Fic: How Sherlock Learned to Love the Dog Tags Chapter 3/4
Title: How Sherlock Learned to Love the Dog Tags Chapter 3/4
Pairing: Sherlock/John, established relationship, hints of Mycroft/Lestrade
Summary: How Sherlock came to have and learned to love John's dog tags.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: about 2400 this chapter
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: Inspired by my gals in our google writers group discussion about the dog tag trope. For those of you who avoid WIPs, this story is complete. I'm just cleaning up the final chapters, so you won't get left hanging.
LINKS TO PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: Chapter 1 http://lucybun.livejournal.com/8277.html
Chapter 2 http://lucybun.livejournal.com/8734.html
Wth The Great Necklace Exchange over, things went blessedly back to normal. John worked at the surgery when he wasn't chasing Sherlock all over London on cases. Sherlock had gotten used to the weight of the tags around his neck surprisingly quickly. The chain really was light, and the black rubber dampeners around the edges of the tags kept them from making noise. It wasn't long before he was able to forget they were there, the only reminder coming when John would sometimes catch a glimpse of them and get a rather dreamy smile on his face. To which Sherlock would either roll his eyes, ignore it, or snap "Pay attention, John!" depending on the situation. He had been pleased with how easily The Exchange had gone, and he'd been very happy to see John happy; but that was it, and he was very over the whole thing. Fortunately, John was right, the longer chain did keep the tags hidden under his jacket. If he'd had to endure the comments and questions from the Yarders or anyone else, he might have been forced to do something regrettable. Well, he wouldn't have regretted it, but John might.
But by Christmas he'd pretty much been able to delete the whole business with his final proclamation that John was not to expect a Christmas gift as Sherlock couldn't possibly be expected to go through that torture so hard on the heels of The Necklace. John just nodded, touched the chain around his own neck with that dreamy smile on his face, and said, "Of course." Sherlock just scoffed, loudly, at him and went back to his experiment, glad to have put a firm period on the end of this and get himself out of Christmas presents at the same time. He truly was brilliant.
Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's (and, no, John didn't even try) all passed in a blur of work and experiments and their own version of domestic bliss. The end of February found them knee-deep in a gun-running case that seemed to be never ending. The group behind the weapons ring was like a damn hydra. Sherlock would cut off one head only to find two more to hunt down when various members either flipped on their colleagues or they got hold of more records during the various raids. Sherlock had been vacillating between ecstatic and frustrated for over a month before it appeared that finally, finally, they had managed to track down the actual ringleader. They'd run him to ground in a warehouse in Brixton and had been there when the tactical team took the man into custody.
John could feel relief and excitement surge through his veins as he stood in the cold air, blue lights flashing around him, his breath making little clouds in front of him. Sherlock finished up his business with Lestrade and began striding toward John as the DI yelled out a reminder that he'd be expected down at the Yard first thing to give a full statement. Sherlock had already tuned him out, though, because all of his attention seemed to have fixated on John. John felt his heart and breathing speed up as Sherlock prowled toward him with a calculating look in his eyes and a flush of excitement coloring his face. John knew that look. John fucking loved that look. Sherlock stopped in front of him with less than half an inch separating their bodies and purred, "Are you ready to head home, Dr. Watson. I think we may have some further business to attend to there." John grinned, went hard, and nodded his emphatic agreement as they turned to find a cab back to 221B.
The ride back home was pure torture. Both of them sat in the back seat practically vibrating with need. There had been no time for pleasure while they were on the case, and the abstinence combined with the adrenalin rush had them both hard and panting before they'd even touched one another. John kept his head turned looking out the window because he couldn't be trusted to behave himself if he could see Sherlock. Sherlock sat turned as well, preternaturally still, keeping himself distracted by sifting and organizing information for the statement he would have to give the next day.
