Sherlock Fanfic: Antidote
So now we get more interesting.
Title: Antidote
Fandom: Sherlock, of course
Rating: NC-17. or R. take your pick. It's an excuse for writing porn.
Warnings: Drug use. Language. oh yeah, and sex.
Summary:
John hummed softly to himself. His fingers tapped lightly on the keys of his laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating his darkened room. He was cross-legged on his bed, hunched over the machine.
His desk was covered in folders and papers, documents, bills, and letters, therefore unusable. John had unceremoniously become the head of the household with the expenses. Sherlock had told him he hadn’t had the time.
“Sherlock is a man of many mysteries,” he typed into his blog, trying to recount the events weeks before. “Cold, calculating, and sometimes downright rude…however I wager there is something under that veneer, something willing and wanting to get out.”
John leaned back from the machine, hand on his chin, and a sigh emanating from his very being.
Describing Sherlock was one thing he could never quite get a handle on. For months he had been living at 221b, and all he could tell colleagues and the one bartender he knew down the street was that his flatmate was “Interesting”.
“Interesting? Really?” John murmured to himself. The man was absolutely maddening. Multiple times he had come home to Sherlock in some sort of disarray. When left to his own means, he would rearrange furniture, blow something up in the kitchen, and even resort to shooting the wall.
What the colleges and the bartender didn’t know was that Sherlock and John’s relationship had recently become more…intimate. However, how close the two men were in the bedroom was an entirely different story on how intimate they were emotionally.
John was at a loss at what made Sherlock tick.
He had his suspicions, of course, being a doctor and a friend of the subject. There were also the snide comments from Mycroft and Lestrade. Things that were left to be overlooked, yet hung in the air like cigarette smoke.
John knew about drugs.
He worked with them every day.
However, in his years of medical training, working so closely with a “reformed addict” was something he had never had the “privilege” to witness.
John ran his fingers into his hair. He couldn’t see straight. He knew better than to sit in a dark room looming over the screen. He needed some air. And the living room had grown awfully quiet within the past hour.
Traipsing down the small set of stairs, John was suddenly hit over the head with a peculiar smell.
One he hadn’t smelled since university.
Cautiously opening the door into the living room, John stopped right outside the doorway.
Sherlock was stretched out on the couch in pajama pants and his dressing gown, a pad of paper and pen in his hands… and a small cigarette dangling out of his mouth.
John had to bite back a grimace.
“I thought you didn’t smoke.”
Sherlock looked up from his notes, his eyes not fully meeting John’s. He took a huge drag, held it in, and languidly exhaled, a huge plume of smoke circling around his dark curls.
“Cigarettes, no.” Sherlock drawled. His pale blue eyes were glazed, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward.
John blinked rapidly for a moment, his throat tightening uncomfortably.
“Sherlock, where did you get that?”
“Where I get everything else.” The consulting detective seemed to stifle a laugh. He pulled up his feet and gestured toward the empty spot on the sofa.
John swallowed. His eyes roved over next to Sherlock. A small ashtray riddled with what John had known to be called “roaches” graced the coffeetable, next to a small mirror and a rolled up ten pound note.
“Sherlock…” John waivered. He cautiously sat down next to the detective, his eyes still on the paraphernalia on the table. Sherlock tossed the notepad across the room, taking the last drag of the joint and putting it out with its brothers.
“Yes, John?” Sherlock pointedly asked, folding his hands behind his head.
John took a breath.
“What in the fucking hell is this?” his voice barely coming out in a growl.
“Experiment.” Sherlock simply said, shrugging his shoulders. “Next question.”
“Why-“
“It’s been too long and there’s nothing else to do,” Sherlock quickly bantered. “I was merely tracking the effects of two completely different substances on my body.”
John took a moment to regain his thoughts. Sherlock ‘s eyes roved over John’s face, and his jaw moved as if he were chewing on his tongue.
“I thought Lestrade and his cronies had searched the place.”
“Really, John, you think they could find something I could hide?”
“You seemed fairly distressed when you found them here!”
Sherlock laughed- a rare sound, and it cracked the air like a gunshot. The tall, lithe man catapulted himself up from the couch and strode over to the mantelpiece. John watched in disbelief as Sherlock ran his fingers under the mantle, pushed in, and pulled down.
The decorative front of the fireplace popped out on a hinge, and Sherlock caught it, turning around with a huge grin on his face.
