#4 - Noise, Sherlock - John/Sherlock; Not What He Signed Up For [1/2]emerald_embersSeptember 2 2010, 01:41:58 UTC
I apologise if you hate this, I just really, really needed to get this idea out of my head after watching the unaired pilot ^^.
Speaking of which, some people might be waiting for the DVD on that one still, so; SPOILERS FOR THE UNAIRED PILOT.
- - -
"I'll sleep fine tonight."
"Quite right."
John had felt something of a thrill in response to Sherlock's statement, even if he'd brushed it aside, opted to think nothing of it. After all, Sherlock had made it quite clear that romantic entanglements were entirely off the menu - as, apparently, was food, and sleep. And in all fairness, much as John was decent at reading others - had to be, being a doctor - he didn't have Sherlock's almost supernatural talent for it.
After an outright delicious Chinese - John was still a little awed by Sherlock's explanation of how you could tell the quality of the food by the door handle - they had started back home in what had been relatively companionable chatter up to the point when Sherlock took his hand.
The odd thing was, John had continued walking for the first few seconds, before realising exactly what he was doing.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock looked down at their linked hands, frowned when John pulled his away. "I thought that much would be obvious?"
John had very quickly learned that Sherlock's idea of obvious wasn't quite the same as everyone else's. "What happened to 'everything else is transport'?"
"I'm between cases," Sherlock said, as if that explained everything.
John shook his head, frowning and smiling at the same time, expression just as confused as he himself was, carried on walking. The damned thing was, his hand felt empty now, itched for contact.
When Sherlock didn't try to say anything further John had opted to write the incident off as part and parcel of Sherlock's apparent inability to behave like a normal human being; had brushed his teeth and settled into bed, watching shadows pass by in the hall, mutters and murmurs over the crime scene refusing to die down. It was strange to feel so tired and so awake all at once, mind racing even if his body was exhausted with the loss of the adrenaline rush from running and firing, and it was a strange sort of relief when the door opened.
Sherlock closed the door behind him, leaning forward slightly. "I may have been - rash."
John nodded slowly, bit his lip, resisting the urge to comment; men like Sherlock did not apologise easily, if at all, and interrupting now would cut it off entirely.
"I consider myself married to my job, but I'm open to having an affair."
John snorted, grinned despite himself. "You want me to be your bit on the side."
"Correct," Sherlock replied.
Damn Mike, throwing him in at the deep end. He could have given John a warning; should have remembered John's type from too many nights of too many guinesses at the end of each semester. "Ask me again in the morning."
"When you've had enough time to talk yourself out of this?" Sherlock's eyes might be shadowed, but the challenge in them was crystal clear.
#4 - Noise, Sherlock - John/Sherlock; Not What He Signed Up For [2/2]emerald_embersSeptember 2 2010, 01:42:14 UTC
For someone who seemed to consider his body an inconvenient method of moving his brain from place to place, Sherlock was rather enthusiastic about putting it to good use once the opportunity presented itself. John wasn't entirely unfamiliar with anonymous - or borderline anonymous - encounters, but he'd never before experienced the oddity of someone who picked up on his every tick, every like and dislike, fast enough that for all he knew almost nothing of them, it felt as if they had known him for months at the very least.
It didn't hurt that the thrill of being caught was exactly that, a thrill, Sherlock stilling every time the susurrant voices outside turned silent, and John found himself torn between concern that the slick slide of Sherlock's lips was going to draw attention and concern that Sherlock might stop.
His own breath hitched and he fisted one hand in the pillow, the other in Sherlock's hair, tried not to laugh at a muttered "Ow" before Sherlock pulled back and tightened a hand around John's cock hard enough it was almost cruel, shifting up the bed until his face was inches away but not moving close enough to kiss.
"Sherlock, what -"
"Shh," Sherlock said, glancing over his shoulder at the door for a moment before turning back to John and moving his hand torturously slowly, firm and determined. "I need to see."
Oh, he was going to regret this someday. He just hoped later rather than sooner.
John took Sherlock's erection in hand and matched him stroke for stroke, fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut at the last minute, determined that if Sherlock wanted to see everything, he would; and for all that it was Sherlock's mouth that brought him to the edge, and Sherlock's hand that finished him, it was those eyes, devouring him, that made it necessary to bite his own lip hard enough it hurt to avoid yelling.
Sherlock took the less painful option and buried his face in the pillow when he came, which as far as John was concerned was a bloody cheat, and an imbalance he'd have to rectify later.
Sherlock rolled onto his side, tucking himself back into place and straightening his clothes, and stared at John for a moment, looking puzzled.
"What?"
"You're thinking about next time," Sherlock said. "I've never had a 'next time' before."
