Sherlock fic request: 4
For spacedmonkey, whose request was It's 3am and he won't stop "playing" his violin. I assume John has a way to stop him. :)
Note: I decided to partner this with my fic Scarf. How did John get to be in the situation where he was tying Sherlock up? Well...
Title: (Dis)Obedience
Rating: 18/NC-17 for sexual and BDSM references
Pairing: Sherlock/John, naturally
John looked down at Sherlock, his arms almost shockingly pale against the scarf that tied his wrists together, and wondered what on earth he'd been thinking.
“Well,” Sherlock said, “get on with it, then.”
*
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John muttered, turning over in bed. Strains of violin "playing" drifted up the stairs, and John had a brief moment of sincere sympathy for Sherlock's neighbours at uni. Even the slimy Sebastian.
When it became clear that the discordance that passed for playing was not going to stop any time soon, John got out of bed and went downstairs. Although he and Sherlock had been - well, you know - for six months now, they still had separate bedrooms. (Another reason not to mention the "b" word about Sherlock.) Not that Sherlock was in his, of course. Half the time when Sherlock actually went to sleep it was in a chair in the sitting room, at odd hours of the day. He had napped this afternoon, knees pulled up to his chin as he sat in an armchair, and John hadn't had the heart to wake him. And now it was three in the morning and he was as bright as a bloody button, dammit.
"Oh, John, you're up," said Sherlock, continuing to saw at the violin. "Could you make me a cup of tea?"
"I'm up now," said John meaningfully, and Sherlock glanced over.
"That's what I just said."
"Sherlock, we talked about this."
"About you being awake? Unlikely, seems like a boring thing to discuss," said Sherlock, who put the bow down and started plinking at the strings of the violin with a thoughtful expression.
"About you playing the violin in the middle of the night!" said John, exasperated. But although he was annoyed, he couldn't help looking at the way Sherlock's fingers moved over the strings, at the curve of his neck as he bent his head over the violin. Dammit. Sherlock looked up, and, catching his expression, gave John a sly little smile that made John want to shake him and kiss him at once.
"I suppose you did," he said. "No doubt there are consequences for my disobedience."
John's throat suddenly went very dry.
Which was how they'd ended up back in John's room, Sherlock's shirt on the floor, his wrists tied together with his ubiquitous scarf. John's pyjama trousers, which were a bit on the slim cut side anyway - oh, alright, not being in the army had made him put on a bit of weight, it wasn't a crime - felt pretty tight around his prick. Oh, God. He was so aroused he felt almost...helpless, and Sherlock, who had a funny way of being able to give John what he needed, made that smart remark about getting on with it. After that it was easy.
"I don’t think you’re supposed to be giving the orders," he'd said, straightening up, setting back his shoulders, and he had locked the bedroom door. It didn't seem likely that Mrs Hudson would show up at this time, but since she never bothered knocking when she did visit, John thought it was best to err on the side of caution. He came back to the foot of the bed.
"Tell me you're sorry," he said. Sherlock looked up at him steadily, measuringly, and John suddenly realised that Sherlock didn't really know how this worked, either. Thank God. It helped push to the back of his mind the idea that he looked like an idiot, since in this case they probably both did.
"No," said Sherlock, after a moment's careful measuring of the situation. The corner of his mouth twitched up. "You'll have to make me."
The rush of blood to John's prick was almost painful, and he breathed out hard through his nose.
"Oh," he said, and he tried to remember his toughest drill sergeant promising to crush all of the new recruits like flies, he didn't bloody care if they were officers. "I'll make you sorry, alright." John thought he saw Sherlock's eyelids flicker briefly, and knowing this was affecting him too made John's breathing come harsher.
John supposed that at this point he should probably - spank Sherlock, or something. But he didn't really have any idea how to go about it. He'd only tried it once, and he'd been on the receiving end. He and the woman he was dating at the time had both been a bit drunk and giggly, and when she'd spanked him he'd felt sort of like a naughty schoolboy, which was exciting at the time but made him cringe with embarrassment afterward. He supposed there was - harder stuff you could do as well, and he remembered Sherlock's riding crop and felt his chest get a bit tight. Oh, God. His face was flushing just thinking about it, and Sherlock was looking up at him with an inscrutable expression.
