Thank-you fic for sc010f: We'll start - and finish - with the riding crop
Mod note: We didn't manage a thank-you gift for all our pinch-hitters this year, but we did manage some. sc010f, thank you very much for stepping in on such a short notice.
Title: We'll start - and finish - with the riding crop
Recipient: sc010f
Author: kispexi2
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: bad language, BDSM (light), explicit m/m sex, first time sex, WAFF, happy ending
Summary: John and Sherlock misunderstand each other, resulting in a comedy of errors.
Wordcount: ~5.5K
A/N: This story takes place one week after Sherlock S1:3 (The Great Game) so there could be spoilers if you haven't seen that episode.
Many and fulsome thanks to my betas.
We'll start - and finish - with the riding crop
John is on his hands and knees on the floor in Sherlock's bedroom.
Seven days ago, the two of them kissed. They were weak with relief at not being dead, giddy at discovering that Moriarty's 'Semtex' was nothing more than a few slabs of marzipan fitted with wires and wrapped in baking foil, laughing and hugging each other - and then they kissed. John's not sure who kissed who first; they just seemed to collide, mouth to mouth, hands in each other's hair, clutching at one another, in a frenzy of tongues, and hands, and lips.
And now John is on his hands and knees, on the floor, in Sherlock's bedroom.
Though - sadly - not in the way that, a week ago, he'd hoped he might be; he's not getting shagged senseless; he's looking for his bloody stethoscope. Sherlock borrowed it for 'something important' and then forgot about it.
Just like he appears to have forgotten about the kiss and how desperately they wanted each other.
It was a practical decision to pull apart, to not just sink to the nobbly poolside tiles and fuck each other stupid right then and there. On reflection, John expects the cold and discomfort would have dampened their ardour a touch after a while, and someone's knees and the other person's spine would have been in excruciating pain, but it was the fear that Moriarty might still be there, watching, and learning ever more subtle and personalized ways to burn Sherlock's heart out, that made them sensible enough to step back, draw breath and realize that what they wanted to do to each other would be far better done at home.
Except they didn't. It was a long drive back to Baker Street and, much as John wanted to snog Sherlock all the way home, he wasn't sure Sherlock would appreciate semi-public kissing, so he sat in quiet, thrilled anticipation, willing the taxi driver to put his foot down hard. But as the miles rolled past, Sherlock got quieter and quieter, and shifted away from John into a corner, where he seemed to fold in on himself, arms crossed, head turned away. His eyes, reflected in the window, stared blankly out into the night, seeing nothing, reacting not at all.
By the time they got home, the silence between them was painful, with John's brain was helpfully rattling through a vast list of reasons for it, none of them good, and all of them boiling down to one thing: he might want Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't want him back. He'd gone too far and ruined everything. When he opened the door to 221 and let them in, the speed with which Sherlock ran up the stairs and disappeared into his room, just confirmed it. John trudged up to his room and collapsed onto his bed. He was so tired, on so many levels, that he fell asleep immediately, still wearing every last stitch of his clothes.
And now John is on his hands and knees on the floor in Sherlock's bedroom, still very much not getting shagged senseless but peering under the bed instead.
He's on the point of giving up all hope of ever finding his lost stethoscope, when he finally spots it. Stretching out an arm, he pushes through a chaotic mess of books and clothes and god knows what else to reach it, but when his fingers close around their goal, John realizes that he's not gripping flexible vinyl tubing but something else entirely: a length of stiff but springy leather. A ripple of shock goes through him, making his armpits prick and his palms tingle. He know what this is, this thing he's holding. It's a riding crop.
He withdraws it slowly from under the bed and stares. It's much like the one he carried at Sandhurst on ceremonial occasions - only, unlike John's military crop, this one has been used. Some of the edges of the criss-crossed leather weave are worn, no longer a shiny black but scuffed and grey. Used by Sherlock? John's belly tightens oddly at the thought. Used on Sherlock? Oh god, John really wishes he hadn't thought that. He swallows hard, unable to stop the images forming in his head, unable to prevent himself from running a finger and thumb down the length of the crop. He presses the end of it against the palm of his hand, and bends it back on itself. He's surprised at amount of effort it takes - the crop is really pretty thin - but when he takes his hand away, the sheer force with which it snaps out straight again makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end.
There must, he tells himself frantically, be a hundred and one reasons why Sherlock has a riding crop - none of them sexual - and he finds himself gripping the crop harder, nails digging into his palm, as he wills himself to come up with just one. One would do. Any one. It would ease the sudden ache in his balls, and let him breathe normally again.
It's a long time coming, but at last he remembers. That first day they met, Sherlock mentioned he had a crop, said he'd left it in the morgue. He obviously uses it in his deductions! Somehow. John lets out a shaky breath and feels some of his tension start to ebb away. He doesn't need to know exactly how Sherlock uses the thing, just that it's for something scientific. Something quantifiable. Something as far removed from the things John has been thinking as it's possible to get.
He pushes the crop back under the bed again, all the way under, as far as he can reach. Out of sight, out of mind.
"Find it?" a voice - Sherlock's voice - asks.
John's reaction is one of wild, visceral panic. He jumps, knocking first his head, then his shoulder, the left one, against the underside of Sherlock's bed-frame with a force that makes him hiss in pain. Oh god, how long has he been there? What did he see? What the hell is he thinking?
John extricates himself awkwardly from the junk under Sherlock's bed, and gets to his feet. He'd rather not look Sherlock in the eye right now, but fears avoiding his gaze would be even more incriminating, so he brazens it out, despite the heat burning his cheeks. "Uh, find what?" he asks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans in what he hopes is a casual manner.
There's a long silence. "Your stethoscope," Sherlock says, eventually. "Did you find it?"
His stethoscope! Yes, of course! John feels like an idiot now. "Um, no. Not, uh, yet. I ... I don't think it's in here."
Sherlock sniffs. "Try the kitchen," he suggests, and disappears back into the living room.
John takes a couple of good, deep breaths. Then a couple more. Bloody hell, Sherlock can be eerily stealthy when he wants. John had better remember that.
When he's regained enough composure to go out into the living room again, he finds Sherlock sitting with his elbows resting on his desk, chin propped up by his thumbs, and hands pressed together against his lips. To John's relief, his eyes are closed and he seems deep in thought, giving John the perfect opportunity to creep silently past him and into the kitchen without being noticed. It doesn't work.
"Why would a man want to get beaten?" Sherlock asks out of the blue, every word as crisp and hard-edged as the crack of a whip.
John's heart leaps in his chest and does its best to fight its way up and out of his throat. He goes hot, then cold, and his hands turn clammy. "Wh-what?" he stammers.
Sherlock opens his eyes and swivels around on his seat to look up at John. "I'm working on a case," he explains, with a slow, reassuring smile. "Blackmail."
Stay calm, John thinks. Be professional. It's for a case. It's just a question about a case. He racks his brains desperately for something to say and, by some miracle, manages to dredge up a memory from med school, from the term when he - briefly - considered a career in psychiatry. "Um, I think it’s about letting go?” he offers. “Men like that, they're usually ... er, very good at what they do. They have highly responsible jobs, and aren’t outwardly submissive at all. Competent men. Successful."
