Fic for Shinychimera & Yeomanrand: Ever So Much...
Title: Ever So Much...
Recipient: Shinychimera and Yeomanrand
Author: meredydd
Rating NC-17/M
Warnings/Explicit Content Includes...: Marking/possessiveness, BDSM themes, barebacking, consensual threesome, consensual voyeurism and exhibitionism, first time, mild UST/pining... Spoilers for S1 and S2.
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Molly/Lestrade, Lestrade/Molly/John (brief but explicit)
It had been a favor, an embarrassed request muttered over bad coffee behind a panda at a crime scene. John had nearly choked on a scalding mouthful and Lestrade had all but burst into flames from the force of the blush staining his own cheeks and throat. “Look, mate,” he finally said, low-voiced and shifting from foot to foot, “say no and pretend I never asked, alright? It’s not like…um, well, you’re a good friend, one of my best these days, and I know you won’t, you know, hurt her or do something out of bounds. And Molly trusts you and thinks you’re nice to look at…” The blush became, if possible, even more fierce.
John nodded, his ears hot and the urge to giggle almost overwhelming. It wouldn’t be his first threesome, but it would be his first in a long time, his first since before Afghanistan (not counting that one horrible attempt in New Zealand, with Sarah and the girl from the bar near their hotel…He still shuddered to think of that evening.) And it would be his first with friends, with people he cared about beyond a shag, beyond getting a pint and making suggestive small talk. “Let me…let me think a minute, yeah?” Lestrade just nodded. Sherlock was approaching like a tall, gangling storm cloud and they both fell silent as he began to pace and insult and dole out information about the pieces of Mr. Goss still strewn about the house beyond the crime scene tape. It was more than a minute, closer to two hours, before Lestrade was alone enough for John to murmur “Alright. Email me with the details.”
***
Molly was more hesitant than Lestrade had thought she’d be, and that pleased him on a deep, visceral level. They had begun dating two years after Sherlock’s apparent death and he knew she still had some tender feelings for the prat, despite what she had said. But that was almost two years ago; Sherlock had been back from the dead for eleven months and Molly, after a brief burst of nervous laughter and a sob-fest in which she confessed her part in his ruse, seemed to be over him entirely, no emotional responses to his presence or his name in conversation, no flirting, no new lipstick for his benefit… Lestrade still couldn’t help but worry a bit when he told Molly the terms of John’s participation in their bit of adventure. “Sherlock…um. Well, Molls, he…”
“Good Christ. The man wants to watch his best friend get a leg over with me? Us?” Molly buried her face in her hands and muttered what sounded to be a very Watson-esque string of swear words. “We’re not a bloody experiment!”
“I know, darling, I know…” Lestrade pulled her close and brushed his lips over her hair, smoothing his hand down her too-tense back. “I’ll tell John never mind. He won’t be upset and we can pretend this never happened. Maybe, if you still want to do this later, we’ll talk to Dimmock-“
“Ugh.”
“Or that bloke from your work, Hanson?”
“Gay. Though…” she gave Lestrade an appraising glance and laughed when he blushed. “Look, let me think about it, alright? Give me a minute.”
***
“Here’s the ground rules,” Molly said six days later (her minute had lasted nearly a week, then become a rushed, frantic, ‘Sod it, let’s do it now. Tonight.’). Sherlock perched on the arm of her sofa, looking as if he wanted to take notes. John and Lestrade sat beside one another, ankles cross and hands folded in near-identical schoolboy propriety. Molly paced back and forth, not quite meeting any of their eyes. “Sherlock, you don’t talk. At all. Not even if the bloody flat catches fire, not even if Moriarty returns from the dead and bursts into the room singing the theme from Corrie. Got it?” Sherlock opened his mouth to comment but a sharp jab from John’s elbow silenced him with a snap. “This is a one-off,” she continued. “Something to try on. It’s not the start of a poly thing, or an open thing. It’s not,” she added, glaring at Sherlock, “an experiment. John, Greg’s already told you what is and isn’t acceptable?”
John nodded. “Twice.”
Molly was pleased by his calm and she smiled. “Great. After we’re done, we’re all just friends. No comments-not at work, at the pub, at the shops, not to yourself nor to anyone else, about this. No subtle jibes, no offhand remarks… Understood? Greg… last chance?”
