FIC: Enough Is As Good As A Feast
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex. Lots of it.
Summary: Five inappropriate places John and Sherlock had sex, and one which was too much even for them.
Written for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme.
1. “Sherlock, we shouldn’t…” John says, as Sherlock runs his hand across John’s thigh in a predatory manner.
“Why not?” Sherlock asks, his voice deeper and darker than normal.
“Because - oh, nngh - because this is a public place, Sherlock! People might walk in.”
Sherlock moves his hand away from the extremely sensitive area he was stroking and looks around him. “It’s highly unlikely.”
“Some people do actually use public toilets, you know,” John hisses, glaring up at his lover. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.
“Only the kind of people who wouldn’t be shocked anyway. Anyway, this is hardly a particularly busy spot. We’ll be fine.”
Sherlock attempts to go back to sucking on John’s neck, but still John bats him away. “It’s unhygienic,” he protests. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“So is what I intend to do to you,” he says, his voice low, and he moves his hand to drag one finger firmly down John’s spine. John shivers, and for a moment he melts.
“Fine,” John says, resignedly, and Sherlock leans in, and bites his neck.
-
2. “Clearly a physics lecturer with a wolfhound and a secret mistress,” Sherlock finishes, and Lestrade is looking both baffled and proud.
“So…?” Lestrade asks. “Who are we looking for?”
Sherlock snorts. “Do your own work for a change. It’s got to be his mistress’ lover. Crime of passion.”
“And how would you know that?” Anderson sneers. Sherlock sighs in an irritating, why-do-I-suffer-you-fools sort of manner.
“Even you must be able to see that the wounds were inflicted by a man, about five foot eleven, muscular, one leg slightly longer than the other… and gay,” he finishes, looking confused. “Gay?” he repeats. “No, that… that makes no sense.”
“I thought you said we were looking for the woman’s lover,” says Lestrade, his brow furrowing, “so how can he be-”
“Yes, alright, the issues are perfectly clear, thank you, Lestrade,” Sherlock snaps, and then, as Anderson starts to chuckle to Sally about his ineptitudes, Sherlock straightens up with a look of pure epiphany on his face.
“He’s gay,” he says, happily, and when Lestrade says “…yes?” Sherlock laughs to himself.
“The corpse. Gay. Or was gay, when he wasn’t dead. You’re looking for his lover. His boyfriend, I should say; they’re committed. There’ll be a name in the phone and a photograph in the wallet. Don’t waste my time with such trivial matters, Lestrade; even you should be able to manage this.”
And Sherlock stalks out of the room with a “Coming, John?”
John stares as he leaves. There is something unmistakably sexy about that man when he knows everything, which he always does. He nods at the police, and runs after Sherlock, grabbing him by the coat and pulling him into the nearest room, which turns out to be a study.
John holds Sherlock against the door, his arms strong.
“You smug git,” he says, his breath ragged, and Sherlock laughs.
“It was obvious,” he returns, “eventually.”
John’s hand is already reaching for Sherlock’s trousers.
“John,” says Sherlock reproachfully, “it’s a crime scene,” and now it is John’s turn to laugh.
“Since when,” he asks, feeling Sherlock grow hard in his hand, “have you ever worried about contaminating a crime scene?”
Sherlock’s only response is a filthy, filthy leer. John can only kiss it straight off his face, and he fucks Sherlock over the desk of a dead man until Sherlock comes in his hand.
-
3. When the black car pulls up to pick up John this time, it is a taxi, and Anthea is not inside it. John hangs up the phone, and raises one eyebrow at the person who is holding the car door open for him.
“Well, get in,” says Sherlock, exasperatedly.
The car pulls off, and John turns to his friend.
“My brother wanted to see me,” Sherlock begins, without so much as a word from John, “and apparently we have to stop to pick you up because ‘I’m impossible without you there’”.