John stumbled up off the couch and cautiously approached Sherlock and his masterful hiding place.
John’s eyes widened.
“Shit… Sherlock, you know if anyone finds this…” John cried.
Sherlock pursed his lips, and slammed the trap door shut. He stood there for a moment, and his eyes squinted down at John with disapproval.
“You really think that would happen?” Sherlock breathed, turning, eyes focused on Johns. He cocked his head to the side, as if studying a particularly fascinating specimen.
John’s heart sped up. He didn’t know if he liked the look in Sherlock’s eyes. He didn’t realize until now how tall Sherlock was compared to him. His long graceful neck alone was the telltale sign that the drugs had started to course through Sherlock’s veins. His pulse was hammering , visible right under his jaw.
However, for someone who had just ingested questionable amounts of cocaine and marijuana, Sherlock was questionably calm. His breath was controlled, yet now his eyes had begun to change. His pupils had dilated to almost an extreme size, giving Sherlock an eerie disposition at this close of range.
Usually, John loved being close to his flatmate...lover. The faint smell of his cologne mingled with fresh laundry and the surprising metallic smell of his experiments left John feeling strangely comforted. The feel of his smooth skin was almost electric. It was something still new and foreign to him, who hadn’t had contact with another person, let alone a man, in years. The first time they had made love was beyond anything John could have ever imagined. It was frightening, exciting, hot, and had a hint of danger. However, under these conditions… John was feeling guilty and frightened at the same time.
John was less than surprised when he felt Sherlock’s fingers wrapping around the back of his neck, long thin fingers winding through his short thick hair. John’s breath caught in his throat.
“John, I really appreciate the concern,” Sherlock breathed, inches away from John’s lips. “But it’s not something for you to worry about at this time.”
“Then… what should I be worrying about?” John stammered, his heart rapidly reaching a crescendo. He was starting to feel a twinge in his pants. God, was this the time?! Sherlock need to be sober. He needed to be in his room sleeping it off. Who knows what these substances would make him do…
Sherlock smiled, his eyes lidded, his lips wet.
“Me.”
Sherlock dove on John, his hot mouth finding the pressure point at the base of the doctor’s ear. His fingers tightened in his hair, and Sherlock’s other arm wound around John’s waist, crushing wool jumper to silk.
John’s knees were in danger of giving out- blood was pounding in his ears as Sherlock nibbled, sucked and traced a hot line from his neck to his collarbone.
“Sherlock! Ah..Should… I mean, is this the…best.. time?” John stammered, trying to right himself, his eyes flickering closed.
“Time now more than ever, my dear.” Sherlock murmured against John’s neck. One hand steadily held John’s neck as the other roamed down to the waistband of John’s jeans.
John was now painfully hard. Red lights, sirens, explosions… everything was going off in John’s head- but the feeling of Sherlock’s mouth and hands on him were threatening to wash over them like the ocean.
Sherlock’s mouth found John’s, lips crushing down upon him, tongue roving over the other, teeth nibbling on John’s bottom lip, tugging, baiting. In a bout of lust, John let himself go, giving the same flustered and feverish height to his kiss.
Then suddenly, John was left gasping for breath. His eyes fluttered open to see a flushed, chest heaving Sherlock staring him down, his mouth a tight line, his eyes like a panther’s.
“Upstairs. Now.” Sherlock growled.
John needed no further instruction. Sherlock had grabbed John’s hand in a vice lock, tugging him toward the stairs. Sherlock let out a giggle as John nearly missed the first step. He took the steps two at a time, dragging the doctor along behind him, who was fumbling as if he had two left feet. Kicking the door to his lair open, Sherlock threw John and himself into the room, and slammed the door behind them.
John was surprised at what he saw. He had half expected Sherlock’s room to resemble the mess that was downstairs, however, his room was fairly sparse, with the exception of a huge bed and the walls covered in bookshelves.
John heard an audible click behind him as Sherlock locked the door. He didn’t dare turn around. He heard three deliberately slow steps across the floor, and felt Sherlock’s breath on the back of his neck.
“No time for sight-seeing, John.”
Sherlock’s hot hands were underneath John’s jumper as his mouth once again fell on the nape of his neck. Fingers tugged and pulled at the offending garment- and John lifted his arms as Sherlock pulled it over his head, tossing it unceremoniously to the side. A deep growl of satisfaction resonated in Sherlock’s throat as he ran his hands over John’s torso, feeling lean muscles underneath the cotton t-shirt. John’s breath caught in his throat as Sherlock crushed the doctor’s body to him, and John could definitely feel Sherlock’s arousal ground into his back.
