Fic fill: (part 1 of 2)
anonymous
July 8 2011, 01:37:35 UTC
John takes another look around the stuffy, crowded room. There’s a steady clinking of pint glasses and occasional cheers when somebody downs their drink. It’s not really his idea of fun but they’re working. Sort of.
He’s had just enough to feel heavy in his seat, like his arms are being pulled toward the floor. His tongue and jaw seem dangerously loose.
They’re tucked back in a dark corner, a caricature of delicate and watchful conspiracy.
Sherlock is keeping up with him, leaving rings of condensation on the table every time he picks up his glass, but John’s the one talking too loudly and making absurd gestures at everyone around them.
“He’s not going to show up, Sherlock.” John tries to be gentle. “This is a waste of a perfectly good night.”
Sherlock glares at him.
“And what would you rather be doing?” Sherlock asks drily.
John points to a brunette in a red dress, laughing with a group of friends and flicking her hair back over her shoulder so the bar can see her cleavage.
“Go on, then,” Sherlock says. “Just don’t be surprised when you wake up with empty pockets and gonorrhea.” He takes a measured sip.
“Her?” John asks defensively.
“Yes, her.”
“There’s no way you can -”
Sherlock cuts him off with a long-suffering sigh.
“Alright.” John studies the way the liquid in his glass jumps as he taps the side. “Then who would you pick for me?”
“Nobody,” Sherlock says too quickly. John stares.
“Sorry… nobody? Not a single person in this entire room? Sherlock, there must be a hundred people in here.”
Sherlock snorts at his estimate.
“No,” John says stubbornly. “No, Sherlock , you have to pick someone. That’s the point of the game.”
Sherlock settles back into his seat, his expression unreadable.
“Since you know the rules, why don’t you go first,” he suggests. It’s meant to sound casual but John thinks he sees a hint of caution in the way Sherlock is putting space between them.
John runs his fingers over his chin thoughtfully. “Alright.” He studies Sherlock, the way his flatmate is now looking rather amused by John’s squinting and pondering.
“Well, they’d have to be clever,” John begins uncertainly, hoping that Sherlock’s reaction will be marginally helpful.
“Would they?” Sherlock asks rhetorically.
“Well, they can’t be an idiot,” John clarifies. “And they can’t ask too many questions.”
Sherlock smoothly takes a sip.
“Depends on the sort of questions,” he muses.
“And they can’t have very high expectations,” John continues. As soon at the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. The statement seems too broad, too spiteful and personal.
Sherlock spins his phone on the fingerprint-smudged tabletop and lets John try to salvage the comment. When John can’t find a way out on his own, Sherlock speaks.
“How do you mean?” It’s oddly quiet and John winces.
“No, Sherlock, I didn’t…” John is tripping over the syllables. “It’s not like you’ll be making them breakfast in the morning,” he finishes abruptly, hoping it conveys the right amount of derision. The man sitting across from him is, after all, a self-professed sociopath.
“I make breakfast sometimes.”
“That’s different, Sherlock.” John waves a hand dismissively. “That’s just us.”
Sherlock won’t meet his eyes.
“We’re flatmates. It’s more of a duty than a show of affection,” John says, nearly laughing at the memory of Sherlock moodily slamming two pieces of bread into the toaster before buttering them like they’d done something wrong.
Sherlock is letting his head roll back against the wall behind him. He’s relaxed and disheveled from a sleepless night and a five-hour inspection of the crime scene. John always thinks that this is when he looks most like Sherlock: angular and pale and hungry.
Sherlock’s grin is a slow, lazy one and something tightens in John’s stomach.
Re: Fic fill: (part 2 of 2)
anonymous
July 8 2011, 01:38:11 UTC
“And what if that’s the best I can do?” Sherlock asks, slurring slightly. Their feet bump against each other under the table.
There’s a dark wave dipping over Sherlock’s forehead and John can’t remember what they were talking about.
“Sorry?” John smiles apologetically, cheeks flushed from the lager. He doesn’t move his foot.
Instead of answering, Sherlock leans over the table to speak, his voice soft and deep.
“Do you know how many people in here would sleep with you?”
John pretends to count. “Everyone but you,” he concludes. There’s a strange thrill that comes with putting the concept of Sherlock and sex so close together. It’s so alien and forbidden that John can barely admit to himself that he wants to keep talking about it. And yet, that’s what he’s thinking about when Sherlock absentmindedly flicks a pen across his lips while he’s reading or when his arms are covered in nicotine patches and his breath comes a little faster.
