a fanfic: "The English Vice"
I promised I'd write a sequel to "The Experiment". So here ya go, world - split into two entries because it's too long for a single one.
Title: The English Vice; or, “Nuthin' But a G Thang” (1/2)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC17/M
Warnings: Explicit sex, power play, caning. No spoilers.
Total word count: 10,500
Summary: Long-buried secrets, modern music, and a headmaster's cane - Sherlock doesn't pretend that he's not difficult, but he really does test John's limits sometimes.
Genre: Comedy/romance/smut.
Disclaimer: Unauthorized. Unpaid. U.S. spellings, UK language.
It's not a matter of old-school self-discipline: it’s a matter of abandoning yourself to the music and letting it dictate your responses.
-- Amanda Kiehl/Michael Jo, http://thousandfoldecho.com/2012/01/12/mahlergate/
An hour ago they had been in the Metro Police station office, John sat in a chair getting his breath back and Sherlock striding back and forth, coat aswirl, narrating the facts of the case they'd just solved, informing a smirking Sergeant Donovan where they could find the perpetrator lying in a damp alley with both of his legs broken from a three-story fall, and Lestrade's mouth compressed in a thin line because the perpetrator was a fellow police inspector with a string of very bad debts to some very bad Bosnian pimps. Sitting restlessly, John had watched Sherlock declaim, unable to take his eyes off the consulting detective, feeling very strange, sharp stirrings in his groin, in his thighs, in his chest; and when Sherlock's cold clear flashing eyes caught his gaze, it was like being struck by lightning.
The terrifying want in them. The claim. You're mine, that look said, and John Watson knows in his heart that it's true.
He's never been captured like this before; never been locked. Not just love or devotion-a strange kind of ownership. He belongs to Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn’t belong to him, not in the same way. He would kill for Sherlock; already had. A part of him believes that Sherlock would kill for him as well, but another part of him understands that it wouldn't be the same. Sherlock doesn't really care for human lives; he only cares whether or not he wins, whether or not that he can prove that he's right. And yet Sherlock looks at him that way-that odd, burning, unselfconscious way, letting John know that he's different, that Sherlock esteems him above all men, all humans, every other living thing.
His place is at Sherlock’s side.
And now, they are back home at 221b, John slumped and scrabbling at the slick leather surface of the sofa, not quite on his knees, with Sherlock shoved balls-deep up his arsehole. John hadn't been asked. There had been no civilized and gentle conversation beforehand; no "Shall we make love?", no "I want to be inside you this time," not even a "I want you and I shall have you," even in the taxi home. Not that Sherlock had ever been much for that kind of pillow talk, but still - to walk in off the street, Sherlock close behind him up the stairs, grabbing John's buttocks through his jeans, trapping him against the door to the flat and unzipping him, reaching down the back of his underpants, hot fingertips pointing themselves towards John's center. John had barely been able to unlock the door, nearly falling inside once the door gave way. Then Sherlock had just stepped over him, rushing into the flat, tossing his own coat at a chair.
He had returned before John regained his balance, pushed John at the sofa, yanked down jeans and pants with one hand, parted John's arse cheeks, positioned his mouth at the appropriate inappropriate spot, and began without hesitation to spit and lick and massage with lips and tongue and mouth. When John tried to reach back-to what end, he wasn't sure, just to touch Sherlock and make sure that he was real-Sherlock seized his wrist and pulled John's arm behind his back. "Be still," Sherlock growled, and went back to his messy tongue-bath. So John was still, as still as he could be considering that Sherlock was doing an admirable job of shoving his tongue actually inside John. It all happened so fast. Oh, if only there had been time and opportunity to enjoy it, to savor it; the feeling was literally unbearably exquisite.
And before John could even catch his breath to comment-he still had his coat on, for fuck's sake-there were deep-questing fingers inside him, and cool lubricant, and Sherlock wiping his face on John's buttocks. "Disgusting," Sherlock grumbled, and prodded his cock inside.
"Stop, stop, stop!" John had yelled, breathy and desperate. "You don't know what you're doing!"
Sherlock paused where he was. "I do know," he said, "and I'm going to."
"Dammit-this doesn't work-this position-"
"Yes," Sherlock had conceded, "you're right. I can't get in properly deep in your arse this way."
And thus, over an arm of the sofa, John's bum in the air, Sherlock standing behind him and holding John's hips in position, John standing on tiptoes, biting his lip and listening to the wet, slurping noises of the two of them shagging in the front room, bathed in the bright light from the kitchen.
Fumbling, John tries to undress himself the rest of the way, but only makes it as far as his jacket; his shirt is trapped underneath him, and he can't tug it free, and Sherlock does not stop, even for a moment. Sherlock's still mostly dressed as well; John can feel the rough silk of shirttails against the small of his back where his own shirt has been shoved up and out of the way, the confusion of trousers around their ankles. Sherlock pumps his hips regularly, smoothly, varying occasionally in speed from a worryingly fast stabbing to slower, deeper, languorous strokes. Feels too good, too right. John has tried to keep his groans and cries to a minimum, but Sherlock leans over him, slides his long arms around John's torso, and hugs him for a moment, the gesture unmistakable, and that makes John moan long, low, and loud. "Oh, God, please kiss me," he begs, reaching behind himself, grasping Sherlock's bony hip.
Sherlock straightens up, and resumes thrusting at a good pace. "This is better."
"You've never-we've never-" John babbles, and lets his hand fall away, grabbing the arm of the sofa instead, only belatedly realizing that he could have been touching himself all this time.
"Irrelevant," Sherlock mutters shakily. "We are doing it now, and you are loving it absolutely, as I thought you might. Loving it. Absolutely." He pushes John's head down with one hand, and tilts his hips with the other, the better to match his now-vertical thrusts.
"Yes-oh, God-you are too-" It's too much; it almost hurts for John to touch himself. He's too full up and too hard and too much everything. He lets his cock go and quivers as it bounces up rigid and straining, the slippery tip brushing against the side of the sofa; they'd have to clean that up, it'd be neater if he were on his back . . . Later. Nothing matters right now but the repetitive pressure, the obscene sounds, being so very taken by this horrible, vexing creature. He does love it; he does; absolutely.
"Fuck yourself on me," Sherlock says, holding John's hips, falling still himself; John arches up as best he can, but it's not quite what he hopes. All the same, it seems to work, that and a bit of flexing the muscles inside him, and moaning at the senseless pleasure of it. Feels too right. Sherlock shudders along the full length of his body, his hands spreading John even wider, trying to thrust into him against John's own gentle internal resistance. "Yes. Oh. John," Sherlock says, "oh-John-" His voice dissolves into a series of bestial grunts and moans, his hips sliding until his cock is lodged all the way deep inside, locking there, and one hand encircling John's throat. He applies no pressure, but John claws the hand away from his throat; that is not in his personal repertoire.