“John, we’ve wasted so much time already,” Sherlock groaned, peeling John’s t-shirt off as well. John turned around to face his assailant, heart drumming wildly. Sherlock’s forehead was beaded with sweat, his cheeks flushed, a predatory look in his dilated eyes. “I don’t think you can wait much longer, can you?” Sherlock growled, peeling off his own dressing gown with one fluid motion. Barely a fingers touch to the chest, and John fell back onto the bed, Sherlock right along with him, a hand hungrily on his crotch.
John groaned at the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on his erection, the rough denim contrasting drastically with the soft cotton of his briefs. John’s hands tore into the bedsheets, gripping at whatever he could hold on to, trying to keep himself from flailing uncontrollably on Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock loomed above John in the twilight, a predatory smile draped across his beautifully chiseled face.
“You like that, don’t you.” Sherlock smiled, his visage taking on an otherworldly appearance. The rhythm Sherlock had taken on handling John had increased in intensity, fingers circling around the head of John’s erection, sending John’s hips bucking against Sherlock’s hand. “You want this more than anything right now, don’t you John. “
John was biting his lip, trying not to speak, trying not to yell, trying not to lose control…
“Oh GOD yes!”
Of course it was no use.
“All I needed to hear,” Sherlock said, as John wound his arms around the maddening detective’s neck, pulling him down, skin against skin. Sherlock was deftly undoing John’s belt, smothering John’s chest with kisses, taking one nipple in his mouth, sucking lightly, tongue lolling around the tip, and then neatly taking it between his teeth and gently pulling.
John’s breath was taken in as a hiss. Everything Sherlock did was precise, and artfully coordinated. John realized in exasperation that Sherlock had probably planned all this. Sober or no, and John had now found out no, Sherlock had practically all control in every situation he was handed. However, as soon as he realized this fact he also realized his jeans were on the ground, and Sherlock had taken to peel off his boxer briefs, so naturally all thought of conspiracy went flying out the window.
Usually John would have felt self-conscious under the steely gaze of Sherlock Holmes. His body was far from perfect, scars riddling his shoulder, his torso, his leg. He had gained some extra weight since the war- a mostly sedentary lifestyle would see to that. The man who hovered above him, kneeling up, straddling his naked legs was like a god carved out of marble in the pale light, dark curls falling into his eyes, lips parted ever so slightly. John reached up and traced the v shaped muscle right above the waistband of Sherlock’s lounge pants, and Sherlock smiled.
“John Watson, you beautiful fucking man,” he purred, grasping John’s hand with his own, leading Johns hand to his own erection. “I don’t know why you think so poorly of yourself. This is all of your own doing.”
“My own doing?” John laughed, taking the liberty to free Sherlock from the restriction of his pants. John sat up and leaned forward, taking Sherlock in his mouth, giving two pumps and a slow lick from base to tip. “You’re the one who got me up here.”
“Oh, if you only knew, John.” Sherlock smiled with a faraway look on his face, pushing the doctor back down with one hand and kicking his pants off onto the ground. “However, it’s my turn to take charge. Put your hands up on the headboard. Keep them there until I say.”
John’s heart hammered in his chest as he reached behind him, holding onto the headboard just like Sherlock had instructed him to. Sherlock ran his hands lightly over John’s thighs, making sure not to touch the part of John that was aching to be handled. John’s breath was laboured, he was trying to steady it as Sherlock tantalizingly bent his head over, kissing the inside of his thighs, and he hissed when Sherlock sucked at the tender skin right under his hipbone.
“That… tickles, Sherlock…” John hissed, gripping onto the headboard tighter.
All that met his ears was a low chuckle, and John gasped in surprise when he felt Sherlock’s mouth on him. It was warm, slick, and for some reason, unlike anything he had witnessed before. Sherlock’s deft tongue that was so used to quipping insults to his colleagues was soft and persistent around his cock, flicking here and there, before he engulfed John in one quick motion.