Sherlock retreats back across the table, out of the circle of dim light cast by the sconce on the wall above them.
“You should check your calculations,” he says.
John has to roll the words over in his mind before he starts to understand.
Under the table, Sherlock’s knees are against his and there’s so much heat it’s unbearable. It’s too fast, too strange so John concentrates on breathing but Sherlock is reaching and brushing his fingers along John’s leg. Nobody is watching their discrete movements but John feels recklessly exposed. He’s getting hard and he can’t bring himself to actually look at Sherlock.
“Where?” John asks quietly.
“Your choice,” Sherlock says and John can’t stand how normal he sounds.
John stands, trying to position himself so that his erection isn’t obvious. He makes his way to the men’s toilet, not checking to see if Sherlock is following.
He half hopes he isn’t, that Sherlock will be the one sober enough to realise that this is an awful idea. But by the time John has pushed his way through the door and into a stall, Sherlock is there, running his hands over him and kissing him and pulling impatiently on the hem of his jumper. Their mouths are wet and open and the kiss is more tongues than lips. John’s aching and Sherlock is cupping him through his trousers and pulling him closer.
“Christ, Sherlock.” John is panting. Sherlock smells so good and he’s working fast. “I’m getting close.” He knows the feeling well and Sherlock isn’t stopping, dipping his hand into John’s trousers to give quick, rough strokes. Everything is to too warm.
“Do you want me to stop?” Sherlock asks thickly. He’s biting John’s bottom lip and breathing hard next to his ear and moaning softly when John grinds against his leg.
In response, John thrusts into his hand. Stopping isn’t a remote possibility.
Sherlock is unzipping something and John barely has time to process what’s happening before Sherlock starts sucking. It’s so hot and tight that John can’t get past an incoherent begging before he’s coming, thrusting deep and hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat. He hooks his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.
It lingers, wringing out shivers until Sherlock lets John’s cock slide out of his mouth.
“That was fantastic,” John says as Sherlock stands. “That was…” John trails off, staring at Sherlock’s mouth. He moves closer and they’re kissing. Someone is banging on the partition wall and shouting but Sherlock just drags his thumb over the back of John’s neck and deepens the kiss.
The banging gets louder and John reluctantly pulls back.
Re: Fic fill: (part 2 of 2)lawnnunDecember 27 2011, 18:10:45 UTC
Haven't even seen the show, but this has been the most convincing argument to do so thus far. Hell, until you get the cellphone they could be in any universe because some things are eternal.
And don't take this the wrong way, but the atmosphere and the description of Sherlock are actually hotter than the porn. They're fucking beautiful.
He’s had just enough to feel heavy in his seat, like his arms are being pulled toward the floor. His tongue and jaw seem dangerously loose.
They’re tucked back in a dark corner, a caricature of delicate and watchful conspiracy.
Sherlock is keeping up with him, leaving rings of condensation on the table every time he picks up his glass, but John’s the one talking too loudly and making absurd gestures at everyone around them.
“He’s not going to show up, Sherlock.” John tries to be gentle. “This is a waste of a perfectly good night.”
Sherlock glares at him.
“And what would you rather be doing?” Sherlock asks drily.
John points to a brunette in a red dress, laughing with a group of friends and flicking her hair back over her shoulder so the bar can see her cleavage.
“Go on, then,” Sherlock says. “Just don’t be surprised when you wake up with empty pockets and gonorrhea.” He takes a measured sip.
“Her?” John asks defensively.
“Yes, her.”
“There’s no way you can -”
Sherlock cuts him off with a long-suffering sigh.
“Alright.” John studies the way the liquid in his glass jumps as he taps the side. “Then who would you pick for me?”
“Nobody,” Sherlock says too quickly. John stares.
“Sorry… nobody? Not a single person in this entire room? Sherlock, there must be a hundred people in here.”
Sherlock snorts at his estimate.
“No,” John says stubbornly. “No, Sherlock , you have to pick someone. That’s the point of the game.”
Sherlock settles back into his seat, his expression unreadable.
“Since you know the rules, why don’t you go first,” he suggests. It’s meant to sound casual but John thinks he sees a hint of caution in the way Sherlock is putting space between them.
John runs his fingers over his chin thoughtfully. “Alright.” He studies Sherlock, the way his flatmate is now looking rather amused by John’s squinting and pondering.
“Well, they’d have to be clever,” John begins uncertainly, hoping that Sherlock’s reaction will be marginally helpful.
“Would they?” Sherlock asks rhetorically.
“Well, they can’t be an idiot,” John clarifies. “And they can’t ask too many questions.”