"Come on, you bastard," John rasps, his own cock retreating slightly from its own raging erection. Being choked, or even pretending to be, is one of his anti-turn-ons. Still, the feeling of Sherlock's cock twitching inside him, the warmth and wetness of Sherlock's sweat against his thighs and buttocks, the sound of Sherlock's helpless vocalizations keep him at least somewhat in the moment. They are fucking, after all, and the novelty alone it is worth something. Sherlock all but threw John down and sodomized him, and yes, John loved it absolutely. Needed it more than he’d known. "That's it. Come on, then." He shudders despite himself, wondering how he can hate and love Sherlock so much at the same time, wondering if it's really any different from how he always feels.
"So wet . . . ahhh, so deep inside you," Sherlock whispers, his cock jumping inside John one more time, the head of it lost somewhere past John's aching prostate. It wants a touch, just one good touch . . . but somehow it means just as much that Sherlock got off so hard. Cold, weird Sherlock, transformed into a moaning, sweaty mess. God, that's good.
"Yes, all the way," John murmurs soothingly. "There, yes, that's it." If they were facing each other, John would kiss Sherlock comfortingly on the mouth and eyebrows, and breathe his exhalations; it'd be beautiful and exquisitely tender, and he could pretend that they were in love, for what else would it feel like, if not that? Instead, John touches his own cock gingerly, wondering if he should stroke it back to life, or let it subside and accept that the sex is over now that Sherlock has come. He knows his way around this dilemma with a female partner; sex isn't over until she decides it is. But with Sherlock . . . who the fuck knows?
Sherlock withdraws, finally, and John sighs, unsure of what happens next, thrilled a bit by the smooth friction inside of him; he wouldn't mind a little bit more of that. He can bring himself off that way, if he doesn't waste time . . . maybe fingers inside himself . . .
To John's surprise, Sherlock squeals in mingled delight and horror, and John makes a face as he feels viscous fluid dripping down his perineum, heading ticklish for his balls. He must look a mess. Sherlock moans, "Disgusting," and sticks two fingers back into John's anus.
"You did it," John grumbles. More, more, he pleaded silently. More of that.
"Yes . . . yes, I did," Sherlock muses, sounding somewhat amazed. Somehow his fingers magically avoid John's prostate, even though it feels to John that it's the size of a melon, swollen to bursting with fluid and frustration; but he's so open, fucked so wide, that Sherlock doesn't even touch it. He could practically get his whole hand inside if he wanted . . . but he doesn't seem to. Fired up with lust and excitement, John loses his patience.
"You know what? I'm not done yet," he snaps.
“Hmm?” Sherlock murmurs, sounding dazed. He takes his fingers back.
"I said . . . what do you think I mean? Dammit, Sherlock, did you do that just for you, or for the two of us?" Now that he can move, he stands up, pulls his shirt off, bends down and slips off his shoes, and pulls his jeans away completely, using his pants to give himself a hasty wipe. Sherlock, wearing only his cerulean silk shirt and black socks, leans against the wall, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed. He looks well fucked, anyway.
"For me," Sherlock admits guilelessly. "Was excited. Better than a wank. No point in wanking when you’re there." He spreads a handkerchief over the seat of a chair and slumps down, his spent and reddened cock only just beginning to soften. Sherlock's penis is long and slender with a bulbous head, its very end as pointed and keen as his fingertips, like a probe; John can still feel it inside him, trying to find the best path to his insides, bending John like a pipe cleaner until he fit, uncompromising in his goal to fuck John as deeply as he could. Sherlock wears a terribly smug smile. "I wanted to see if it was possible make you drip."
“You used me,” John accuses.
Sherlock's smile turns dreamy, tucking his chin into his shoulder in a brief self-hug, and nods. "And you liked it."
John sighs and shakes his head. No real point in protesting. It's true. He'd wanted it for a long time-not just Sherlock inside him, but being seized, being overwhelmed and overruled, being wanted like that. Still, though, knowing that John's needs had never even crossed Sherlock's mind is more than John can simply accept.
He has never backed down from standing up for himself. The only thing that really makes this experience okay, something that John can live with (because it's hard enough just living with Sherlock), is if he tries to attain something like equity.
"Well, I'm not done yet," John says again, standing up utterly straight and fearless, narrowing his eyes at the cheerfully post-coital Sherlock. "I'm going to have a quick wash, and then I would appreciate it if you would be in my bed for my use."
"Your use," Sherlock echoes, sighing faintly. His ordinarily pallid cheeks are bright pink, the color spreading to envelop his forehead and chin, caught in a sudden violent blush. Under John's astonished gaze, he reaches down, takes his softening cock in hand, and gently strokes its underside with his thumb. "You intend to use me, is that it?"
"The way you just used me," John agrees, trying to remain stern.
“All right,” Sherlock murmurs. “But it won’t be the same. You’ve just asked me.”
“I’ve told you. That’s different.”
Sherlock grins lazily, stroking himself. “As you say.”
"Thought you didn't wank with me around," John mutters.
"Not wanking." Sherlock yawns, fingers curled around the shaft of his cock. "I'm thinking."
Frowning, too annoyed to speak further, John heads to the bathroom. He’s all wet and cold down his thighs now; it doesn’t feel the least bit sexy. His erection has subsided, but he still feels agonizingly tense and achy; the legendary “blue balls,” not at all helped by the new aching in his guts from being fucked too deep and too soon. He’s not injured, but he really wants to get this over with so he can relax in bed. He almost regrets confronting Sherlock over his selfishness. Wouldn't it be quicker for John to just have a wank and go to sleep? Why does he let Sherlock do this to him?
Momentarily, Sherlock gets up and follows John. John sighs again, wetting a hand towel in the sink. He very much wants to punch his flatmate, preferably in the stomach, so he can see how it feels. "What-d'you want to watch?" John says archly.
"I want to . . . help," Sherlock mumbles. He is almost pouting, his cheeks (and his mouth) still red. It's a gorgeous sight, and John's cock, and his heart, jump again. Such an odd dance, this, but the only thing to do is to stay the course, to go with the flow, be open-minded, good, giving, generous . . . or was it "game"? He can never remember. Savage Love had been a hugely popular sex column amongst the American troops with which John had served, and he had looked forward to it every week himself. He's supposed to be three "G" things but there are always more than three he can think of.
Sherlock and his beautiful mouth.