As his head moved up and down, John realized that the detective was going to drive him mad. All he wanted to do was run his hands through those curls, to feel his lover under his own fingers, but he kept his hands on the headboard, ever obedient. Sherlock’s mouth went slowly, then quicker, building John up almost to the point of release, and then suddenly slowed. John bit his lip almost to the point of drawing blood, when he looked down to see Sherlock grinning up at him, his hand wrapped around his cock, slowly starting to pump up and down.
“Sherlock, really. You still want my hands-“
“Yes, John. Don’t move them yet.
John bit back a grimace in exasperation as he stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. This night was going in a totally different direction than he had expected. However, it was not unwelcome, oh no. Just… surprising, and …interesting…much like his roommate that was busy with his nether regions…
“Sherlock!” John let out a gasp as he felt the detective gently nibble on the inside of his thigh as his hand pumped up and down. John’s hands shot down to grab Sherlock’s hair, but were suddenly stopped. Even in the twilight John could see Sherlock’s expression take on an almost unearthly glow. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it resonated like a cannon in John’s ears.
“What did I tell you, John? Keep those damn hands above your head.” Sherlock took John’s wrists and pinned them behind his head with one impossibly strong motion, as his long lithe body covered John’s.
“If you want more contact, all you need to do is say so,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. John could smell the pot in Sherlock’s hair, but instead of being off-putting, it mingled with the other aromas John loved so much about his flatmate. It was a hint of the illicit among the absurd. Sherlock hissed in pleasure as he moved his hips against John’s- their cocks gliding together. The feeling of Sherlock on him was almost ridiculously mind-bending, and John bucked his hips up to meet his assailant. One strong hand still held John’s wrists behind his head, and the other supported his weight. Beads of sweat perforated Sherlock’s forehead once more as he moved his hips in a rhythmic pattern, as John’s hips tried to keep up. John’s eyes fluttered closed as Sherlock’s lips found his, and the strong soft fingers that kept his hands at bay suddenly moved and entwined around John’s calloused ones. Feeling more at ease, John nudged Sherlock to the side, their legs entwining even closer than their fingers. Sherlock’s long arm wrapped around John’s waist, pulling them closer. John’s arms ached to do the same.
“Not so much…effort…this way...” John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, and he could feel the smile wrap around Sherlock’s lips, not giving any answer. Sherlock’s deft free hand wrapped around his and John’s cocks, slick with sweat and precome.
“Move for me, John.” Sherlock whispered, a hint of pleading in his voice. John didn’t need any other request. As he slowly bucked his hips, he watched as Sherlock’s visage changed dramatically from concentrated control to unanticipated bliss. Sherlock groaned and moved in rhythm with John, his hand grasping tighter with every thrust. Hot and slick, the two men ground themselves together, a tangle of arms and legs- fingers snarled in each other’s hair, yearning mouths nipping and colliding together in a sort of passionate frenzy.
Tiny fireworks suddenly seemed to erupt in John’s mind. An animalistic growl erupted from John’s throat, somehow forming words that were barely understandable.
“Sherlock…I’m going to…”
Sherlock’s eyes blazed.
“Not yet John- you must hold on…I…” As Sherlock said this, he threw his head back in ecstasy, his thin body convulsing against Johns. The new sensation was enough to drive John over the edge, and he reached his breaking point too, spilling onto Sherlock’s abdomen, his body shuddering, yearning for embrace.
The air itself seemed to crackle with electricity, such as if it would after a thunderstorm, cooling suddenly as if a breeze had lilted through the room. John shivered as his body cooled, his fingers curling through Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock, unlike so many, reached out, winding his arms around his doctor, pulling him close, his head still thrown back at an awkward angle. As their breathing slowed, John lifted his head, and brushed the damp hair out of his lover’s eyes. Sherlock turned his face toward John’s hand, his eyes slowly opening, trying to meet John’s.
“Well… that…” Sherlock muttered, blinking slowly. “That was…words…a…yes, trip… to say the least.”
John smiled. No doubt Sherlock’s world was spinning around him, the drugs that coursed through his veins slowing, desperately trying to drag him back down to earth. Sherlock’s pale blue eyes focused sharply for a moment, then glossed over.
“I don’t… want to come down…” Sherlock breathed, his eyes fluttering closed as John pulled him to his chest.
“It’s alright…” John soothed, sounding faraway even to himself. “I’m right here….right here.”
“I know you are.” Came the almost inaudible whisper.
As John held his friend close, he felt the detective’s body slowly relax against his own, and his breathing steadied.
Whatever made Sherlock Holmes tick, John was almost certain he had found the antidote.