Sherlock leans forward, all intense focus and interest. "That would certainly fit the profile. Go on."
"Well," John says, "it's complicated but, if I'm remembering it properly, it's about not being the one in charge any more."
Sherlock nods. "Yes. And?"
"Um." John is floundering now. "Sometimes it's about trust?"
"Really?” Sherlock murmurs. “How interesting."
John gives an embarrassed laugh. "Well, I’m no expert. I switched to field medicine half-way through the course, so I'm not really qualified-"
"But you're an intelligent man, John," Sherlock interrupts. "Not to mention, used to acting on your instincts. Tell me what your gut says." His eyes are very blue, very clear, and they make John shiver. "What's so good about not being in charge?"
John shrugs. "Not feeling responsible? Not having to worry about making decisions?"
"Like being in the army!" Sherlock exclaims, clapping his hands together. He cocks an eyebrow. "Is that why you joined? To be controlled by someone else?"
"No!" John cries, hotly, really not liking the way Sherlock is looking at him now. "I joined up because I wanted to do what I do best, where I do it best. Where I could make the most difference. And besides, I was just a captain, an assistant surgeon. I had to follow orders. The kind of men we're talking about ... well, they're much more highly placed than that. High court judges, captains of industry ... that kind of thing. Brilliant men."
"Brilliant men?" Sherlock's eyes go wide and a light-bulb seems to go off behind them. He rocks back in his chair and cries, "Oh! Of course! Stupid, stupid! Stay there! Don't move!" And without further explanation, he leaps up and dashes off to his room. John hears him moving stuff around and the odd, impatient curse, followed by a crow of triumph, and then he's back again, striding up to John, riding crop in hand.
John takes a step back. "Sherlock?" he gasps, despite his best efforts not to. "What-"
Sherlock steps in closer and presses the crop into John's hand. "I've been an idiot, John. The data didn't make sense." He looks away, then back again. "I'm afraid none of this is really my area."
John blinks. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I saw you," Sherlock says quietly. "Earlier. With this." He touches a finger lightly to the crop, to the little triangle of leather at its end.. "You looked ... interested." He meets John's eye again. "I don't know how these things are done, John."
John blinks again, unable to process what's happening, what Sherlock means. And yet, on some level, he must be doing exactly that, because his mouth has gone horribly dry. "Are you .." He stops, swallows awkwardly and tries again. "Are you asking me to ..?" He can't say it. It's too ridiculous.
Or it would be, if Sherlock hadn't just nodded and taken off his shirt.
Oh, god - he's so pale. His skin is so pale, and he's so slender and vulnerable. What John really wants to do is scoop him up in his arms and protect him. He shakes his head. "I can't."
It's as if he hadn't even spoken. Sherlock moves his chair out of the way, shoves everything on his desk to the far end, and plants both hands down flat on its surface. "You're a soldier," he says, crisply. "You follow orders. Do it."
He's mad. Completely insane. But John has always known this. Whatever Sherlock claims, the idiot really was going to swallow that damn pill to prove himself smarter than a mere cabbie, and he's been doing stupid things ever since. To John's certain knowledge, he's been shot at, attacked by sword-wielding acrobats, half-strangled with a length of red silk, almost blown up and nearly suffocated by a golem - and none of it because it was his job. No, it's like Donovan says: he gets off on it. Without the stimulation of a puzzle, or the thrill of danger, he sinks into boredom and despair. John's grip on the crop tightens. Perhaps Sherlock needs this?
"Some time today would be wonderful," Sherlock says, as John continues to hesitate. "If you wouldn't mind."
For a man asking to be whipped, his tone is surprisingly imperious - annoyingly so, in fact - and John feels a flicker of resentment. It's a life-line, something he can use, as he moves round the table to stand next to Sherlock, slightly behind him.
Sherlock lets out a long breath, like a sigh of relief, and adjusts his position, spreading his hands further apart, and bending his arms a little at the elbows. The change means he's leaning forward now, with his back curved over the desk, so that every little bump of his spine and the lines of his shoulder blades stand out sharply from the smooth expanse of his white, white skin.
The sight of him like that - waiting, submissive and unresisting - does the most wicked things to John's insides. His belly twists and grows hot, and his heart starts to race. He couldn't swallow if he tried. There's sweat beading along his hairline and at the nape of his neck, and his dick is impossibly, shamefully, hard. He can't think straight any more. Doesn't know if what he's about to do is wrong, or if it's right - and frankly, he doesn't much care.
He screws his eyes tight shut, raises the crop above his head, and when he hears Sherlock growl "Now", brings it down hard, as hard as he can.
There's a split second when all he hears is the swish of the crop slicing through the air, and the crack of leather hitting skin, and then Sherlock is gasping, panting and swearing incoherently. A chair goes flying and a mug gets knocked to the ground.
Hardly daring to, John opens his eyes - to find Sherlock doubled over his desk, breathing heavily, a foot-long crimson weal rising in a diagonal stripe from his left shoulder blade to the bottom right of his ribcage.
"Oh, god!" John cries in horror. "Oh god, oh god, oh god! Bloody hell, Sherlock, I'm sorry! Are you all right?"
Still half-bent over the desk, Sherlock turns his head to look at him. His eyes are wet and shimmering, but he manages wry smile. "Not particularly, Doctor. That-" He bites his lip. "- hurt."
"Yes, well, yes - it would," John stammers. "H-hang on, I'll get some ice."
He hurries into the kitchen and throws open the freezer door. There are two ice-trays: there should be plenty of ice. He'll crack the cubes out into a carrier bag, wrap it in a tea-towel and lay the lot on Sherlock's back. That'll bring the swelling down and John's got arnica for the bruising.
But the ice-trays are empty. Both of them. Frozen peas would have made a good alternative, but there's none of those either. In fact, there's not a damn thing in the freezer apart from an ancient packet of fishfingers and a tub of vanilla ice-cream. John picks up the ice-cream. It'll have to do.
"You didn't do the bloody shopping," he grumbles, returning to the living room. "Again."
"Boring!" Sherlock scoffs, then winces, and his fingertips squeak against the polished top of his desk as another spasm of pain goes through him.
The tirade John might have launched into about how Sherlock needs to stop relying on him and take some responsibility for their living arrangements too dies on his tongue. He fetches a cushion from the settee and eases it between Sherlock and the desk. As Sherlock lets himself sink down onto it, John prises the lid off the ice-cream and scoops a dollop out with his fingers.
"This is going to be cold," he warns.
Sherlock hisses at the first cold dab of it on his inflamed skin, and his muscles tense up, but he slowly gets used to it and allows himself to relax.
"I'm sorry," John says, again. Because he is, he really is. The half-formed fantasy of having Sherlock entirely at his mercy was embarrassingly hot, but this - the reality of it - absolutely isn't. He'd rather injure himself than Sherlock.
Sherlock gives a short, little laugh. "I had no idea you were so strong, John. Nor so fierce."