Alright. Maybe spanking was too much (this time). He looked down at Sherlock, and he knew he wasn't helpless, that Sherlock could get out of those bonds in about ten seconds if he put his mind to it, but the fantasy of it... He swallowed, and he had an idea of what to do.
Very carefully he unbuckled Sherlock's belt, and then unzipped his trousers. He tended to rush this bit; he was always so eager to get Sherlock naked, to get his skin next to his, and it usually only took a couple of minutes of kissing before John was reaching blindly for Sherlock's cock. He just wanted him so much, and anyway, if he slowed down to think about things he tended to panic - what the hell am I doing does this mean I'm gay and all that stuff at school was real does it show that I don't really know what I'm doing what would Mum and Dad have said - and that tended to be a mood dampener. But there had been a couple of times Sherlock had made him lie still, and had touched him so slowly and gently that he could have cried with frustration. It had been amazing.
Slowly John peeled Sherlock's trousers off, as well as his boxers and shorts. Sherlock was half-hard, which was nothing compared to John's painful erection, but that was alright. It always took Sherlock a while to get going, and John was sort of flattered that he'd got Sherlock as hard as he was before he'd even really touched him.
"You're pretty gorgeous, you know," he said, feeling awkward but not able to not say it, not with Sherlock stretched out, skin pale against the sheets, hair in disarray, the lean muscles of his arms taut from their position stretched above his head.
"I know," said Sherlock, and John slapped his thigh impulsively.
"No talking," he said, and Sherlock's eyes glittered. The slap had been light, but Sherlock was so pale that a light pink flush showed up on his thigh for a moment before disappearing. "No talking unless it's to say you're sorry," John added, and then set to work.
He spent a long time kissing and stroking Sherlock. It felt weirdly liberating, to be able to just ... look at him, and touch him. John always felt a bit self-conscious about enjoying how pretty Sherlock was, but if it was part of the game it was alright, wasn't it? He kissed the inside of his arms, the hollow of his throat, his chest, and Sherlock stayed silent, eyes closed, but his breathing got a little faster, a little shallower.
It took ages just to work his way down to Sherlock's thighs, and by now John's prick was throbbing. But Sherlock was properly hard now, and his chest was rising and falling quickly, so John had no intention of stopping teasing him any time soon. He put his tongue against the inside of Sherlock's knees and felt him twitch, ran his fingers up to the crease of his thigh, tugged lightly on the fine hair below Sherlock's navel, felt how it turned thicker and coarser further down. And then he got the bottle of lube out of the bedside cabinet and put a bit on his forefinger, and very gently stroked the outside of Sherlock's - hole. It still made John flush a bit, doing this, which was stupid because they'd - well, he'd fucked it, hadn't he? But still, doing this made him feel sort of filthy, and his breathing roughened as he very slowly moved the tip of his finger inside Sherlock.
By this point Sherlock was holding himself taut, muscles virtually vibrating with tension. His eyes were still closed, his face still, but John could see a faint crease between his eyebrows. And then Sherlock's eyes opened. He met John's gaze for a moment, and then said very deliberately, in the tone of a man coming to a difficult decision:
"I'm sorry."
"What for?" said John, feeling his pulse leap up, and he pushed his finger further in. That actually managed to elicit a gasp from Sherlock.
"For -" Sherlock's face went completely blank for the briefest moment, and John knew he'd forgotten. The triumph of making Sherlock Holmes forget something made John's prick twitch triumphantly. "The violin playing. In the middle of the night."
"How sorry?" said John daringly, and a flash of irritation crossed Sherlock's face. He'd make John pay for this later, John thought, and felt an almost painful surge of affection for him.
"Very," said Sherlock through his teeth. "Now fuck me, or at least give me a handjob."