Title: Antidote
Fandom: Sherlock, of course
Rating: NC-17. or R. take your pick. It's an excuse for writing porn.
Warnings: Drug use. Language. oh yeah, and sex.
Summary:
John hummed softly to himself. His fingers tapped lightly on the keys of his laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating his darkened room. He was cross-legged on his bed, hunched over the machine.
His desk was covered in folders and papers, documents, bills, and letters, therefore unusable. John had unceremoniously become the head of the household with the expenses. Sherlock had told him he hadn’t had the time.
“Sherlock is a man of many mysteries,” he typed into his blog, trying to recount the events weeks before. “Cold, calculating, and sometimes downright rude…however I wager there is something under that veneer, something willing and wanting to get out.”
John leaned back from the machine, hand on his chin, and a sigh emanating from his very being.
Describing Sherlock was one thing he could never quite get a handle on. For months he had been living at 221b, and all he could tell colleagues and the one bartender he knew down the street was that his flatmate was “Interesting”.
“Interesting? Really?” John murmured to himself. The man was absolutely maddening. Multiple times he had come home to Sherlock in some sort of disarray. When left to his own means, he would rearrange furniture, blow something up in the kitchen, and even resort to shooting the wall.
What the colleges and the bartender didn’t know was that Sherlock and John’s relationship had recently become more…intimate. However, how close the two men were in the bedroom was an entirely different story on how intimate they were emotionally.
John was at a loss at what made Sherlock tick.
He had his suspicions, of course, being a doctor and a friend of the subject. There were also the snide comments from Mycroft and Lestrade. Things that were left to be overlooked, yet hung in the air like cigarette smoke.
John knew about drugs.
He worked with them every day.
However, in his years of medical training, working so closely with a “reformed addict” was something he had never had the “privilege” to witness.
John ran his fingers into his hair. He couldn’t see straight. He knew better than to sit in a dark room looming over the screen. He needed some air. And the living room had grown awfully quiet within the past hour.
Traipsing down the small set of stairs, John was suddenly hit over the head with a peculiar smell.
One he hadn’t smelled since university.
Cautiously opening the door into the living room, John stopped right outside the doorway.
Sherlock was stretched out on the couch in pajama pants and his dressing gown, a pad of paper and pen in his hands… and a small cigarette dangling out of his mouth.
John had to bite back a grimace.
“I thought you didn’t smoke.”
Sherlock looked up from his notes, his eyes not fully meeting John’s. He took a huge drag, held it in, and languidly exhaled, a huge plume of smoke circling around his dark curls.
“Cigarettes, no.” Sherlock drawled. His pale blue eyes were glazed, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward.
John blinked rapidly for a moment, his throat tightening uncomfortably.
“Sherlock, where did you get that?”
“Where I get everything else.” The consulting detective seemed to stifle a laugh. He pulled up his feet and gestured toward the empty spot on the sofa.
John swallowed. His eyes roved over next to Sherlock. A small ashtray riddled with what John had known to be called “roaches” graced the coffeetable, next to a small mirror and a rolled up ten pound note.
“Sherlock…” John waivered. He cautiously sat down next to the detective, his eyes still on the paraphernalia on the table. Sherlock tossed the notepad across the room, taking the last drag of the joint and putting it out with its brothers.
“Yes, John?” Sherlock pointedly asked, folding his hands behind his head.
John took a breath.
“What in the fucking hell is this?” his voice barely coming out in a growl.
“Experiment.” Sherlock simply said, shrugging his shoulders. “Next question.”
“Why-“
“It’s been too long and there’s nothing else to do,” Sherlock quickly bantered. “I was merely tracking the effects of two completely different substances on my body.”
John took a moment to regain his thoughts. Sherlock ‘s eyes roved over John’s face, and his jaw moved as if he were chewing on his tongue.
“I thought Lestrade and his cronies had searched the place.”
“Really, John, you think they could find something I could hide?”
“You seemed fairly distressed when you found them here!”
Sherlock laughed- a rare sound, and it cracked the air like a gunshot. The tall, lithe man catapulted himself up from the couch and strode over to the mantelpiece. John watched in disbelief as Sherlock ran his fingers under the mantle, pushed in, and pulled down.
The decorative front of the fireplace popped out on a hinge, and Sherlock caught it, turning around with a huge grin on his face.