"Oh god," John groans, mortified. "Neither did I. I didn't mean to ... you know ..."
Sherlock pushes up from the table and stands, turning to face John. "Well, it's done now. You can stop looking so anxious."
"But-"
Sherlock halts John's protest with a smile. "It's fine." His lifts his hand as if about to cup John's face, and John thinks that maybe they're about to have a moment after all, but suddenly Sherlock's nose wrinkles and he grimaces, body twisting as he tries to look back over his shoulder. "The ice-cream," he says. "It's melting."
It is, indeed. Dripping in pale stripes down Sherlock's back, and threatening to slide under the waistband of his expensive trousers and ruin them.
"Lie back down," John urges, patting the cushion. "I'll get a cloth."
Sherlock obeys without a murmur, and John goes back to the kitchen for a tea-towel.
He's only gone for a matter of seconds, but when he comes back, seeing Sherlock in that position still hits him low in the stomach, like he's seeing it for the very first time. His dick comes instantly back to life, and in a few thudding pulses is achingly hard against the stiff line of his flies.
Sherlock is very quiet, very still, as John approaches. The ice-cream has lost almost all its shape now, and is little more than a sticky puddle, the worst of it heading for the small of Sherlock's back and dribbling outwards along the line of his waist. John wipes one side with the tea-towel, then the other, and is about to try cleaning up the rest when he's overtaken by a strong and urgent need to lick Sherlock's skin. He could suppress it, of course, if he wanted - but he doesn't. He wants contact, wants to taste the ice-cream, to taste Sherlock. He wants to lick the wound he inflicted and help it heal. He lowers his head and runs the tip of his tongue up it.
Sherlock shivers and lets out a breathy "John".
John freezes. "Not good?"
"On the contrary," Sherlock purrs, wriggling his shoulders like a cat being stroked. "Don't stop."
So John keeps licking, licking and kissing, and being very, very careful, until Sherlock arches beneath him, pushing his upper body up from the desk until the back of his head presses into John's collarbone. "John, if you don't-" Sherlock's breath hitches. "If you don't ... now ... something is going to break."
The words send a new rush of excitement through John. His knees weak and he finds himself clutching at Sherlock's shoulders for support. "Um, bed?" he suggests. He doesn't want to get anything else wrong. He couldn't bear it.
Sherlock's head falls forward and he shakes it, dark curls emphasizing the movement. "No," he says, punctuating the word a roll of his hips. "Here. Now. Like this."
It's as if every one of John's nerve endings had fired at once. He's imagined shagging Sherlock in all kinds of places, in all kinds of ways, but this is better than any of them. Because it's real and messy and - oh god - Sherlock actually wants John to fuck him. And over a table too!
John swallows and tries to think of something else, just for a moment, because otherwise he's going to come from the simple act of undoing his jeans. He'll remove Sherlock's trousers first, he decides, toeing off his own shoes. That would be best. Practical. Calming.
Only it's not, because Sherlock shudders as soon as John's hand finds his flies and shudders again when John drags his trousers down over those impossibly narrow hips. Worse still, when John hooks his thumbs under the elastic of Sherlock's underpants to pull them down, Sherlock makes a noise that, from anyone else, would definitely be a whimper. But John daren't dwell on the thought he might be capable of making Sherlock whimper, so he pushes it firmly from his mind, and concentrates on getting Sherlock's pants off whilst trying not to notice how very hard he is, nor how hot. The rest of Sherlock's body is so cool by comparison, his flanks and thighs almost cold, but as John undoes his own trousers and kicks them off, he knows it's not cold that's making Sherlock tremble. He's trembling himself. He tugs his jumper and shirt up over his head together, and throws them aside.
"Hurry up," Sherlock grumbles. "For god's sake, John, hurry up."
John pulls off his own boxers quickly, hopping from one foot to the other to get his legs out. Somehow, despite his excitement, he manages to not fall over.
Naked at last, he pauses to look at Sherlock. He knows he's not going to last long once he's inside him, so he wants to make the most of this, the moments before. He wants to savour the tight stretch of muscle up the back of Sherlock's long, long thighs, the fine dusting of dark hairs on them, and his high, perfectly shaped backside . But, inevitably, his eyes are drawn to Sherlock's shoulder instead and to the welt across it. It makes him doubt everything. Sherlock didn't know what he was asking for before; perhaps he doesn't know now either.
John touches a hand to Sherlock's hip. "Listen, um ... are you sure?"
Sherlock grinds his forehead into the table and makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat. "What does the evidence suggest, John? I'm naked over a table. I'm not examining it for fingerprints, am I?"
John can't help but laugh. "Yeah. Okay. But, well, you do know what this involves, right?"
"I'm perfectly aware of the mechanics, thank you, Doctor, yes," Sherlock says, his voice taking on that infuriatingly superior edge again. "I'm also cognisant of the need for lubrication. There should be a jar of salve on the chair to your left."
There is. John picks it up and unscrews the lid. "So," he says, aiming for a conversation tone, "you've done this before, then? You've had boyfriends?" For some reason, the idea makes him a little sad - which at least means slicking himself up isn't unbearably arousing.
Sherlock snorts. "I was buggered once. At school. Didn't like it.."
The enormity of that takes John's breath away. "Oh," he says, stunned. "So, uh, what makes you think you'll like it now?"
Sherlock twists his head around so that he can look back at John over his shoulder. "I'm reliably informed it's different when ..." He stops, seemingly unable to finish the sentence, and John is glad: this way it can mean what he wants it to mean. An almost painful fondness wells up in him and, as he pushes some of the salve into Sherlock body, he stretches over him to kiss the corner of his mouth. It's clumsy and off-centre, but it's brilliant too, and John thinks he could kiss Sherlock this way forever, especially when feels Sherlock's lips curl into a smile.
But Sherlock doesn't want to kiss forever. He pulls away. "Now," he says firmly, undulating his body meaningfully. For a brief, teasing moment his buttocks are cool against John's hot dick, then the point of contact shifts so that his spine is against John's stomach, then his shoulders against John's chest. When John doesn't move, he does it again.
John cracks. There's only so much of this he can stand without losing control completely, and he lowers his head to kiss the side of Sherlock's throat. The kiss rapidly becomes hungry, open-mouthed suction, prompting Sherlock to undulate beneath him again, and make another of those noises that sound like a whimper. John feels pretty much like whimpering himself. The fluid movement of Sherlock's body, the brush of skin and muscle against his own, is too much - much too bloody much - and the next time Sherlock rolls his pelvis, John grabs his hipbones with both hands and holds them pinned, because he needs the pressure, needs Sherlock's backside against his groin, and to feel the cleft between Sherlock's buttocks slowly yielding to the press of his dick. Sherlock stops moving, stops breathing, just waits - for whatever John will do next. He's so utterly compliant and unresisting that John doesn't need to hang onto him to keep him close, but he does. There's a little thrill of ownership about it, of dominance, which is far too intoxicating to give that up just yet. Even when John has to use one hand to guide himself into Sherlock's body, he keeps a firm hold of him with the other.
