Fic: It's Saturday Morning, Do You Know Where Your Consulting Detective Is?
At work! Working on work! Went to write a quick email and instead found myself with just shy of 2000 words of fic parceled out over my morning and early afternoon. I don't even know.
No particular warnings - this is Sherlock fic but, uh, yeah, as with XMFC, I haven't watched the source material that everyone's writing to. Fairly deep knowledge of original ACD canon and I've read a metric fuckload of Sherlock fic over the past several months.
***
John stretched, enjoying the rare indulgence of being allowed to wake at his own pace instead of at Sherlock's insistence - he was still an early riser but picking his own time to get up was one thing civilian life had over the service. He could feel the sunlight streaming in his window, warm enough to be a sensation of its own on his face. He kept his eyes closed.
The flat seemed entirely silent - Sherlock must be out on one of his mad jaunts.
John rolled onto his back, savored how comfortable he was. Well, mostly comfortable. He'd been dreaming of something, though he couldn't remember what, and his usual morning erection was especially insistent - the shift of the fabric of his soft old pajama bottoms was a tease and a torment all at once. He sighed, content, and left a hand drift down his naked chest to cup himself through the garment.
Oh, yes, all circumstances seemed to have aligned for a nice leisurely wank before getting up.
He pressed his palm flat against himself, rubbed lightly enough for it to feel like a tease, the kind of touch he'd feel lucky to get on a second date that had gone really very well indeed - no expectation of actually getting a leg over, but definitely promise for the future. Worth a night of anticipation and going home hard in his trousers.
Been a while since he'd had a date that good - but John shoved the thought aside, walked his fingers up his length until he'd reached his waistband - and then drifted under it, enough to feel the texture of his body hair change.
There'd been a girl at uni, and now he couldn't even remember her name, just the feel of her soft hands dipping into his pants to tug at the scruff of his pubic hair, short and wiry, before she'd given him a hand job that made him see stars.
His voice rumbled a bit in his chest at the sense memory, a pleased and aroused sound that he'd never make if his flatmate were home. Sherlock would bring it up at the worst possible time, maybe in front of the Yarders. Something like, "Oh, John, by the way, I've deduced that you're a bit of a screamer in the sack." Anderson would fall out.
Anderson wasn't a useful thought at the moment - delete it, John. He chuckled. Thinking of Anderson was a mood killer but thinking of Sherlock wasn't. Oh, he had it bad indeed for his tall and lanky flatmate. The man was all cheekbones and fingers and ridiculous hair wrapped up in a melodramatic coat. Not John's type at all. He'd always preferred curly, full-blown women and solid rugby lads.
No real way to fight biological attraction though - and he'd never say a word after Sherlock's insistence that he was married to his work. Easier that way; it was hard enough to be the bugger's friend.
He'd moved to stroking himself, just lightly, as he thought. John returned his attention to what he was doing, how smooth and hot the skin on his cock was, how wet he was already at the tip. Like a leaky faucet - but it made things nice and slick, it did.
It was time for his pajamas to go - John used his free hand to shove them down over his thighs. He thought about pulling them back up, just enough to tuck the elastic right up under his balls, but, no. He wanted to feel spread out and decadent for once. He kept up the pace with his hand, ran his thumb back up over his head on every upstroke, just enough pressure to catch at his foreskin and pull it taut. Then he kicked his bottoms the rest of the way off. Spread out naked, his covers thrown back - it'd been ages since he'd been naked like that. No opportunity in the military, and then he'd been too hurt and - he was medical professional enough to admit it - too depressed to be much in the mood for it when he'd had his little bedsit. He'd been quick to cotton on that Sherlock observed everything, saw everything - he was used to a lack of privacy, though. Just made him appreciate these rare moments all the more.
Time, then, to put a little more effort into things - he tightened his grip a bit, stroked a little faster, paid more attention to the head of his cock - let his hips lift a little to push his knob through his fingers like he was fucking up into a tight and willing body. That was just the ticket. He'd been gripping the sheet with his free hand - John raked his nails over his ribs and brought his fingers up to pinch at one tight nipple. He wasn't hugely sensitive there, but the little bit of pain was a nice counterpoint.
Sherlock - he'd seen his devilish flatmate near enough to naked to know that Sherlock's nipples were pink. A rosy shade that would probably darken with any sort of arousal. Given the chance, John would torment Sherlock's pretty little nipples, lick them and nip them and then bite them until they were dark and swollen and a bit sore - until Sherlock was near crying from it. Not that he'd ever beg - Sherlock didn't strike John as the type to beg for anything easily. That'd take effort, that would.