"Yeah?" John replies, his tone more gentle, and hands Sherlock the towel. He unbuttons Sherlock's shirt, which the detective seems to have forgotten that he's wearing, and Sherlock awkwardly wraps an arm around John to rub the damp towel uncertainly against his backside. "All right, we can do this together. But do what I tell you or fuck off."
Sherlock smiles crookedly. "Do you still want that kiss?"
"Yes, but wash your face first."
Sherlock obediently turns aside, fills his free hand with water from the tap, and rubs it over his face, slurping directly from the tap, rinsing his mouth. "Now, wipe me down well," John directs, arching his eyebrows at Sherlock as if to ask, What's taking you so long? Sherlock blushes again, rinses the towel, and carefully wipes away all the lube and saliva and the still-leaking semen from his buttocks and inner thighs. Opening his legs a little to provide access, John would give anything, anything for Sherlock to stick his fingers in again and circle his prostate, but-not now. He’s got to maintain control or he’ll get off hard and Sherlock will just leave. And who knows when John will get another chance to experience . . . this. Sherlock and his beautiful, naked body, so close, still hot from shagging, a bit pungent from sweat.
John holds his face up, mouth open, and exactly as John wants him to, Sherlock slides his tongue inside and seals their lips together. They inhale simultaneously, sucking against vacuum, and their bare bellies make contact. Instantly, John’s erection returns, and the aching inside him gets worse.
When Sherlock reaches for John's cock, though, John bats his hand aside and breaks the kiss. "No, not here," John says. "In bed." He's lightheaded, though reluctant to admit it; it could be from the night's excitement, or the fact that most of the rest of the blood in his body is trapped in his sex organs. He needs to lie down for a bit.
Again, Sherlock follows, to John's bedroom this time. John is pleasantly surprised that Sherlock hasn't yet lost interest; most men would already be on to the next thing, but Sherlock still stares, remaining close by with a look on his face that might be troubled or fascinated. John lies on his bed with a sigh of relief, some of the tension draining from his limbs. Sherlock settles next to him, lying on his side, his head level with John's chest. "How will you use me?" Sherlock asks, holding his hand above John's chest just close enough so that the hairs stand up and quiver, but not close enough to make skin contact. "You're just . . . lying there like a sack of flour."
"I want you to touch me," John says, grabbing the hand and pulling it down onto him, "and do as I tell you. Let me direct you."
"Why don't you just tell me what you want?" Sherlock blinks. He doesn't seem to be kidding.
"I'm going to," John assures him. "As you do it. Surely you understand how this works."
Sherlock sighs, put-upon. "Surely fellatio would be more efficient."
"I'm not interested in efficiency right now; I'm interested in you doing as I say for a bloody change. We are not in a hurry." John's voice comes out sharp, and Sherlock raises his eyebrows in muted surprise.
"Yes, John," he says quietly.
It's John's turn to sigh, but he adds a soft laugh and strokes the back of Sherlock's hand. "That's better. Now. Rub my nipples, and kiss my chest a bit. Be slow about it. Let me feel your breath."
Sherlock does well with these instructions, his touch firm and skilled, and his dry, brief kiss at just the edge of John’s nipple is ticklishly exquisite. “Kiss my lips,” John says, and Sherlock mirrors the kiss, tiny and dry, against John’s mouth. “Now, touch my chest with both hands,” John smiles, “and kiss me more deeply on the mouth. Use your tongue. But not too much; a wet kiss, but not a sloppy one. Don’t eat me. Let me taste you.”
“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispers. He thumbs the hard dots of John's nipples. “And you will taste yourself . . . taste what I tasted.”
John winces a bit-he hadn’t thought of that-but he can’t really taste anything strange or untoward on Sherlock's palate. Sherlock tastes like water and chemicals and just a very faint trace of salt, as if from sweat; a nice taste, a strange-but-very-right male taste. John kisses back hungrily, lightly chewing Sherlock's lips, his fingers clawing through Sherlock’s hair as if necessary to keep him near. But it’s not. Though Sherlock breaks away from the kiss, breathing heavily, eyes closed, seeming somewhat overwhelmed, he remains so close his nose brushes John's.
“Thank you,” John says. “I know you don’t like kissing.”
“No,” Sherlock replies, but in good humor. “I don’t. It is a filthy practice. I would much rather engage in rimming; it is no more of a disease vector than your mouth.”
John just blinks at him for a moment. “Shut up,” he says. Sherlock just grins and crinkles the corners of his eyes. “No; I have an even better idea. I want you to tell me a secret about yourself. It doesn’t need to be something you’ve never told anyone, but it must be something sexual. And while you do so, I want you to stroke me with your hands and your mouth until I reach orgasm. See if you can match the length of the story to-”
“Of course I can,” Sherlock cuts him off. John sighs, imagining that Sherlock will match a ten-word confession to a fast and rough jerk-off, so that he can get back to . . . whatever it is that he would clearly rather be doing than making love to John for ten bloody minutes.
But it isn’t a quick-and-dirty at all. Well, not quick, anyway.
"Once, I was a young man," Sherlock begins.
"Oh, that's a good one," John replies, sarcastically, too quickly.
Sherlock blinks calmly at him, takes John's hardening penis in his fingers, and slowly licks up the side of the shaft. Surprised, John hisses breath between his teeth. "Once, when I was much younger than I am now, when I was at university. Sidney Sussex."
"Oh, shocker," John drawls under his breath at the mention of the ancient Cambridge college.
"Now you shut up, or you get nothing." Sherlock squeezes John's cock just hard enough for John to shut tight both his eyes and his lips. "When I was in my first year at Sidney, I received an invitation to attend a very exclusive gathering given by a very exclusive group. A play party, given by and for some of the most wealthy, landed, elite students. And faculty. And staff. And prominent local citizens."
"Scandalous," John murmurs.
"Your subconscious resistance is noted," Sherlock points out, and lightly rubs the tip of John's cock against his tongue-specifically not the other way round. It makes John shiver. "It may surprise you to know that I accepted the invitation, and attended the party. I attended for the express purpose of watching people have sexual relations with each other, including but not limited to intercourse. I had little interest in engaging in such a thing myself, and even less interest once I had seen it done a few times, but the details of it fascinated me, and I watched everything that went on with great interest without participating, or introducing myself, or responding to overtures to conversation. Naturally, this generated more interest than if I had just walked in and immediately began furiously masturbating." Sherlock pauses and narrows his eyes at John; when John laughs at the joke, the stare becomes a smile. "Thus I was invited to the next gathering, and the next; I accepted each time, and sat and watched everything, and spoke to no one, and allowed no one to touch or converse with me. I expected the invitations to the events to be rescinded, but they never were, and soon I was attending two or three play parties a week."
