Crystal clear through the rain
Title: Crystal clear through the rain
Author: janescott
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes, modern TV 'verse
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1601
Summary: So lydt made this amazing John/Sherlock art: http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/2830479.html#cutid1 (NSFW) and ... er, I wrote fic. It was meant to be blowjob PWP but it's less ... blowjobb-ish than I meant it to be. It's sort of ... thinky-ish. Erm. Thanks to i_bleed_magenta and etharei for the beta.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Fan fiction for fun only. I'm just playing with the action figures for a while :-)
“John.”
John glances up from his book, blinking and slightly disoriented for a moment. Reluctantly he drags himself back from Ancient Rome and focuses on Sherlock, leaning in his open doorway.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock doesn’t move, just sort of leans there, effortless and elegant as always, even in a crumpled shirt that turns his eyes a vivid blue and a worn-down pair of jeans. John’s eyes drop automatically to Sherlock’s hips, to see where the jeans are hanging on him. Low, he thinks, his eyes tracing what he can see of the jut of Sherlock’s bones through the thin material of the shirt.
He’s already planning what to cook for dinner to tempt Sherlock to eat.
He flicks his eyes back up to Sherlock’s face and finds an amused smile there. “Roast for dinner, is it?” he says as he pushes himself off the doorway and climbs on to John’s bed, lying on his back.
“If you’ll eat it.” John marks his place in his book and puts it on the precarious pile by his bed.
“You still need a nightstand,” Sherlock says, his eyes on the ceiling.
“It’s on my to-do list,” John replies, dry, watching as Sherlock’s mouth curls up in a rare smile.
“Did you want something in particular, or did you want to make small talk about my bedroom furniture?”
Sherlock turns his head then, and John - as always - feels pinned by the laser-regard of Sherlock’s eyes. John swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and wonders when - if ever - Sherlock will stop having this effect on him.
“Your furniture, of course. Why else would I invade your personal space on a rainy Sunday afternoon?”
“I can’t possibly imagine,” John murmurs, leaning over as Sherlock pushes up on his elbows.
The kiss isn’t deep, but it’s lingering, with the promise of more bubbling under the surface.
Sherlock pulls John down and they settle in - long slow kisses with the rain a quiet, tapping backdrop on the window. Sherlock pulls back first, his hands under John’s many layers, digging his nails into the small of his back. “John. We cannot continue until you take this godawful jumper and the other seventeen layers off. It’s like kissing a very lumpy pillow.”
“It’s cold,” John protests, even as he pulls back to start stripping layers. Sherlock leans back to watch, his clothes looking artfully mussed rather than like he’s slept in them (which, John knows is closer to the truth). His collarbones jut out from the shirt collar and John has to bite back on the urge to scrape his teeth over the skin there. He can still see the hint of a fading mark just under one hollow.
“Everything, John,” Sherlock says, as John moves towards him again. “Trousers, too.”
Sighing, John climbs off the bed and quickly strips off his heavy socks, trousers and briefs. He shivers briefly in the chilly air of his room before crawling back on to the bed, towards Sherlock, who never seems to feel the cold. Who burns in this mundane world, and in this ordinary life.
John knows he’s drawn to it as helplessly as a moth to a flickering flame. He’s aware of it, but he doesn’t try to pull away. Instead, he draws closer, and closer, planning on basking in the reflected heat for as long as Sherlock will let him.
“Better?”
“Much.”
John sighs, and looks down at Sherlock, spread out on his bed like a pagan offering. He’s beautiful - angular and mysterious, and John knows that one day, he’s going to shatter against that granite. He’s going to shore up against something in Sherlock he can’t get past, or around. For now, though, Sherlock gives as much of himself to John as he can, and John hoards it to himself like a miser.
When he finally shatters, he’s going to need these moments to piece himself back together.
John straddles Sherlock’s narrow hips and starts undoing the buttons on his threadbare shirt, as Sherlock pulls more tiny shivers from him, running the tip of his finger up the length of John’s cock - hard already, yes, but not urgent. Sherlock lets his hand fall back as John opens the shirt fully, pushing it back from Sherlock’s shoulders. It comes off, after a minute of slightly undignified manouvering, and then he has Sherlock’s pale, perfect skin under his fingers.
