Bad Day
Title: Bad Day
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 848
Spoilers: none
Warnings: frottage
Disclaimer: I certainly don’t own Sherlock.
Notes: Written for brighteyed_jill’s Five Acts Meme for the acts: “begging.”
Summary: Sherlock has had a rather bad day, and “asks” John to make it better.
John usually didn’t blog from Sherlock’s couch, particularly when there hadn’t been a case in a while. Because at any moment Sherlock could suddenly have a burst of ennui and need to sprawl across the largest piece of furniture to properly sulk. On the other hand, the desk light was burnt out, of course there were no extra light bulbs in the flat, and John couldn’t be arsed to go out and buy some after just getting settled after a long day. So he dared the couch and the attendant functional lamp.
And just about the time when he thought he might get away with it, Sherlock burst into the room, kicked the door shut behind him, flung his coat one direction and himself in another. Only good reflexes managed to let John get his computer out of the way before the back of Sherlock’s head landed in his lap.
“This has been an intolerable day,” he announced.
John looked down at Sherlock, laid across the couch in boneless grace, his shoes dropping from his feet to the floor and his arm flung above his head. John put his computer on the side table, as Sherlock showed no signs up either getting up or letting John use him as a desk.
“How so?” John asked finally, when nothing else was forthcoming.
“There was not a single suitable fresh corpse at Burt’s for experimentation, Lestrade has not had anything forthcoming for a week despite my insistence-.”
“You’re insisting someone die in a horrible and mysterious manner?” John asked with a straight face.
“You know very well what I mean,” Sherlock said haughtily. “At any rate, the Thai restaurant at the end of the street has a sick cook, so I was not able to eat, there was a great dearth of cabs after my walk across town, and it’s Tuesday.”
“Terrible thing, Tuesdays,” John said.
“Mockery doesn’t suit you, John,” Sherlock said sternly. He rolled his head back to look at John more closely, inadvertently (oh, of course it was inadvertently) rubbing across the front of John’s trousers.
“Then what would suit you?” John asked. He kept one hand on the arm of the sofa, but let the other rest on Sherlock’s stomach.
“Something going as anticipated, for once in this entire day,” Sherlock snapped.
John could feel Sherlock’s breathing get more agitated under his hand, and deftly parted two buttons so he could run his hand over the skin of Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock took a shuddering breath and arched his back slightly, pressing himself into John’s touch.
“Yes?” John asked softly, bringing his other hand up to slowly card through Sherlock’s curls.
“Please…” Sherlock whispered, the barest thread of sound, a very quiet surrender.
John smiled, interrupted blogging session forgotten, and slowly worked Sherlock’s shirt open so he could caress down the lean line of his torso. He traced every line of muscle and bone, mapping Sherlock like an anatomy lesson, and lit up every nerve as he let his touch become maddening light. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but John could still see them moving, trying to anticipate where John’s hand would fall next. John could see the effect he was having on him, the hard ridge of his arousal outlined beautifully by the cut of Sherlock’s trousers, but still waited.
He brought his hand back up to pinch gently at the hard peaks of Sherlock’s nipples, actually getting a gasp out of him. His hips thrust up at the empty air, making the muscles of his stomach tense and show themselves, and John flowed his hand back down to touch the revealed hardness. Not where Sherlock wanted it, of course, and John could feel him begin to tremble with holding back.
John kept up his caress of Sherlock’s head, burrowing deep into his curls to grip hard at his hair, making him arc his body like a bow as John finally cupped his cock, one finger tracing him maddeningly through the fabric.
“Sherlock?” John asked sternly.
In response, Sherlock opened his eyes, dilated and dark, their pale color still spearing John through. “John… please.”
John swore softly when he felt himself harden from Sherlock’s single breathy plea, and deftly undid Sherlock’s trousers to slip his hand inside. Sherlock’s nearly-smothered moan from the feel of John’s hand on his cock, satisfying, hard contact, almost made John had to stop from the surge that went through him.
Almost.
John tugged hard on Sherlock’s hair as he stroked him, just a few times, just a few, firm, full, base-to-tip strokes, reveling in every inch of him, and Sherlock was gone with a gasp, actually turning his face into John’s body so the embarrassing play of emotion wouldn’t be so painfully plain. John bit his lip, fighting hard for control as he felt Sherlock’s frantic breathing calm against his own body.
“You definitely were ready for that,” John said finally, when Sherlock had regained composure and could look at him again.
“As I said before,” Sherlock said haughtily, seemingly ignoring John’s hand still down his trousers. “I had a bad day.”
