Experimenting
A huge thank you to my wonderful betas fenm and dragonslynx for their super sharp editing and suggestions. Any remaining mistakes are of course my own, and without these two this fic wouldn't be anything near decent.
“You cared for her.” John said one evening, while they were sitting in front of the fire. It had been a few months since John had heard from Mycroft of the death of Adler, and Sherlock hadn’t mentioned her once. He had also (thankfully) changed his text message tone. “Why?”
“I didn’t care for her,” Sherlock replied calmly, looking down the hair of his bow and sliding the rosin along the edge. “She had something that she could give me - something I couldn’t obtain on my own - and she was willing to give it to me for free. I won’t make the mistake of confusing that with care again.”
John sat forward in his chair. “She could give you something? I’m assuming you’re not talking about the government files?” Sherlock flicked his bow from the wrist and John watched it curve gracefully through the air before looking back at the man, who violently stood up.
“No! Of course not, John! Think of her profession.” His wielding of the bow was bordering on dangerous. John shifted his head slightly - if Sherlock lost his grip he would retain his eyesight.
“She was a… dominatrix… You wanted to have her dominate you?” John gaped slightly, still averting his eyes. Sherlock started fencing with the bow.
“No, to have sex with her. It would be useful knowledge, John! Moriarty’s nickname for me isn’t incorrect, you realise.”
John frowned. Moriarty’s nickname? He thought for a moment back to Sherlock’s recount of the ‘death flight’ and the events that followed that he supplied for John’s blog before his head shot up. “You’re a virgin?” He asked, disbelievingly.
Sherlock huffed and threw the (expensive) bow onto the couch, only narrowly avoiding sitting on it when he slumped back down. “As the name implies.” He grumbled, picking up a National Geographic magazine. John was quiet for another ten minutes, pondering.
“And it had to be her, did it?”
Sherlock looked up. “What?”
“It had to be Irene? It couldn’t be, oh, I don’t know, Molly? Or Sally, even?”
Sherlock put down his magazine and folded his hands into prayer position, leaning forward onto his elbows. “Oh no, it could be essentially anyone - Molly, Lestrade, even you - but I’m certainly not paying for it, and I doubt any of the people we have mentioned would do it for free.”
John blinked, dumbfounded. “Is that so?”
“Besides, she said she wanted to make me beg. Ambitious of her. I can’t imagine many people would be up for it.”
“Oh, you don’t think I would be up for it?” John asked, challengingly, leaning forward in his chair.
“Up for what?” Sherlock asked, staring at his fingernails.
“Say, hypothetically, if you and I were to have sex, you don’t think I would be up for bending you over the desk and making you beg?”
Sherlock sighed and stood up, making for the kitchen. “Of course not John, you’re far to vanilla for tha-” He was stopped mid sentence by an average sized army doctor who effectively had him pinned against the wall in a matter of seconds. Effectively pinned as in he could not escape. He. Could. Not. Move.
“John, what on Earth are you doing?” Sherlock asked, attempting to struggle. John manoeuvred him around so he was pinned chest to wall, one arm pressing his head against the wall and one twisted behind his back.
“Too vanilla for what, Sherlock?” He hissed into his ear. Sherlock started.
“John, I don’t want to have sex with yo-ˮ
“Oh, so I’m not even anyone now?” John asked, resigned. He shook his head. “You know, if you have feelings for her you should just come out an-ˮ
“You’ve never been just ‘anyone’. You’ve always been John.” Sherlock tried to turn his head around to look at John, to no avail. The arm - his own - prevented him. John was surprisingly strong.
“Oh, so you wouldn’t have sex with me because I’m John?” John scoffed, shoving Sherlock’s hand further up his back. He was annoyed.
“Essentially, but not in the way you’re thinking!” Sherlock backtracked, ineffectively.
“Oh, in what way then?” John mocked.
“I’d want it to be… romantic.”
John was silent for a few seconds. “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?”
“Wait, do you want to have sex with me?” Sherlock asked, unsure.
“No, I’m just insulted that you wouldn’t have sex with me.”
“Your erection tells me otherwise.”
“Shut up.”