That seemed to be all he needed to hear. Greg was on his feet and at her side in a heartbeat, all traces of nervousness gone. Their kiss was sudden and deep and Molly found herself being walked backwards towards her bedroom. She heard John following, his unfamiliar, uneven gait on her floors an odd counterpoint to her racing pulse. If Sherlock followed, she didn’t know. They had planned this with great care-no roleplaying, no scene outside of some light bondage for her. She didn’t mind if Greg and John wanted to play with one another, but it wasn’t required. She stood still as Greg unzipped her dress and slid it from her shoulders, shuddering only a little when John unfastened her bra. She closed her eyes and lost track as hands and fingers removed her knickers, her stay-ups and heels, as breath teased her throat and shoulders, and someone (she suspected Greg, always so thoughtful) removed her hair-clip and bracelets. It was dark in the room when she opened her eyes, her body being eased back onto the bed and wrists secured with the soft, silky bindings. John flashed her a reassuring smile and she giggled, finally, not out of nervousness but excited pleasure. She was barely aware of the dark shadow in the room, of the crouched, crow-like Sherlock huddled on her slipper-chair. If she had taken a moment to give it thought, she would have decided he seemed a bit sad, a bit uncertain, but wholly interested.
It was, she decided as stubble abraded and teased her nipples and inner thighs, as strong hands parted her slick folds and tugged on rosy peaks of flesh, one of their better ideas. She arched into the touching, tugging at the bonds holding her in a semblance of helplessness. She was glad for it, the restriction, because it meant she couldn’t overthink, could just enjoy it, let them take care of her and not worry about pleasing them unless they asked her to do so, and so far they seemed more than capable of taking care of themselves. She watched as John and Greg exchanged a silent communication with looks and head-tilts, both of them seeming to come to an agreement and reaching for her at the same time, each slipping a finger into her wet sex and making her writhe. “Oh, God,” she finally panted, her first words in almost an hour, “if one of you doesn’t get a cock in me soon, I’m safewording and getting my dildo out of the bathroom and making you watch!”
“Molly,” John rasped, almost laughing, “that’s not as much of a bad thing as you seem to think!” But they did as she demanded, and more, John easing his wet, purpling member into her mouth as Greg slid into her, familiar and exciting at the same time. Yes, Molly thought, fingers tightening around the rope as she arched and bucked, definitely one of their better ideas.
***
When two weeks had passed without Sherlock commenting, John let himself start to think me was home-free. They had left Molly’s flat in an odd sort of silence, Sherlock giving him one of his patented ‘deduction faces’ as they waited for a cab, Lestrade and Molly no doubt heading for round two back upstairs. John had been tense, despite his post-coital haze, but when Sherlock had not remarked upon the events and only suggested a stop off for curries on the way home, John had begun to hope. But two weeks was all that little flicker of hope had to live before Sherlock smothered it in the midst of beans on toast and tea. “That wasn’t your first threesome.”
John was proud of himself. He didn’t choke. He swallowed down his bite of food and took a sip of his tea before fixing Sherlock with a pointed look. “No. No, it wasn’t. Was it your first stint at consensual voyeurism?”
“No, actually, my fifth. Consensual, anyway.” Sherlock smirked and drank from his own mug, then, waiting for John to reply, to remark upon the finer points of consent and what is and isn’t acceptable. Instead, John shrugged and resumed eating. Sherlock frowned. “Why did you do it?”
“Which time?” Sherlock merely raised one brow and John sighed. “Right, not going to let me be facetious, are we? Fine. They’re friends, it sounded fun, it’s been ages since I’ve gotten off with a warm, willing body who was enthusiastic about my presence-trust me, no fantasy is as good as real life-and…well, I wanted to. Sometimes, I like no strings attached sex. And I trust Greg and Molly and know it won’t get back to anyone at work and they won’t expect too much from me, and we can all go grab a pint tomorrow and it won’t be weird.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock shoved his beans around his toast in some tribute to Roman army formations before speaking again. “I never have. Not with another person anyway. Just…just myself. And just watched.”
John felt a brief twinge of pity, and a twin pang of annoyance at everyone Sherlock may have possibly expressed romantic or sexual interest in as a young man and turned him down. “Ah.”
Sherlock stopped playing with his food. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“I assumed you were asexual, at first, but after Irene…” John shrugged. “Low libido? General disinterest?”
“I have quite a healthy libido and quite a strong interest,” Sherlock countered, a trace of annoyance and pride in his tone. “But I have self control. Sex,” he spat the word as if it tasted vile, “distracts.”
“Rather the point.”
Sherlock fixed John with a very intense, almost flaying gaze. He looked as if he wanted to peel John open, to feel the pulse of his blood and see the workings inside. Instead, he leaned just slightly forward and said, “So I see. I am finding that…some distractions may be worth it.”