"Wow," John breathes. "Weren't you ever aroused?"
"Not in the slightest," Sherlock replies. "As you know, I have a substantial level of control over my body's supposedly involuntary functions and reactions. But participating honestly did not interest me, and certainly not in that situation. On the other hand, I found that I did derive enjoyment from being above the grunting, sweating fray, merely stood back and watching as if I were at a museum, or observing robots build cars on an assembly line. I felt less and less connection to humanity or to sexuality the more I watched, and thus I treasured those evenings. I was merely a lock box of experiences, a lock box to which I had no access, myself. It was glorious to be so pure." Sherlock rubs John's cock against the wet, warm elastic of the inside of his cheek, not sucking or tonguing; it's pure gentle texture, and John tightly curls his fingers into his bedclothes. "They called me the Mad Monk."
"Oh, that's nice," John whispers, and it works on multiple levels. He feels Sherlock smile against his cock.
The detective holds up a warning finger. "The story doesn't end there." The fingers go into his mouth, and then back onto John's cock, cool-wet and insistent. John bites his lip and listens closely. "There was one night-one very fateful night-when some newly minted dominatrix got a bit too enthusiastic on her backswing as she prepared to cane some poor girl lashed to the St. Andrew's cross, and she caught me a good, sharp blow on the side of my thigh." Sherlock falls silent, slowly shaking his head, and John opens his eyes to see a very thoughtful, almost melancholy expression on Sherlock's face. "It was quite extraordinary. I felt utterly transformed. Everything around me receded; and I appeared, or that part of me that had been struck. It was as if no part of my body had ever been real before. I caught the domme's wrist before she could strike another blow on the girl on the cross, and said to her, 'Hit me. With that. On my bum.'"
John laughs freely. "Oh, Sherlock, you take the cake, don't you? I assume she did."
"I reached orgasm on the third stroke."
"Ohhh," murmurs John. He is, again, so close, and probably nothing can stop it happening now. He has the orgasm squarely in the cross-hairs, as securely captured as his cock in Sherlock's hand, dipping occasionally back into Sherlock's mouth, only to emerge with its tip stranded with saliva and cloudy pre-come. "Yes, I can imagine . . ."
"And I remembered, all at once-one of my first deleted memories came crashing back onto my hard drive, reinstalled and upgraded-that Mycroft used to thrash me with my grandfather's cane when we were children. It wasn't at random; he was Mummy's enforcer. If she was cross with me, rather than mete out the punishment herself, she would send Mycroft to do it, as he was so enthusiastic and obedient and always toadying, trying to become Mummy's favorite even if he knew good and well that I am her favorite." Sherlock jerks harder on John's cock, almost too hard, but not quite; not quite enough not to be amazing and wonderful and just what John needs to nudge him closer to fulfillment. "I caught sight of Mummy watching, watching Mycroft thrash me to bits in the drawing room, and she was smiling. I was horrified, sickened by this flagrant injustice, but before I could run to grab my traveling case and run away to Morocco as I had always planned to do, she caught me crying in the hall and gave me a long hug and a dozen kisses, and heaps of marvelous sympathy. An ice pack for my arse and ice cream for my face. Mycroft got none and he was furious, and pinched me black and blue under the table at tea. God, I hated summer holiday." Sherlock sighs, and John bites his lower lip, holding back as hard as he can, not wanting to finish before Sherlock completes his confession. "But-no matter how cruel he was, no matter how much he hurt me, she never, ever told him to stop. Or made him apologize. Or made me apologize for whatever I'd done. As if the punishment alone were enough to absolve me. After a while, I began to crave it. It was the only time I got ice cream, and I loved knowing that I got some and that fat, arse-kissing bully got none. So, after some weeks of plotting to drive him insane, I baited him into thrashing me without first having been ordered to do so. Once. Mummy quickly sussed out what had happened, and from that point on, the canings ended. Came to a halt. At that point, our war became, and remains, entirely psychological."
John's head is swimming; he feels like he's been dissolving for ten minutes straight, but without the kick to let him know that he's come. And he knows this one will be significant. He's almost dreading it. "So . . ."
"Caning is a sexual signal for me. It is one of the very, very few. I feel that I can trust you to perform that for me. You expressed interest in it yourself; that indeed is what brought the idea to mind."
So close . . . it's going to be agonizing . . . John is dizzy. "So you . . . want me t-to role-play Mycroft?"
"Oh, God, no. That would be disgusting. You are almost completely unlike Mycroft in every single way; that's what makes it sexual. But the sensation, and the comfort afterward . . . "
"I-I'm surprised y-you didn't 'delete' all that."
"I tried, but apparently, it's important. It's something about me. What I would like you to do is overwrite the data, so that it means 'this' and not 'that'. Aren't you going to come, John? You really ought to; your leg has been shaking for ages."
"Ah-ah-I am! Oh, God!" John groans. "That. Yes. Oh, yes, oh, God, that. Yes. Ahhh!" A wrenching spasm, a sharp spike up, lightning uncoiling in his spine. John arches up on the bed.
"There. Better?" Sherlock's hand stops immediately, and while John's eyes are closed, he can hear Sherlock sucking his fingers clean. John groans wordlessly, one hand clenched in the bedclothes, the other in Sherlock's hair, undone for the moment.
John asks, struggling to recover, "So. . . let me get this straight . . . you want me to cane you?" His cock's still half-hard, and he pets it gently, trying to comfort himself down, but the blood remains stubbornly, achingly in place.
"Yes," Sherlock replies.
"When?-Right now?"
"Of course not," Sherlock scoffs, springing up from the bed, his keen face already pointed in another direction; he is clearly done with sex right now. His voice is crisp. The intimacy is over. "You'll know when."
"How?" John groans, jerking himself in earnest. Another orgasm curls in his guts; he doesn't know how or from where, but he has to come again, and it doesn't matter if Sherlock is there. It's become purely biological, but of course, never merely that; he stares hungrily at the plump, twitching curves of Sherlock's buttocks as he walks to the door. "Are you going to tell me?"
"You'll know," Sherlock reiterates, "when it's time."
He disappears into the hall, and John makes no attempt to stifle or soften his second orgasmic cry. This one hurts, deliciously, and his issue is as clear as spit, but at last, he's done. Back to baseline. Not satisfied, but content for now. He can lock all this away for future reference, and take a shower and wash all this lust away from him.
In a moment, anyway; Sherlock has already beaten him into the shower, and something tells John that he won't want company under the water. John sighs. He'll wait. He'll know when.
continue to part two.