He tracks down, mapping and tracing over Sherlock’s chest with his mouth, his hands. He lingers over another fading mark just over the tempting jut of one hipbone. Sherlock stirs, then, but all John does is taste the mark with his tongue, as Sherlock resettles his long legs, bracketing John between them. John sits back on his heels long enough to unzip Sherlock’s jeans, pushing them down and pulling them off, running his hands along the outside of Sherlock’s ridiculous, pale, amazing long legs.
Sherlock is hard; his cock is long and inviting, the tip of it gleaming slightly in the shallow light of John’s room. John drags his tongue over the tip of it it before sealing his mouth just there around the most sensitive part. Sherlock sighs as his hand settles on John’s head, his fingernails scratching lightly at John’s scalp.
For all his energy - his furious passion and anger, his need to fill the corners of his world with as much noise as he can - in John’s room, in John’s bed, Sherlock tends to be quiet. Not contained exactly, John thinks as he swallows Sherlock from tip to root, and feels Sherlock’s fingers digging harder into his scalp, but he’s quiet. John can feel the muscles in Sherlock’s thigh tensing under his hand, and he digs his own fingers in as he drags his mouth back up the hard length, savouring the weight of it on his tongue, the slightly salt-bitter taste nothing more than a ghost that John chases with everything he can, even as his fingers leave marks on Sherlock’s skin, as he hears Sherlock’s breathing coming in shorter and shorter gasps.
John flicks his eyes up to Sherlock’s face as he finds a rhythm with his mouth, a wet, slightly salty up-and-down slide. He can’t stop the groan that vibrates around the oversensitive tip of Sherlock’s cock, damp with pre-come and saliva when he sees the picture that Sherlock’s unguarded arousal makes. Sherlock is arched - his whole torso a tense curve, his free hand digging into the sheet; his mouth open and his face flushed. He looks down at John, his eyes - now an almost opaque shade of gray - hooded, catching fragments of light.
John - it’s an exhale; barely a breath, and John thinks maybe he’s imagined it; maybe that’s what he wants to hear right before Sherlock starts coming, flooding John’s mouth before he’s ready and it spills out and over. John catches as much of it as he can with his tongue, wanting, needing to hold on to that taste for as long as he can.
Sherlock collapses back on the bed, his chest rising, falling, rising, falling. John watches for a moment, mesmerised by the movement.
“Here, come here.” Sherlock reaches for him and John fits himself to Sherlock, tangling their legs together. Sherlock reaches a hand down between them, almost careless, as they start kissing again and John groans again, this time at the aching relief of being touched, finally. He feels overheated just there, “right - there,” he whispers against Sherlock’s mouth, and he doesn’t mean ‘yes, that’s good’, he means ‘oh god don’t stop, please stop, I can’t’, and Sherlock knows what he means, slowly and carefully drawing his fingers back up to the head, rubbing his thumb over the pre-come collecting at the tip.
John buries his head in Sherlock’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of his skin, of the shampoo he uses, everything coalescing into a dizzying whole until he feels Sherlock’s fingers moving again, tightening around him and it’s too much, too sudden, too … “Sherlock,” John groans against his neck, digging his fingers in to Sherlock’s skin as he comes, hard and fast, spilling over both of them.
He comes to rest, to a stop, against the always-implacable shore that is Sherlock. His heart is still beating too fast, and he puts his hand to Sherlock’s chest, to try and find the counter-rhythm that he needs to slow himself down, and finds it there, counting off Sherlock’s heartbeats in his head out of long-ingrained habit.
Sherlock combs his long fingers through the short strands of John’s hair, over and over again, until John thinks he could fall asleep, with the feel of Sherlock’s fingers, and the wind gusting rain against his window.
“John?”
“Mmmhmmm.”
“About dinner … that chicken was perfect for the experiment I was doing this morning …”
John sighs against Sherlock’s neck, fancying that he’s blowing colour into the pale, pale skin, drawing it to the surface with his breath.
“Fine,” he mutters, too content; his body too languid right now to even think about moving, even though he knows he’s going to be uncomfortable soon - stiff in the wrong places (he can already feel it coming in his shoulder, and he curses his weakness; curses the fact that he can’t be - will never be - as strong as he once was. He doesn’t see the strength that Sherlock sees in him; at the moment, he can’t. Sherlock, though, is patient. Only for John.)