John blinked and sat back, feeling just a tad off-balance. “Pardon?”
“Surely you aren’t going to insist upon this dance, John. It’s not the same now, is it?” He was on his feet and coming ‘round the table to tower over John, blocking out the overhead light and casting them both in cozy shadow. “Every day I was away, I worried about you, I thought of you, I… I did everything to get back to you.”
“And Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade.”
Sherlock made an impatient gesture with one hand and fisted the other in the pocket of his dressing gown. “Yes, yes, but you’re missing my point again! I was distracted every day for three years! And I survived! And I thrived, succeeded in destroying the web of Moriarty’s little enterprises, and I made it…here.” He trailed off, raising one hand towards John, stopping a few inches short of touching him. “I’m not easily confused, John. I’m brilliant-“
“And humble. Don’t forget humble.”
Sherlock glared but went on as if John hadn’t spoken. “Watching you with them, I felt…I believe it’s envy. Jealousy, perhaps. I didn’t like seeing their hands on you. I detested watching you close your eyes as Molly put her mouth on… on you. I nearly threw Lestrade off the bed when it looked as if he would kiss you.”
John felt his face heat and he tried to look away, but found himself trapped in Sherlock’s stare. “Sherlock, why would you be…be envious? Are you, um… is it Lestrade?” He wanted Sherlock to say no, feared him saying no, but the idea of being the object of his desires, of his intensity… John knew it would be like free-fall. Sherlock merely stared at him, a slight frown crimping his lips. “Right, right. You, um. You know how I feel. Before you...before you left, you knew.”
Sherlock slashed at the air between them with his hand. “No, John. I’m not going to be party to your retroactive doubts and guilt. You would have been a target even if you had not loved me. I... I love you, you see. Even Moriarty could tell.” He paused, a far-off look crossing his face. “I suspect he had a similar feeling for his...well, Moran, most likely, but both are dead as doornails and we’ll never know.”
John felt everything slide around him, the entire world rearranging itself to orient him in the direction of what was now his true north. “Sherlock, stop talking. Just stop for a minute.”
Sherlock, surprisingly, did. His teeth clicked down on the words that wanted to pour forth and he stepped back as John rose.
“You wanted to watch because you want me.”
Sherlock nodded once, curt and clear.
“You...you wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing it because I was attracted to Molly or Greg.” When Sherlock glowered, John raised a brow. “I know your methods and am applying them. We could go ‘round all day about whys and hows, Sherlock, but I need to know one thing... If we do this, this we’re both dancing around, is it an experiment, or do you truly want to be with me in every way possible, even if we go months without sex, or weeks apart... Will you grow bored of me and bugger off to someone or something more interesting?”
“That’s more than one thing.”
John huffed a breath, almost a laugh, and closed the distance between them with a few steps. “Berk.” Then he was kissing Sherlock, and Sherlock was frozen, not surprised but startled, aware and needing and wanting but unable to do more than accept and process the sensation of John’s lips against his, John’s hands coming to rest on his hips. “You’ve never done this before, either?” John murmured against his mouth. “Not even as a teenager?”
“Twice,” Sherlock admitted. “It was wet and tasted of cheese and onion crisps.”
“If it helps, I brushed my teeth before breakfast.”
“Beans, toast, Earl Grey and mint. Lovely.”
“Shut up.” He laughed into the next kiss, hands tightening on Sherlock’s hips. He walked them both back, stumbling into the living room as Sherlock began to respond. Tongues and teeth pressed, bit, laved and sucked as they reached the sofa and tangled in limbs, collapsing onto the poor, benighted furniture with groans from both springs and men. “Let me,” John muttered against Sherlock’s neck. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I have a fairly good idea, myself,” Sherlock panted in return, his fingers plucking open John’s dressing gown. “You don’t have to treat me like spun glass, John.”
John growled a wordless response against Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing the silky material covering it aside. “I know,” he finally breathed. “But it’s your first time, isn’t it? I don’t... There’s things that...”
“John.” He grabbed John’s hands and stilled them between his own. John knelt over him, one knee on either side of Sherlock’s hips as they sprawled inelegantly on the old sofa. “I have wanted this, you for a very long time. I’m human, I have needs...and I met them with my own imagination and a few toys purchased for...research purposes.” He let one hand trail from John’s wrist, down, across John’s thigh, barely brushing the tip of the erection resting there. “Though, I must admit, you exceed my expectations in size.”