He'd beg pretty though, John was sure of it. The notion made him grunt and thrust up with more force. Sherlock was so bloody tall - he'd be all knees and elbows riding John, a gangly creature just made for fucking. John's hands would be a pretty picture on his narrow hips - and Sherlock's skin would certainly hold a bruise like a pretty picture.
Oh, it'd be lovely - all purple and mottled red. Shaped just like John's fingers, proof he'd for once managed to get the maddening man right where John wanted him.
John panted, let his tongue push out to moisten his lips and taste the air as his lungs rasped it in. He felt all-over tingly - he'd needed this, it was wonderful, it was perfect, exactly as he'd hoped it would be. His muscles were all tightening and his toes were curling - John bent one knee so he could leave off playing with his nipples and run a hand down between his legs, lower on his undercarriage. He paused at the crease of his leg, just to catch his breath, then he cupped his balls and gave them a gentle squeeze.
The pressure of it arched his back a little bit, enough that he felt the strain in his shoulder. But it felt good, felt like being pulled long and rubbery from the inside out. If his physical therapy had been so pleasant, he'd have been diligent out of more than a sense of responsibility. He angled his middle finger back further, just enough to stroke at his hole - John had lube in the bedside drawer but stopping to get it wasn't appealing in the slightest. He'd just touch around it, maybe ease a fingertip in right before he got off - yeah, that seemed the best plan, and he was closer to that than he'd thought.
Instead of biting his lip as he generally did, to stifle any noise, John let his breathy stutters and half moans whisper out. No need to disturb the neighbors, after all. But he liked noises, liked the sounds that accompanied sex of almost any kind: broken voices and whimpers and the slide of flesh on flesh.
He'd never yet managed to see any evidence that Sherlock dealt with himself in such a base fashion - not that he'd put too much effort into looking. Just idle curiosity - but Sherlock either didn't feel the urge when he was in the flat (he was gone often enough that John had no idea what he was getting up to on the streets of London) or he was London's stealthiest wanker. John had lived in close proximity with men, had learned the loose-limbed shuffle from the otherwise empty shower and the full-cheeked flush of being five minutes too long in the toilet.
Didn't matter - it was all fine. Wonderful, in fact. John ground the heel of his palm against his balls, just enough to ache, and then pressed the tip of his finger in - deeper than he'd meant to go, all the way to his first knuckle. But it did the trick. John shuddered and gasped, the hand of his cock stroking his way through it as come streaked his belly and halfway up his chest.
His heart rate was elevated, and his body felt like it was going to melt back into the bedclothes. John nudged his softening cock with gentle fingers, enough to feel good without being too much stimulation; he was so sensitive after orgasm. He withdrew his finger, let that hand rest of his thigh while he caught his breath. Tea - a nice cup of hot tea and maybe some eggs for breakfast. "Oh, bloody hell, I need a shower." He laughed at himself.
The polite clearing of a throat reversed all the good the wank had done him; John tensed, ready to spring up from his bed. No use, though. He knew that sound.
"Good morning, John." Sherlock bloody buggering Holmes.
John opened his eyes.
His flatmate was crouched in John's desk chair - an uncomfortable wooden affair he sat in as little as possible. It didn't look like Sherlock found it any more inviting a seat. He leaned forward, his hands clasped on his knees. His eyes were wide and his shoulders were tense - John could look at a body and read things there, too. Heightened respiration, lips parted, redness high on the neck just under Sherlock's jaw. He flushed there when he ran, when he solved a case, when they had managed some daring escape.
"Been watching me sleep, then? Might be a bit not good, mate." Not just watching him sleep. He should have checked. He should have scoured their damned flat to make sure he'd actually been alone. Sherlock Holmes: no boundaries, no barriers - including bedroom doors. John went to rub a hand over his face, but caught himself before he could - needed to wash his hands before he did anything of the sort.
"I had a question for you. Didn't want to wait for you to come downstairs." Sherlock's voice was higher, just a touch, like something had caught in his throat. Or caught him by the throat and pressed him up against a wall.
It was enough to make John leave off his plan of grabbing for the duvet. "Could've asked me at any point."
Sherlock finally looked away, and John was struck by the elegance of his jaw and his ear, highlighted by the unruly, too long hair. Vain git. "I...you..." Sherlock trailed off and waved a hand in the air, a gesture that would usually mean a world of things but that conveyed only his own inability to formulate an adequate response.
Easier to be Sherlock's friend, his only friend from what John had seen. But, then, neither of them had a habit of taking the easy way. John sighed, wiped his hands on his sheet and shifted over. "Come on then, tuck up here with me." Sherlock would find his words, John was quite certain of it. And maybe John would regret it.