“What I was trying to say earlier-ˮ
“Oh, what Sherlock?” John pushed away from Sherlock. “’John, I don’t want to have sex with you because I’m in love with a dominatrix?’ Or was it ‘John, I don’t want to have sex with you because I’m too busy eloping with my ego?’ Or was it just ‘John, I don’t want to have sex with you?’ Hmmm?”
“I DON’T WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU LIKE THIS!” Sherlock bellowed and John pivoted around from the kitchen he had been escaping to to raise an eyebrow. “That’s what I was trying to say. That I didn’t want to have sex with you for the first time pinned to some bloody wall with you trying to prove yourself because you can’t bear the thought of me liking someone more than I like you. Now stop acting like a jealous lover when you haven’t even earned it.” He gasped a breath, having said all of the at breakneck speed and began stomping across the kitchen to his room.
“Well stop acting like an emotional stroppy teenager!”
“UGH, EMOTIONS!” The door slammed.
~*~
“So you think he’s projecting his feelings for John onto Adler?”
“It would make sense. To one so unused to the notion it would be understandable, what with today’s society, that he would believe it must be a woman that he would have passion for.”
They were sitting in a private room in the Diogenes speaking in hushed tones. The wine was expensive, the chairs even more so, and Greg loosened his tie a little. “Do you think he had any feelings for her at all?”
Mycroft looked up from his papers thoughtfully. They were both doing basic paperwork, and how better to do so than in company?
“I think she interested him, so she caught his attention. She was rather unlike most people Sherlock’s ever really had contact with, so she was something of an anomaly to him. As soon as her inbuilt sentiment was revealed, however, that should have been the end of it. Hence why…” Mycroft waved his hand.
“You think he’s projecting his emotions for John.” Greg finished. “But surely he has more feelings for John than that?”
“He did travel to Pakistan to save her life.” Mycroft pointed out and Greg conceded the point. He pushed his papers together and put them in his briefcase, standing up and shaking himself off. The wine made him only a slight bit light-headed. He slid his hand over Mycroft’s shoulders.
“Ready to come home, Mr Holmes?” He whispered silkily, grinning against the man’s hair.
“I have to finish this work, darling.” Mycroft said sadly.
“Bring it with you.” Greg shrugged, running his fingers along the hand Mycroft placed on his desk.
“You know I loathe to bring my work home.” Mycroft said, slightly condescendingly - as was his way.
“Luckily you don’t stick to that rule or I’d never see you.” He began snuffling into the Government’s neck, and knew he’d won.
“One more glass of liquid gold, I think.” They smiled warmly at each other, hands entwined.
~*~
They were once again staring at the fire when John popped a question. “Would you like me to teach you about sex?”
Sherlock blinked his tired eyes hard and looked up at John. “What would it involve?” He asked, guardedly.
“I don’t know - whatever you needed to learn, I suppose.” John shrugged and sat up, yawning.
“Well, like… what does an orgasm feel like?”
“Magnificent! Warm and powerful and completely mind-blo- You’ve never had an orgasm before!?” John stopped, shocked.
“I’ve ejaculated, during sleep, of course, but I’ve never actually had the pleasure…” Sherlock looked down, marginally embarrassed. John smiled.
“Would you like to feel one?” He asked, and a sleepy Sherlock blinked again. It had been days since he had slept properly.
“Well, it would certainly be relevant to many of my cases - past and future. How, though?” He asked, yawning again.
“Well, I could… teach you how to masturbate? Or give you a hand job, which would be quicker, because you wouldn’t have to learn?”
Sherlock pondered on this for a second before sniffing decisively. “More criminal activities occur during shared sexual acts than lone ones, so I suppose manual stimulation from someone other than myself would be most applicable.”
“Also, it feels better.” John pointed out. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Oh? How so?” He asked, legitimately interested. John could see his brain clicking into wakefulness.
“Well, not only is it more difficult to predict the stimulator’s next move, but when you are doing it with someone you have an emotional bond with the sight and feel of them doing it to you just makes it… better. Obviously not in our case as this will be purely clinical, but… yeah.” John eventually spat out, awkwardly.
“Okay, well, let’s get started,” Sherlock declared, ignoring any unease. “How does this usually happen?”