"Not very good at this obedience thing, are you?" said John, amused, but he wanted Sherlock too much to labour the point. He kicked off his pyjama bottoms and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He supposed he looked a bit undignified, scrambling like this, but he didn't care. He lubed his prick, and got between Sherlock's thighs. He found himself wanting to make - some sort of declaration of affection or something, but that was just bloody sentimental, so instead he just pulled Sherlock's leg up over his hip and nudged his prick up against Sherlock's arsehole.
"Sherlock -" He breathed out in a hard shudder as he moved in slowly, inch by inch, and he felt Sherlock's thigh tighten against him, his heel pressing John down and further in. He held himself still for a minute when he bottomed out, slap of skin against skin and Sherlock was so tight, God... He had to think hard about suturing for a minute to stop himself coming. Then he pulled back and thrust in again, and Sherlock made a low, long sighing sound and pushed his hips up to meet John's. "Fuck," he said breathlessly, thrusting again and again.
"John," said Sherlock, voice thick, and at the sound of his name, a low note vibrating through his chest, John shuddered, hips jerking, and he came with a rough cry. He lay panting on top of Sherlock for a moment, then got his hand awkwardly beneath the two of them and started stroking Sherlock's cock.
It didn't take long at all, and the sharp sound Sherlock made when he came was almost enough to make John ready to go again.
John untied Sherlock, and then they lay together very quietly, Sherlock reaching for a nicotine patch and John looking up at the ceiling, arm tucked underneath his head.
"You know, John," said Sherlock, when John had nearly drifted off to sleep, "that was really a bad idea on your part."
John turned onto his side to look at Sherlock, a feeling of alarm passing through him. Had he done something wrong? He was sure Sherlock had enjoyed it, but -
"It was hardly aversion therapy. I might be tempted to play the violin more often," said Sherlock, giving him a mischievous look, and John breathed out with relief.
"Bastard," he said affectionately. "You going to sleep with me tonight?"
Sherlock shook his head and slid off the bed.
"Too much to do." He looked down at John for a minute. "You make a surprisingly interesting boyfriend, John," he said, and had headed naked out of the bedroom before John had the opportunity to process that word.
Boyfriend. Well. John turned back onto his back, and from downstairs he could hear the sounds of Sherlock clattering around in the kitchen. He closed his eyes and slept.
Note: I decided to partner this with my fic Scarf. How did John get to be in the situation where he was tying Sherlock up? Well...
Title: (Dis)Obedience
Rating: 18/NC-17 for sexual and BDSM references
Pairing: Sherlock/John, naturally
John looked down at Sherlock, his arms almost shockingly pale against the scarf that tied his wrists together, and wondered what on earth he'd been thinking.
“Well,” Sherlock said, “get on with it, then.”
*
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John muttered, turning over in bed. Strains of violin "playing" drifted up the stairs, and John had a brief moment of sincere sympathy for Sherlock's neighbours at uni. Even the slimy Sebastian.
When it became clear that the discordance that passed for playing was not going to stop any time soon, John got out of bed and went downstairs. Although he and Sherlock had been - well, you know - for six months now, they still had separate bedrooms. (Another reason not to mention the "b" word about Sherlock.) Not that Sherlock was in his, of course. Half the time when Sherlock actually went to sleep it was in a chair in the sitting room, at odd hours of the day. He had napped this afternoon, knees pulled up to his chin as he sat in an armchair, and John hadn't had the heart to wake him. And now it was three in the morning and he was as bright as a bloody button, dammit.
"Oh, John, you're up," said Sherlock, continuing to saw at the violin. "Could you make me a cup of tea?"
"I'm up now," said John meaningfully, and Sherlock glanced over.
"That's what I just said."
"Sherlock, we talked about this."
"About you being awake? Unlikely, seems like a boring thing to discuss," said Sherlock, who put the bow down and started plinking at the strings of the violin with a thoughtful expression.
"About you playing the violin in the middle of the night!" said John, exasperated. But although he was annoyed, he couldn't help looking at the way Sherlock's fingers moved over the strings, at the curve of his neck as he bent his head over the violin. Dammit. Sherlock looked up, and, catching his expression, gave John a sly little smile that made John want to shake him and kiss him at once.
"I suppose you did," he said. "No doubt there are consequences for my disobedience."