“You’re paying for the takeaway.”
Author: janescott
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes, modern TV 'verse
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1601
Summary: So lydt made this amazing John/Sherlock art: http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/2830479.html#cutid1 (NSFW) and ... er, I wrote fic. It was meant to be blowjob PWP but it's less ... blowjobb-ish than I meant it to be. It's sort of ... thinky-ish. Erm. Thanks to i_bleed_magenta and etharei for the beta.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Fan fiction for fun only. I'm just playing with the action figures for a while :-)
“John.”
John glances up from his book, blinking and slightly disoriented for a moment. Reluctantly he drags himself back from Ancient Rome and focuses on Sherlock, leaning in his open doorway.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock doesn’t move, just sort of leans there, effortless and elegant as always, even in a crumpled shirt that turns his eyes a vivid blue and a worn-down pair of jeans. John’s eyes drop automatically to Sherlock’s hips, to see where the jeans are hanging on him. Low, he thinks, his eyes tracing what he can see of the jut of Sherlock’s bones through the thin material of the shirt.
He’s already planning what to cook for dinner to tempt Sherlock to eat.
He flicks his eyes back up to Sherlock’s face and finds an amused smile there. “Roast for dinner, is it?” he says as he pushes himself off the doorway and climbs on to John’s bed, lying on his back.
“If you’ll eat it.” John marks his place in his book and puts it on the precarious pile by his bed.
“You still need a nightstand,” Sherlock says, his eyes on the ceiling.
“It’s on my to-do list,” John replies, dry, watching as Sherlock’s mouth curls up in a rare smile.
“Did you want something in particular, or did you want to make small talk about my bedroom furniture?”
Sherlock turns his head then, and John - as always - feels pinned by the laser-regard of Sherlock’s eyes. John swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and wonders when - if ever - Sherlock will stop having this effect on him.
“Your furniture, of course. Why else would I invade your personal space on a rainy Sunday afternoon?”
“I can’t possibly imagine,” John murmurs, leaning over as Sherlock pushes up on his elbows.
The kiss isn’t deep, but it’s lingering, with the promise of more bubbling under the surface.
Sherlock pulls John down and they settle in - long slow kisses with the rain a quiet, tapping backdrop on the window. Sherlock pulls back first, his hands under John’s many layers, digging his nails into the small of his back. “John. We cannot continue until you take this godawful jumper and the other seventeen layers off. It’s like kissing a very lumpy pillow.”
“It’s cold,” John protests, even as he pulls back to start stripping layers. Sherlock leans back to watch, his clothes looking artfully mussed rather than like he’s slept in them (which, John knows is closer to the truth). His collarbones jut out from the shirt collar and John has to bite back on the urge to scrape his teeth over the skin there. He can still see the hint of a fading mark just under one hollow.
“Everything, John,” Sherlock says, as John moves towards him again. “Trousers, too.”
Sighing, John climbs off the bed and quickly strips off his heavy socks, trousers and briefs. He shivers briefly in the chilly air of his room before crawling back on to the bed, towards Sherlock, who never seems to feel the cold. Who burns in this mundane world, and in this ordinary life.
John knows he’s drawn to it as helplessly as a moth to a flickering flame. He’s aware of it, but he doesn’t try to pull away. Instead, he draws closer, and closer, planning on basking in the reflected heat for as long as Sherlock will let him.
“Better?”
“Much.”
John sighs, and looks down at Sherlock, spread out on his bed like a pagan offering. He’s beautiful - angular and mysterious, and John knows that one day, he’s going to shatter against that granite. He’s going to shore up against something in Sherlock he can’t get past, or around. For now, though, Sherlock gives as much of himself to John as he can, and John hoards it to himself like a miser.
When he finally shatters, he’s going to need these moments to piece himself back together.
John straddles Sherlock’s narrow hips and starts undoing the buttons on his threadbare shirt, as Sherlock pulls more tiny shivers from him, running the tip of his finger up the length of John’s cock - hard already, yes, but not urgent. Sherlock lets his hand fall back as John opens the shirt fully, pushing it back from Sherlock’s shoulders. It comes off, after a minute of slightly undignified manouvering, and then he has Sherlock’s pale, perfect skin under his fingers.