“You’re pretty impossible whether I’m there or not,” John retorts, leaning back in the seat, watching the world go by the windows. He no longer finds these visits so troublesome; they are an almost soothing constant - whatever happens, Mycroft will be watching.
Sherlock is not so easy to please. “He’s so bloody arrogant,” he snaps. “Thinks he can just make me come running any time he likes…”
“Yes, good god, imagine somebody that self absorbed,” John says, drily, and naturally, Sherlock doesn’t notice.
“Precisely; it’s selfish, rude, no thought that I might have been busy-”
“Sherlock,” says John firmly, “if you do not shut up, so help me I will shut you up.”
Sherlock doesn’t give him a second glance; ranting is too enjoyable. “At least he’s letting me make my own way there this time, but just a hint of politeness would suffice. I mean, just because two people despise each other doesn’t mean they can’t be civil. I’m civil to him. I ignore his phone calls and that way…”
John leans over, grabs Sherlock by the shirt, and kisses him hard. Gently, Sherlock’s mouth opens to the kiss, and his teeth nip at John’s lips, needing more force. John’s response is to press his lips against Sherlock’s hard enough to bruise, hard enough to cut off air. By the time they part, even Sherlock is flushed.
“Get on top of me,” Sherlock says, desperately low. “Please, John.”
Please, John thinks, and after checking that the partition between the passengers and the drivers is down, he swings one leg over until he is sat on Sherlock’s lap, facing him. He rubs his arse against Sherlock’s cock, hard in his trousers, and Sherlock is begging, frantic.
“Want to fuck you, John” he says, hopelessly, and his lips are crushed against John hard enough to bruise, “please, please let me fuck you.”
John lifts himself up enough to pull down his trousers, and then his boxers, and spreads his legs a little wider. It is cramped, but there’s just enough room if he lifts his legs, and Sherlock sits up higher, which he does, an eager light in his eyes. Sherlock reaches into his pocket, draws out a small tube, rubs some onto his hands, and hurriedly slicks himself up.
He sinks down onto Sherlock’s cock with a tiny, barely noticeable gasp, and Sherlock groans loudly, bucking his hips to meet him before John is even touching them. The two men stay intwined for a moment, beautifully still, horribly uncomfortable, Sherlock deep inside him. Then John leans back and opens the partition.
“Change of plan,” he manages, to a slightly suspicious driver, “just drive around for a bit first, will you?”
By the time they reach Mycroft’s office, John’s arse is sore, and Sherlock walks with a limp.
-
4. Sherlock cries out brutally, and John stops licking his tight little arse long enough to wrap his mouth around Sherlock’s cock as he comes. He swallows, staring into Sherlock’s blue eyes, which are wild with desire. Sherlock pulls John’s head up into a blazing kiss, tastes his own come on John’s tongue, and moans into John’s mouth.
He lets go, and collapses against the table, leaning into John’s shoulder. These are the times John loves the most.
“Sherlock Holmes, speechless,” he slurs, giggling to himself, high from seeing Sherlock’s beautiful face slack and spent. Sherlock glares.
“I am not,” he says, though it is clearly an effort. “I’m just… reflecting.”
“Mhmm.” John licks from Sherlock’s collar to his ear, and Sherlock hits him gently.
There is a pause in which the two men look at each other and laugh weakly, both exhausted.
“I just sucked you off in a morgue,” John giggles, and Sherlock laughs back, because after all, he did.
-
5. John swears he never used to do this sort of thing. Once upon a time, he had standards. Sex, for the most part, happened in the bedroom, or the bathroom, or at least in their own house. But that was before Sherlock Bloody Holmes, and here they are on the trail of a serial killer, hiding in his downstairs loo as he makes a cup of tea, and John has never been so turned on in his life.
A bite is just visible on Sherlock’s neck over his scarf and he is kneeling, peering through the crack with intense concentration. John is more than a little terrified too; fond of danger he may be, but certain death does not sit well.
So he desperately tries to focus on the way Sherlock’s long, violinist hands splay against the wall, and the way Sherlock’s tongue traces his lips when he’s thinking.