John's throat suddenly went very dry.
Which was how they'd ended up back in John's room, Sherlock's shirt on the floor, his wrists tied together with his ubiquitous scarf. John's pyjama trousers, which were a bit on the slim cut side anyway - oh, alright, not being in the army had made him put on a bit of weight, it wasn't a crime - felt pretty tight around his prick. Oh, God. He was so aroused he felt almost...helpless, and Sherlock, who had a funny way of being able to give John what he needed, made that smart remark about getting on with it. After that it was easy.
"I don’t think you’re supposed to be giving the orders," he'd said, straightening up, setting back his shoulders, and he had locked the bedroom door. It didn't seem likely that Mrs Hudson would show up at this time, but since she never bothered knocking when she did visit, John thought it was best to err on the side of caution. He came back to the foot of the bed.
"Tell me you're sorry," he said. Sherlock looked up at him steadily, measuringly, and John suddenly realised that Sherlock didn't really know how this worked, either. Thank God. It helped push to the back of his mind the idea that he looked like an idiot, since in this case they probably both did.
"No," said Sherlock, after a moment's careful measuring of the situation. The corner of his mouth twitched up. "You'll have to make me."
The rush of blood to John's prick was almost painful, and he breathed out hard through his nose.
"Oh," he said, and he tried to remember his toughest drill sergeant promising to crush all of the new recruits like flies, he didn't bloody care if they were officers. "I'll make you sorry, alright." John thought he saw Sherlock's eyelids flicker briefly, and knowing this was affecting him too made John's breathing come harsher.
John supposed that at this point he should probably - spank Sherlock, or something. But he didn't really have any idea how to go about it. He'd only tried it once, and he'd been on the receiving end. He and the woman he was dating at the time had both been a bit drunk and giggly, and when she'd spanked him he'd felt sort of like a naughty schoolboy, which was exciting at the time but made him cringe with embarrassment afterward. He supposed there was - harder stuff you could do as well, and he remembered Sherlock's riding crop and felt his chest get a bit tight. Oh, God. His face was flushing just thinking about it, and Sherlock was looking up at him with an inscrutable expression.
Alright. Maybe spanking was too much (this time). He looked down at Sherlock, and he knew he wasn't helpless, that Sherlock could get out of those bonds in about ten seconds if he put his mind to it, but the fantasy of it... He swallowed, and he had an idea of what to do.
Very carefully he unbuckled Sherlock's belt, and then unzipped his trousers. He tended to rush this bit; he was always so eager to get Sherlock naked, to get his skin next to his, and it usually only took a couple of minutes of kissing before John was reaching blindly for Sherlock's cock. He just wanted him so much, and anyway, if he slowed down to think about things he tended to panic - what the hell am I doing does this mean I'm gay and all that stuff at school was real does it show that I don't really know what I'm doing what would Mum and Dad have said - and that tended to be a mood dampener. But there had been a couple of times Sherlock had made him lie still, and had touched him so slowly and gently that he could have cried with frustration. It had been amazing.
Slowly John peeled Sherlock's trousers off, as well as his boxers and shorts. Sherlock was half-hard, which was nothing compared to John's painful erection, but that was alright. It always took Sherlock a while to get going, and John was sort of flattered that he'd got Sherlock as hard as he was before he'd even really touched him.
"You're pretty gorgeous, you know," he said, feeling awkward but not able to not say it, not with Sherlock stretched out, skin pale against the sheets, hair in disarray, the lean muscles of his arms taut from their position stretched above his head.
"I know," said Sherlock, and John slapped his thigh impulsively.
"No talking," he said, and Sherlock's eyes glittered. The slap had been light, but Sherlock was so pale that a light pink flush showed up on his thigh for a moment before disappearing. "No talking unless it's to say you're sorry," John added, and then set to work.
He spent a long time kissing and stroking Sherlock. It felt weirdly liberating, to be able to just ... look at him, and touch him. John always felt a bit self-conscious about enjoying how pretty Sherlock was, but if it was part of the game it was alright, wasn't it? He kissed the inside of his arms, the hollow of his throat, his chest, and Sherlock stayed silent, eyes closed, but his breathing got a little faster, a little shallower.
