Fic: Birthday Sex with Sherlock and John

[deuxexmycroft]

Pairing: delicious Sherlock/John/Lestrade sandwich
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: double penetration

Written for this prompt on the kink meme. Thought I'd post it here, people seem to think I'm someone called Sulla.

***

Lestrade didn't bother turning on the lights when he got home. He stumbled in, tipsy from his birthday celebrations at the pub, and hung his coat up in the closet.

Kitchen, he thought blearily. Glass of water.

He grabbed a cup and turned on the tap. Water gushed out, and he gulped the soothing liquid down, refilled and --

There was a noise coming from his living room.

Soft gagging.

Lestrade turned the tap off, silently grabbed a knife from the counter, and went to investigate.

"I'd put that down, Inspector," said Sherlock Holmes. "We wouldn't want an unfortunate accident now, would we?"

"Jesus Christ," swore Lestrade, fumbling for the light switch. "Sherlock, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

The lights flickered on, and Lestrade stepped backwards.

Sherlock Holmes was seated on Lestrade's favourite armchair, suit jacket and coat slung over the back, his dark shirt completely unbuttoned revealing tantalising glimpses of his taut pale body beneath. His legs were parted, and his trousers were undone so that the small man kneeling between his thighs could have better access to pleasure him.

John Watson's face was buried in Sherlock's crotch, desperately sucking, breathing through his nose to make gentle huffing sounds. His arms were bound behind his back, wrist to elbow, in a way that arched his spine. His nudity was made all the more apparent when contrasted against Sherlock, who for all intents and purposes was still fully dressed.

Sherlock held him there, long fingers wrapped tightly through John's soft hair. His sharp grey eyes were fixed on Lestrade, and he had that unnerving, unpredictable smile stretched across his face. The smile he wore when he was about to do something that Lestrade would have to strike from the police reports.

He pulled John off, and there was a soft pop as rounded lips slid off the head of his cock, still hard.

John stared at the floor. He was entirely different to the quietly self-confident man Lestrade was used to. This John was open to him, empty, utterly controlled by Sherlock's guiding hand in his hair.

"Happy birthday," said Sherlock, insincerely. "I'm not giving him to you, but considering the occasion, I am willing to share."

Lestrade gaped. "Are you sure … does John …"

"John wants what I want," Sherlock said smoothly. He gently guided John's head to rest against his thigh. "Isn't that right?"

John nodded, and Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off of that look of complete submission. He felt sober now, but drunk on the promise of what was to come. How was it that Sherlock knew exactly how to get him off?

"He's very greedy," Sherlock continued. "Wants all the cock he can get." And he shoved John in Lestrade's direction.

John stumbled, but admirably regained his balance, shuffling on his knees to mouth eagerly at Lestrade's swelling erection, tracing it through his trousers. John had such an open face, such an easy-to-read face, and Lestrade wanted nothing more right now than to feel that indulgent mouth suck him in.

Might as well give the slut what he wanted.

He gripped John's head, and ground his clothed erection into John's face. He couldn't quite believe what was happening. He's always had idle fantasies about fucking John Watson, but from the very beginning the man had been very clearly labelled as Sherlock's property. Strictly out of bounds.

"Good god," he said, voice hoarse. "You have no idea how much I've wanted this."

"Yes I do," said Sherlock lazily, but for all his apparently nonchalance he was watching them intently, hands skittering over his still hardened cock.

With shaking hands, Lestrade undid his zipper and pulled himself out. He rubbed against John's lips, but the man didn't open his mouth until Lestrade ordered, "Suck."

John's lips pressed over the head of Lestrade's cock and sucked him all the way in, swallowing into his throat, displaying good control over his gag reflex. Lestrade brushed John's hair off of his forehead, tilted his head so that he could see into those wonderfully expressive eyes.

"Look at me," he said, and John glanced upwards, blue-grey opening up in his face. Lestrade held the gaze, and very gently moved back and forth in John's throat, pulling back so the head brushed the tip of his tongue, and slowly pushing it back down.

John took it all.

"He's amazing," said Lestrade, breathless, holding back, not wanting to ruin everything and cum too soon. He wasn't a young man, and he was worried he wouldn't be able to enjoy John in … other ways.

"Mmmm," growled Sherlock throatily. He slid off the chair onto his knees, and crawled over to nestle behind John, who was still sucking Lestrade.

Lestrade watched Sherlock smooth his hands down John's back to his arse, eliciting a beautiful shudder that vibrated in his throat.

"Good god," Lestrade repeated uselessly. He pulled out, and went to sit down where Sherlock had vacated. His hands were shaking, and he couldn't remember ever being this hard before.

In front of him, on the carpet, Sherlock pushed John onto the coffee table, onto his back. John swallowed a groan as his arms twisted painfully behind him, staring beseechingly at Sherlock, who slapped his thigh.

"Who's in charge?" Sherlock said, voice low.

You are, John mouthed.

"Don't complain."