A moment later, Sherlock stands.
“He’s gone into the living room,” he mouths, “but we still won’t be able to get out without being seen.”
“So we’ll run for it. We only need to get as far as a policeman; we’ve seen enough to get a warrant at any rate.”
Sherlock frowns in the dark of the room. “What?” he mouths, shaking his head in an exaggerated fashion. John rolls his eyes, and mimes ‘running for it,’ ‘policeman’ and ‘busting this place wide open'’ as best he can in a 4 by 2 space.
Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “We can’t alert him. He’d take the girl and run, and we can’t lose this scent.” When they aren’t in a toilet, John thinks, he will have to tell Sherlock just why losing the scent should be his biggest concern regarding a rapist and murderer escaping with a thirteen year old girl. For now, he puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It is his way of saying, it’s fine.
Sherlock smiles in the dim light. It is his way of saying, I know.
In silence, John reaches for his hand. He slips (he will always claim by accident) and then John’s hand is brushing Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock freezes.
Not now, what little of Sherlock John can see seems to be begging, but just this once, it’s not okay. They might die, and John is determined to die happy.
He sits down on the toilet and undoes his jeans. Sherlock looks away, dismissively, but then looks back as John opens his flies and takes out his cock. He strokes the shaft gently once, twice, and it stirs. John shifts.
He runs a thumb over the head, gathers some pre-come, spreads it over his hands. It is sticky, and warm, and his hand glides more smoothly now up and down. He rubs at the glans, and his cock is stiff now, hard and straining. He risks a look up.
Sherlock is leaning against the wall, staring, his mouth agape.
John tugs at his cock, builds up a steady rhythm as he pulls at it. His other hand moves round to massage the head, his fingers light and playful, pinching at his foreskin like teeth nipping. Sherlock’s teeth, he thinks, and he lets out a tiny, barely noticeable groan.
Seconds later, Sherlock has undone his scarf and stuffed it in John’s mouth. John gags, and looks hard into the eyes of the man kneeling in front of him. Sherlock slowly puts a finger on his mouth, mimes keep quiet, and then, moving John’s hands out of the way, takes over.
Sherlock’s fingers curl gently, but his stroke is firm. Normally, he would tease, his touch light, so light John burns for him and thrusts his hips in need, but today he is businesslike, pulling strongly at John’s cock, helping him to come. John tugs at Sherlock’s hair with sticky fingers, pushes a finger inside Sherlock’s mouth and twitches as Sherlock sucks it clean.
Sherlock looks up at John, and he does not speak, but he runs his tongue along his lips. You taste so good, he is saying with his eyes, and John would moan if he could, but his mouth is stretched around the makeshift gag. Sherlock’s hands get faster, and John is thrusting into them irregularly now, just desperate to come. He whimpers into the cloth.
Sherlock looks straight at him. Come, he mouths silently, and John does, all over Sherlock’s perfect, filthy hands, gasping. Sherlock reaches up to remove the gag, and kisses him with sticky lips.
The door opens.
Sherlock looks up.
“Ah,” he says, to a very large, very confused murderer. “This may be a little hard to explain…”
-
+1. “I’m glad no-one saw that.”
Sherlock looks at John, who has slumped, exhausted, terrified, by the edge of the pool. He is confused.
“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”
There is a lopsided, hysterical smile on John’s face, and Sherlock laughs back.
Then Moriarty arrives, and they nearly die.
When Moriarty has left, running scared, and Mycroft’s men have torn after him, leaving them silently, Sherlock holding John hard enough to tear his skin, they look at each other.
“So,” Sherlock says, trying to sound casual, “ripping clothes off in a pool, eh?”
John can’t quite think straight. He looks at Sherlock. Looks at the pool. Looks at the jacket, now removed of explosive devices. Looks at Sherlock again.
“No,” Sherlock says, hurriedly, “perhaps not.”