John, though, was fidgeting. Biting his lip, shifting around in his seat, tapping his fingers in a steady beat on his knee. Until he felt a warm gloved hand settle on his own hand over his knee, stopping the tapping and all other movement. The supple leather on the back of his skin, the weight of the hand on his leg, sent a trail of fire coursing through him. His cock twitched in his jeans and he lost the rhythm of his breath. Sherlock gave his knee a gentle squeeze. He probably meant for it to be comforting, a physical gesture that meant "Hold on, just hold on, we'll be there soon." John had to shut his eyes and clench his other hand into a fist so tight that it hurt to keep from climbing right over onto the other man and shoving his tongue in his mouth and his hand down his pants.
An eternity later, they finally pulled up to the curb at home. John stumbled out of the car and headed straight for the door, letting Sherlock take care of the fare. It took him a few tries to get his key in the door, but he'd managed to get inside and take off his jacket when Sherlock joined him in the foyer to shuck off his coat and scarf. John turned and headed up the stairs, Sherlock right behind. He'd made it about halfway up when he felt a long arm wrap around his waist as the taller man moved-up behind him on the step just beneath. He stopped dead, his back to Sherlock, unsure of what to do.
The arm around his waist tightened, and he felt Sherlock's coat-warm body press all along the length of his own. The way they were standing put their heads level with one another, and John could feel Sherlock's breath ghosting across his cheek, blowing through the short hair behind his ear. He turned his face slightly towards the other man's and whispered, "What are you doing?"
Sherlock didn't answer, just tightened his grip, nuzzled his nose into John's neck and pushed the collar of his jumper out of the way so he could bite down on the juncture of neck and shoulder. A ridiculous noise, half grunt have gurgle, spilled out of John. Sherlock's lips grazed up the side of his neck, licked the soft skin under his ear, and then bit gently on his lobe. He sucked it into his mouth while the hand around John's waist moved to the front of his jeans and began working on the button.
John panted out a panicked sounding, "Sherlock. You have to, ohhh, stop. Fuck, yes. I mean, no. Uhm. We're almost. We're almost there."
Sherlock just reached into his now open jeans to squeeze his cock while he breathed, "Yes we are, John," right into the man's ear.
John's ears started ringing and his vision went a bit dim. He grasped at the banister and pitched forward as he managed to choke off the shout that tried to tear out of him. Sherlock followed him forward and settled them so that they were both on their knees. Sherlock was kneeling on the step right below John, keeping them at what would have been eye level if they'd been facing each other but was cock to ass level as they were. Sherlock moved his other arm to circle around John's chest and placed his hand right over his heart. He pulled back with the hand so that they were both upright on their knees, flush against each other. John kept one hand on the banister and laid the other palm flat against the wall to keep himself upright. When Sherlock was certain he wasn't in danger of pitching forward again, he brought both hands back down to John's jeans and worked them and his boxers down around his knees. He hissed as he felt his ass and cock exposed to the air but it turned into a soft moan when he felt a long-fingered hand caressing his cheeks, running up the side of his thighs, squeezing his hips.
"John," Sherlock whispered. "John, you have to be quiet. We wouldn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson," he finished with a broad swipe of tongue up the side of John's neck.
John gave a bit of a hysterical giggle that clearly said, "You must be joking."
Sherlock brought one hand up to cover John's mouth as he gave a firm tug to his cock. "Better? You need help keeping quiet, hmm?"
John gave a muffled "mmhmm" and tipped his head back toward Sherlock as the man kept working at his cock, brushing the head with his thumb and spreading the moisture that was starting to ooze there.
John's hips quickly fell into the rhythm of Sherlock's strokes.
"John, I need my other hand. Can you hear me? I need you stay quiet."
John managed a nod and sucked in air heavily through his mouth when Sherlock removed his hand. He heard the sound of a zipper opening behind him and felt Sherlock working down his trousers and pants. Sherlock's hand left his cock, and he felt the man pulling at the bottom of his jumper, lifting it up and urging John to raise his arms so he could get the thing off. Sherlock threw it somewhere further up the staircase then went to work on the buttons of his own shirt. When he'd pulled it open, he raised up back against John. The smaller man had to bite his lip bloody to keep from screaming at the feel of the warm skin against his back and the hot, hard, cock settling into the crease of his ass.