Sherlock pulled some lube out of his back pocket, and pulled John's legs open by his ankles.

"Don't hide yourself from me."

And he slicked his middle finger, and pushed it into John's hole, twisting, eyes intent on John's face.

Lestrade's attention flickered between them, Sherlock's uncompromising control over John's body, John's complete compliance to his every whim.

Sherlock added another finger, and John's teeth clenched. Lestrade couldn't take it anymore. He stood and moved swiftly to John's side, hands skimming the pliant body.

There was a scar at his left shoulder, twisted flesh tortured and stretched by the positioning of his arms. Lestrade hesitantly brushed his fingers over it, and John winced, his eyes shut.

"He's not a masochist," Sherlock said, irritably, and Lestrade withdrew his hand.

"But you're a sadist," Lestrade observed.

Sherlock smiled slyly at him. "We'll make a detective of you yet, Inspector." He looked over at John, who was now silently taking three, twisting, scissoring fingers, Sherlock's knuckles brushing the ring of his sphincter muscle.

"I'm only submit to my baser urges when he misbehaves, and he's performing perfectly right now, as I'm sure you'd agree."

Lestrade was distracted by the workings of Sherlock's relentless pale fingers, and Sherlock, of course, noticed.

"You try," he rumbled, and slipped out of the way so Lestrade could take his place. John stared up at him, nervous now, at the mercy of someone he didn't have that bond of trust with.

Lestrade tried to soothe him, smoothing his hands down aching thighs, tentative at touching first, but quickly growing bold.

John had quite happily sucked his cock anyway.

He licked his middle finger and pressed into the already stretched hole. It sank in easily, so he added the other two, his pinky rubbing against one of John's cheeks as he worked his fingers in.

"How much has he taken?" he asked Sherlock, who was at John's head, just watching Lestrade's movements.

"I've fisted him, if that's what you're asking."

Sherlock's hands slipped down John's shoulders, his chest, as if embracing him. He thumbed John's nipples, then pinched them hard, eliciting from John an almost silent hiss of pain.

Lestrade slid in his pinky, drizzling more lube over his hand and pushing in, fingers forming a rudimentary cone. John exhaled a snuffling gasp, back arching off the table. Sherlock held him down, hands forcibly restraining his shoulders.

"Please," John murmured, and Lestrade couldn't tell if it was a plea to continue, or a plea to stop.

"What's the safeword?" Lestrade asked, well aware that this conversation is coming a bit too late, all four fingers deep inside John.

"We don't do safewords," Sherlock said derisively.

John remained silent.

Surely that means I'm allowed to continue?

"I want to fuck him," Lestrade said huskily, cock straining in the air. "I really want to fuck him."

"You're the birthday boy," said Sherlock coolly.

How was he so composed, with this delicious man spread open under him? Can anyone really get used to this sort of thing? Is Sherlock is the sort of arrogant sod who finds this level of willing submission normal?

He rearranged himself, pulling one John's legs over his shoulder, and lining up against the well-stretched hole.

He was, very oddly, reminded of earlier today, when John had shaken his hand and wished him a heartfelt happy birthday. Sherlock had ignored him.

Lestrade wondered if they had planned this in advance. He wondered if John had known this was going to happen at all, until he was taken to Lestrade's house, stripped and bound.

He pushed in, rolling inexorably past the sphincter muscle into tight velvet heat that hungrily pulled him inwards. John flung his head back and groaned, and Lestrade could feel John's smooth muscle initially tense against him, and then relax and allow himself to be breached.

Lestrade didn't stop until he was completely in John, where he stopped, and savoured the sensation.

"Good," Sherlock said approvingly. "It would be criminal if you were to lose control too soon."

"I'd have to lock myself up," jested Lestrade, panting. John felt almost too tight, like it would be impossible to move. But it wasn't, and of course it felt incredible.

Sherlock murmured in John's ear, glancing up at Lestrade with that all-seeing, penetrative stare.

John looked up at him too, submissive, but wary. Unsure of what to expect from him. Lestrade locked onto that blue-grey gaze and thrusted, hard, into John. Their skin met with a slap, and John arched back, but didn't break their gaze.

Lestrade gave up all pretence of control and fucked John ferociously, gasping harshly with the exertion. John's moans were snuffed out, and he looked up to see Sherlock feeding his cock into John's mouth, who's head was dangling off the head of the table, letting his throat extend to take it.

John was stretched open between them now, small body strained and heaving, shuddering helplessly against his bonds.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade wheezed, reaching out to press a hand against John's abdomen. He fancied he could feel his cock through the muscle.

"You need … to sort out some variety in your … sexual … exclamations," Sherlock gasped, thrusting far too viciously into John's throat. Lestrade was pleased to see his composure had crumpled somewhat. He could just about see one Sherlock's nipples through the opening of his shirt, pale and innocent. And before he knew it, he wanted to fuck Sherlock.

"No chance," Sherlock said throatily, pulling out of John's abused throat. "But I have a better idea. Get off of him, for a moment."