"Breathe out," he says, and as Sherlock exhales, John pushes slowly and carefully in.
"Oh god," Sherlock gasps, his fingers scrabbling to the edges of the desk to grip them tight. "Oh god."
"D'you want me to stop?" John pants, because - even now, even this desperately horny - he will, if Sherlock needs him to.
"No!" Sherlock sounds positively outraged at the suggestion, so John pushes in further, deeper, all the way, and Sherlock lets out a long, low moan that might be one of pain but sounds much more like one of approval.
Even so, John doesn't want to rush him. Sherlock may not technically be a virgin, but he might as well be, given how limited - and unsatisfactory - his experience has been. John needs to give him time, no matter how badly he wants to just pound the hell into him, no matter how strongly every instinct is telling him to thrust. But as he waits for Sherlock to get used to it all and for the tight constriction of Sherlock's muscles around his dick to loosen a little, Sherlock surprises him by rocking his hips - little movements back and forward at first, then harder, faster, sometimes with a roll to the right and sometimes to the left.
John closes his eyes and clenches his teeth. The drag and push on his dick is amazing. He can practically see stars, it's so good.
"I do hope," Sherlock pants, driving his backside into John's pelvis with force, "I'm not going to have to do all the work here."
John laughs - a crazy, giddy laugh of sheer happiness. "No," he says, starting to thrust too, "I'll, uh, help you out, don't worry."
"Glad. To. Hear. It," Sherlock answers, his words quickly becoming broken and breathless as John gathers speed. "Exercise. Good for you. Don't. Want. You. Getting fat."
"Just you wait," John promises, and moves both hands back to Sherlock's hipbones for some serious purchase and leverage. When he thrusts again, Sherlock shudders and moans into the table top. That's bad enough for John's composure, but then there's the sensation on top, the blissful friction, and he's right on the edge of losing himself, of forgetting about anything other than how bloody fantastic this feels, and how much he wants to feel more of it, when he remembers how badly he wants Sherlock to feel it too, for this to be just as good for him. He stills and says, "Shuffle back a bit."
"What?" Sherlock sounds dazed, breathless. "Why?"
"Just bloody do it," John chuckles, and pulls slightly on Sherlock's hips, guiding him back.
It's not exactly an elegant manoeuvre, the two of them, inching back, John doing his best to stay inside Sherlock, and Sherlock not really understanding what's going on, but eventually they get to a point where Sherlock's head and chest are still resting on the desk, but that's all. John hears him grunt in irritation, and smiles. Where there's no table, there's no pressure, no friction; no wonder Sherlock's annoyed.
"How does this help?" Sherlock demands. "It was better-"
"Shut up," John says, cutting him off - not just with words, but by sliding both hands forwards too - one to cup Sherlock's balls and the other to encircle his dick.
Sherlock's first "Oh!" is a little sound of surprised realization, but the "Oh" that follows - when John starts working him slowly in time to his thrusts - is much deeper and longer, a rumble of astonished, grateful pleasure.
It doesn't take long to bring him to orgasm. Just a couple of slow strokes, then half a dozen faster, firmer ones, and he arches, shivers once and comes. John has never felt prouder in his life, and he kisses every inch of Sherlock he can reach, murmuring soothing sounds into his skin. He hears Sherlock sigh - a deep, satisfied kind of sigh - as his body goes limp. It's Johns turn now, and he's about to chase down his own orgasm, when suddenly Sherlock's grip on the table fails and they're falling, sinking to the ground. Sherlock lands on spread knees, and topples forwards, to land with one arm bent under his head and the other trailing out to one side. John is down too, on his knees behind Sherlock, with his dick still miraculously inside him. This ... This is John's favourite fantasy come true. He has Sherlock on the floor, head down, backside in the air - and he's damn well going to enjoy it. Hooking an arm about Sherlock's waist, he places a hand on the small of his back to steady himself, and thrusts hard and deep. His heart thuds, and his every nerve tingles with the heat and pleasure of it. He thrusts a second time, and catches his breath. Thrusts again, and falls wonderfully, blissfully apart.
He's not sure how long he stays collapsed over Sherlock's crumpled body, head turned to one side and his cheek wet with sweat against Sherlock's back, but guesses it's been a few minutes because when Sherlock finally heaves him off, his knees come away from the floorboards feeling dented and a little sore.
He rolls away to the side, avoiding the toppled chair, and makes sure Sherlock has room to straighten out too. They lie together on their backs for some time, John listening to the muted traffic noises from outside, and to the sound of Sherlock breathing.
"That," he says at last, "was amazing." But there's no answer. "Sherlock?"
"Mmm?"
John turns his head. Sherlock's is lying with his eyes closed and his head tipped back. He looks more peaceful that John has ever seen him. "Was it okay?" John asks, even though he knows it was - the proof of that is still wet between his fingers - but he'd like to hear Sherlock say it.
Eyes still closed, Sherlock merely stretches lazily and nods.
John wriggles closer, until they're touching again. There are little bits of grit digging into his skin, and he really couldn't say when they last vacuumed, but he's perfectly content to keep lying here, just like this, grit and dirt and all, because - bloody hell! - he's with Sherlock, and they just Had Sex.
But when a little frown creases Sherlock's forehead and he clears his throat, John feels a flicker of alarm - alarm that only intensifies when Sherlock says slowly, "Um, John ..."
"Yes?" John replies quickly, probably too quickly, because now he's sounding as alarmed as he feels, and he'd really rather Sherlock didn't think him utterly desperate.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. "Um - would it be possible, next time, to omit the bit with the riding crop?" He smiles uncertainly. "Unless you consider it essential?"
"No!" John laughs, awash with relief - not only that Sherlock is already thinking 'next time' but also that he won't have to hit him again. "Not at all!" Then the penny drops. An oddly-shaped penny, all the way from the weirder realms of Planet Sherlock. "Hey! What? No. No. The sadomasochism was your idea, not mine."
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock retorts. "I don't enjoy pain. You talked me into it."
John can't believe his ears. "I did ... what?"
"You said brilliant men like to give up control. That they like pain. Naturally I took it as an overture."
"Naturally?" John sits up. "Naturally! What the hell? I just wanted a good old straightforward shag."
Sherlock sits up too. He looks a little melancholy as he speaks. "It didn't seem like it. After the pool ... I thought ... But you didn't touch me in the taxi."
"You're the one who went and huddled into the corner," John argues. "And when we got back here, you rushed off to your room."
Sherlock casts a glance up at his desk and looks a little shame-faced. "I thought we needed a bed."
"Oh." John can't believe what a dozy pillock he's been. Nor how utterly clueless Sherlock can be either. Shaking his head at their combined stupidity, he takes Sherlock's face between his hands and kisses him lightly. "You idiot. I think you need to work on your deductive skills a bit."
Sherlock sniffs and tosses his head. "There is nothing wrong with my deductive skills, Doctor." Then he smiles and wraps both arms around John's neck. "In fact, I've already worked out what went wrong here: I made a mistake."
"Yeah?" John asks. "And what was that?"
