Kaleidoscope
Title: Kaleidoscope
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 730
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Wall-sex, semi-public
Disclaimer: I certainly don’t own Sherlock.
Notes: Written for medie’s Five Acts Meme for the acts: “water/wall sex.”
Summary: In the midst of a thunderstorm, in a steamy day in London, John and Sherlock find an excuse for some release from frustration.
“It’s going to rain,” Sherlock said, with the kind of finality reserved for expressions of physical law.
“Please, God,” John said blandly. The alley where they’d been searching for the murder weapon was windless and still, and seemed to make the already sultry weather even hotter. It had to be over thirty Celsius, easily, and London was sweltering. Sherlock had been forced to leave his coat at home, and looked oddly vulnerable in just a thin shirt.
Well, perhaps no stranger than John, jumper-free and t-shirt clinging to him with sweat. At least Sherlock would not say anything stupid like, “You were in Afghanistan, aren’t you used to the heat?”
As if he’d want to talk about that. Sherlock understood.
“I don’t believe it’s here,” Sherlock said finally, sounding frustrated.
“I thought you were certain,” John said, closing his eyes and backing up against the stone wall of the building. It had been in shade all day; perhaps a modicum of coolness still remained.
“I was certain it was within a certain radius,” Sherlock clarified, his voice clipped, almost harsh. Then his voice inexplicably softened. “Look up.”
John tilted his head up, opening his eyes as the sudden downpour soaked him to the skin. The rain felt blessedly, blessedly cool, washing away the sweat and grime of the search, eroding the frustration and energizing him at the same time. He sighed in contentment, looked at Sherlock, and froze.
The rain had plastered Sherlock’s clothes to his body, outlining everything, hiding nothing. His curls straggled down the sides of his head in sleek waves, and his trousers clung obscenely to his legs. Sherlock had his eyes closed and his head tilted back, tongue slipping out every now and then to taste the rain. John doesn’t yell at him; Sherlock had put more disgusting things in his mouth on a regular basis for his experiments, and for all John knew, Sherlock was testing the chemical composition of London’s acid rain by taste.
Not that it mattered at all when Sherlock looked unaccountably vulnerable, open. That impression only lasted until Sherlock opened his eyes to look at John. The vulnerability was only fleeting, a brief flash of weakness shown as a measure of trust, and only in the most intimate of situations.
John realized he was feeling hot again, but for an entirely different reason.
Sherlock raised his eyebrow and John realized he was really quite, quite fucked.
And he didn’t mind a bit, really.
John braced himself when Sherlock closed the distance, pressing him against the cool wall, shocking to the contrast of the heat coming off of Sherlock’s body. John could feel his hardness alongside his own through the sopping fabric. Groaning, he reached down to undo the buttons and zips of their trousers, spurred on by Sherlock leaning hard against him, one hand pressed against the wall on either side of his head, framing him completely.
It took a few moments of frantic tugging to get the maddening barrier of fabric out of the way, and then Sherlock thrust himself into John’s hand. John suppressed a gasp as he took them both in his hands, stroking them together with the water slicking the way. Sherlock trusted him to get everything right, pressing into John’s cock, expression breaking and reforming like a kaleidoscope as John squeezed them together, teasing them both with delicate touches where they least expected it. His own hands surprised him and Sherlock leaned closer and closer, whispering half-heard suggestions punctuated by almost inaudible curses of delight.
Thunder boomed overhead as Sherlock threw his head back and came, pressing hard up against John and triggering his own burning hot release onto the cool skin of Sherlock’s belly. They breathed hard against each other, letting the rain cleanse them both. It was Sherlock who finally pulled back, setting them both to rights as the rain lightened up slightly.
“Ah, there’s the murder weapon,” Sherlock said brightly, looking off to the side and spying a loop of wire stuck under a box.
John chuckled softly as Sherlock went back into detective mode, and raked his hair back where the wall had mussed it.
“Feeling better then?” John asked.
Sherlock tossed John a look that should have turned the rain to steam, and carefully coiled the wire in a plastic bag. “Superb.”