"Glad I could surprise you," John said, watching Sherlock climb out of bed; he really would have to take advantage of the break between cases, make sure someone was feeding this strange, beautiful weirdo who'd torn through John's world like a natural disaster.
"It wasn't surprising at all, actually."
John grinned, didn't need to say anything, but chose to anyway. "Liar."
Sherlock finished tidying himself up, walked over to the door and opened it out onto the corridor, light illuminating the smirk on his face. "I know."
Speaking of which, some people might be waiting for the DVD on that one still, so; SPOILERS FOR THE UNAIRED PILOT.
- - -
"I'll sleep fine tonight."
"Quite right."
John had felt something of a thrill in response to Sherlock's statement, even if he'd brushed it aside, opted to think nothing of it. After all, Sherlock had made it quite clear that romantic entanglements were entirely off the menu - as, apparently, was food, and sleep. And in all fairness, much as John was decent at reading others - had to be, being a doctor - he didn't have Sherlock's almost supernatural talent for it.
After an outright delicious Chinese - John was still a little awed by Sherlock's explanation of how you could tell the quality of the food by the door handle - they had started back home in what had been relatively companionable chatter up to the point when Sherlock took his hand.
The odd thing was, John had continued walking for the first few seconds, before realising exactly what he was doing.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock looked down at their linked hands, frowned when John pulled his away. "I thought that much would be obvious?"
John had very quickly learned that Sherlock's idea of obvious wasn't quite the same as everyone else's. "What happened to 'everything else is transport'?"
"I'm between cases," Sherlock said, as if that explained everything.
John shook his head, frowning and smiling at the same time, expression just as confused as he himself was, carried on walking. The damned thing was, his hand felt empty now, itched for contact.
When Sherlock didn't try to say anything further John had opted to write the incident off as part and parcel of Sherlock's apparent inability to behave like a normal human being; had brushed his teeth and settled into bed, watching shadows pass by in the hall, mutters and murmurs over the crime scene refusing to die down. It was strange to feel so tired and so awake all at once, mind racing even if his body was exhausted with the loss of the adrenaline rush from running and firing, and it was a strange sort of relief when the door opened.
Sherlock closed the door behind him, leaning forward slightly. "I may have been - rash."
John nodded slowly, bit his lip, resisting the urge to comment; men like Sherlock did not apologise easily, if at all, and interrupting now would cut it off entirely.
"I consider myself married to my job, but I'm open to having an affair."
John snorted, grinned despite himself. "You want me to be your bit on the side."
"Correct," Sherlock replied.
Damn Mike, throwing him in at the deep end. He could have given John a warning; should have remembered John's type from too many nights of too many guinesses at the end of each semester. "Ask me again in the morning."
"When you've had enough time to talk yourself out of this?" Sherlock's eyes might be shadowed, but the challenge in them was crystal clear.
John couldn't resist. He hated cowardice too.
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It didn't hurt that the thrill of being caught was exactly that, a thrill, Sherlock stilling every time the susurrant voices outside turned silent, and John found himself torn between concern that the slick slide of Sherlock's lips was going to draw attention and concern that Sherlock might stop.
His own breath hitched and he fisted one hand in the pillow, the other in Sherlock's hair, tried not to laugh at a muttered "Ow" before Sherlock pulled back and tightened a hand around John's cock hard enough it was almost cruel, shifting up the bed until his face was inches away but not moving close enough to kiss.
"Sherlock, what -"
"Shh," Sherlock said, glancing over his shoulder at the door for a moment before turning back to John and moving his hand torturously slowly, firm and determined. "I need to see."
Oh, he was going to regret this someday. He just hoped later rather than sooner.
John took Sherlock's erection in hand and matched him stroke for stroke, fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut at the last minute, determined that if Sherlock wanted to see everything, he would; and for all that it was Sherlock's mouth that brought him to the edge, and Sherlock's hand that finished him, it was those eyes, devouring him, that made it necessary to bite his own lip hard enough it hurt to avoid yelling.
Sherlock took the less painful option and buried his face in the pillow when he came, which as far as John was concerned was a bloody cheat, and an imbalance he'd have to rectify later.
Sherlock rolled onto his side, tucking himself back into place and straightening his clothes, and stared at John for a moment, looking puzzled.
"What?"
"You're thinking about next time," Sherlock said. "I've never had a 'next time' before."
"Glad I could surprise you," John said, watching Sherlock climb out of bed; he really would have to take advantage of the break between cases, make sure someone was feeding this strange, beautiful weirdo who'd torn through John's world like a natural disaster.
"It wasn't surprising at all, actually."
John grinned, didn't need to say anything, but chose to anyway. "Liar."
Sherlock finished tidying himself up, walked over to the door and opened it out onto the corridor, light illuminating the smirk on his face. "I know."
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