Sherlock leans in. "I broke my cardinal rule," he says, his lips brushing John's. "I allowed myself to care."
The End
Title: We'll start - and finish - with the riding crop
Recipient: sc010f
Author: kispexi2
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: bad language, BDSM (light), explicit m/m sex, first time sex, WAFF, happy ending
Summary: John and Sherlock misunderstand each other, resulting in a comedy of errors.
Wordcount: ~5.5K
A/N: This story takes place one week after Sherlock S1:3 (The Great Game) so there could be spoilers if you haven't seen that episode.
Many and fulsome thanks to my betas.
We'll start - and finish - with the riding crop
John is on his hands and knees on the floor in Sherlock's bedroom.
Seven days ago, the two of them kissed. They were weak with relief at not being dead, giddy at discovering that Moriarty's 'Semtex' was nothing more than a few slabs of marzipan fitted with wires and wrapped in baking foil, laughing and hugging each other - and then they kissed. John's not sure who kissed who first; they just seemed to collide, mouth to mouth, hands in each other's hair, clutching at one another, in a frenzy of tongues, and hands, and lips.
And now John is on his hands and knees, on the floor, in Sherlock's bedroom.
Though - sadly - not in the way that, a week ago, he'd hoped he might be; he's not getting shagged senseless; he's looking for his bloody stethoscope. Sherlock borrowed it for 'something important' and then forgot about it.
Just like he appears to have forgotten about the kiss and how desperately they wanted each other.
It was a practical decision to pull apart, to not just sink to the nobbly poolside tiles and fuck each other stupid right then and there. On reflection, John expects the cold and discomfort would have dampened their ardour a touch after a while, and someone's knees and the other person's spine would have been in excruciating pain, but it was the fear that Moriarty might still be there, watching, and learning ever more subtle and personalized ways to burn Sherlock's heart out, that made them sensible enough to step back, draw breath and realize that what they wanted to do to each other would be far better done at home.
Except they didn't. It was a long drive back to Baker Street and, much as John wanted to snog Sherlock all the way home, he wasn't sure Sherlock would appreciate semi-public kissing, so he sat in quiet, thrilled anticipation, willing the taxi driver to put his foot down hard. But as the miles rolled past, Sherlock got quieter and quieter, and shifted away from John into a corner, where he seemed to fold in on himself, arms crossed, head turned away. His eyes, reflected in the window, stared blankly out into the night, seeing nothing, reacting not at all.
By the time they got home, the silence between them was painful, with John's brain was helpfully rattling through a vast list of reasons for it, none of them good, and all of them boiling down to one thing: he might want Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't want him back. He'd gone too far and ruined everything. When he opened the door to 221 and let them in, the speed with which Sherlock ran up the stairs and disappeared into his room, just confirmed it. John trudged up to his room and collapsed onto his bed. He was so tired, on so many levels, that he fell asleep immediately, still wearing every last stitch of his clothes.
And now John is on his hands and knees on the floor in Sherlock's bedroom, still very much not getting shagged senseless but peering under the bed instead.
He's on the point of giving up all hope of ever finding his lost stethoscope, when he finally spots it. Stretching out an arm, he pushes through a chaotic mess of books and clothes and god knows what else to reach it, but when his fingers close around their goal, John realizes that he's not gripping flexible vinyl tubing but something else entirely: a length of stiff but springy leather. A ripple of shock goes through him, making his armpits prick and his palms tingle. He know what this is, this thing he's holding. It's a riding crop.
He withdraws it slowly from under the bed and stares. It's much like the one he carried at Sandhurst on ceremonial occasions - only, unlike John's military crop, this one has been used. Some of the edges of the criss-crossed leather weave are worn, no longer a shiny black but scuffed and grey. Used by Sherlock? John's belly tightens oddly at the thought. Used on Sherlock? Oh god, John really wishes he hadn't thought that. He swallows hard, unable to stop the images forming in his head, unable to prevent himself from running a finger and thumb down the length of the crop. He presses the end of it against the palm of his hand, and bends it back on itself. He's surprised at amount of effort it takes - the crop is really pretty thin - but when he takes his hand away, the sheer force with which it snaps out straight again makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end.
There must, he tells himself frantically, be a hundred and one reasons why Sherlock has a riding crop - none of them sexual - and he finds himself gripping the crop harder, nails digging into his palm, as he wills himself to come up with just one. One would do. Any one. It would ease the sudden ache in his balls, and let him breathe normally again.
It's a long time coming, but at last he remembers. That first day they met, Sherlock mentioned he had a crop, said he'd left it in the morgue. He obviously uses it in his deductions! Somehow. John lets out a shaky breath and feels some of his tension start to ebb away. He doesn't need to know exactly how Sherlock uses the thing, just that it's for something scientific. Something quantifiable. Something as far removed from the things John has been thinking as it's possible to get.
He pushes the crop back under the bed again, all the way under, as far as he can reach. Out of sight, out of mind.
"Find it?" a voice - Sherlock's voice - asks.
John's reaction is one of wild, visceral panic. He jumps, knocking first his head, then his shoulder, the left one, against the underside of Sherlock's bed-frame with a force that makes him hiss in pain. Oh god, how long has he been there? What did he see? What the hell is he thinking?
John extricates himself awkwardly from the junk under Sherlock's bed, and gets to his feet. He'd rather not look Sherlock in the eye right now, but fears avoiding his gaze would be even more incriminating, so he brazens it out, despite the heat burning his cheeks. "Uh, find what?" he asks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans in what he hopes is a casual manner.
There's a long silence. "Your stethoscope," Sherlock says, eventually. "Did you find it?"
His stethoscope! Yes, of course! John feels like an idiot now. "Um, no. Not, uh, yet. I ... I don't think it's in here."
Sherlock sniffs. "Try the kitchen," he suggests, and disappears back into the living room.
John takes a couple of good, deep breaths. Then a couple more. Bloody hell, Sherlock can be eerily stealthy when he wants. John had better remember that.
When he's regained enough composure to go out into the living room again, he finds Sherlock sitting with his elbows resting on his desk, chin propped up by his thumbs, and hands pressed together against his lips. To John's relief, his eyes are closed and he seems deep in thought, giving John the perfect opportunity to creep silently past him and into the kitchen without being noticed. It doesn't work.
"Why would a man want to get beaten?" Sherlock asks out of the blue, every word as crisp and hard-edged as the crack of a whip.
John's heart leaps in his chest and does its best to fight its way up and out of his throat. He goes hot, then cold, and his hands turn clammy. "Wh-what?" he stammers.
Sherlock opens his eyes and swivels around on his seat to look up at John. "I'm working on a case," he explains, with a slow, reassuring smile. "Blackmail."
Stay calm, John thinks. Be professional. It's for a case. It's just a question about a case. He racks his brains desperately for something to say and, by some miracle, manages to dredge up a memory from med school, from the term when he - briefly - considered a career in psychiatry. "Um, I think it’s about letting go?” he offers. “Men like that, they're usually ... er, very good at what they do. They have highly responsible jobs, and aren’t outwardly submissive at all. Competent men. Successful."