John cleared his throat. “Uh, well, when I’m with a bloke, and he’s sitting as you are, I’d straddle him at first, and… well… snog him for a while, enough to get him randy, and then I’d take him in hand while sitting there, and finish myself off too. But obviously we’ll have to alter that for this.”
“Yes, proximity might affect the data.” Sherlock conceded, staring at his hands thoughtfully and successfully not noticing John’s utter discomfort.
“Well, I could just kneel on the ground. It’d help me to concentrate anyway.” Sherlock nodded his assent and John tried to think of a way to begin.
‘You can use something to get you stimulated, if you like. Porn, maybe?”
“I have no interest in porn.” The detective sniffed airily.
“Er, okay. Well, do you have lubricant?”
“No, but you do, you nicked it from the surgery today.”
John closed his eyes and let out a frustrated breath. “Correct. Fine, I’ll grab it.” He fetched the medical-grade packages and came to kneel in front of Sherlock. The man unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and unceremoniously flopped his penis out, looking down expectantly at John.
“You know a lot of men are shy about their flaccid penises?” John mentioned, conversationally, and he took it in his hand.
“Oh,” Sherlock’s voice dropped half an octave, the touch triggering arousal. “Should I be?”
“No, no,” John assured him. “It’s… fine. A fine specimen.” He began to run his fingertips down the shaft and back up and Sherlock shivered.
“What a singular sensation.” He muttered, voice lowering even more as his arousal rose. John smiled and pulled away to squirt some lubricant on his hand from the corner of the package. Sherlock nearly protested. He rubbed it vigorously in his hands to warm it and rubbed it up Sherlock’s responding prick. When Sherlock’s eyes lost focus he gave up trying to be coy and stroked in earnest, the man soon meeting him with thrusts. Due to Sherlock’s lack of experience he was soon on the edge, clutching the arms of the chair and whimpering in his ragged voice.
I would want it to be… romantic. Sherlock’s voice rang in the back of John mind. He had been sure Sherlock was taking the piss, but maybe…
The man himself was undone when he opened his eyes and watched John kiss the inside of his thigh. John narrowly avoided a semen-missile and giggled when some hit Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock slumped back; looking down at John with half closed eyes and heavy breath. He tried to speak, but his voice broke on the ‘John’, squeaking up a few octaves; when he tried again, it was, in contrast, exceedingly deep. “That was… unexpected. Very good. I- I hadn’t realised… that fe- my brain has gone funny. Quiet.” At John’s worried face he lethargically waved away the fear. “No, it’s… fine. I can hear the buzzing coming back already.”
John let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding and strained himself back up, allowing his joints to crack satisfactorily. He stretched out his legs one at a time and began to wander toward the kitchen for some not-so-post-coital tea.
“I can see why people kill over this.” Sherlock grumbled, his voice still gravelly from his orgasm.. John stopped in his tracks. Sherlock was stroking his stomach thoughtfully, still slumped in his chair - a rather lovely sight. “What about you though?”
John waved his hand holding the empty tea cup. “Oh, I’ll sort it out soon.”