John stumbled up off the couch and cautiously approached Sherlock and his masterful hiding place.
John’s eyes widened.
“Shit… Sherlock, you know if anyone finds this…” John cried.
Sherlock pursed his lips, and slammed the trap door shut. He stood there for a moment, and his eyes squinted down at John with disapproval.
“You really think that would happen?” Sherlock breathed, turning, eyes focused on Johns. He cocked his head to the side, as if studying a particularly fascinating specimen.
John’s heart sped up. He didn’t know if he liked the look in Sherlock’s eyes. He didn’t realize until now how tall Sherlock was compared to him. His long graceful neck alone was the telltale sign that the drugs had started to course through Sherlock’s veins. His pulse was hammering , visible right under his jaw.
However, for someone who had just ingested questionable amounts of cocaine and marijuana, Sherlock was questionably calm. His breath was controlled, yet now his eyes had begun to change. His pupils had dilated to almost an extreme size, giving Sherlock an eerie disposition at this close of range.
Usually, John loved being close to his flatmate...lover. The faint smell of his cologne mingled with fresh laundry and the surprising metallic smell of his experiments left John feeling strangely comforted. The feel of his smooth skin was almost electric. It was something still new and foreign to him, who hadn’t had contact with another person, let alone a man, in years. The first time they had made love was beyond anything John could have ever imagined. It was frightening, exciting, hot, and had a hint of danger. However, under these conditions… John was feeling guilty and frightened at the same time.
John was less than surprised when he felt Sherlock’s fingers wrapping around the back of his neck, long thin fingers winding through his short thick hair. John’s breath caught in his throat.
“John, I really appreciate the concern,” Sherlock breathed, inches away from John’s lips. “But it’s not something for you to worry about at this time.”
“Then… what should I be worrying about?” John stammered, his heart rapidly reaching a crescendo. He was starting to feel a twinge in his pants. God, was this the time?! Sherlock need to be sober. He needed to be in his room sleeping it off. Who knows what these substances would make him do…
Sherlock smiled, his eyes lidded, his lips wet.
“Me.”
Sherlock dove on John, his hot mouth finding the pressure point at the base of the doctor’s ear. His fingers tightened in his hair, and Sherlock’s other arm wound around John’s waist, crushing wool jumper to silk.
John’s knees were in danger of giving out- blood was pounding in his ears as Sherlock nibbled, sucked and traced a hot line from his neck to his collarbone.
“Sherlock! Ah..Should… I mean, is this the…best.. time?” John stammered, trying to right himself, his eyes flickering closed.
“Time now more than ever, my dear.” Sherlock murmured against John’s neck. One hand steadily held John’s neck as the other roamed down to the waistband of John’s jeans.
John was now painfully hard. Red lights, sirens, explosions… everything was going off in John’s head- but the feeling of Sherlock’s mouth and hands on him were threatening to wash over them like the ocean.
Sherlock’s mouth found John’s, lips crushing down upon him, tongue roving over the other, teeth nibbling on John’s bottom lip, tugging, baiting. In a bout of lust, John let himself go, giving the same flustered and feverish height to his kiss.
Then suddenly, John was left gasping for breath. His eyes fluttered open to see a flushed, chest heaving Sherlock staring him down, his mouth a tight line, his eyes like a panther’s.
“Upstairs. Now.” Sherlock growled.
John needed no further instruction. Sherlock had grabbed John’s hand in a vice lock, tugging him toward the stairs. Sherlock let out a giggle as John nearly missed the first step. He took the steps two at a time, dragging the doctor along behind him, who was fumbling as if he had two left feet. Kicking the door to his lair open, Sherlock threw John and himself into the room, and slammed the door behind them.
John was surprised at what he saw. He had half expected Sherlock’s room to resemble the mess that was downstairs, however, his room was fairly sparse, with the exception of a huge bed and the walls covered in bookshelves.
John heard an audible click behind him as Sherlock locked the door. He didn’t dare turn around. He heard three deliberately slow steps across the floor, and felt Sherlock’s breath on the back of his neck.
“No time for sight-seeing, John.”
Sherlock’s hot hands were underneath John’s jumper as his mouth once again fell on the nape of his neck. Fingers tugged and pulled at the offending garment- and John lifted his arms as Sherlock pulled it over his head, tossing it unceremoniously to the side. A deep growl of satisfaction resonated in Sherlock’s throat as he ran his hands over John’s torso, feeling lean muscles underneath the cotton t-shirt. John’s breath caught in his throat as Sherlock crushed the doctor’s body to him, and John could definitely feel Sherlock’s arousal ground into his back.