Sherlock leans forward, all intense focus and interest. "That would certainly fit the profile. Go on."
"Well," John says, "it's complicated but, if I'm remembering it properly, it's about not being the one in charge any more."
Sherlock nods. "Yes. And?"
"Um." John is floundering now. "Sometimes it's about trust?"
"Really?” Sherlock murmurs. “How interesting."
John gives an embarrassed laugh. "Well, I’m no expert. I switched to field medicine half-way through the course, so I'm not really qualified-"
"But you're an intelligent man, John," Sherlock interrupts. "Not to mention, used to acting on your instincts. Tell me what your gut says." His eyes are very blue, very clear, and they make John shiver. "What's so good about not being in charge?"
John shrugs. "Not feeling responsible? Not having to worry about making decisions?"
"Like being in the army!" Sherlock exclaims, clapping his hands together. He cocks an eyebrow. "Is that why you joined? To be controlled by someone else?"
"No!" John cries, hotly, really not liking the way Sherlock is looking at him now. "I joined up because I wanted to do what I do best, where I do it best. Where I could make the most difference. And besides, I was just a captain, an assistant surgeon. I had to follow orders. The kind of men we're talking about ... well, they're much more highly placed than that. High court judges, captains of industry ... that kind of thing. Brilliant men."
"Brilliant men?" Sherlock's eyes go wide and a light-bulb seems to go off behind them. He rocks back in his chair and cries, "Oh! Of course! Stupid, stupid! Stay there! Don't move!" And without further explanation, he leaps up and dashes off to his room. John hears him moving stuff around and the odd, impatient curse, followed by a crow of triumph, and then he's back again, striding up to John, riding crop in hand.
John takes a step back. "Sherlock?" he gasps, despite his best efforts not to. "What-"
Sherlock steps in closer and presses the crop into John's hand. "I've been an idiot, John. The data didn't make sense." He looks away, then back again. "I'm afraid none of this is really my area."
John blinks. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I saw you," Sherlock says quietly. "Earlier. With this." He touches a finger lightly to the crop, to the little triangle of leather at its end.. "You looked ... interested." He meets John's eye again. "I don't know how these things are done, John."
John blinks again, unable to process what's happening, what Sherlock means. And yet, on some level, he must be doing exactly that, because his mouth has gone horribly dry. "Are you .." He stops, swallows awkwardly and tries again. "Are you asking me to ..?" He can't say it. It's too ridiculous.
Or it would be, if Sherlock hadn't just nodded and taken off his shirt.
Oh, god - he's so pale. His skin is so pale, and he's so slender and vulnerable. What John really wants to do is scoop him up in his arms and protect him. He shakes his head. "I can't."
It's as if he hadn't even spoken. Sherlock moves his chair out of the way, shoves everything on his desk to the far end, and plants both hands down flat on its surface. "You're a soldier," he says, crisply. "You follow orders. Do it."
He's mad. Completely insane. But John has always known this. Whatever Sherlock claims, the idiot really was going to swallow that damn pill to prove himself smarter than a mere cabbie, and he's been doing stupid things ever since. To John's certain knowledge, he's been shot at, attacked by sword-wielding acrobats, half-strangled with a length of red silk, almost blown up and nearly suffocated by a golem - and none of it because it was his job. No, it's like Donovan says: he gets off on it. Without the stimulation of a puzzle, or the thrill of danger, he sinks into boredom and despair. John's grip on the crop tightens. Perhaps Sherlock needs this?
"Some time today would be wonderful," Sherlock says, as John continues to hesitate. "If you wouldn't mind."
For a man asking to be whipped, his tone is surprisingly imperious - annoyingly so, in fact - and John feels a flicker of resentment. It's a life-line, something he can use, as he moves round the table to stand next to Sherlock, slightly behind him.
Sherlock lets out a long breath, like a sigh of relief, and adjusts his position, spreading his hands further apart, and bending his arms a little at the elbows. The change means he's leaning forward now, with his back curved over the desk, so that every little bump of his spine and the lines of his shoulder blades stand out sharply from the smooth expanse of his white, white skin.
The sight of him like that - waiting, submissive and unresisting - does the most wicked things to John's insides. His belly twists and grows hot, and his heart starts to race. He couldn't swallow if he tried. There's sweat beading along his hairline and at the nape of his neck, and his dick is impossibly, shamefully, hard. He can't think straight any more. Doesn't know if what he's about to do is wrong, or if it's right - and frankly, he doesn't much care.
He screws his eyes tight shut, raises the crop above his head, and when he hears Sherlock growl "Now", brings it down hard, as hard as he can.
There's a split second when all he hears is the swish of the crop slicing through the air, and the crack of leather hitting skin, and then Sherlock is gasping, panting and swearing incoherently. A chair goes flying and a mug gets knocked to the ground.
Hardly daring to, John opens his eyes - to find Sherlock doubled over his desk, breathing heavily, a foot-long crimson weal rising in a diagonal stripe from his left shoulder blade to the bottom right of his ribcage.
"Oh, god!" John cries in horror. "Oh god, oh god, oh god! Bloody hell, Sherlock, I'm sorry! Are you all right?"
Still half-bent over the desk, Sherlock turns his head to look at him. His eyes are wet and shimmering, but he manages wry smile. "Not particularly, Doctor. That-" He bites his lip. "- hurt."
"Yes, well, yes - it would," John stammers. "H-hang on, I'll get some ice."
He hurries into the kitchen and throws open the freezer door. There are two ice-trays: there should be plenty of ice. He'll crack the cubes out into a carrier bag, wrap it in a tea-towel and lay the lot on Sherlock's back. That'll bring the swelling down and John's got arnica for the bruising.
But the ice-trays are empty. Both of them. Frozen peas would have made a good alternative, but there's none of those either. In fact, there's not a damn thing in the freezer apart from an ancient packet of fishfingers and a tub of vanilla ice-cream. John picks up the ice-cream. It'll have to do.
"You didn't do the bloody shopping," he grumbles, returning to the living room. "Again."
"Boring!" Sherlock scoffs, then winces, and his fingertips squeak against the polished top of his desk as another spasm of pain goes through him.
The tirade John might have launched into about how Sherlock needs to stop relying on him and take some responsibility for their living arrangements too dies on his tongue. He fetches a cushion from the settee and eases it between Sherlock and the desk. As Sherlock lets himself sink down onto it, John prises the lid off the ice-cream and scoops a dollop out with his fingers.
"This is going to be cold," he warns.
Sherlock hisses at the first cold dab of it on his inflamed skin, and his muscles tense up, but he slowly gets used to it and allows himself to relax.
"I'm sorry," John says, again. Because he is, he really is. The half-formed fantasy of having Sherlock entirely at his mercy was embarrassingly hot, but this - the reality of it - absolutely isn't. He'd rather injure himself than Sherlock.
Sherlock gives a short, little laugh. "I had no idea you were so strong, John. Nor so fierce."
"Oh god," John groans, mortified. "Neither did I. I didn't mean to ... you know ..."