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 848
Spoilers: none
Warnings: frottage
Disclaimer: I certainly don’t own Sherlock.
Notes: Written for brighteyed_jill’s Five Acts Meme for the acts: “begging.”
Summary: Sherlock has had a rather bad day, and “asks” John to make it better.
John usually didn’t blog from Sherlock’s couch, particularly when there hadn’t been a case in a while. Because at any moment Sherlock could suddenly have a burst of ennui and need to sprawl across the largest piece of furniture to properly sulk. On the other hand, the desk light was burnt out, of course there were no extra light bulbs in the flat, and John couldn’t be arsed to go out and buy some after just getting settled after a long day. So he dared the couch and the attendant functional lamp.
And just about the time when he thought he might get away with it, Sherlock burst into the room, kicked the door shut behind him, flung his coat one direction and himself in another. Only good reflexes managed to let John get his computer out of the way before the back of Sherlock’s head landed in his lap.
“This has been an intolerable day,” he announced.
John looked down at Sherlock, laid across the couch in boneless grace, his shoes dropping from his feet to the floor and his arm flung above his head. John put his computer on the side table, as Sherlock showed no signs up either getting up or letting John use him as a desk.
“How so?” John asked finally, when nothing else was forthcoming.
“There was not a single suitable fresh corpse at Burt’s for experimentation, Lestrade has not had anything forthcoming for a week despite my insistence-.”
“You’re insisting someone die in a horrible and mysterious manner?” John asked with a straight face.
“You know very well what I mean,” Sherlock said haughtily. “At any rate, the Thai restaurant at the end of the street has a sick cook, so I was not able to eat, there was a great dearth of cabs after my walk across town, and it’s Tuesday.”
“Terrible thing, Tuesdays,” John said.
“Mockery doesn’t suit you, John,” Sherlock said sternly. He rolled his head back to look at John more closely, inadvertently (oh, of course it was inadvertently) rubbing across the front of John’s trousers.
“Then what would suit you?” John asked. He kept one hand on the arm of the sofa, but let the other rest on Sherlock’s stomach.
“Something going as anticipated, for once in this entire day,” Sherlock snapped.
John could feel Sherlock’s breathing get more agitated under his hand, and deftly parted two buttons so he could run his hand over the skin of Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock took a shuddering breath and arched his back slightly, pressing himself into John’s touch.
“Yes?” John asked softly, bringing his other hand up to slowly card through Sherlock’s curls.
“Please…” Sherlock whispered, the barest thread of sound, a very quiet surrender.
John smiled, interrupted blogging session forgotten, and slowly worked Sherlock’s shirt open so he could caress down the lean line of his torso. He traced every line of muscle and bone, mapping Sherlock like an anatomy lesson, and lit up every nerve as he let his touch become maddening light. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but John could still see them moving, trying to anticipate where John’s hand would fall next. John could see the effect he was having on him, the hard ridge of his arousal outlined beautifully by the cut of Sherlock’s trousers, but still waited.
He brought his hand back up to pinch gently at the hard peaks of Sherlock’s nipples, actually getting a gasp out of him. His hips thrust up at the empty air, making the muscles of his stomach tense and show themselves, and John flowed his hand back down to touch the revealed hardness. Not where Sherlock wanted it, of course, and John could feel him begin to tremble with holding back.
John kept up his caress of Sherlock’s head, burrowing deep into his curls to grip hard at his hair, making him arc his body like a bow as John finally cupped his cock, one finger tracing him maddeningly through the fabric.
“Sherlock?” John asked sternly.
In response, Sherlock opened his eyes, dilated and dark, their pale color still spearing John through. “John… please.”
John swore softly when he felt himself harden from Sherlock’s single breathy plea, and deftly undid Sherlock’s trousers to slip his hand inside. Sherlock’s nearly-smothered moan from the feel of John’s hand on his cock, satisfying, hard contact, almost made John had to stop from the surge that went through him.
Almost.
John tugged hard on Sherlock’s hair as he stroked him, just a few times, just a few, firm, full, base-to-tip strokes, reveling in every inch of him, and Sherlock was gone with a gasp, actually turning his face into John’s body so the embarrassing play of emotion wouldn’t be so painfully plain. John bit his lip, fighting hard for control as he felt Sherlock’s frantic breathing calm against his own body.
“You definitely were ready for that,” John said finally, when Sherlock had regained composure and could look at him again.
“As I said before,” Sherlock said haughtily, seemingly ignoring John’s hand still down his trousers. “I had a bad day.”