“John, we’ve wasted so much time already,” Sherlock groaned, peeling John’s t-shirt off as well. John turned around to face his assailant, heart drumming wildly. Sherlock’s forehead was beaded with sweat, his cheeks flushed, a predatory look in his dilated eyes. “I don’t think you can wait much longer, can you?” Sherlock growled, peeling off his own dressing gown with one fluid motion. Barely a fingers touch to the chest, and John fell back onto the bed, Sherlock right along with him, a hand hungrily on his crotch.
John groaned at the feeling of Sherlock’s hand on his erection, the rough denim contrasting drastically with the soft cotton of his briefs. John’s hands tore into the bedsheets, gripping at whatever he could hold on to, trying to keep himself from flailing uncontrollably on Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock loomed above John in the twilight, a predatory smile draped across his beautifully chiseled face.
“You like that, don’t you.” Sherlock smiled, his visage taking on an otherworldly appearance. The rhythm Sherlock had taken on handling John had increased in intensity, fingers circling around the head of John’s erection, sending John’s hips bucking against Sherlock’s hand. “You want this more than anything right now, don’t you John. “
John was biting his lip, trying not to speak, trying not to yell, trying not to lose control…
“Oh GOD yes!”
Of course it was no use.
“All I needed to hear,” Sherlock said, as John wound his arms around the maddening detective’s neck, pulling him down, skin against skin. Sherlock was deftly undoing John’s belt, smothering John’s chest with kisses, taking one nipple in his mouth, sucking lightly, tongue lolling around the tip, and then neatly taking it between his teeth and gently pulling.
John’s breath was taken in as a hiss. Everything Sherlock did was precise, and artfully coordinated. John realized in exasperation that Sherlock had probably planned all this. Sober or no, and John had now found out no, Sherlock had practically all control in every situation he was handed. However, as soon as he realized this fact he also realized his jeans were on the ground, and Sherlock had taken to peel off his boxer briefs, so naturally all thought of conspiracy went flying out the window.
Usually John would have felt self-conscious under the steely gaze of Sherlock Holmes. His body was far from perfect, scars riddling his shoulder, his torso, his leg. He had gained some extra weight since the war- a mostly sedentary lifestyle would see to that. The man who hovered above him, kneeling up, straddling his naked legs was like a god carved out of marble in the pale light, dark curls falling into his eyes, lips parted ever so slightly. John reached up and traced the v shaped muscle right above the waistband of Sherlock’s lounge pants, and Sherlock smiled.
“John Watson, you beautiful fucking man,” he purred, grasping John’s hand with his own, leading Johns hand to his own erection. “I don’t know why you think so poorly of yourself. This is all of your own doing.”
“My own doing?” John laughed, taking the liberty to free Sherlock from the restriction of his pants. John sat up and leaned forward, taking Sherlock in his mouth, giving two pumps and a slow lick from base to tip. “You’re the one who got me up here.”
“Oh, if you only knew, John.” Sherlock smiled with a faraway look on his face, pushing the doctor back down with one hand and kicking his pants off onto the ground. “However, it’s my turn to take charge. Put your hands up on the headboard. Keep them there until I say.”
John’s heart hammered in his chest as he reached behind him, holding onto the headboard just like Sherlock had instructed him to. Sherlock ran his hands lightly over John’s thighs, making sure not to touch the part of John that was aching to be handled. John’s breath was laboured, he was trying to steady it as Sherlock tantalizingly bent his head over, kissing the inside of his thighs, and he hissed when Sherlock sucked at the tender skin right under his hipbone.
“That… tickles, Sherlock…” John hissed, gripping onto the headboard tighter.
All that met his ears was a low chuckle, and John gasped in surprise when he felt Sherlock’s mouth on him. It was warm, slick, and for some reason, unlike anything he had witnessed before. Sherlock’s deft tongue that was so used to quipping insults to his colleagues was soft and persistent around his cock, flicking here and there, before he engulfed John in one quick motion.
As his head moved up and down, John realized that the detective was going to drive him mad. All he wanted to do was run his hands through those curls, to feel his lover under his own fingers, but he kept his hands on the headboard, ever obedient. Sherlock’s mouth went slowly, then quicker, building John up almost to the point of release, and then suddenly slowed. John bit his lip almost to the point of drawing blood, when he looked down to see Sherlock grinning up at him, his hand wrapped around his cock, slowly starting to pump up and down.