“Might skew the results,” Sherlock’s depended voice grumbled. They had a brief staring contest, in which John lost by default because experiments overrule everything except cases. John sat in the seat opposite Sherlock and began to slowly pet his erection, closing his eyes to avoid the penetrating stare. When his breathing deepened, he unbuttoned his fastener and slid his hand inside his pants. He was already slick with the pre-come produced by Sherlock’s performance, and the warmth against his hand was a welcome one. He squeezed himself a few times, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t be satisfied with the results unless he could see everything. He looked up to see Sherlock gazing at him, mouth slightly open. “Pass me some tissues, would you?” John asked, left hand still wrapped around his shaft. Sherlock wordlessly pulled some tissues from the box next to him and passed them to John, both of the leaning forward. John shuffled himself, placing the tissues on the arm and shuffling his jeans and pants down to mid-thigh, releasing himself. Sherlock audibly swallowed. John fingered around his swollen head, first, gently stroking under the foreskin and dabbing at the pre-come developing just from being watched. He eventually began taking hold, first just gently twisting a little from side to side before giving himself a solid base to tip stroke, and another, and maintaining the rhythm. He continued this while his other hand petted the soft skin around his cock, and he reached down to fondle his balls and slick up his ass, pressing the top of his finger in. He could feel his orgasm building rapidly so he squeezed his whole cock with his hand, pausing the movement to look up at his friend. “You’ll have a better vantage point from behind me.” John muttered and started up again, picking up the tissues and holding them in place. Sherlock stood and walked around behind the chair and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. John cried out and shuddered, catching the ejaculation with his tissued hand. Resting the tissue underneath the tip, he gently coaxed out the last of it with the tips of his fingers pushing forward, and Sherlock watched with rapt attention as the final spurts came out of the head, beading on the crumpled tissue paper. John slumped back, breathing deeply. “Well.” He wiped himself up as best he could and tucked himself away, zipping up. The warmth of Sherlock’s hand was still on his shoulder he looked up to the see the man staring at him, before he raced off and began viciously typing at his laptop. John wandered off to get some definitely-post-coital tea.
~*~
“We have a dilemma.” Mycroft barked at his boyfriend and he stumbled into his office.
“Was it worth getting me out of bed for?” Lestrade asked grumpily, his voice rough. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Lestrade cursed his superiority complex.
“John and Sherlock have been engaging in intimate relations.”
Greg stared at him blankly. “What? It’s five in the morning, don’t use big wor- John and Sherlock are having sex?”
Mycroft pressed his hands together in the same fashion as his brother and pressed them to his lips gravely. “Not intercourse, as yet. But certainly they are nearing such activities.”
“Well that’s great!” Greg said, as enthusiastically as possible at five in the morning. There was silence. “Except it’s not, clearly. What’s wrong?”
“They are ‘experiments’.” Mycroft said simply.
A disappointed ‘oh’ was Greg’s only response.
“From the information my sources have gathered, Sherlock has informed John that his feelings for Adler were purely scientific, as she was will to teach him about sexual endeavours. John, in a desperate yet completely unconscious bid to get closer to Sherlock, has agreed to help him along.”
“This can only end badly,” said Greg, sitting at the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk.
“That does seem to be the way,” Mycroft agreed.
~*~
“John, there is something I have been meaning to ask you.” The fire was crackling viciously, combating an even more violent winter.
“Oh?”
“Yes. The other evening when you were first assisting on our ongoing experiment, what where you doing to yourself with your right hand before you broke away to tell me to move?”
They had repeated the experiment four times, in total, each with almost exactly the same parameters as the last. Obviously Sherlock had picked up on something that had changed. John knows the obvious two variables, the fact that he hadn’t kissed Sherlock anywhere since and -
“Anal stimulation. Some people find it very rewarding and intimate to touch that area.” John refused to apologise for his preferences.
“Oh,” Sherlock said, silent. After a while, he spoke again. “When did you first learn? Who taught you?”
“When did I first learn what, Sherlock?” John asked a little shortly as he pulled his eyes away from the article he had been reading.
“To masturbate, clearly.”
John furrowed his eyebrows. “When I was a teenager? When you were busy looking for Carl Powers’ shoes and poking eyeballs and memorising symphonies everyone else your age was cranking it faster than you can blink.”
Sherlock looked rather horrified. “You were doing this when you were eight?” He asked, disgusted.
John was silent for a moment before he scratched his head. He looked up, stunned. “You were playing with eyeballs when you were eight?” He asked, just as disgusted. Sherlock gave a look that said ‘really, John, that surprises you?’ and John sighed. “No, I wasn’t masturbating when I was eight. Try ten.”
“And anally stimulating yourself.”
“Ah, no,” John laughed nervously, “that bit came a bit later.”
“The army,” Sherlock finished for him, in deducing mode now. “You discovered that you enjoyed it about halfway through your tour, when one of your men - a corporal - gave you manual stimulation and slipped a little extra in. Since then you’ve had three - no four - serious relationships and you’ve told none of them, yet you’ve had six one- or two- night stands and you’ve told all of them. That’s… unusual.”
“If you knew all that why did you bother asking me that stuff before?” John sighed.