“Perhaps not,” John echoes quickly, and they leave for home.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex. Lots of it.
Summary: Five inappropriate places John and Sherlock had sex, and one which was too much even for them.
Written for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme.
1. “Sherlock, we shouldn’t…” John says, as Sherlock runs his hand across John’s thigh in a predatory manner.
“Why not?” Sherlock asks, his voice deeper and darker than normal.
“Because - oh, nngh - because this is a public place, Sherlock! People might walk in.”
Sherlock moves his hand away from the extremely sensitive area he was stroking and looks around him. “It’s highly unlikely.”
“Some people do actually use public toilets, you know,” John hisses, glaring up at his lover. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.
“Only the kind of people who wouldn’t be shocked anyway. Anyway, this is hardly a particularly busy spot. We’ll be fine.”
Sherlock attempts to go back to sucking on John’s neck, but still John bats him away. “It’s unhygienic,” he protests. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“So is what I intend to do to you,” he says, his voice low, and he moves his hand to drag one finger firmly down John’s spine. John shivers, and for a moment he melts.
“Fine,” John says, resignedly, and Sherlock leans in, and bites his neck.
-
2. “Clearly a physics lecturer with a wolfhound and a secret mistress,” Sherlock finishes, and Lestrade is looking both baffled and proud.
“So…?” Lestrade asks. “Who are we looking for?”
Sherlock snorts. “Do your own work for a change. It’s got to be his mistress’ lover. Crime of passion.”
“And how would you know that?” Anderson sneers. Sherlock sighs in an irritating, why-do-I-suffer-you-fools sort of manner.
“Even you must be able to see that the wounds were inflicted by a man, about five foot eleven, muscular, one leg slightly longer than the other… and gay,” he finishes, looking confused. “Gay?” he repeats. “No, that… that makes no sense.”
“I thought you said we were looking for the woman’s lover,” says Lestrade, his brow furrowing, “so how can he be-”
“Yes, alright, the issues are perfectly clear, thank you, Lestrade,” Sherlock snaps, and then, as Anderson starts to chuckle to Sally about his ineptitudes, Sherlock straightens up with a look of pure epiphany on his face.
“He’s gay,” he says, happily, and when Lestrade says “…yes?” Sherlock laughs to himself.
“The corpse. Gay. Or was gay, when he wasn’t dead. You’re looking for his lover. His boyfriend, I should say; they’re committed. There’ll be a name in the phone and a photograph in the wallet. Don’t waste my time with such trivial matters, Lestrade; even you should be able to manage this.”
And Sherlock stalks out of the room with a “Coming, John?”
John stares as he leaves. There is something unmistakably sexy about that man when he knows everything, which he always does. He nods at the police, and runs after Sherlock, grabbing him by the coat and pulling him into the nearest room, which turns out to be a study.
John holds Sherlock against the door, his arms strong.
“You smug git,” he says, his breath ragged, and Sherlock laughs.
“It was obvious,” he returns, “eventually.”
John’s hand is already reaching for Sherlock’s trousers.
“John,” says Sherlock reproachfully, “it’s a crime scene,” and now it is John’s turn to laugh.
“Since when,” he asks, feeling Sherlock grow hard in his hand, “have you ever worried about contaminating a crime scene?”
Sherlock’s only response is a filthy, filthy leer. John can only kiss it straight off his face, and he fucks Sherlock over the desk of a dead man until Sherlock comes in his hand.
-
3. When the black car pulls up to pick up John this time, it is a taxi, and Anthea is not inside it. John hangs up the phone, and raises one eyebrow at the person who is holding the car door open for him.
“Well, get in,” says Sherlock, exasperatedly.
The car pulls off, and John turns to his friend.
“My brother wanted to see me,” Sherlock begins, without so much as a word from John, “and apparently we have to stop to pick you up because ‘I’m impossible without you there’”.
“You’re pretty impossible whether I’m there or not,” John retorts, leaning back in the seat, watching the world go by the windows. He no longer finds these visits so troublesome; they are an almost soothing constant - whatever happens, Mycroft will be watching.