“Oh, God.” John tipped forward, licking and sucking at Sherlock’s bare neck, down across his clavicle and latching onto the firm pectoral. He bit down hard enough to make Sherlock gasp, drawing on flesh and nipping, sucking, tasting. “Mine,” John growled. “You’re... you’ll be mine.”
Sherlock nodded, his throat working mutely for a moment before words came. “Have been...for years.” He dropped John’s other hand and ruched up the fabric of John’s dressing gown. “Pants. Hateful.”
“Some of us like our bits and bobs to stay warm,” John laughed, working the blood to the surface of Sherlock’s skin, marking him (Mine, mine mine, Sherlock is mine!) with a deep purple bite. It all but screamed his name, glowed in bitten neon should anyone see, that Sherlock was his. “Fuck, I’m going to cover you in bite marks. Mine, mine...”
“Yes... More!” Sherlock worked John’s pants down to mid-thigh, freeing the pretty cock he had felt earlier, he had fantasized about for ages. “Oh, fuck, that’s... oh!”
“Nipples. Got it. Never going to forget that. Oh!” Sherlock’s fingers curling around his prick startled John into quiet. He shuddered a breath as long, clever fingers gently pushed his foreskin back and began to thrum a soft rhythm on the glans, making John’s hips jerk forward convulsively. “Christ, Sherlock!” He wiggled his own hand between them and found Sherlock’s erection. They were tangled, elbows jabbing and backs twisting, but they found a rhythm soon enough. Precome leaking freely across his fingers and down his wrist, John bent, pushed Sherlock away from his cock for just a moment, and slid down to take the long, surprisingly thick length of the detective’s prick into his mouth. Sherlock’s high, breathy moan went straight to John’s cock. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, breaking away to inhale, working Sherlock’s length with his hand. “Let me, let me do this for you first, love. Please, please, please!” Sherlock nodded, jerky and fast, his half-gasped cry of John’s name lost in a new moan as John slid his mouth back down over the head of Sherlock’s erection. Slowly, John took a bit more of the leaking, lovely member into his mouth, damp fingers caressing and gently massaging Sherlock’s balls, sliding downwards to the soft, untouched skin below. Sherlock’s stuttered sigh made John grin around the cock in his mouth, teasing Sherlock until the breathed moans and soft sighs ran together into one long, unbroken, baritone rumble. Sherlock’s fingers plucked at John’s shoulders, his hair, ran across his own abdomen and nipples, touched John’s face, his lips where they were wrapped around Sherlock’s cock. It had become a limbo, a space between, pleasure so close but neither wanting it to end to soon, and knowing that it had to or else it’d become dull and familiar, predictable. John sighed down Sherlock’s erection, sliding almost to the base, moving his fingers down, down until they reached the tightly furled hole they had been seeking. Wet with saliva and precome, one finger pressed gently but inexorably against Sherlock’s tight arsehole, making him thrash with need, with want and please, please, god damn it John, stop teasing oh!
Sherlock felt John’s finger breech him and the world heaved to a stop for just a millisecond, just long enough for Sherlock’s eyes to fly open and John to press just so... No toys, no films, no fantasy had prepared Sherlock for the reality of John’s mouth on his cock, John’s finger in his arse, John’s mark ( Oh, fuck me, John’s marked me, made me...) on his chest. Everything condensed down to the twin points of John’s mouth and his finger, a deep inhale before everything shattered apart. Sherlock felt himself arch taut and then... Oh, god. Then.
“Shhh,” John soothed, crawling up to lay awkwardly next to him. They were sticky and hot and Sherlock felt something wet on his leg and realized John must have come there, must have finished himself off. He frowned, and John swatted at him. “None of that. We’ve plenty of time for you to do me.” A pause, and then he giggled. “Damn near forty and I just said ‘do me’ like some teenager.”
“John, that was...” Sherlock swallowed hard, eyes closed. “That...”
“Has the great Sherlock Holmes been rendered speechless? Blimey. I should’ve had a threesome ages ago.”
“What do they have to do with this?” he hissed, eyes barely open.
“Don’t be jealous,” he said, smiling. “It’s just what got this particular ball rolling, isn’t it? If that hadn’t happened, we’d still be...I dunno. Pining. Avoiding.”
“I don’t pine.” It was a lie.
“Mmm. I didn’t say it was you doing the pining.” That wasn’t a lie. “Was this...was it good? Did you like it?”
“Ever so much,” Sherlock sighed, ignoring the cooling fluids on his flesh in favor of the warm, pliant John against his side. “Do you... do you love me, John? Because I think... I know, I love you.”