Sherlock pushes up from the table and stands, turning to face John. "Well, it's done now. You can stop looking so anxious."
"But-"
Sherlock halts John's protest with a smile. "It's fine." His lifts his hand as if about to cup John's face, and John thinks that maybe they're about to have a moment after all, but suddenly Sherlock's nose wrinkles and he grimaces, body twisting as he tries to look back over his shoulder. "The ice-cream," he says. "It's melting."
It is, indeed. Dripping in pale stripes down Sherlock's back, and threatening to slide under the waistband of his expensive trousers and ruin them.
"Lie back down," John urges, patting the cushion. "I'll get a cloth."
Sherlock obeys without a murmur, and John goes back to the kitchen for a tea-towel.
He's only gone for a matter of seconds, but when he comes back, seeing Sherlock in that position still hits him low in the stomach, like he's seeing it for the very first time. His dick comes instantly back to life, and in a few thudding pulses is achingly hard against the stiff line of his flies.
Sherlock is very quiet, very still, as John approaches. The ice-cream has lost almost all its shape now, and is little more than a sticky puddle, the worst of it heading for the small of Sherlock's back and dribbling outwards along the line of his waist. John wipes one side with the tea-towel, then the other, and is about to try cleaning up the rest when he's overtaken by a strong and urgent need to lick Sherlock's skin. He could suppress it, of course, if he wanted - but he doesn't. He wants contact, wants to taste the ice-cream, to taste Sherlock. He wants to lick the wound he inflicted and help it heal. He lowers his head and runs the tip of his tongue up it.
Sherlock shivers and lets out a breathy "John".
John freezes. "Not good?"
"On the contrary," Sherlock purrs, wriggling his shoulders like a cat being stroked. "Don't stop."
So John keeps licking, licking and kissing, and being very, very careful, until Sherlock arches beneath him, pushing his upper body up from the desk until the back of his head presses into John's collarbone. "John, if you don't-" Sherlock's breath hitches. "If you don't ... now ... something is going to break."
The words send a new rush of excitement through John. His knees weak and he finds himself clutching at Sherlock's shoulders for support. "Um, bed?" he suggests. He doesn't want to get anything else wrong. He couldn't bear it.
Sherlock's head falls forward and he shakes it, dark curls emphasizing the movement. "No," he says, punctuating the word a roll of his hips. "Here. Now. Like this."
It's as if every one of John's nerve endings had fired at once. He's imagined shagging Sherlock in all kinds of places, in all kinds of ways, but this is better than any of them. Because it's real and messy and - oh god - Sherlock actually wants John to fuck him. And over a table too!
John swallows and tries to think of something else, just for a moment, because otherwise he's going to come from the simple act of undoing his jeans. He'll remove Sherlock's trousers first, he decides, toeing off his own shoes. That would be best. Practical. Calming.
Only it's not, because Sherlock shudders as soon as John's hand finds his flies and shudders again when John drags his trousers down over those impossibly narrow hips. Worse still, when John hooks his thumbs under the elastic of Sherlock's underpants to pull them down, Sherlock makes a noise that, from anyone else, would definitely be a whimper. But John daren't dwell on the thought he might be capable of making Sherlock whimper, so he pushes it firmly from his mind, and concentrates on getting Sherlock's pants off whilst trying not to notice how very hard he is, nor how hot. The rest of Sherlock's body is so cool by comparison, his flanks and thighs almost cold, but as John undoes his own trousers and kicks them off, he knows it's not cold that's making Sherlock tremble. He's trembling himself. He tugs his jumper and shirt up over his head together, and throws them aside.
"Hurry up," Sherlock grumbles. "For god's sake, John, hurry up."
John pulls off his own boxers quickly, hopping from one foot to the other to get his legs out. Somehow, despite his excitement, he manages to not fall over.
Naked at last, he pauses to look at Sherlock. He knows he's not going to last long once he's inside him, so he wants to make the most of this, the moments before. He wants to savour the tight stretch of muscle up the back of Sherlock's long, long thighs, the fine dusting of dark hairs on them, and his high, perfectly shaped backside . But, inevitably, his eyes are drawn to Sherlock's shoulder instead and to the welt across it. It makes him doubt everything. Sherlock didn't know what he was asking for before; perhaps he doesn't know now either.
John touches a hand to Sherlock's hip. "Listen, um ... are you sure?"
Sherlock grinds his forehead into the table and makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat. "What does the evidence suggest, John? I'm naked over a table. I'm not examining it for fingerprints, am I?"
John can't help but laugh. "Yeah. Okay. But, well, you do know what this involves, right?"
"I'm perfectly aware of the mechanics, thank you, Doctor, yes," Sherlock says, his voice taking on that infuriatingly superior edge again. "I'm also cognisant of the need for lubrication. There should be a jar of salve on the chair to your left."
There is. John picks it up and unscrews the lid. "So," he says, aiming for a conversation tone, "you've done this before, then? You've had boyfriends?" For some reason, the idea makes him a little sad - which at least means slicking himself up isn't unbearably arousing.
Sherlock snorts. "I was buggered once. At school. Didn't like it.."
The enormity of that takes John's breath away. "Oh," he says, stunned. "So, uh, what makes you think you'll like it now?"
Sherlock twists his head around so that he can look back at John over his shoulder. "I'm reliably informed it's different when ..." He stops, seemingly unable to finish the sentence, and John is glad: this way it can mean what he wants it to mean. An almost painful fondness wells up in him and, as he pushes some of the salve into Sherlock body, he stretches over him to kiss the corner of his mouth. It's clumsy and off-centre, but it's brilliant too, and John thinks he could kiss Sherlock this way forever, especially when feels Sherlock's lips curl into a smile.
But Sherlock doesn't want to kiss forever. He pulls away. "Now," he says firmly, undulating his body meaningfully. For a brief, teasing moment his buttocks are cool against John's hot dick, then the point of contact shifts so that his spine is against John's stomach, then his shoulders against John's chest. When John doesn't move, he does it again.
John cracks. There's only so much of this he can stand without losing control completely, and he lowers his head to kiss the side of Sherlock's throat. The kiss rapidly becomes hungry, open-mouthed suction, prompting Sherlock to undulate beneath him again, and make another of those noises that sound like a whimper. John feels pretty much like whimpering himself. The fluid movement of Sherlock's body, the brush of skin and muscle against his own, is too much - much too bloody much - and the next time Sherlock rolls his pelvis, John grabs his hipbones with both hands and holds them pinned, because he needs the pressure, needs Sherlock's backside against his groin, and to feel the cleft between Sherlock's buttocks slowly yielding to the press of his dick. Sherlock stops moving, stops breathing, just waits - for whatever John will do next. He's so utterly compliant and unresisting that John doesn't need to hang onto him to keep him close, but he does. There's a little thrill of ownership about it, of dominance, which is far too intoxicating to give that up just yet. Even when John has to use one hand to guide himself into Sherlock's body, he keeps a firm hold of him with the other.
"Breathe out," he says, and as Sherlock exhales, John pushes slowly and carefully in.