Smiling through the downpour, John followed Sherlock back to their flat.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 730
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Wall-sex, semi-public
Disclaimer: I certainly don’t own Sherlock.
Notes: Written for medie’s Five Acts Meme for the acts: “water/wall sex.”
Summary: In the midst of a thunderstorm, in a steamy day in London, John and Sherlock find an excuse for some release from frustration.
“It’s going to rain,” Sherlock said, with the kind of finality reserved for expressions of physical law.
“Please, God,” John said blandly. The alley where they’d been searching for the murder weapon was windless and still, and seemed to make the already sultry weather even hotter. It had to be over thirty Celsius, easily, and London was sweltering. Sherlock had been forced to leave his coat at home, and looked oddly vulnerable in just a thin shirt.
Well, perhaps no stranger than John, jumper-free and t-shirt clinging to him with sweat. At least Sherlock would not say anything stupid like, “You were in Afghanistan, aren’t you used to the heat?”
As if he’d want to talk about that. Sherlock understood.
“I don’t believe it’s here,” Sherlock said finally, sounding frustrated.
“I thought you were certain,” John said, closing his eyes and backing up against the stone wall of the building. It had been in shade all day; perhaps a modicum of coolness still remained.
“I was certain it was within a certain radius,” Sherlock clarified, his voice clipped, almost harsh. Then his voice inexplicably softened. “Look up.”
John tilted his head up, opening his eyes as the sudden downpour soaked him to the skin. The rain felt blessedly, blessedly cool, washing away the sweat and grime of the search, eroding the frustration and energizing him at the same time. He sighed in contentment, looked at Sherlock, and froze.
The rain had plastered Sherlock’s clothes to his body, outlining everything, hiding nothing. His curls straggled down the sides of his head in sleek waves, and his trousers clung obscenely to his legs. Sherlock had his eyes closed and his head tilted back, tongue slipping out every now and then to taste the rain. John doesn’t yell at him; Sherlock had put more disgusting things in his mouth on a regular basis for his experiments, and for all John knew, Sherlock was testing the chemical composition of London’s acid rain by taste.
Not that it mattered at all when Sherlock looked unaccountably vulnerable, open. That impression only lasted until Sherlock opened his eyes to look at John. The vulnerability was only fleeting, a brief flash of weakness shown as a measure of trust, and only in the most intimate of situations.
John realized he was feeling hot again, but for an entirely different reason.
Sherlock raised his eyebrow and John realized he was really quite, quite fucked.
And he didn’t mind a bit, really.
John braced himself when Sherlock closed the distance, pressing him against the cool wall, shocking to the contrast of the heat coming off of Sherlock’s body. John could feel his hardness alongside his own through the sopping fabric. Groaning, he reached down to undo the buttons and zips of their trousers, spurred on by Sherlock leaning hard against him, one hand pressed against the wall on either side of his head, framing him completely.
It took a few moments of frantic tugging to get the maddening barrier of fabric out of the way, and then Sherlock thrust himself into John’s hand. John suppressed a gasp as he took them both in his hands, stroking them together with the water slicking the way. Sherlock trusted him to get everything right, pressing into John’s cock, expression breaking and reforming like a kaleidoscope as John squeezed them together, teasing them both with delicate touches where they least expected it. His own hands surprised him and Sherlock leaned closer and closer, whispering half-heard suggestions punctuated by almost inaudible curses of delight.
Thunder boomed overhead as Sherlock threw his head back and came, pressing hard up against John and triggering his own burning hot release onto the cool skin of Sherlock’s belly. They breathed hard against each other, letting the rain cleanse them both. It was Sherlock who finally pulled back, setting them both to rights as the rain lightened up slightly.
“Ah, there’s the murder weapon,” Sherlock said brightly, looking off to the side and spying a loop of wire stuck under a box.
John chuckled softly as Sherlock went back into detective mode, and raked his hair back where the wall had mussed it.
“Feeling better then?” John asked.
Sherlock tossed John a look that should have turned the rain to steam, and carefully coiled the wire in a plastic bag. “Superb.”
Smiling through the downpour, John followed Sherlock back to their flat.