Sherlock smoothly takes a sip.
“Depends on the sort of questions,” he muses.
“And they can’t have very high expectations,” John continues. As soon at the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. The statement seems too broad, too spiteful and personal.
Sherlock spins his phone on the fingerprint-smudged tabletop and lets John try to salvage the comment. When John can’t find a way out on his own, Sherlock speaks.
“How do you mean?” It’s oddly quiet and John winces.
“No, Sherlock, I didn’t…” John is tripping over the syllables. “It’s not like you’ll be making them breakfast in the morning,” he finishes abruptly, hoping it conveys the right amount of derision. The man sitting across from him is, after all, a self-professed sociopath.
“I make breakfast sometimes.”
“That’s different, Sherlock.” John waves a hand dismissively. “That’s just us.”
Sherlock won’t meet his eyes.
“We’re flatmates. It’s more of a duty than a show of affection,” John says, nearly laughing at the memory of Sherlock moodily slamming two pieces of bread into the toaster before buttering them like they’d done something wrong.
Sherlock is letting his head roll back against the wall behind him. He’s relaxed and disheveled from a sleepless night and a five-hour inspection of the crime scene. John always thinks that this is when he looks most like Sherlock: angular and pale and hungry.
Sherlock’s grin is a slow, lazy one and something tightens in John’s stomach.
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There’s a dark wave dipping over Sherlock’s forehead and John can’t remember what they were talking about.
“Sorry?” John smiles apologetically, cheeks flushed from the lager. He doesn’t move his foot.
Instead of answering, Sherlock leans over the table to speak, his voice soft and deep.
“Do you know how many people in here would sleep with you?”
John pretends to count. “Everyone but you,” he concludes. There’s a strange thrill that comes with putting the concept of Sherlock and sex so close together. It’s so alien and forbidden that John can barely admit to himself that he wants to keep talking about it. And yet, that’s what he’s thinking about when Sherlock absentmindedly flicks a pen across his lips while he’s reading or when his arms are covered in nicotine patches and his breath comes a little faster.
Sherlock retreats back across the table, out of the circle of dim light cast by the sconce on the wall above them.
“You should check your calculations,” he says.
John has to roll the words over in his mind before he starts to understand.
Under the table, Sherlock’s knees are against his and there’s so much heat it’s unbearable. It’s too fast, too strange so John concentrates on breathing but Sherlock is reaching and brushing his fingers along John’s leg. Nobody is watching their discrete movements but John feels recklessly exposed. He’s getting hard and he can’t bring himself to actually look at Sherlock.
“Where?” John asks quietly.
“Your choice,” Sherlock says and John can’t stand how normal he sounds.
John stands, trying to position himself so that his erection isn’t obvious. He makes his way to the men’s toilet, not checking to see if Sherlock is following.
He half hopes he isn’t, that Sherlock will be the one sober enough to realise that this is an awful idea. But by the time John has pushed his way through the door and into a stall, Sherlock is there, running his hands over him and kissing him and pulling impatiently on the hem of his jumper. Their mouths are wet and open and the kiss is more tongues than lips. John’s aching and Sherlock is cupping him through his trousers and pulling him closer.
“Christ, Sherlock.” John is panting. Sherlock smells so good and he’s working fast. “I’m getting close.” He knows the feeling well and Sherlock isn’t stopping, dipping his hand into John’s trousers to give quick, rough strokes. Everything is to too warm.
“Do you want me to stop?” Sherlock asks thickly. He’s biting John’s bottom lip and breathing hard next to his ear and moaning softly when John grinds against his leg.
In response, John thrusts into his hand. Stopping isn’t a remote possibility.
Sherlock is unzipping something and John barely has time to process what’s happening before Sherlock starts sucking. It’s so hot and tight that John can’t get past an incoherent begging before he’s coming, thrusting deep and hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat. He hooks his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.
It lingers, wringing out shivers until Sherlock lets John’s cock slide out of his mouth.
“That was fantastic,” John says as Sherlock stands. “That was…” John trails off, staring at Sherlock’s mouth. He moves closer and they’re kissing. Someone is banging on the partition wall and shouting but Sherlock just drags his thumb over the back of John’s neck and deepens the kiss.
The banging gets louder and John reluctantly pulls back.
“Maybe we should…”
Sherlock nods.
“I’ll get a cab.”
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Thanks for reading :)
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WIN.
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Thank you :D
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And don't take this the wrong way, but the atmosphere and the description of Sherlock are actually hotter than the porn. They're fucking beautiful.
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