But maybe he wouldn't. It seemed like that kind of morning.
No particular warnings - this is Sherlock fic but, uh, yeah, as with XMFC, I haven't watched the source material that everyone's writing to. Fairly deep knowledge of original ACD canon and I've read a metric fuckload of Sherlock fic over the past several months.
***
John stretched, enjoying the rare indulgence of being allowed to wake at his own pace instead of at Sherlock's insistence - he was still an early riser but picking his own time to get up was one thing civilian life had over the service. He could feel the sunlight streaming in his window, warm enough to be a sensation of its own on his face. He kept his eyes closed.
The flat seemed entirely silent - Sherlock must be out on one of his mad jaunts.
John rolled onto his back, savored how comfortable he was. Well, mostly comfortable. He'd been dreaming of something, though he couldn't remember what, and his usual morning erection was especially insistent - the shift of the fabric of his soft old pajama bottoms was a tease and a torment all at once. He sighed, content, and left a hand drift down his naked chest to cup himself through the garment.
Oh, yes, all circumstances seemed to have aligned for a nice leisurely wank before getting up.
He pressed his palm flat against himself, rubbed lightly enough for it to feel like a tease, the kind of touch he'd feel lucky to get on a second date that had gone really very well indeed - no expectation of actually getting a leg over, but definitely promise for the future. Worth a night of anticipation and going home hard in his trousers.
Been a while since he'd had a date that good - but John shoved the thought aside, walked his fingers up his length until he'd reached his waistband - and then drifted under it, enough to feel the texture of his body hair change.
There'd been a girl at uni, and now he couldn't even remember her name, just the feel of her soft hands dipping into his pants to tug at the scruff of his pubic hair, short and wiry, before she'd given him a hand job that made him see stars.
His voice rumbled a bit in his chest at the sense memory, a pleased and aroused sound that he'd never make if his flatmate were home. Sherlock would bring it up at the worst possible time, maybe in front of the Yarders. Something like, "Oh, John, by the way, I've deduced that you're a bit of a screamer in the sack." Anderson would fall out.
Anderson wasn't a useful thought at the moment - delete it, John. He chuckled. Thinking of Anderson was a mood killer but thinking of Sherlock wasn't. Oh, he had it bad indeed for his tall and lanky flatmate. The man was all cheekbones and fingers and ridiculous hair wrapped up in a melodramatic coat. Not John's type at all. He'd always preferred curly, full-blown women and solid rugby lads.
No real way to fight biological attraction though - and he'd never say a word after Sherlock's insistence that he was married to his work. Easier that way; it was hard enough to be the bugger's friend.
He'd moved to stroking himself, just lightly, as he thought. John returned his attention to what he was doing, how smooth and hot the skin on his cock was, how wet he was already at the tip. Like a leaky faucet - but it made things nice and slick, it did.
It was time for his pajamas to go - John used his free hand to shove them down over his thighs. He thought about pulling them back up, just enough to tuck the elastic right up under his balls, but, no. He wanted to feel spread out and decadent for once. He kept up the pace with his hand, ran his thumb back up over his head on every upstroke, just enough pressure to catch at his foreskin and pull it taut. Then he kicked his bottoms the rest of the way off. Spread out naked, his covers thrown back - it'd been ages since he'd been naked like that. No opportunity in the military, and then he'd been too hurt and - he was medical professional enough to admit it - too depressed to be much in the mood for it when he'd had his little bedsit. He'd been quick to cotton on that Sherlock observed everything, saw everything - he was used to a lack of privacy, though. Just made him appreciate these rare moments all the more.
Time, then, to put a little more effort into things - he tightened his grip a bit, stroked a little faster, paid more attention to the head of his cock - let his hips lift a little to push his knob through his fingers like he was fucking up into a tight and willing body. That was just the ticket. He'd been gripping the sheet with his free hand - John raked his nails over his ribs and brought his fingers up to pinch at one tight nipple. He wasn't hugely sensitive there, but the little bit of pain was a nice counterpoint.
Sherlock - he'd seen his devilish flatmate near enough to naked to know that Sherlock's nipples were pink. A rosy shade that would probably darken with any sort of arousal. Given the chance, John would torment Sherlock's pretty little nipples, lick them and nip them and then bite them until they were dark and swollen and a bit sore - until Sherlock was near crying from it. Not that he'd ever beg - Sherlock didn't strike John as the type to beg for anything easily. That'd take effort, that would.