“Sherlock, really. You still want my hands-“
“Yes, John. Don’t move them yet.
John bit back a grimace in exasperation as he stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. This night was going in a totally different direction than he had expected. However, it was not unwelcome, oh no. Just… surprising, and …interesting…much like his roommate that was busy with his nether regions…
“Sherlock!” John let out a gasp as he felt the detective gently nibble on the inside of his thigh as his hand pumped up and down. John’s hands shot down to grab Sherlock’s hair, but were suddenly stopped. Even in the twilight John could see Sherlock’s expression take on an almost unearthly glow. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it resonated like a cannon in John’s ears.
“What did I tell you, John? Keep those damn hands above your head.” Sherlock took John’s wrists and pinned them behind his head with one impossibly strong motion, as his long lithe body covered John’s.
“If you want more contact, all you need to do is say so,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. John could smell the pot in Sherlock’s hair, but instead of being off-putting, it mingled with the other aromas John loved so much about his flatmate. It was a hint of the illicit among the absurd. Sherlock hissed in pleasure as he moved his hips against John’s- their cocks gliding together. The feeling of Sherlock on him was almost ridiculously mind-bending, and John bucked his hips up to meet his assailant. One strong hand still held John’s wrists behind his head, and the other supported his weight. Beads of sweat perforated Sherlock’s forehead once more as he moved his hips in a rhythmic pattern, as John’s hips tried to keep up. John’s eyes fluttered closed as Sherlock’s lips found his, and the strong soft fingers that kept his hands at bay suddenly moved and entwined around John’s calloused ones. Feeling more at ease, John nudged Sherlock to the side, their legs entwining even closer than their fingers. Sherlock’s long arm wrapped around John’s waist, pulling them closer. John’s arms ached to do the same.
“Not so much…effort…this way...” John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, and he could feel the smile wrap around Sherlock’s lips, not giving any answer. Sherlock’s deft free hand wrapped around his and John’s cocks, slick with sweat and precome.
“Move for me, John.” Sherlock whispered, a hint of pleading in his voice. John didn’t need any other request. As he slowly bucked his hips, he watched as Sherlock’s visage changed dramatically from concentrated control to unanticipated bliss. Sherlock groaned and moved in rhythm with John, his hand grasping tighter with every thrust. Hot and slick, the two men ground themselves together, a tangle of arms and legs- fingers snarled in each other’s hair, yearning mouths nipping and colliding together in a sort of passionate frenzy.
Tiny fireworks suddenly seemed to erupt in John’s mind. An animalistic growl erupted from John’s throat, somehow forming words that were barely understandable.
“Sherlock…I’m going to…”
Sherlock’s eyes blazed.
“Not yet John- you must hold on…I…” As Sherlock said this, he threw his head back in ecstasy, his thin body convulsing against Johns. The new sensation was enough to drive John over the edge, and he reached his breaking point too, spilling onto Sherlock’s abdomen, his body shuddering, yearning for embrace.
The air itself seemed to crackle with electricity, such as if it would after a thunderstorm, cooling suddenly as if a breeze had lilted through the room. John shivered as his body cooled, his fingers curling through Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock, unlike so many, reached out, winding his arms around his doctor, pulling him close, his head still thrown back at an awkward angle. As their breathing slowed, John lifted his head, and brushed the damp hair out of his lover’s eyes. Sherlock turned his face toward John’s hand, his eyes slowly opening, trying to meet John’s.
“Well… that…” Sherlock muttered, blinking slowly. “That was…words…a…yes, trip… to say the least.”
John smiled. No doubt Sherlock’s world was spinning around him, the drugs that coursed through his veins slowing, desperately trying to drag him back down to earth. Sherlock’s pale blue eyes focused sharply for a moment, then glossed over.
“I don’t… want to come down…” Sherlock breathed, his eyes fluttering closed as John pulled him to his chest.
“It’s alright…” John soothed, sounding faraway even to himself. “I’m right here….right here.”
“I know you are.” Came the almost inaudible whisper.
As John held his friend close, he felt the detective’s body slowly relax against his own, and his breathing steadied.
Whatever made Sherlock Holmes tick, John was almost certain he had found the antidote.