"Oh god," Sherlock gasps, his fingers scrabbling to the edges of the desk to grip them tight. "Oh god."
"D'you want me to stop?" John pants, because - even now, even this desperately horny - he will, if Sherlock needs him to.
"No!" Sherlock sounds positively outraged at the suggestion, so John pushes in further, deeper, all the way, and Sherlock lets out a long, low moan that might be one of pain but sounds much more like one of approval.
Even so, John doesn't want to rush him. Sherlock may not technically be a virgin, but he might as well be, given how limited - and unsatisfactory - his experience has been. John needs to give him time, no matter how badly he wants to just pound the hell into him, no matter how strongly every instinct is telling him to thrust. But as he waits for Sherlock to get used to it all and for the tight constriction of Sherlock's muscles around his dick to loosen a little, Sherlock surprises him by rocking his hips - little movements back and forward at first, then harder, faster, sometimes with a roll to the right and sometimes to the left.
John closes his eyes and clenches his teeth. The drag and push on his dick is amazing. He can practically see stars, it's so good.
"I do hope," Sherlock pants, driving his backside into John's pelvis with force, "I'm not going to have to do all the work here."
John laughs - a crazy, giddy laugh of sheer happiness. "No," he says, starting to thrust too, "I'll, uh, help you out, don't worry."
"Glad. To. Hear. It," Sherlock answers, his words quickly becoming broken and breathless as John gathers speed. "Exercise. Good for you. Don't. Want. You. Getting fat."
"Just you wait," John promises, and moves both hands back to Sherlock's hipbones for some serious purchase and leverage. When he thrusts again, Sherlock shudders and moans into the table top. That's bad enough for John's composure, but then there's the sensation on top, the blissful friction, and he's right on the edge of losing himself, of forgetting about anything other than how bloody fantastic this feels, and how much he wants to feel more of it, when he remembers how badly he wants Sherlock to feel it too, for this to be just as good for him. He stills and says, "Shuffle back a bit."
"What?" Sherlock sounds dazed, breathless. "Why?"
"Just bloody do it," John chuckles, and pulls slightly on Sherlock's hips, guiding him back.
It's not exactly an elegant manoeuvre, the two of them, inching back, John doing his best to stay inside Sherlock, and Sherlock not really understanding what's going on, but eventually they get to a point where Sherlock's head and chest are still resting on the desk, but that's all. John hears him grunt in irritation, and smiles. Where there's no table, there's no pressure, no friction; no wonder Sherlock's annoyed.
"How does this help?" Sherlock demands. "It was better-"
"Shut up," John says, cutting him off - not just with words, but by sliding both hands forwards too - one to cup Sherlock's balls and the other to encircle his dick.
Sherlock's first "Oh!" is a little sound of surprised realization, but the "Oh" that follows - when John starts working him slowly in time to his thrusts - is much deeper and longer, a rumble of astonished, grateful pleasure.
It doesn't take long to bring him to orgasm. Just a couple of slow strokes, then half a dozen faster, firmer ones, and he arches, shivers once and comes. John has never felt prouder in his life, and he kisses every inch of Sherlock he can reach, murmuring soothing sounds into his skin. He hears Sherlock sigh - a deep, satisfied kind of sigh - as his body goes limp. It's Johns turn now, and he's about to chase down his own orgasm, when suddenly Sherlock's grip on the table fails and they're falling, sinking to the ground. Sherlock lands on spread knees, and topples forwards, to land with one arm bent under his head and the other trailing out to one side. John is down too, on his knees behind Sherlock, with his dick still miraculously inside him. This ... This is John's favourite fantasy come true. He has Sherlock on the floor, head down, backside in the air - and he's damn well going to enjoy it. Hooking an arm about Sherlock's waist, he places a hand on the small of his back to steady himself, and thrusts hard and deep. His heart thuds, and his every nerve tingles with the heat and pleasure of it. He thrusts a second time, and catches his breath. Thrusts again, and falls wonderfully, blissfully apart.
He's not sure how long he stays collapsed over Sherlock's crumpled body, head turned to one side and his cheek wet with sweat against Sherlock's back, but guesses it's been a few minutes because when Sherlock finally heaves him off, his knees come away from the floorboards feeling dented and a little sore.
He rolls away to the side, avoiding the toppled chair, and makes sure Sherlock has room to straighten out too. They lie together on their backs for some time, John listening to the muted traffic noises from outside, and to the sound of Sherlock breathing.
"That," he says at last, "was amazing." But there's no answer. "Sherlock?"
"Mmm?"
John turns his head. Sherlock's is lying with his eyes closed and his head tipped back. He looks more peaceful that John has ever seen him. "Was it okay?" John asks, even though he knows it was - the proof of that is still wet between his fingers - but he'd like to hear Sherlock say it.
Eyes still closed, Sherlock merely stretches lazily and nods.
John wriggles closer, until they're touching again. There are little bits of grit digging into his skin, and he really couldn't say when they last vacuumed, but he's perfectly content to keep lying here, just like this, grit and dirt and all, because - bloody hell! - he's with Sherlock, and they just Had Sex.
But when a little frown creases Sherlock's forehead and he clears his throat, John feels a flicker of alarm - alarm that only intensifies when Sherlock says slowly, "Um, John ..."
"Yes?" John replies quickly, probably too quickly, because now he's sounding as alarmed as he feels, and he'd really rather Sherlock didn't think him utterly desperate.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. "Um - would it be possible, next time, to omit the bit with the riding crop?" He smiles uncertainly. "Unless you consider it essential?"
"No!" John laughs, awash with relief - not only that Sherlock is already thinking 'next time' but also that he won't have to hit him again. "Not at all!" Then the penny drops. An oddly-shaped penny, all the way from the weirder realms of Planet Sherlock. "Hey! What? No. No. The sadomasochism was your idea, not mine."
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock retorts. "I don't enjoy pain. You talked me into it."
John can't believe his ears. "I did ... what?"
"You said brilliant men like to give up control. That they like pain. Naturally I took it as an overture."
"Naturally?" John sits up. "Naturally! What the hell? I just wanted a good old straightforward shag."
Sherlock sits up too. He looks a little melancholy as he speaks. "It didn't seem like it. After the pool ... I thought ... But you didn't touch me in the taxi."
"You're the one who went and huddled into the corner," John argues. "And when we got back here, you rushed off to your room."
Sherlock casts a glance up at his desk and looks a little shame-faced. "I thought we needed a bed."
"Oh." John can't believe what a dozy pillock he's been. Nor how utterly clueless Sherlock can be either. Shaking his head at their combined stupidity, he takes Sherlock's face between his hands and kisses him lightly. "You idiot. I think you need to work on your deductive skills a bit."
Sherlock sniffs and tosses his head. "There is nothing wrong with my deductive skills, Doctor." Then he smiles and wraps both arms around John's neck. "In fact, I've already worked out what went wrong here: I made a mistake."
"Yeah?" John asks. "And what was that?"
Sherlock leans in. "I broke my cardinal rule," he says, his lips brushing John's. "I allowed myself to care."
The End