Sherlock went right back to work on his cock, and John's head tilted forward on his neck with something like a sob. "I cant. I can't do this. I. Sherlock. I can't."
Sherlock stopped. "Shit. I shouldn't have thrown your jumper. We could've shoved the cuff in your mouth."
"Not. Helping," John hissed. "Just. The flat. Sherlock." It was a whine. He knew it and didn't care.
Sherlock's mind raced. They'd never make it to the flat. He didn't want to. What they needed was a gag. He could work off his shirt and shove a bit of that in John's mouth; but this was his favorite shirt, he didn't want to get a hole or a tear in it. What they needed was something leather or rubber. Unfortunately, neither of them had worn a belt. Sherlock shifted back a bit to help himself think then felt the dog tags that had clung for a moment to John's damp skin swing back to resettle against his own torso. Oh, of course! The dog tags! The dog tags with rubber dampening bands hanging right there around his neck. God, he really was a genius.
He moved right back up against John, lifted the front of the chain so it was draped over both their heads, and then flipped the tags right into John's gaping mouth. John immediately sucked them in and made a relieved sound around the bulk in his mouth.
"Okay?" Sherlock asked, and John breathed a sound of assent.
Their heads held together by the titanium chain, Sherlock pushed his own mouth hard into the back of John's head while he went back to work on John's cock. He used his other hand to push his own cock down to settle up against John's perineum and testicles. They didn't have any lubricant so penetration was out, but, as worked up as they both were, this would do. With the bit of his brain that had been working on not shouting, John was able to puzzle out what Sherlock had in mind and helped maneuver his lower body so he could bring his thighs in tight together to give the man the friction he needed. Sherlock muffled his own groan in the back of John's hair as his left hand gripped the doctor's hip for the leverage to thrust into the sweat-damp tunnel John had made. He used his right hand to begin working John's cock fast and hard.
Between the delicious feel of Sherlock's cock sliding under his balls, pressing against his perineum, and the steady movement on his own cock, John wasn't going to last long. Less than thirty seconds later, Sherlock could feel with his cock that John's balls were tightening up in preparation for orgasm. Five tugs later, the doctor bit down firmly on the rubber edges of the tags in his mouth to muffle the scream that rumbled in his chest as he came hard all over the stairs and Sherlock's hand. Sherlock stopped his own thrusting between firm thighs and moist crotch to work John through his climax with gentle strokes. When John started to go boneless in his arms, Sherlock reached around and pulled the tags from his mouth and the chain from around his head. Apparently, that's all that had been holding John up because he immediately fell forward up the stairs to rest on his elbows. Instead of following him forward and finishing between John's legs, Sherlock just focused on the delectable sight of John's upturned ass and began stroking his own cock using John's come as lubricant. A few moments later, as he was still trying to catch his breath and clear his vision, John heard a stifled grunt issue behind him and felt hot trails of come splash across his ass and lower back.
Sherlock slumped against the wall, trembling and twitching. They stayed collapsed on the stairs for awhile, trying to get some oxygen and regain control of their limbs. Finally John managed to rise back onto his knees. He looked back behind him and took in the flushed chest framed by purple silk and bisected by the chain of the still damp dog tags, the spent cock resting against a pale slim thigh, the damp mop of curls, and pink cheeks of the man he loved. He felt arousal start to pool again low in his abdomen.
"Sherlock," he murmured.
Sherlock opened his eyes in answer.
"We need to get to the flat. I...I."
Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized what John meant, then he smiled his happiest smile and started pushing himself up the wall of the staircase. He gestured jerkily towards their door and whispered, "After you, Doctor."
LINK TO NEXT CHAPTER: http://lucybun.livejournal.com/10302.html