Sherlock is not so easy to please. “He’s so bloody arrogant,” he snaps. “Thinks he can just make me come running any time he likes…”
“Yes, good god, imagine somebody that self absorbed,” John says, drily, and naturally, Sherlock doesn’t notice.
“Precisely; it’s selfish, rude, no thought that I might have been busy-”
“Sherlock,” says John firmly, “if you do not shut up, so help me I will shut you up.”
Sherlock doesn’t give him a second glance; ranting is too enjoyable. “At least he’s letting me make my own way there this time, but just a hint of politeness would suffice. I mean, just because two people despise each other doesn’t mean they can’t be civil. I’m civil to him. I ignore his phone calls and that way…”
John leans over, grabs Sherlock by the shirt, and kisses him hard. Gently, Sherlock’s mouth opens to the kiss, and his teeth nip at John’s lips, needing more force. John’s response is to press his lips against Sherlock’s hard enough to bruise, hard enough to cut off air. By the time they part, even Sherlock is flushed.
“Get on top of me,” Sherlock says, desperately low. “Please, John.”
Please, John thinks, and after checking that the partition between the passengers and the drivers is down, he swings one leg over until he is sat on Sherlock’s lap, facing him. He rubs his arse against Sherlock’s cock, hard in his trousers, and Sherlock is begging, frantic.
“Want to fuck you, John” he says, hopelessly, and his lips are crushed against John hard enough to bruise, “please, please let me fuck you.”
John lifts himself up enough to pull down his trousers, and then his boxers, and spreads his legs a little wider. It is cramped, but there’s just enough room if he lifts his legs, and Sherlock sits up higher, which he does, an eager light in his eyes. Sherlock reaches into his pocket, draws out a small tube, rubs some onto his hands, and hurriedly slicks himself up.
He sinks down onto Sherlock’s cock with a tiny, barely noticeable gasp, and Sherlock groans loudly, bucking his hips to meet him before John is even touching them. The two men stay intwined for a moment, beautifully still, horribly uncomfortable, Sherlock deep inside him. Then John leans back and opens the partition.
“Change of plan,” he manages, to a slightly suspicious driver, “just drive around for a bit first, will you?”
By the time they reach Mycroft’s office, John’s arse is sore, and Sherlock walks with a limp.
-
4. Sherlock cries out brutally, and John stops licking his tight little arse long enough to wrap his mouth around Sherlock’s cock as he comes. He swallows, staring into Sherlock’s blue eyes, which are wild with desire. Sherlock pulls John’s head up into a blazing kiss, tastes his own come on John’s tongue, and moans into John’s mouth.
He lets go, and collapses against the table, leaning into John’s shoulder. These are the times John loves the most.
“Sherlock Holmes, speechless,” he slurs, giggling to himself, high from seeing Sherlock’s beautiful face slack and spent. Sherlock glares.
“I am not,” he says, though it is clearly an effort. “I’m just… reflecting.”
“Mhmm.” John licks from Sherlock’s collar to his ear, and Sherlock hits him gently.
There is a pause in which the two men look at each other and laugh weakly, both exhausted.
“I just sucked you off in a morgue,” John giggles, and Sherlock laughs back, because after all, he did.
-
5. John swears he never used to do this sort of thing. Once upon a time, he had standards. Sex, for the most part, happened in the bedroom, or the bathroom, or at least in their own house. But that was before Sherlock Bloody Holmes, and here they are on the trail of a serial killer, hiding in his downstairs loo as he makes a cup of tea, and John has never been so turned on in his life.
A bite is just visible on Sherlock’s neck over his scarf and he is kneeling, peering through the crack with intense concentration. John is more than a little terrified too; fond of danger he may be, but certain death does not sit well.
So he desperately tries to focus on the way Sherlock’s long, violinist hands splay against the wall, and the way Sherlock’s tongue traces his lips when he’s thinking.