“Someone once told me it was nice to pretend not to know things sometimes. Or something like that. I wasn’t really listening.”
John smiled blandly.
“I should like to try it.” Sherlock muttered thoughtfully, gazing at the skull. John sighed.
“Now?” He asked, resigned. Sherlock grinned at him and pulled a fresh bottle of lubricant from his pocket, and repositioned himself in his chair.
“No. No, Sherlock, we are not doing this in the living room.”
Sherlock looked miffed. “But that’s changing the parameters.”
“Sherlock Holmes, if you want to walk some time in the next week, get into the bathroom.”
“The bathroom?” Sherlock asked, slightly confused.
“Yes, the bathroom. You need to use the toilet and then have a shower and clean yourself out as much as possible. Under the sink you’ll find a lovely collection of unopened anal douches. Use one. The instructions are basic. In twenty minutes, I want you waiting in your bedroom on your stomach.”
Sherlock, eyes wide, took in these words and nodded, jogging off to the bathroom. John sighed and wandered into the kitchen to scrub up. He wouldn’t use gloves, but he would scrub as though for surgery. He meticulously cleaned under his fingernails and scrubbed all the way up his forearms before staring at the drain, wondering how successful this venture would be. If Sherlock had never done it before, it would really hurt him, no matter what. He sighed, and sat down in his room to wile away the last ten minutes.
At twenty-five past he made his way quietly down stairs and tip-toed across the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom. The sight he was greeted by certainly wasn’t a bad one. Sherlock was facing away from the door, face smushed into his crossed arms. He was still a little damp from his shower and his legs were splayed apart. John could see Sherlock’s ribs though, and reminded himself to have a chat about eating again. He started as John walked into the room, but settled back down, looking back to where John had sat himself near his thighs.
“Do you want to use a dental dam?” John whispered, and Sherlock shook his head silently. The door was shut and everything was silent, except for the rustle of sheets when John moved to reposition the lamp Sherlock had provided. John turned off the main light,giving the room as clinical a feel as possible.
John picked up the lubricant Sherlock had lain beside him and squeezed some into his hand. Coating the fingers of his left hand in it, he pulled Sherlock’s cheeks apart. The line down to his balls was hairless and clean as a whistle, and John had to will down his immediate erection at the sight of it. Instead, he ran his slick fingers all the way up and down, watching Sherlock shiver at the feel of it. There are so many things John should be telling him about - not everyone enjoys this, and that it will certainly hurt, and that afterwards they will have to check for tearing, and oh, also, if you feel the need to excrete, that’s normal - but he was so transfixed by the visual of his finger circling that pink sociopathic pucker, and he didn’t want to break this harmonious silence. He pressed in, gently, just to gauge the reaction and Sherlock’s gasp was almost endearing, but he pushed back and John took this as a good sign. He pushed in just that tiny bit further in, meeting the rock-solid ring. He pressed against one side, softly, and then a bit harder when he thought Sherlock can handle it, and then pushed again on the other side. The ring slowly loosened and John petted Sherlock’s lower back as he pushed through the last bit. Sherlock hiccupped in obvious pain, so John stroked his back more and left the finger for a moment to allow him to adjust to the intrusion. Then he started to move, and by pure fluke gently touched the sweet spot inside Sherlock. The half-moan elicited from the head of the bed convinced him to do it again, before pulling out his finger and reapplying more lubricant. An exhausted whimper was the only sound that was made, and John reinserted his finger, finding it much easier now. He wriggled it, once more softly and then more forcefully until he could start to push a second finger in. Sherlock moaned his encouragement, as words seemed to have left the genius entirely, and John repeated the process, slow and painstaking as it was, with that and the third finger. When they were all comfortably in he stopped moving for a moment, looking at the place where his knuckles met the stretched entrance. He was three-fingers-deep in Sherlock Holmes and it might just have be the sexiest thing he had ever experienced. On any continent. Ever.
Sherlock belatedly noticed the lack of movement and lifted his hips, thrusting back unexpectedly - impaling himself further and also revealing the swollen cock that was hidden from view until then. He took a hold of it himself and began fucking himself on John’s fingers. John was slightly bewildered, but kept his fingers in place, knowing he could stop if he was afraid Sherlock would hurt himself.