“Mmm. Ever so much.”
Recipient: Shinychimera and Yeomanrand
Author: meredydd
Rating NC-17/M
Warnings/Explicit Content Includes...: Marking/possessiveness, BDSM themes, barebacking, consensual threesome, consensual voyeurism and exhibitionism, first time, mild UST/pining... Spoilers for S1 and S2.
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Molly/Lestrade, Lestrade/Molly/John (brief but explicit)
It had been a favor, an embarrassed request muttered over bad coffee behind a panda at a crime scene. John had nearly choked on a scalding mouthful and Lestrade had all but burst into flames from the force of the blush staining his own cheeks and throat. “Look, mate,” he finally said, low-voiced and shifting from foot to foot, “say no and pretend I never asked, alright? It’s not like…um, well, you’re a good friend, one of my best these days, and I know you won’t, you know, hurt her or do something out of bounds. And Molly trusts you and thinks you’re nice to look at…” The blush became, if possible, even more fierce.
John nodded, his ears hot and the urge to giggle almost overwhelming. It wouldn’t be his first threesome, but it would be his first in a long time, his first since before Afghanistan (not counting that one horrible attempt in New Zealand, with Sarah and the girl from the bar near their hotel…He still shuddered to think of that evening.) And it would be his first with friends, with people he cared about beyond a shag, beyond getting a pint and making suggestive small talk. “Let me…let me think a minute, yeah?” Lestrade just nodded. Sherlock was approaching like a tall, gangling storm cloud and they both fell silent as he began to pace and insult and dole out information about the pieces of Mr. Goss still strewn about the house beyond the crime scene tape. It was more than a minute, closer to two hours, before Lestrade was alone enough for John to murmur “Alright. Email me with the details.”
***
Molly was more hesitant than Lestrade had thought she’d be, and that pleased him on a deep, visceral level. They had begun dating two years after Sherlock’s apparent death and he knew she still had some tender feelings for the prat, despite what she had said. But that was almost two years ago; Sherlock had been back from the dead for eleven months and Molly, after a brief burst of nervous laughter and a sob-fest in which she confessed her part in his ruse, seemed to be over him entirely, no emotional responses to his presence or his name in conversation, no flirting, no new lipstick for his benefit… Lestrade still couldn’t help but worry a bit when he told Molly the terms of John’s participation in their bit of adventure. “Sherlock…um. Well, Molls, he…”
“Good Christ. The man wants to watch his best friend get a leg over with me? Us?” Molly buried her face in her hands and muttered what sounded to be a very Watson-esque string of swear words. “We’re not a bloody experiment!”
“I know, darling, I know…” Lestrade pulled her close and brushed his lips over her hair, smoothing his hand down her too-tense back. “I’ll tell John never mind. He won’t be upset and we can pretend this never happened. Maybe, if you still want to do this later, we’ll talk to Dimmock-“
“Ugh.”
“Or that bloke from your work, Hanson?”
“Gay. Though…” she gave Lestrade an appraising glance and laughed when he blushed. “Look, let me think about it, alright? Give me a minute.”
***
“Here’s the ground rules,” Molly said six days later (her minute had lasted nearly a week, then become a rushed, frantic, ‘Sod it, let’s do it now. Tonight.’). Sherlock perched on the arm of her sofa, looking as if he wanted to take notes. John and Lestrade sat beside one another, ankles cross and hands folded in near-identical schoolboy propriety. Molly paced back and forth, not quite meeting any of their eyes. “Sherlock, you don’t talk. At all. Not even if the bloody flat catches fire, not even if Moriarty returns from the dead and bursts into the room singing the theme from Corrie. Got it?” Sherlock opened his mouth to comment but a sharp jab from John’s elbow silenced him with a snap. “This is a one-off,” she continued. “Something to try on. It’s not the start of a poly thing, or an open thing. It’s not,” she added, glaring at Sherlock, “an experiment. John, Greg’s already told you what is and isn’t acceptable?”
John nodded. “Twice.”
Molly was pleased by his calm and she smiled. “Great. After we’re done, we’re all just friends. No comments-not at work, at the pub, at the shops, not to yourself nor to anyone else, about this. No subtle jibes, no offhand remarks… Understood? Greg… last chance?”