It took ages just to work his way down to Sherlock's thighs, and by now John's prick was throbbing. But Sherlock was properly hard now, and his chest was rising and falling quickly, so John had no intention of stopping teasing him any time soon. He put his tongue against the inside of Sherlock's knees and felt him twitch, ran his fingers up to the crease of his thigh, tugged lightly on the fine hair below Sherlock's navel, felt how it turned thicker and coarser further down. And then he got the bottle of lube out of the bedside cabinet and put a bit on his forefinger, and very gently stroked the outside of Sherlock's - hole. It still made John flush a bit, doing this, which was stupid because they'd - well, he'd fucked it, hadn't he? But still, doing this made him feel sort of filthy, and his breathing roughened as he very slowly moved the tip of his finger inside Sherlock.
By this point Sherlock was holding himself taut, muscles virtually vibrating with tension. His eyes were still closed, his face still, but John could see a faint crease between his eyebrows. And then Sherlock's eyes opened. He met John's gaze for a moment, and then said very deliberately, in the tone of a man coming to a difficult decision:
"I'm sorry."
"What for?" said John, feeling his pulse leap up, and he pushed his finger further in. That actually managed to elicit a gasp from Sherlock.
"For -" Sherlock's face went completely blank for the briefest moment, and John knew he'd forgotten. The triumph of making Sherlock Holmes forget something made John's prick twitch triumphantly. "The violin playing. In the middle of the night."
"How sorry?" said John daringly, and a flash of irritation crossed Sherlock's face. He'd make John pay for this later, John thought, and felt an almost painful surge of affection for him.
"Very," said Sherlock through his teeth. "Now fuck me, or at least give me a handjob."
"Not very good at this obedience thing, are you?" said John, amused, but he wanted Sherlock too much to labour the point. He kicked off his pyjama bottoms and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He supposed he looked a bit undignified, scrambling like this, but he didn't care. He lubed his prick, and got between Sherlock's thighs. He found himself wanting to make - some sort of declaration of affection or something, but that was just bloody sentimental, so instead he just pulled Sherlock's leg up over his hip and nudged his prick up against Sherlock's arsehole.
"Sherlock -" He breathed out in a hard shudder as he moved in slowly, inch by inch, and he felt Sherlock's thigh tighten against him, his heel pressing John down and further in. He held himself still for a minute when he bottomed out, slap of skin against skin and Sherlock was so tight, God... He had to think hard about suturing for a minute to stop himself coming. Then he pulled back and thrust in again, and Sherlock made a low, long sighing sound and pushed his hips up to meet John's. "Fuck," he said breathlessly, thrusting again and again.
"John," said Sherlock, voice thick, and at the sound of his name, a low note vibrating through his chest, John shuddered, hips jerking, and he came with a rough cry. He lay panting on top of Sherlock for a moment, then got his hand awkwardly beneath the two of them and started stroking Sherlock's cock.
It didn't take long at all, and the sharp sound Sherlock made when he came was almost enough to make John ready to go again.
John untied Sherlock, and then they lay together very quietly, Sherlock reaching for a nicotine patch and John looking up at the ceiling, arm tucked underneath his head.
"You know, John," said Sherlock, when John had nearly drifted off to sleep, "that was really a bad idea on your part."
John turned onto his side to look at Sherlock, a feeling of alarm passing through him. Had he done something wrong? He was sure Sherlock had enjoyed it, but -
"It was hardly aversion therapy. I might be tempted to play the violin more often," said Sherlock, giving him a mischievous look, and John breathed out with relief.
"Bastard," he said affectionately. "You going to sleep with me tonight?"
Sherlock shook his head and slid off the bed.
"Too much to do." He looked down at John for a minute. "You make a surprisingly interesting boyfriend, John," he said, and had headed naked out of the bedroom before John had the opportunity to process that word.
Boyfriend. Well. John turned back onto his back, and from downstairs he could hear the sounds of Sherlock clattering around in the kitchen. He closed his eyes and slept.