Lestrade reluctantly pulled out. He'd been riding the crest of what was promising to be a fantastic orgasm.

John sagged beneath them, boneless.

Sherlock pulled John onto his knees on the carpet. The poor little man was quite unstable and needed Sherlock's support to stay upright, trembling, eyes wide and bright.

Sherlock lay down on his back, black curls fanning out on the carpet, his cheekbones sharpened. He beckoned with an imperious hand, and John shuffled over, wincing with every movement, until he was crouched over Sherlock's supine form.

He pushed down onto Sherlock's cock, his arse swallowing the whole length without difficulty after Lestrade's brutal stretching. Sherlock's hand's skimmed his thighs, soft and coaxing.

"Ride me," he ordered, and John forced his exhausted body to work, fucking himself on the length of Sherlock's cock.

"Fuck, that's beautiful," said Lestrade, kneeling next to Sherlock just to watch little John work himself into a sweat. John stared up at the ceiling, mouth reddened, eyes so dark they were almost black. His cock was hard in the air as he rode Sherlock. He was getting off on this.

Sherlock's slender hand reached out, and interlaced with Lestrade's. His fingers were bony and his grip was harsh.

"You've loosened him," he said provocatively, and with his other hand he gripped John's waist, holding him in place. John halted obediently, eyelashes flickering.

Lestrade straddled Sherlock's legs, behind John, and John visibly froze as he realised what they were going to do.

God, but this was the sort of thing that only happened in porn, right?

Sherlock pulled out slightly, and Lestrade traced the stretched rim around Sherlock's twitching cock. He could fit a finger without too much effort, but on the addition of a second John started to shudder, huffing in pain.

"More lube," Sherlock said. "He can do it."

It took time, and effort, and ignoring John's pained whispers, but he finally got the head of his cock in. He and Sherlock pushed into rhythm, one pulling out as the other slid in.

Slowly, very slowly, John's body accepted them.

He was heart-achingly beautiful like this, pinned, suspended between two bodies that worked mercilessly into him, stretching him more than he'd ever been stretched, taking him more completely than anyone had ever taken him before.

"You're gorgeous, John," Lestrade muttered into his ear, arms around his trembling sides, holding him close. John's bound arms pressed against Lestrade's chest, rope scraping against his skin.

John was moaning unashamedly now, as they thrust into him, cocks sliding past each other obscenely. He cried out loudly whenever they aligned, stretching him to the tightest. They'd long since broken down his barriers, his stoical silence, his airs and graces.

"You're best like this, John," Sherlock huffed, hands on John's thighs, guiding his motions. "Raw, perfect, fuckmeat. That's what you like, isn't it? Being used by us. Giving your body to us. You'd fuck anyone, wouldn't you John? Anyone I wanted you too."

Please god, Lestrade thought. Please god let this not be a one off.

John was too far gone to reply. Sherlock's hand at his cock, the heat, the words, spilled him over the edge and he came with a rasping yell, shaking in Lestrade's arms. His muscles spasmed around them, and Lestrade saw white.

"Fucking hell I'm going to come. Fuck. Holy, fuuuuccck!"

He pulled out, spilling himself over the small of John's back with a tight shout, slumping backwards.

Sherlock still needed to get off. He rolled John over and fucked him missionary on the floor, until orgasm took him. He came silently, biting down on one of John's swollen nipples.

They lay there for a while, recuperating. Sherlock expertly untied the tightened knots around John's arms, releasing them, and John whimpered as the blood returned, no doubt onset by pins and needles. Sherlock rubbed the feeling back into them, smirking at John's pained hisses.

"Wow," Lestrade said. "Wow. Thank you. That was the best birthday present ever."

Sherlock smirked, sitting back and pulled John between his legs, so they rested back to chest. "I'm very glad."

"John?" Lestrade asked. He moved over, kneeling in front of the two of them, this perfectly unbalanced couple.

John nodded shakily. "Intense," he rasped through a well-used throat. He rubbed at his neck with his little hand, teeth gritted.

"I doubt you'll be able to walk tomorrow," said Sherlock fondly. He was quieter, out of breath. His black curls were plastered with sweat, and he looked delectably dishevelled, narrow chest rising and falling like a panting cat.

"I doubt I'll be able to walk for a week," said John croakily, curling his toes in Lestrade's carpet.

Sherlock gently pushed John away. He stood, tugged and buttoned his clothes back together, and pulled a fluffy black dressing gown from the sofa which he dressed John in, tying the loop around his waist.

"Come on," said Sherlock. "I'll carry you home."

"You can stay," Lestrade said, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.

"We're good," said Sherlock. He paused. "Actually, can you order us a taxi?"

Twenty minutes later and he was watching them stumble into a black cab, Sherlock pushing John in first and then jumping in after. He saw them about half a month later, at the scene of a particularly vicious murder, and couldn't stop his blushing. Donovan asked him what was wrong, and he put it down to head flu.