Title: The English Vice; or, “Nuthin' But a G Thang” (1/2)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC17/M
Warnings: Explicit sex, power play, caning. No spoilers.
Total word count: 10,500
Summary: Long-buried secrets, modern music, and a headmaster's cane - Sherlock doesn't pretend that he's not difficult, but he really does test John's limits sometimes.
Genre: Comedy/romance/smut.
Disclaimer: Unauthorized. Unpaid. U.S. spellings, UK language.
It's not a matter of old-school self-discipline: it’s a matter of abandoning yourself to the music and letting it dictate your responses.
-- Amanda Kiehl/Michael Jo, http://thousandfoldecho.com/2012/01/12/mahlergate/
An hour ago they had been in the Metro Police station office, John sat in a chair getting his breath back and Sherlock striding back and forth, coat aswirl, narrating the facts of the case they'd just solved, informing a smirking Sergeant Donovan where they could find the perpetrator lying in a damp alley with both of his legs broken from a three-story fall, and Lestrade's mouth compressed in a thin line because the perpetrator was a fellow police inspector with a string of very bad debts to some very bad Bosnian pimps. Sitting restlessly, John had watched Sherlock declaim, unable to take his eyes off the consulting detective, feeling very strange, sharp stirrings in his groin, in his thighs, in his chest; and when Sherlock's cold clear flashing eyes caught his gaze, it was like being struck by lightning.
The terrifying want in them. The claim. You're mine, that look said, and John Watson knows in his heart that it's true.
He's never been captured like this before; never been locked. Not just love or devotion-a strange kind of ownership. He belongs to Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn’t belong to him, not in the same way. He would kill for Sherlock; already had. A part of him believes that Sherlock would kill for him as well, but another part of him understands that it wouldn't be the same. Sherlock doesn't really care for human lives; he only cares whether or not he wins, whether or not that he can prove that he's right. And yet Sherlock looks at him that way-that odd, burning, unselfconscious way, letting John know that he's different, that Sherlock esteems him above all men, all humans, every other living thing.
His place is at Sherlock’s side.
And now, they are back home at 221b, John slumped and scrabbling at the slick leather surface of the sofa, not quite on his knees, with Sherlock shoved balls-deep up his arsehole. John hadn't been asked. There had been no civilized and gentle conversation beforehand; no "Shall we make love?", no "I want to be inside you this time," not even a "I want you and I shall have you," even in the taxi home. Not that Sherlock had ever been much for that kind of pillow talk, but still - to walk in off the street, Sherlock close behind him up the stairs, grabbing John's buttocks through his jeans, trapping him against the door to the flat and unzipping him, reaching down the back of his underpants, hot fingertips pointing themselves towards John's center. John had barely been able to unlock the door, nearly falling inside once the door gave way. Then Sherlock had just stepped over him, rushing into the flat, tossing his own coat at a chair.
He had returned before John regained his balance, pushed John at the sofa, yanked down jeans and pants with one hand, parted John's arse cheeks, positioned his mouth at the appropriate inappropriate spot, and began without hesitation to spit and lick and massage with lips and tongue and mouth. When John tried to reach back-to what end, he wasn't sure, just to touch Sherlock and make sure that he was real-Sherlock seized his wrist and pulled John's arm behind his back. "Be still," Sherlock growled, and went back to his messy tongue-bath. So John was still, as still as he could be considering that Sherlock was doing an admirable job of shoving his tongue actually inside John. It all happened so fast. Oh, if only there had been time and opportunity to enjoy it, to savor it; the feeling was literally unbearably exquisite.
And before John could even catch his breath to comment-he still had his coat on, for fuck's sake-there were deep-questing fingers inside him, and cool lubricant, and Sherlock wiping his face on John's buttocks. "Disgusting," Sherlock grumbled, and prodded his cock inside.
"Stop, stop, stop!" John had yelled, breathy and desperate. "You don't know what you're doing!"
Sherlock paused where he was. "I do know," he said, "and I'm going to."
"Dammit-this doesn't work-this position-"
"Yes," Sherlock had conceded, "you're right. I can't get in properly deep in your arse this way."
And thus, over an arm of the sofa, John's bum in the air, Sherlock standing behind him and holding John's hips in position, John standing on tiptoes, biting his lip and listening to the wet, slurping noises of the two of them shagging in the front room, bathed in the bright light from the kitchen.
Fumbling, John tries to undress himself the rest of the way, but only makes it as far as his jacket; his shirt is trapped underneath him, and he can't tug it free, and Sherlock does not stop, even for a moment. Sherlock's still mostly dressed as well; John can feel the rough silk of shirttails against the small of his back where his own shirt has been shoved up and out of the way, the confusion of trousers around their ankles. Sherlock pumps his hips regularly, smoothly, varying occasionally in speed from a worryingly fast stabbing to slower, deeper, languorous strokes. Feels too good, too right. John has tried to keep his groans and cries to a minimum, but Sherlock leans over him, slides his long arms around John's torso, and hugs him for a moment, the gesture unmistakable, and that makes John moan long, low, and loud. "Oh, God, please kiss me," he begs, reaching behind himself, grasping Sherlock's bony hip.
Sherlock straightens up, and resumes thrusting at a good pace. "This is better."
"You've never-we've never-" John babbles, and lets his hand fall away, grabbing the arm of the sofa instead, only belatedly realizing that he could have been touching himself all this time.
"Irrelevant," Sherlock mutters shakily. "We are doing it now, and you are loving it absolutely, as I thought you might. Loving it. Absolutely." He pushes John's head down with one hand, and tilts his hips with the other, the better to match his now-vertical thrusts.
"Yes-oh, God-you are too-" It's too much; it almost hurts for John to touch himself. He's too full up and too hard and too much everything. He lets his cock go and quivers as it bounces up rigid and straining, the slippery tip brushing against the side of the sofa; they'd have to clean that up, it'd be neater if he were on his back . . . Later. Nothing matters right now but the repetitive pressure, the obscene sounds, being so very taken by this horrible, vexing creature. He does love it; he does; absolutely.
"Fuck yourself on me," Sherlock says, holding John's hips, falling still himself; John arches up as best he can, but it's not quite what he hopes. All the same, it seems to work, that and a bit of flexing the muscles inside him, and moaning at the senseless pleasure of it. Feels too right. Sherlock shudders along the full length of his body, his hands spreading John even wider, trying to thrust into him against John's own gentle internal resistance. "Yes. Oh. John," Sherlock says, "oh-John-" His voice dissolves into a series of bestial grunts and moans, his hips sliding until his cock is lodged all the way deep inside, locking there, and one hand encircling John's throat. He applies no pressure, but John claws the hand away from his throat; that is not in his personal repertoire.