That seemed to be all he needed to hear. Greg was on his feet and at her side in a heartbeat, all traces of nervousness gone. Their kiss was sudden and deep and Molly found herself being walked backwards towards her bedroom. She heard John following, his unfamiliar, uneven gait on her floors an odd counterpoint to her racing pulse. If Sherlock followed, she didn’t know. They had planned this with great care-no roleplaying, no scene outside of some light bondage for her. She didn’t mind if Greg and John wanted to play with one another, but it wasn’t required. She stood still as Greg unzipped her dress and slid it from her shoulders, shuddering only a little when John unfastened her bra. She closed her eyes and lost track as hands and fingers removed her knickers, her stay-ups and heels, as breath teased her throat and shoulders, and someone (she suspected Greg, always so thoughtful) removed her hair-clip and bracelets. It was dark in the room when she opened her eyes, her body being eased back onto the bed and wrists secured with the soft, silky bindings. John flashed her a reassuring smile and she giggled, finally, not out of nervousness but excited pleasure. She was barely aware of the dark shadow in the room, of the crouched, crow-like Sherlock huddled on her slipper-chair. If she had taken a moment to give it thought, she would have decided he seemed a bit sad, a bit uncertain, but wholly interested.
It was, she decided as stubble abraded and teased her nipples and inner thighs, as strong hands parted her slick folds and tugged on rosy peaks of flesh, one of their better ideas. She arched into the touching, tugging at the bonds holding her in a semblance of helplessness. She was glad for it, the restriction, because it meant she couldn’t overthink, could just enjoy it, let them take care of her and not worry about pleasing them unless they asked her to do so, and so far they seemed more than capable of taking care of themselves. She watched as John and Greg exchanged a silent communication with looks and head-tilts, both of them seeming to come to an agreement and reaching for her at the same time, each slipping a finger into her wet sex and making her writhe. “Oh, God,” she finally panted, her first words in almost an hour, “if one of you doesn’t get a cock in me soon, I’m safewording and getting my dildo out of the bathroom and making you watch!”
“Molly,” John rasped, almost laughing, “that’s not as much of a bad thing as you seem to think!” But they did as she demanded, and more, John easing his wet, purpling member into her mouth as Greg slid into her, familiar and exciting at the same time. Yes, Molly thought, fingers tightening around the rope as she arched and bucked, definitely one of their better ideas.
***
When two weeks had passed without Sherlock commenting, John let himself start to think me was home-free. They had left Molly’s flat in an odd sort of silence, Sherlock giving him one of his patented ‘deduction faces’ as they waited for a cab, Lestrade and Molly no doubt heading for round two back upstairs. John had been tense, despite his post-coital haze, but when Sherlock had not remarked upon the events and only suggested a stop off for curries on the way home, John had begun to hope. But two weeks was all that little flicker of hope had to live before Sherlock smothered it in the midst of beans on toast and tea. “That wasn’t your first threesome.”
John was proud of himself. He didn’t choke. He swallowed down his bite of food and took a sip of his tea before fixing Sherlock with a pointed look. “No. No, it wasn’t. Was it your first stint at consensual voyeurism?”
“No, actually, my fifth. Consensual, anyway.” Sherlock smirked and drank from his own mug, then, waiting for John to reply, to remark upon the finer points of consent and what is and isn’t acceptable. Instead, John shrugged and resumed eating. Sherlock frowned. “Why did you do it?”
“Which time?” Sherlock merely raised one brow and John sighed. “Right, not going to let me be facetious, are we? Fine. They’re friends, it sounded fun, it’s been ages since I’ve gotten off with a warm, willing body who was enthusiastic about my presence-trust me, no fantasy is as good as real life-and…well, I wanted to. Sometimes, I like no strings attached sex. And I trust Greg and Molly and know it won’t get back to anyone at work and they won’t expect too much from me, and we can all go grab a pint tomorrow and it won’t be weird.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock shoved his beans around his toast in some tribute to Roman army formations before speaking again. “I never have. Not with another person anyway. Just…just myself. And just watched.”
John felt a brief twinge of pity, and a twin pang of annoyance at everyone Sherlock may have possibly expressed romantic or sexual interest in as a young man and turned him down. “Ah.”
Sherlock stopped playing with his food. “Don’t you want to know why?”
“I assumed you were asexual, at first, but after Irene…” John shrugged. “Low libido? General disinterest?”
“I have quite a healthy libido and quite a strong interest,” Sherlock countered, a trace of annoyance and pride in his tone. “But I have self control. Sex,” he spat the word as if it tasted vile, “distracts.”
“Rather the point.”
Sherlock fixed John with a very intense, almost flaying gaze. He looked as if he wanted to peel John open, to feel the pulse of his blood and see the workings inside. Instead, he leaned just slightly forward and said, “So I see. I am finding that…some distractions may be worth it.”