Or at least, he had hoped so, until Sherlock turned his head back, lips red from biting and eyes drooping closed, and snarled back an almost inaudible ‘touch yourself’. John shoved his pyjamas pants down and took a hold of himself, gripping tightly. He wasn’t going to last, that much was clear, so with the last few functioning brains cells he crooked his finger to hit directly next to Sherlock’s prostate, as he knew that direct contact would hurt. After a minute of two of slick noises and moans, John glanced at the exact position in space and time of his fingers and doubled over, shouting his friend’s name against his ass cheek as he came. At the sound of his name in that hoarse and utterly aroused tone, Sherlock found that he could not hold on any longer and ended the ordeal spectacularly. So spectacularly so in fact, that he didn’t notice John gingerly removing his fingers and wiping them on a towel, or the warm washer that cleaned him up. He only came back to reality when his bowel started yelling through the relaxing buzz and he eventually dragged himself to the bathroom. John was no where to be seen and Sherlock assumed that in his black out time the man had taken a brief shower and had no retired to his room. He smiled, even though he had nothing to smile about and flicked open his notebook to record the results of the latest experiment.
~*~
John sat opposite Mycroft’s desk rather uncomfortably as Sherlock had insisting on reversing the experiment and didn’t know his own strength when he got carried away. He knew why he was here. He didn’t know why Greg was here.
“John, you need to tell him.” Greg was the one to break the silence.
“If you decide to string my brother along I feel that I should warn you I can make you into even more unattractive shoes than James Moriarty could ever achieve.” Mycroft agreed, and John wondered, not for the first time, if he was just dreaming everything. He stared at his hands before his head shot up. “Hang on, string your brother along? How could I possibly do that?”
“By convincing him that you would enter a romantic relationship with him, clearly.” Mycroft said, looking up from a paper he was scanning.
“‘Friends with benefits’ never ends well, John. Someone gets hurt. It’s the way of the world.” Greg said, unhelpfully, from his chair.
“You do realise these are all experiments, right? These… ventures.” John said, carefully. Mycroft sighed and leaned forward.
“John, you won’t let Sherlock borrow a clipping of your pubic hair or a toenail for experiments. Do not lie to me and say you are doing this for purely selfless reasons,” he said sternly.
“You’re… insane, both of you. You do realise your brother is a sociopath?” He almost yelled, rising from his seat a little.
The man sat there, right as rain, and smiled a little. A smile, John noted, not a condescending smirk. “My dear brother is a self-diagnosed sociopath, a trait I once thought we shared. I am now married to someone I care for more dearly than myself.”
“Oh, a trophy wife that will have your freaky babies for you and show up to dinners in a nice dress?” John asked sarcastically, and there was an awkward silence which was broken by Greg clearing his throat. John looked at him and caught the glint of a ring on his left hand as he scratched his face. Everything fell into place.
“No!” John said, grinning at the scandal. “Really?” He glanced back and forth between the two men, who were both grinning like children at a candy store. “That’s the most adorably sickening thing I have ever heard. When did this happen?”
The rest of the meeting was spent discussing how the two of them met long ago and fell in love, and the tempestuous task of keeping it from Sherlock, because really there weren’t many people they could trust with such vital information who wouldn’t sell it for money and they sort of did deserve it.
~*~
John was elated. He had forgotten all about Mycroft’s stern words with him about Sherlock, he’d gotten the man himself to agree to clean the flat and he had plans for the night.
“I’ve got a date,” John said, thumping into the kitchen and interrupting the magnificent concerto Sherlock was giving the couch.
“Gina, the Krispy Kreme girl, divorced alcoholic parents and at least fifteen years younger than you.” Sherlock called out, and John rolled his eyes. He was lacing up his shoes when the detective wandered into the room. “If it goes well will our ongoing experiment have to stop?” He asked, flicking on an almost empty kettle to boil. John pondered this for a moment, and came to a conclusion.
“If it goes well I can continue to instruct and observe, and visa versa. I don’t see why that should be a problem.”