"Come on, you bastard," John rasps, his own cock retreating slightly from its own raging erection. Being choked, or even pretending to be, is one of his anti-turn-ons. Still, the feeling of Sherlock's cock twitching inside him, the warmth and wetness of Sherlock's sweat against his thighs and buttocks, the sound of Sherlock's helpless vocalizations keep him at least somewhat in the moment. They are fucking, after all, and the novelty alone it is worth something. Sherlock all but threw John down and sodomized him, and yes, John loved it absolutely. Needed it more than he’d known. "That's it. Come on, then." He shudders despite himself, wondering how he can hate and love Sherlock so much at the same time, wondering if it's really any different from how he always feels.
"So wet . . . ahhh, so deep inside you," Sherlock whispers, his cock jumping inside John one more time, the head of it lost somewhere past John's aching prostate. It wants a touch, just one good touch . . . but somehow it means just as much that Sherlock got off so hard. Cold, weird Sherlock, transformed into a moaning, sweaty mess. God, that's good.
"Yes, all the way," John murmurs soothingly. "There, yes, that's it." If they were facing each other, John would kiss Sherlock comfortingly on the mouth and eyebrows, and breathe his exhalations; it'd be beautiful and exquisitely tender, and he could pretend that they were in love, for what else would it feel like, if not that? Instead, John touches his own cock gingerly, wondering if he should stroke it back to life, or let it subside and accept that the sex is over now that Sherlock has come. He knows his way around this dilemma with a female partner; sex isn't over until she decides it is. But with Sherlock . . . who the fuck knows?
Sherlock withdraws, finally, and John sighs, unsure of what happens next, thrilled a bit by the smooth friction inside of him; he wouldn't mind a little bit more of that. He can bring himself off that way, if he doesn't waste time . . . maybe fingers inside himself . . .
To John's surprise, Sherlock squeals in mingled delight and horror, and John makes a face as he feels viscous fluid dripping down his perineum, heading ticklish for his balls. He must look a mess. Sherlock moans, "Disgusting," and sticks two fingers back into John's anus.
"You did it," John grumbles. More, more, he pleaded silently. More of that.
"Yes . . . yes, I did," Sherlock muses, sounding somewhat amazed. Somehow his fingers magically avoid John's prostate, even though it feels to John that it's the size of a melon, swollen to bursting with fluid and frustration; but he's so open, fucked so wide, that Sherlock doesn't even touch it. He could practically get his whole hand inside if he wanted . . . but he doesn't seem to. Fired up with lust and excitement, John loses his patience.
"You know what? I'm not done yet," he snaps.
“Hmm?” Sherlock murmurs, sounding dazed. He takes his fingers back.
"I said . . . what do you think I mean? Dammit, Sherlock, did you do that just for you, or for the two of us?" Now that he can move, he stands up, pulls his shirt off, bends down and slips off his shoes, and pulls his jeans away completely, using his pants to give himself a hasty wipe. Sherlock, wearing only his cerulean silk shirt and black socks, leans against the wall, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed. He looks well fucked, anyway.
"For me," Sherlock admits guilelessly. "Was excited. Better than a wank. No point in wanking when you’re there." He spreads a handkerchief over the seat of a chair and slumps down, his spent and reddened cock only just beginning to soften. Sherlock's penis is long and slender with a bulbous head, its very end as pointed and keen as his fingertips, like a probe; John can still feel it inside him, trying to find the best path to his insides, bending John like a pipe cleaner until he fit, uncompromising in his goal to fuck John as deeply as he could. Sherlock wears a terribly smug smile. "I wanted to see if it was possible make you drip."
“You used me,” John accuses.
Sherlock's smile turns dreamy, tucking his chin into his shoulder in a brief self-hug, and nods. "And you liked it."
John sighs and shakes his head. No real point in protesting. It's true. He'd wanted it for a long time-not just Sherlock inside him, but being seized, being overwhelmed and overruled, being wanted like that. Still, though, knowing that John's needs had never even crossed Sherlock's mind is more than John can simply accept.
He has never backed down from standing up for himself. The only thing that really makes this experience okay, something that John can live with (because it's hard enough just living with Sherlock), is if he tries to attain something like equity.
"Well, I'm not done yet," John says again, standing up utterly straight and fearless, narrowing his eyes at the cheerfully post-coital Sherlock. "I'm going to have a quick wash, and then I would appreciate it if you would be in my bed for my use."
"Your use," Sherlock echoes, sighing faintly. His ordinarily pallid cheeks are bright pink, the color spreading to envelop his forehead and chin, caught in a sudden violent blush. Under John's astonished gaze, he reaches down, takes his softening cock in hand, and gently strokes its underside with his thumb. "You intend to use me, is that it?"
"The way you just used me," John agrees, trying to remain stern.
“All right,” Sherlock murmurs. “But it won’t be the same. You’ve just asked me.”
“I’ve told you. That’s different.”
Sherlock grins lazily, stroking himself. “As you say.”
"Thought you didn't wank with me around," John mutters.
"Not wanking." Sherlock yawns, fingers curled around the shaft of his cock. "I'm thinking."
Frowning, too annoyed to speak further, John heads to the bathroom. He’s all wet and cold down his thighs now; it doesn’t feel the least bit sexy. His erection has subsided, but he still feels agonizingly tense and achy; the legendary “blue balls,” not at all helped by the new aching in his guts from being fucked too deep and too soon. He’s not injured, but he really wants to get this over with so he can relax in bed. He almost regrets confronting Sherlock over his selfishness. Wouldn't it be quicker for John to just have a wank and go to sleep? Why does he let Sherlock do this to him?
Momentarily, Sherlock gets up and follows John. John sighs again, wetting a hand towel in the sink. He very much wants to punch his flatmate, preferably in the stomach, so he can see how it feels. "What-d'you want to watch?" John says archly.
"I want to . . . help," Sherlock mumbles. He is almost pouting, his cheeks (and his mouth) still red. It's a gorgeous sight, and John's cock, and his heart, jump again. Such an odd dance, this, but the only thing to do is to stay the course, to go with the flow, be open-minded, good, giving, generous . . . or was it "game"? He can never remember. Savage Love had been a hugely popular sex column amongst the American troops with which John had served, and he had looked forward to it every week himself. He's supposed to be three "G" things but there are always more than three he can think of.
Sherlock and his beautiful mouth.