John blinked and sat back, feeling just a tad off-balance. “Pardon?”
“Surely you aren’t going to insist upon this dance, John. It’s not the same now, is it?” He was on his feet and coming ‘round the table to tower over John, blocking out the overhead light and casting them both in cozy shadow. “Every day I was away, I worried about you, I thought of you, I… I did everything to get back to you.”
“And Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade.”
Sherlock made an impatient gesture with one hand and fisted the other in the pocket of his dressing gown. “Yes, yes, but you’re missing my point again! I was distracted every day for three years! And I survived! And I thrived, succeeded in destroying the web of Moriarty’s little enterprises, and I made it…here.” He trailed off, raising one hand towards John, stopping a few inches short of touching him. “I’m not easily confused, John. I’m brilliant-“
“And humble. Don’t forget humble.”
Sherlock glared but went on as if John hadn’t spoken. “Watching you with them, I felt…I believe it’s envy. Jealousy, perhaps. I didn’t like seeing their hands on you. I detested watching you close your eyes as Molly put her mouth on… on you. I nearly threw Lestrade off the bed when it looked as if he would kiss you.”
John felt his face heat and he tried to look away, but found himself trapped in Sherlock’s stare. “Sherlock, why would you be…be envious? Are you, um… is it Lestrade?” He wanted Sherlock to say no, feared him saying no, but the idea of being the object of his desires, of his intensity… John knew it would be like free-fall. Sherlock merely stared at him, a slight frown crimping his lips. “Right, right. You, um. You know how I feel. Before you...before you left, you knew.”
Sherlock slashed at the air between them with his hand. “No, John. I’m not going to be party to your retroactive doubts and guilt. You would have been a target even if you had not loved me. I... I love you, you see. Even Moriarty could tell.” He paused, a far-off look crossing his face. “I suspect he had a similar feeling for his...well, Moran, most likely, but both are dead as doornails and we’ll never know.”
John felt everything slide around him, the entire world rearranging itself to orient him in the direction of what was now his true north. “Sherlock, stop talking. Just stop for a minute.”
Sherlock, surprisingly, did. His teeth clicked down on the words that wanted to pour forth and he stepped back as John rose.
“You wanted to watch because you want me.”
Sherlock nodded once, curt and clear.
“You...you wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing it because I was attracted to Molly or Greg.” When Sherlock glowered, John raised a brow. “I know your methods and am applying them. We could go ‘round all day about whys and hows, Sherlock, but I need to know one thing... If we do this, this we’re both dancing around, is it an experiment, or do you truly want to be with me in every way possible, even if we go months without sex, or weeks apart... Will you grow bored of me and bugger off to someone or something more interesting?”
“That’s more than one thing.”
John huffed a breath, almost a laugh, and closed the distance between them with a few steps. “Berk.” Then he was kissing Sherlock, and Sherlock was frozen, not surprised but startled, aware and needing and wanting but unable to do more than accept and process the sensation of John’s lips against his, John’s hands coming to rest on his hips. “You’ve never done this before, either?” John murmured against his mouth. “Not even as a teenager?”
“Twice,” Sherlock admitted. “It was wet and tasted of cheese and onion crisps.”
“If it helps, I brushed my teeth before breakfast.”
“Beans, toast, Earl Grey and mint. Lovely.”
“Shut up.” He laughed into the next kiss, hands tightening on Sherlock’s hips. He walked them both back, stumbling into the living room as Sherlock began to respond. Tongues and teeth pressed, bit, laved and sucked as they reached the sofa and tangled in limbs, collapsing onto the poor, benighted furniture with groans from both springs and men. “Let me,” John muttered against Sherlock’s neck. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I have a fairly good idea, myself,” Sherlock panted in return, his fingers plucking open John’s dressing gown. “You don’t have to treat me like spun glass, John.”
John growled a wordless response against Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing the silky material covering it aside. “I know,” he finally breathed. “But it’s your first time, isn’t it? I don’t... There’s things that...”
“John.” He grabbed John’s hands and stilled them between his own. John knelt over him, one knee on either side of Sherlock’s hips as they sprawled inelegantly on the old sofa. “I have wanted this, you for a very long time. I’m human, I have needs...and I met them with my own imagination and a few toys purchased for...research purposes.” He let one hand trail from John’s wrist, down, across John’s thigh, barely brushing the tip of the erection resting there. “Though, I must admit, you exceed my expectations in size.”