John Watson was not a moral man.
~*~
“Do you realise John is the first person we’ve told everything to?” Greg asked, leaning back against the bed head, arms around his knees.
“Yes. I think that’s nice. He is out future brother-in-law.” Mycroft smirked, pulling off his shirt, no longer shy of his body.
Greg watched him hungrily. “And you’re sure of that?” He asked.
“‘Do you realise your brother is a sociopath?’ His denial is grasping at straws.”
Greg had stopped listening when his civil partner had started undoing his belt. “Mycroft Holmes, if you don’t get in my bed right now, I will ravish you against that door.”
~*~
The date hadn’t gone well, but John’s mood was lifted by the KISS thumping through the front door. That meant Sherlock was cleaning. He bolted up the stairs and was faced with sight of Sherlock vacuuming and singing. Loudly. The chorus to ‘I Was Made for Loving You’. He danced around to face John and a grin broke out on his face as he passed him a duster. John joined in the groove, dusting along the mantelpiece until he hit hips with Sherlock who grabbed him and pulled him close, grinning and singing to him. “I was made for lovin’ you, baby, you were made for lovin’ me…”
John found his lips pressed against Sherlock’s and he wasn’t sure who initiated it but this wasn’t what they did, they didn’t kiss. Everything was supposed to be clinical and assessed, and… Sherlock had come when he’d kissed him on the leg, and noted himself that the changed parameters had caused a less effective orgasms, and he’d been pushed over the edge when John had said his name and… for the second time in as many days everything simply clicked in John’s head and he slid his fingers into his friend’s hair, deepening the kiss infinitely. Sherlock’s groan was addictive and John wanted to memorise it, but instead he just pushed Sherlock against the wall, rolling their hips together. The man’s tongue slid against his own deliciously and John’s hand slipped down, groping the tight tush it found there. Sherlock pulled away, breathing deeply, and practically pulled John into his room, ditching all cleaning equipment on the way. The song clicked over to the Divinyls’ ‘I Touch Myself’ and John questioned Sherlock’s music taste for a fraction of a second before he was being pushed into the bed by all six feet of consulting detective.
“Bad date John?” Sherlock asked, not expecting an answer. “Good, she wasn’t right for you.”
“Who is?” John breathed out desperately and Sherlock tutted, handing him a fresh batch of lubricant.
“Me, clearly. Now, I want you to fuck me,” he panted, flipping them over so John was on top. They both set about pulling off as much clothing as possible in the smallest amount of time possible, Sherlock winning by a mile. He wrapped one leg around John’s own and began to press his erection against John’s thigh, breath already stuttering. John slicked his fingers up and tried to prepare Sherlock as efficiently as possible, still wearing his oatmeal jumper. The gorgeous writhing man below him was trying to hurry him along as much as possible and John left his task a tiny bit too early, but Sherlock was slicking his hand and applying to John’s cock and all rational thought vacated the brains of Baker Street.
As John pushed in their mouths crashed together, as vicious as the thrusts and the man meeting them. Nails became claws and backs where streaked with marks. Legs were entwined and hair pulled and it was as perfect as Sherlock had hoped it to be. Not traditionally romantic, but so very them. Neither of them lasted, months of pent up emotional frustration releasing, one into the others hand, the other into the warmth he lovingly slammed into. They both collapsed together, fingers entwined and fell asleep in a sticky haze. Tomorrow life would be very different for both of them, but for now they were the only people in the world.
~*~
Greg was pulling Mycroft’s jacket of his shoulders.
“They finally got it together,” Mycroft said against the DI’s lips, stopping in his tracks.
“Oh, good!” he smiled, “that’s great to hear. Was it as climactic as we’d hoped?”
“They are shagging like rabbit. Much like we should be,” Mycroft said, trying to arrest Greg’s attention once more. The man wouldn’t be distracted.
“How did Sherlock take it? You know how he is with emotions.”
“My brother has already filed the paper for a civil union license, although he has assured me he’s going to wait a few months before he brings it up. Now, as I’m trying to sustain this magnificent erection I currently have, can we stop discussing brother and do something about it?”
In reality, Greg Lestrade does do everything Mycroft says.