A moment later, Sherlock stands.
“He’s gone into the living room,” he mouths, “but we still won’t be able to get out without being seen.”
“So we’ll run for it. We only need to get as far as a policeman; we’ve seen enough to get a warrant at any rate.”
Sherlock frowns in the dark of the room. “What?” he mouths, shaking his head in an exaggerated fashion. John rolls his eyes, and mimes ‘running for it,’ ‘policeman’ and ‘busting this place wide open'’ as best he can in a 4 by 2 space.
Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “We can’t alert him. He’d take the girl and run, and we can’t lose this scent.” When they aren’t in a toilet, John thinks, he will have to tell Sherlock just why losing the scent should be his biggest concern regarding a rapist and murderer escaping with a thirteen year old girl. For now, he puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It is his way of saying, it’s fine.
Sherlock smiles in the dim light. It is his way of saying, I know.
In silence, John reaches for his hand. He slips (he will always claim by accident) and then John’s hand is brushing Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock freezes.
Not now, what little of Sherlock John can see seems to be begging, but just this once, it’s not okay. They might die, and John is determined to die happy.
He sits down on the toilet and undoes his jeans. Sherlock looks away, dismissively, but then looks back as John opens his flies and takes out his cock. He strokes the shaft gently once, twice, and it stirs. John shifts.
He runs a thumb over the head, gathers some pre-come, spreads it over his hands. It is sticky, and warm, and his hand glides more smoothly now up and down. He rubs at the glans, and his cock is stiff now, hard and straining. He risks a look up.
Sherlock is leaning against the wall, staring, his mouth agape.
John tugs at his cock, builds up a steady rhythm as he pulls at it. His other hand moves round to massage the head, his fingers light and playful, pinching at his foreskin like teeth nipping. Sherlock’s teeth, he thinks, and he lets out a tiny, barely noticeable groan.
Seconds later, Sherlock has undone his scarf and stuffed it in John’s mouth. John gags, and looks hard into the eyes of the man kneeling in front of him. Sherlock slowly puts a finger on his mouth, mimes keep quiet, and then, moving John’s hands out of the way, takes over.
Sherlock’s fingers curl gently, but his stroke is firm. Normally, he would tease, his touch light, so light John burns for him and thrusts his hips in need, but today he is businesslike, pulling strongly at John’s cock, helping him to come. John tugs at Sherlock’s hair with sticky fingers, pushes a finger inside Sherlock’s mouth and twitches as Sherlock sucks it clean.
Sherlock looks up at John, and he does not speak, but he runs his tongue along his lips. You taste so good, he is saying with his eyes, and John would moan if he could, but his mouth is stretched around the makeshift gag. Sherlock’s hands get faster, and John is thrusting into them irregularly now, just desperate to come. He whimpers into the cloth.
Sherlock looks straight at him. Come, he mouths silently, and John does, all over Sherlock’s perfect, filthy hands, gasping. Sherlock reaches up to remove the gag, and kisses him with sticky lips.
The door opens.
Sherlock looks up.
“Ah,” he says, to a very large, very confused murderer. “This may be a little hard to explain…”
-
+1. “I’m glad no-one saw that.”
Sherlock looks at John, who has slumped, exhausted, terrified, by the edge of the pool. He is confused.
“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”
There is a lopsided, hysterical smile on John’s face, and Sherlock laughs back.
Then Moriarty arrives, and they nearly die.
When Moriarty has left, running scared, and Mycroft’s men have torn after him, leaving them silently, Sherlock holding John hard enough to tear his skin, they look at each other.
“So,” Sherlock says, trying to sound casual, “ripping clothes off in a pool, eh?”
John can’t quite think straight. He looks at Sherlock. Looks at the pool. Looks at the jacket, now removed of explosive devices. Looks at Sherlock again.
“No,” Sherlock says, hurriedly, “perhaps not.”
“Perhaps not,” John echoes quickly, and they leave for home.