"Yeah?" John replies, his tone more gentle, and hands Sherlock the towel. He unbuttons Sherlock's shirt, which the detective seems to have forgotten that he's wearing, and Sherlock awkwardly wraps an arm around John to rub the damp towel uncertainly against his backside. "All right, we can do this together. But do what I tell you or fuck off."
Sherlock smiles crookedly. "Do you still want that kiss?"
"Yes, but wash your face first."
Sherlock obediently turns aside, fills his free hand with water from the tap, and rubs it over his face, slurping directly from the tap, rinsing his mouth. "Now, wipe me down well," John directs, arching his eyebrows at Sherlock as if to ask, What's taking you so long? Sherlock blushes again, rinses the towel, and carefully wipes away all the lube and saliva and the still-leaking semen from his buttocks and inner thighs. Opening his legs a little to provide access, John would give anything, anything for Sherlock to stick his fingers in again and circle his prostate, but-not now. He’s got to maintain control or he’ll get off hard and Sherlock will just leave. And who knows when John will get another chance to experience . . . this. Sherlock and his beautiful, naked body, so close, still hot from shagging, a bit pungent from sweat.
John holds his face up, mouth open, and exactly as John wants him to, Sherlock slides his tongue inside and seals their lips together. They inhale simultaneously, sucking against vacuum, and their bare bellies make contact. Instantly, John’s erection returns, and the aching inside him gets worse.
When Sherlock reaches for John's cock, though, John bats his hand aside and breaks the kiss. "No, not here," John says. "In bed." He's lightheaded, though reluctant to admit it; it could be from the night's excitement, or the fact that most of the rest of the blood in his body is trapped in his sex organs. He needs to lie down for a bit.
Again, Sherlock follows, to John's bedroom this time. John is pleasantly surprised that Sherlock hasn't yet lost interest; most men would already be on to the next thing, but Sherlock still stares, remaining close by with a look on his face that might be troubled or fascinated. John lies on his bed with a sigh of relief, some of the tension draining from his limbs. Sherlock settles next to him, lying on his side, his head level with John's chest. "How will you use me?" Sherlock asks, holding his hand above John's chest just close enough so that the hairs stand up and quiver, but not close enough to make skin contact. "You're just . . . lying there like a sack of flour."
"I want you to touch me," John says, grabbing the hand and pulling it down onto him, "and do as I tell you. Let me direct you."
"Why don't you just tell me what you want?" Sherlock blinks. He doesn't seem to be kidding.
"I'm going to," John assures him. "As you do it. Surely you understand how this works."
Sherlock sighs, put-upon. "Surely fellatio would be more efficient."
"I'm not interested in efficiency right now; I'm interested in you doing as I say for a bloody change. We are not in a hurry." John's voice comes out sharp, and Sherlock raises his eyebrows in muted surprise.
"Yes, John," he says quietly.
It's John's turn to sigh, but he adds a soft laugh and strokes the back of Sherlock's hand. "That's better. Now. Rub my nipples, and kiss my chest a bit. Be slow about it. Let me feel your breath."
Sherlock does well with these instructions, his touch firm and skilled, and his dry, brief kiss at just the edge of John’s nipple is ticklishly exquisite. “Kiss my lips,” John says, and Sherlock mirrors the kiss, tiny and dry, against John’s mouth. “Now, touch my chest with both hands,” John smiles, “and kiss me more deeply on the mouth. Use your tongue. But not too much; a wet kiss, but not a sloppy one. Don’t eat me. Let me taste you.”
“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispers. He thumbs the hard dots of John's nipples. “And you will taste yourself . . . taste what I tasted.”
John winces a bit-he hadn’t thought of that-but he can’t really taste anything strange or untoward on Sherlock's palate. Sherlock tastes like water and chemicals and just a very faint trace of salt, as if from sweat; a nice taste, a strange-but-very-right male taste. John kisses back hungrily, lightly chewing Sherlock's lips, his fingers clawing through Sherlock’s hair as if necessary to keep him near. But it’s not. Though Sherlock breaks away from the kiss, breathing heavily, eyes closed, seeming somewhat overwhelmed, he remains so close his nose brushes John's.
“Thank you,” John says. “I know you don’t like kissing.”
“No,” Sherlock replies, but in good humor. “I don’t. It is a filthy practice. I would much rather engage in rimming; it is no more of a disease vector than your mouth.”
John just blinks at him for a moment. “Shut up,” he says. Sherlock just grins and crinkles the corners of his eyes. “No; I have an even better idea. I want you to tell me a secret about yourself. It doesn’t need to be something you’ve never told anyone, but it must be something sexual. And while you do so, I want you to stroke me with your hands and your mouth until I reach orgasm. See if you can match the length of the story to-”
“Of course I can,” Sherlock cuts him off. John sighs, imagining that Sherlock will match a ten-word confession to a fast and rough jerk-off, so that he can get back to . . . whatever it is that he would clearly rather be doing than making love to John for ten bloody minutes.
But it isn’t a quick-and-dirty at all. Well, not quick, anyway.
"Once, I was a young man," Sherlock begins.
"Oh, that's a good one," John replies, sarcastically, too quickly.
Sherlock blinks calmly at him, takes John's hardening penis in his fingers, and slowly licks up the side of the shaft. Surprised, John hisses breath between his teeth. "Once, when I was much younger than I am now, when I was at university. Sidney Sussex."
"Oh, shocker," John drawls under his breath at the mention of the ancient Cambridge college.
"Now you shut up, or you get nothing." Sherlock squeezes John's cock just hard enough for John to shut tight both his eyes and his lips. "When I was in my first year at Sidney, I received an invitation to attend a very exclusive gathering given by a very exclusive group. A play party, given by and for some of the most wealthy, landed, elite students. And faculty. And staff. And prominent local citizens."
"Scandalous," John murmurs.
"Your subconscious resistance is noted," Sherlock points out, and lightly rubs the tip of John's cock against his tongue-specifically not the other way round. It makes John shiver. "It may surprise you to know that I accepted the invitation, and attended the party. I attended for the express purpose of watching people have sexual relations with each other, including but not limited to intercourse. I had little interest in engaging in such a thing myself, and even less interest once I had seen it done a few times, but the details of it fascinated me, and I watched everything that went on with great interest without participating, or introducing myself, or responding to overtures to conversation. Naturally, this generated more interest than if I had just walked in and immediately began furiously masturbating." Sherlock pauses and narrows his eyes at John; when John laughs at the joke, the stare becomes a smile. "Thus I was invited to the next gathering, and the next; I accepted each time, and sat and watched everything, and spoke to no one, and allowed no one to touch or converse with me. I expected the invitations to the events to be rescinded, but they never were, and soon I was attending two or three play parties a week."
