for the bleach to dissolve the toenails at the correct rate to match the victim’s time of death. It’s all wiped from his mind when he sees John’s hand wrapped firmly around his cock in the shower. John’s so engrossed in stroking himself that he doesn’t notice the curtain’s gapped open or that Sherlock’s standing in the doorway. Sherlock runs.
He doesn’t really speak to John for a few days, but John doesn’t notice. He just assumes Sherlock’s in a mood or that his brain is occupied with something else. Which is true, in a way. Sherlock’s brain is occupied with John Watson. Wondering how John could be the moral, good, right John Watson Sherlock knows and still do that.
Did Sherlock miss something? Is John not that man? Sherlock dismisses that train of thought immediately. He knows John, knows his character, and he didn’t miss something so obvious. Other options are not as simple to dismiss. That sex isn’t bad or dirty. Unlikely, in Sherlock’s mind. That sex with John Watson isn’t bad or dirty. This is significantly more likely to Sherlock, so he watches.
Thinking about John in the shower, John coming, is driving Sherlock mad. It’s making the pressure almost unbearable. Sherlock doesn’t want to go back on the drugs, but he doesn’t know how to relieve the ache any other way anymore. He decides to try without the drugs, like he did when he was in uni. He waits until John is out for the day, then braces himself under the warm shower spray with his arm holding him up against the wall. Sherlock strokes himself and thinks about John standing in this spot doing the same thing. He remembers what John’s cock looked like and thinks about how it would taste. He cries out, John’s name on his lips as he comes, but he doesn’t cry when it’s over. He still feels wrong somehow, but not like it used to be. John Watson may be better than cocaine.
Sherlock masturbates regularly to thoughts of John. John’s hands, lips, his voice; any other piece of flesh Sherlock is able to catch a glimpse of when John’s jumper rides up. He thinks that’ll be enough, that John will never need to know what he’s doing, but a new type of pressure is building.
He’s 34 years old when John Watson kisses him. It’s after a particularly exciting chase, and John pushes him back against the wall at the foot of the stairs to 221B. His teeth bite down on Sherlock’s lower lip, and his tongue pushes in. Sherlock freezes and waits for the panic to set in. The desire to push John away, to break his nose like he broke his first flatmate’s nose years ago, never comes. Instead, Sherlock’s feeling completely different desires, desires he’s never felt while sober.
John pulls back and starts to mumble, “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I don’t…” but Sherlock is on him before he can finish the thought. Sherlock wants to feel this clear-headed wanting forever. He wants John’s hands, and mouth, and cock, and he certainly doesn’t want John to pull away. He’s kissing John again while his hands steer him backward up the stairs.
Sherlock maneuvers John into his bedroom. Lips and teeth are still clashing together while hands scramble at clothing. John bites at Sherlock’s neck, and he has to keep from screaming. He’s never felt anything so good and right. When John’s hand pushes into Sherlock trousers, Sherlock does freeze. What’s left of his higher brain functions are screaming for him to keep going and move! But that old fear is seeping back in.
John stops, “Sherlock? What’s wrong?” His face is creased with worry lines, and Sherlock knows he loves him.
“Dirty…” Sherlock manages to whisper out, not really wanting to tell John but also unable to deny him something he truly wants.
Good, wonderful, thick John chuckles, “Yeah, the things I’m going to do to you, the things I’ve wanted to do to you, are going to be so dirty.” John grasps Sherlock’s cock through his shorts and gives a firm squeeze. “Hot and dirty.”
Sherlock moans. It doesn’t sound dirty or bad or wrong when John says it. It sounds very good. Before he can say anything else, John’s hand is properly in his shorts and stroking his cock. It doesn’t feel dirty or bad or wrong when John does that either.
“And when we’re done, and you’re sticky with cum and sweat, I’ll make sure you get clean again,” John’s voice floats back to him through the haze that’s threatening to push out all rational thought, and it feels like a weight has been lifted. Sherlock grabs John’s head and forces him into a harsh kiss while moving them to the edge of the bed. John’s hand never leaves Sherlock’s cock, and he’s so grateful.
They strip each other, and John pushes Sherlock onto the bed. John crawls over him, planting kisses from his hip bone to the side of his neck. John presses his full weight on him, and it feels glorious. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s rib cage and clasps his hands together on his back, keeping John locked to him. John rolls his hips forward, rubbing his cock against Sherlock’s. John kisses him, on his lips and across his neck. Sherlock wants to keep John pressed to him, with their cocks rubbing together, for as long as possible. John makes him feel grounded, and warm, and good.
John wiggles out of Sherlock’s grasp and moves down his body, with hands and mouth keeping Sherlock distracted from the doctor’s target. When John’s mouth closes over the tip of Sherlock’s cock, his hips surge forward, and he cries out. He’s never been on the receiving end of this, but now he understands why the men he’s known were willing to trade precious drugs for it. It’s amazing.
John’s tongue is swirling around the head, while his hand moves up and down on the base of Sherlock’s cock. When John licks across Sherlock’s slit, the detective nearly comes apart. He tugs on John’s hair because he doesn’t want to do that in John’s mouth, not completely sure he wants to finish in front of John at all. What if John is disappointed?
Before Sherlock’s mind can spiral too far down that rabbit hole, John squeezes his hip bones and says, “I want to fuck you. Please, can I fuck you Sherlock?” Sherlock’s thinking about how much better John’s mouth is than cocaine and what that might mean for the rest of the evening before John has a chance to finish his question.
“Top desk drawer…condoms and lube…” Sherlock pants as he props himself up on his elbows. John cocks an eyebrow as he moves off the bed, and Sherlock huffs, “Leftover from an experiment.” And John is back on him, kissing and weighing him down. They stay like that for a while, and then John’s fingers are moving in him, making him ready. Sherlock feels safe, and warm, and maybe even a little bit dirty. His hips are lifting up to meet John’s hand, and strangled noises are coming from his throat. When Sherlock hears the foil package tearing, he moves to turn over and rest on his hands and knees, to offer himself up to John.
“No,” John murmurs against the sweat-sticky skin just below Sherlock’s navel, “I want to watch you.” It’s another first, and Sherlock wants it.
John pushes inside him, and it’s all pressure and heat and goodness. One of John’s hands is tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and the other is planted by Sherlock’s shoulder, for leverage. The hand in his hair keeps Sherlock’s face turned toward John: beautiful, moral, good John. Sherlock wants to concentrate on John, on what John feels, why he wants to do this, if he’ll want to do this again. But how is he supposed to concentrate, to think, when something feels so right?
The hand pulls out of Sherlock’s hair and moves down to his right hand. John squeezes Sherlock’s fingers before pulling the detective’s dominant hand to his own cock. “Touch yourself, Sherlock.” John’s pace has slowed, and his strokes have got deeper. “Please, I want to watch you.” Sherlock’s fingers curl around his erection and begin to stroke. John would never mock him or hurt him. John is moral, and dirty, and good.
It doesn’t take long until John’s motion has stilled and Sherlock is coming. Spilling across his knuckles and smearing low across his abdomen. Some ends up in his navel, and a smattering lands on his sternum. John is sucking Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth as he’s pulling out of his arse. Licking them clean before he swipes his tongue over Sherlock’s abdomen, dipping into his navel. John crawls his way up Sherlock’s body and ends by cleaning those last drops of cum from his chest. He kisses Sherlock slowly on the mouth, teasing his lips open. Sherlock can taste himself and it’s good.
John pulls back and grins, “See? I told you I’d make sure you got clean again.” Wonderful, thick, moral John doesn’t know how true that is.
John makes him, makes Sherlock Holmes, good.