He'd beg pretty though, John was sure of it. The notion made him grunt and thrust up with more force. Sherlock was so bloody tall - he'd be all knees and elbows riding John, a gangly creature just made for fucking. John's hands would be a pretty picture on his narrow hips - and Sherlock's skin would certainly hold a bruise like a pretty picture.
Oh, it'd be lovely - all purple and mottled red. Shaped just like John's fingers, proof he'd for once managed to get the maddening man right where John wanted him.
John panted, let his tongue push out to moisten his lips and taste the air as his lungs rasped it in. He felt all-over tingly - he'd needed this, it was wonderful, it was perfect, exactly as he'd hoped it would be. His muscles were all tightening and his toes were curling - John bent one knee so he could leave off playing with his nipples and run a hand down between his legs, lower on his undercarriage. He paused at the crease of his leg, just to catch his breath, then he cupped his balls and gave them a gentle squeeze.
The pressure of it arched his back a little bit, enough that he felt the strain in his shoulder. But it felt good, felt like being pulled long and rubbery from the inside out. If his physical therapy had been so pleasant, he'd have been diligent out of more than a sense of responsibility. He angled his middle finger back further, just enough to stroke at his hole - John had lube in the bedside drawer but stopping to get it wasn't appealing in the slightest. He'd just touch around it, maybe ease a fingertip in right before he got off - yeah, that seemed the best plan, and he was closer to that than he'd thought.
Instead of biting his lip as he generally did, to stifle any noise, John let his breathy stutters and half moans whisper out. No need to disturb the neighbors, after all. But he liked noises, liked the sounds that accompanied sex of almost any kind: broken voices and whimpers and the slide of flesh on flesh.
He'd never yet managed to see any evidence that Sherlock dealt with himself in such a base fashion - not that he'd put too much effort into looking. Just idle curiosity - but Sherlock either didn't feel the urge when he was in the flat (he was gone often enough that John had no idea what he was getting up to on the streets of London) or he was London's stealthiest wanker. John had lived in close proximity with men, had learned the loose-limbed shuffle from the otherwise empty shower and the full-cheeked flush of being five minutes too long in the toilet.
Didn't matter - it was all fine. Wonderful, in fact. John ground the heel of his palm against his balls, just enough to ache, and then pressed the tip of his finger in - deeper than he'd meant to go, all the way to his first knuckle. But it did the trick. John shuddered and gasped, the hand of his cock stroking his way through it as come streaked his belly and halfway up his chest.
His heart rate was elevated, and his body felt like it was going to melt back into the bedclothes. John nudged his softening cock with gentle fingers, enough to feel good without being too much stimulation; he was so sensitive after orgasm. He withdrew his finger, let that hand rest of his thigh while he caught his breath. Tea - a nice cup of hot tea and maybe some eggs for breakfast. "Oh, bloody hell, I need a shower." He laughed at himself.
The polite clearing of a throat reversed all the good the wank had done him; John tensed, ready to spring up from his bed. No use, though. He knew that sound.
"Good morning, John." Sherlock bloody buggering Holmes.
John opened his eyes.
His flatmate was crouched in John's desk chair - an uncomfortable wooden affair he sat in as little as possible. It didn't look like Sherlock found it any more inviting a seat. He leaned forward, his hands clasped on his knees. His eyes were wide and his shoulders were tense - John could look at a body and read things there, too. Heightened respiration, lips parted, redness high on the neck just under Sherlock's jaw. He flushed there when he ran, when he solved a case, when they had managed some daring escape.
"Been watching me sleep, then? Might be a bit not good, mate." Not just watching him sleep. He should have checked. He should have scoured their damned flat to make sure he'd actually been alone. Sherlock Holmes: no boundaries, no barriers - including bedroom doors. John went to rub a hand over his face, but caught himself before he could - needed to wash his hands before he did anything of the sort.
"I had a question for you. Didn't want to wait for you to come downstairs." Sherlock's voice was higher, just a touch, like something had caught in his throat. Or caught him by the throat and pressed him up against a wall.
It was enough to make John leave off his plan of grabbing for the duvet. "Could've asked me at any point."
Sherlock finally looked away, and John was struck by the elegance of his jaw and his ear, highlighted by the unruly, too long hair. Vain git. "I...you..." Sherlock trailed off and waved a hand in the air, a gesture that would usually mean a world of things but that conveyed only his own inability to formulate an adequate response.
Easier to be Sherlock's friend, his only friend from what John had seen. But, then, neither of them had a habit of taking the easy way. John sighed, wiped his hands on his sheet and shifted over. "Come on then, tuck up here with me." Sherlock would find his words, John was quite certain of it. And maybe John would regret it.
But maybe he wouldn't. It seemed like that kind of morning.