"Wow," John breathes. "Weren't you ever aroused?"
"Not in the slightest," Sherlock replies. "As you know, I have a substantial level of control over my body's supposedly involuntary functions and reactions. But participating honestly did not interest me, and certainly not in that situation. On the other hand, I found that I did derive enjoyment from being above the grunting, sweating fray, merely stood back and watching as if I were at a museum, or observing robots build cars on an assembly line. I felt less and less connection to humanity or to sexuality the more I watched, and thus I treasured those evenings. I was merely a lock box of experiences, a lock box to which I had no access, myself. It was glorious to be so pure." Sherlock rubs John's cock against the wet, warm elastic of the inside of his cheek, not sucking or tonguing; it's pure gentle texture, and John tightly curls his fingers into his bedclothes. "They called me the Mad Monk."
"Oh, that's nice," John whispers, and it works on multiple levels. He feels Sherlock smile against his cock.
The detective holds up a warning finger. "The story doesn't end there." The fingers go into his mouth, and then back onto John's cock, cool-wet and insistent. John bites his lip and listens closely. "There was one night-one very fateful night-when some newly minted dominatrix got a bit too enthusiastic on her backswing as she prepared to cane some poor girl lashed to the St. Andrew's cross, and she caught me a good, sharp blow on the side of my thigh." Sherlock falls silent, slowly shaking his head, and John opens his eyes to see a very thoughtful, almost melancholy expression on Sherlock's face. "It was quite extraordinary. I felt utterly transformed. Everything around me receded; and I appeared, or that part of me that had been struck. It was as if no part of my body had ever been real before. I caught the domme's wrist before she could strike another blow on the girl on the cross, and said to her, 'Hit me. With that. On my bum.'"
John laughs freely. "Oh, Sherlock, you take the cake, don't you? I assume she did."
"I reached orgasm on the third stroke."
"Ohhh," murmurs John. He is, again, so close, and probably nothing can stop it happening now. He has the orgasm squarely in the cross-hairs, as securely captured as his cock in Sherlock's hand, dipping occasionally back into Sherlock's mouth, only to emerge with its tip stranded with saliva and cloudy pre-come. "Yes, I can imagine . . ."
"And I remembered, all at once-one of my first deleted memories came crashing back onto my hard drive, reinstalled and upgraded-that Mycroft used to thrash me with my grandfather's cane when we were children. It wasn't at random; he was Mummy's enforcer. If she was cross with me, rather than mete out the punishment herself, she would send Mycroft to do it, as he was so enthusiastic and obedient and always toadying, trying to become Mummy's favorite even if he knew good and well that I am her favorite." Sherlock jerks harder on John's cock, almost too hard, but not quite; not quite enough not to be amazing and wonderful and just what John needs to nudge him closer to fulfillment. "I caught sight of Mummy watching, watching Mycroft thrash me to bits in the drawing room, and she was smiling. I was horrified, sickened by this flagrant injustice, but before I could run to grab my traveling case and run away to Morocco as I had always planned to do, she caught me crying in the hall and gave me a long hug and a dozen kisses, and heaps of marvelous sympathy. An ice pack for my arse and ice cream for my face. Mycroft got none and he was furious, and pinched me black and blue under the table at tea. God, I hated summer holiday." Sherlock sighs, and John bites his lower lip, holding back as hard as he can, not wanting to finish before Sherlock completes his confession. "But-no matter how cruel he was, no matter how much he hurt me, she never, ever told him to stop. Or made him apologize. Or made me apologize for whatever I'd done. As if the punishment alone were enough to absolve me. After a while, I began to crave it. It was the only time I got ice cream, and I loved knowing that I got some and that fat, arse-kissing bully got none. So, after some weeks of plotting to drive him insane, I baited him into thrashing me without first having been ordered to do so. Once. Mummy quickly sussed out what had happened, and from that point on, the canings ended. Came to a halt. At that point, our war became, and remains, entirely psychological."
John's head is swimming; he feels like he's been dissolving for ten minutes straight, but without the kick to let him know that he's come. And he knows this one will be significant. He's almost dreading it. "So . . ."
"Caning is a sexual signal for me. It is one of the very, very few. I feel that I can trust you to perform that for me. You expressed interest in it yourself; that indeed is what brought the idea to mind."
So close . . . it's going to be agonizing . . . John is dizzy. "So you . . . want me t-to role-play Mycroft?"
"Oh, God, no. That would be disgusting. You are almost completely unlike Mycroft in every single way; that's what makes it sexual. But the sensation, and the comfort afterward . . . "
"I-I'm surprised y-you didn't 'delete' all that."
"I tried, but apparently, it's important. It's something about me. What I would like you to do is overwrite the data, so that it means 'this' and not 'that'. Aren't you going to come, John? You really ought to; your leg has been shaking for ages."
"Ah-ah-I am! Oh, God!" John groans. "That. Yes. Oh, yes, oh, God, that. Yes. Ahhh!" A wrenching spasm, a sharp spike up, lightning uncoiling in his spine. John arches up on the bed.
"There. Better?" Sherlock's hand stops immediately, and while John's eyes are closed, he can hear Sherlock sucking his fingers clean. John groans wordlessly, one hand clenched in the bedclothes, the other in Sherlock's hair, undone for the moment.
John asks, struggling to recover, "So. . . let me get this straight . . . you want me to cane you?" His cock's still half-hard, and he pets it gently, trying to comfort himself down, but the blood remains stubbornly, achingly in place.
"Yes," Sherlock replies.
"When?-Right now?"
"Of course not," Sherlock scoffs, springing up from the bed, his keen face already pointed in another direction; he is clearly done with sex right now. His voice is crisp. The intimacy is over. "You'll know when."
"How?" John groans, jerking himself in earnest. Another orgasm curls in his guts; he doesn't know how or from where, but he has to come again, and it doesn't matter if Sherlock is there. It's become purely biological, but of course, never merely that; he stares hungrily at the plump, twitching curves of Sherlock's buttocks as he walks to the door. "Are you going to tell me?"
"You'll know," Sherlock reiterates, "when it's time."
He disappears into the hall, and John makes no attempt to stifle or soften his second orgasmic cry. This one hurts, deliciously, and his issue is as clear as spit, but at last, he's done. Back to baseline. Not satisfied, but content for now. He can lock all this away for future reference, and take a shower and wash all this lust away from him.
In a moment, anyway; Sherlock has already beaten him into the shower, and something tells John that he won't want company under the water. John sighs. He'll wait. He'll know when.
continue to part two.