“Oh, God.” John tipped forward, licking and sucking at Sherlock’s bare neck, down across his clavicle and latching onto the firm pectoral. He bit down hard enough to make Sherlock gasp, drawing on flesh and nipping, sucking, tasting. “Mine,” John growled. “You’re... you’ll be mine.”
Sherlock nodded, his throat working mutely for a moment before words came. “Have been...for years.” He dropped John’s other hand and ruched up the fabric of John’s dressing gown. “Pants. Hateful.”
“Some of us like our bits and bobs to stay warm,” John laughed, working the blood to the surface of Sherlock’s skin, marking him (Mine, mine mine, Sherlock is mine!) with a deep purple bite. It all but screamed his name, glowed in bitten neon should anyone see, that Sherlock was his. “Fuck, I’m going to cover you in bite marks. Mine, mine...”
“Yes... More!” Sherlock worked John’s pants down to mid-thigh, freeing the pretty cock he had felt earlier, he had fantasized about for ages. “Oh, fuck, that’s... oh!”
“Nipples. Got it. Never going to forget that. Oh!” Sherlock’s fingers curling around his prick startled John into quiet. He shuddered a breath as long, clever fingers gently pushed his foreskin back and began to thrum a soft rhythm on the glans, making John’s hips jerk forward convulsively. “Christ, Sherlock!” He wiggled his own hand between them and found Sherlock’s erection. They were tangled, elbows jabbing and backs twisting, but they found a rhythm soon enough. Precome leaking freely across his fingers and down his wrist, John bent, pushed Sherlock away from his cock for just a moment, and slid down to take the long, surprisingly thick length of the detective’s prick into his mouth. Sherlock’s high, breathy moan went straight to John’s cock. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, breaking away to inhale, working Sherlock’s length with his hand. “Let me, let me do this for you first, love. Please, please, please!” Sherlock nodded, jerky and fast, his half-gasped cry of John’s name lost in a new moan as John slid his mouth back down over the head of Sherlock’s erection. Slowly, John took a bit more of the leaking, lovely member into his mouth, damp fingers caressing and gently massaging Sherlock’s balls, sliding downwards to the soft, untouched skin below. Sherlock’s stuttered sigh made John grin around the cock in his mouth, teasing Sherlock until the breathed moans and soft sighs ran together into one long, unbroken, baritone rumble. Sherlock’s fingers plucked at John’s shoulders, his hair, ran across his own abdomen and nipples, touched John’s face, his lips where they were wrapped around Sherlock’s cock. It had become a limbo, a space between, pleasure so close but neither wanting it to end to soon, and knowing that it had to or else it’d become dull and familiar, predictable. John sighed down Sherlock’s erection, sliding almost to the base, moving his fingers down, down until they reached the tightly furled hole they had been seeking. Wet with saliva and precome, one finger pressed gently but inexorably against Sherlock’s tight arsehole, making him thrash with need, with want and please, please, god damn it John, stop teasing oh!
Sherlock felt John’s finger breech him and the world heaved to a stop for just a millisecond, just long enough for Sherlock’s eyes to fly open and John to press just so... No toys, no films, no fantasy had prepared Sherlock for the reality of John’s mouth on his cock, John’s finger in his arse, John’s mark ( Oh, fuck me, John’s marked me, made me...) on his chest. Everything condensed down to the twin points of John’s mouth and his finger, a deep inhale before everything shattered apart. Sherlock felt himself arch taut and then... Oh, god. Then.
“Shhh,” John soothed, crawling up to lay awkwardly next to him. They were sticky and hot and Sherlock felt something wet on his leg and realized John must have come there, must have finished himself off. He frowned, and John swatted at him. “None of that. We’ve plenty of time for you to do me.” A pause, and then he giggled. “Damn near forty and I just said ‘do me’ like some teenager.”
“John, that was...” Sherlock swallowed hard, eyes closed. “That...”
“Has the great Sherlock Holmes been rendered speechless? Blimey. I should’ve had a threesome ages ago.”
“What do they have to do with this?” he hissed, eyes barely open.
“Don’t be jealous,” he said, smiling. “It’s just what got this particular ball rolling, isn’t it? If that hadn’t happened, we’d still be...I dunno. Pining. Avoiding.”
“I don’t pine.” It was a lie.
“Mmm. I didn’t say it was you doing the pining.” That wasn’t a lie. “Was this...was it good? Did you like it?”
“Ever so much,” Sherlock sighed, ignoring the cooling fluids on his flesh in favor of the warm, pliant John against his side. “Do you... do you love me, John? Because I think... I know, I love you.”
“Mmm. Ever so much.”