He tracks down, mapping and tracing over Sherlock’s chest with his mouth, his hands. He lingers over another fading mark just over the tempting jut of one hipbone. Sherlock stirs, then, but all John does is taste the mark with his tongue, as Sherlock resettles his long legs, bracketing John between them. John sits back on his heels long enough to unzip Sherlock’s jeans, pushing them down and pulling them off, running his hands along the outside of Sherlock’s ridiculous, pale, amazing long legs.
Sherlock is hard; his cock is long and inviting, the tip of it gleaming slightly in the shallow light of John’s room. John drags his tongue over the tip of it it before sealing his mouth just there around the most sensitive part. Sherlock sighs as his hand settles on John’s head, his fingernails scratching lightly at John’s scalp.
For all his energy - his furious passion and anger, his need to fill the corners of his world with as much noise as he can - in John’s room, in John’s bed, Sherlock tends to be quiet. Not contained exactly, John thinks as he swallows Sherlock from tip to root, and feels Sherlock’s fingers digging harder into his scalp, but he’s quiet. John can feel the muscles in Sherlock’s thigh tensing under his hand, and he digs his own fingers in as he drags his mouth back up the hard length, savouring the weight of it on his tongue, the slightly salt-bitter taste nothing more than a ghost that John chases with everything he can, even as his fingers leave marks on Sherlock’s skin, as he hears Sherlock’s breathing coming in shorter and shorter gasps.
John flicks his eyes up to Sherlock’s face as he finds a rhythm with his mouth, a wet, slightly salty up-and-down slide. He can’t stop the groan that vibrates around the oversensitive tip of Sherlock’s cock, damp with pre-come and saliva when he sees the picture that Sherlock’s unguarded arousal makes. Sherlock is arched - his whole torso a tense curve, his free hand digging into the sheet; his mouth open and his face flushed. He looks down at John, his eyes - now an almost opaque shade of gray - hooded, catching fragments of light.
John - it’s an exhale; barely a breath, and John thinks maybe he’s imagined it; maybe that’s what he wants to hear right before Sherlock starts coming, flooding John’s mouth before he’s ready and it spills out and over. John catches as much of it as he can with his tongue, wanting, needing to hold on to that taste for as long as he can.
Sherlock collapses back on the bed, his chest rising, falling, rising, falling. John watches for a moment, mesmerised by the movement.
“Here, come here.” Sherlock reaches for him and John fits himself to Sherlock, tangling their legs together. Sherlock reaches a hand down between them, almost careless, as they start kissing again and John groans again, this time at the aching relief of being touched, finally. He feels overheated just there, “right - there,” he whispers against Sherlock’s mouth, and he doesn’t mean ‘yes, that’s good’, he means ‘oh god don’t stop, please stop, I can’t’, and Sherlock knows what he means, slowly and carefully drawing his fingers back up to the head, rubbing his thumb over the pre-come collecting at the tip.
John buries his head in Sherlock’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of his skin, of the shampoo he uses, everything coalescing into a dizzying whole until he feels Sherlock’s fingers moving again, tightening around him and it’s too much, too sudden, too … “Sherlock,” John groans against his neck, digging his fingers in to Sherlock’s skin as he comes, hard and fast, spilling over both of them.
He comes to rest, to a stop, against the always-implacable shore that is Sherlock. His heart is still beating too fast, and he puts his hand to Sherlock’s chest, to try and find the counter-rhythm that he needs to slow himself down, and finds it there, counting off Sherlock’s heartbeats in his head out of long-ingrained habit.
Sherlock combs his long fingers through the short strands of John’s hair, over and over again, until John thinks he could fall asleep, with the feel of Sherlock’s fingers, and the wind gusting rain against his window.
“John?”
“Mmmhmmm.”
“About dinner … that chicken was perfect for the experiment I was doing this morning …”
John sighs against Sherlock’s neck, fancying that he’s blowing colour into the pale, pale skin, drawing it to the surface with his breath.
“Fine,” he mutters, too content; his body too languid right now to even think about moving, even though he knows he’s going to be uncomfortable soon - stiff in the wrong places (he can already feel it coming in his shoulder, and he curses his weakness; curses the fact that he can’t be - will never be - as strong as he once was. He doesn’t see the strength that Sherlock sees in him; at the moment, he can’t. Sherlock, though, is patient. Only for John.)
“You’re paying for the takeaway.”