The Red Lace Illustrated BBC Sherlock Holmes Fanfic
Hello everyone :)
So this project has kind of consumed me over the last week. I don't write a whole lot of fanfiction, but I had this monster in my head and wanted to get it out. I'm a lot happier with the writing than the art but all in all, I like the final product.
VERY HUGE THANKYOU to warriorbot for her incredible feedback. I reccomend her as a beta to everyone, she was very helpful and communicative. Everyone throw love at her! <3
Title: The Red Lace
Fandom: BBC Sherlock Holmes
Characters: Sherlock/John, gang members
Summary: NC17. This fic includes graphic sex and images. Sherlock gets into trouble on a case and John discovers something surprising about his friend.
PDF Download here PDF Link
The Red Lace
A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are original characters of Sir Conan Arthur Doyle, re-imagined by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I claim no ownership to the characters and make no profit from this fan creation. This fanfic contains adult concepts and should not be viewed by anyone under the age of 18.
John cried out, his voice breaking as he watched his best friend topple over the barrier and into the filthy Thames, and proceeded to fire off a shot into the leg of the thug who had attacked Sherlock. He avoided several attacks from the other gang members as he climbed the rail, took a deep breath and jumped into the murky water below. The freezing temperature hit him like a truck. He scrambled about under the water until he could pull his head free, gasping desperately for air. The afternoon sky was dark with storm clouds that made it difficult to see as John searched desperately for his friend. Minutes passed and his anxiety rose with each second as he saw no sign. The rain became torrential, and the water threw him about as it sent him rapidly downstream. Sherlock could be anywhere, unconscious and underwater. John tried hard to stay calm and force the concept of losing yet another friend from his mind. He saw a mound in the dark ahead, figuring debris had caught and clumped. As he got closer, his heart jumped from its dull ache as he spotted pale skin among a mop of black hair. John manoeuvred so that he could catch the edge of a log and pull himself towards Sherlock. Pulse? Check. John let out a huge breath and clutched Sherlock close to him, thankful that it was hard to kill this bastard.
John’s survival skills kicked in and adrenaline aided him in climbing from the drag of the water onto the mound and he took Sherlock with him, then pushed the motionless giant of a man onto the wall of the embankment and hoisted himself up. He took a moment to catch his breath before he began to help Sherlock. His friend was breathing, so that was fine. John had done his best to avoid hitting anything in the river, but had gained a few scratches and bumps, so being out of it meant that Sherlock hadn’t been so lucky. His head was bleeding from where the metal pipe had knocked him out. His lip was busted, and he was missing a glove, his fingers scraped. John opened his heavy coat and hissed as he saw the pink stain of fresh blood mixed with water staining Sherlock’s dress shirt. The doctor fumbled as he opened the shirt, hands shaky from the freezing water, and frowned as he found no wound. He spotted a large gash in Sherlock’s jeans, and moved quickly to unbutton and unzip the trousers to inspect the damage, feeling something scratch at his numb fingers as he dug under the waistband and pulled them open. John’s heart stopped. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at to begin with, the shock overwhelming him. He traced his icy digits over the trim of the lacy under garment in disbelief, his eyes wide.
There in the bitter cold on a deserted bank of the Thames, John Watson’s face grew hot. He did his best to keep calm and carry on, patching Sherlock as best he could as a temporary effort. He checked his phone, knowing already it would be useless. After a great effort he hauled Sherlock from the riverside and to the closest road. The golden lights of passing traffic broke through the sheets of rain until finally a black cab pulled over. Sherlock roused long enough to protest to going to the hospital, so John urged the driver to get them to Baker Street as quickly as the weather permitted.
***Over the next few days, John took care of Sherlock, tenderly nursing him back to health. At first he was worried Sherlock might not wake up, never having seen him sleep for such a long time. As soon as the dark haired patient was awake he made a point of it loudly and John joked that he had been getting bored of the quiet. Sherlock moaned and complained about being forced to stay in bed eager to try and salvage the case. John convinced him to let The Yard take over so he could heal, Mrs. Hudson helping him with the parental diplomacy routine. Sherlock begrudgingly allowed it and behaved much like a child does when they realise a younger sibling wants a toy of theirs, so it suddenly becomes ‘their most favouritest thing ever’ and proceed to make a grand fuss about handing it over.
Neither of them talked about the few times a flush over John when his eyes would drift to Sherlock’s abdomen and then dart away hurriedly.
Several days passed and one morning John had set breakfast for them both. Sherlock was up and about, trying to ignore the pain but knowing he should rest for at least another two days. Lestrade had sent news only an hour earlier, telling of the triumph of taking down Hathaway’s men and closing down the gang, which had put Sherlock in a terribly sour mood. He played with the food on his plate, complaining about his own failure and Lestrades stupidity and how he should have heard the thug sneaking up on him, and how Lestrade hadn’t caught the real leader and that the gang would just go deeper underground now and-
“Are you quite done?” John interrupted his voice perfectly calm.
“Hmm? Oh no, I haven’t even touched this.”
“I meant your ranting.” John corrected before shovelling egg and toast into his mouth. Sherlock’s pale eyes narrowed, much like a cat who has had their fur rubbed backwards. He was irritable, he was testy, and now he was feeling intentionally cruel.
“I’m glad I was well enough to put on my own clothes this morning. It seemed you may have dressed yourself in the dark.”
John looked very confused. “What?” Sherlock simply stared at his clothes as if trying to set them on fire with his eyes. John looked down at himself, seeing no problems with his unbuttoned grey sweater vest and plaid shirt combination. Sherlock shook his head and tsked. “It does confirm my theory about people’s choice of fashion and their overall I.Q level.”
Sherlock snapped the newspaper open, John thinking him a coward for such a low blow. John fumed silently, giving his toast a good chew. He’d saved the man’s life, protected him from police custody, helped bring down notorious criminals and made him breakfast. Usually he would let the arrogance and insults slide, but Sherlock was attacking him so childishly he needed to make a stand. He slowly placed down his knife and fork, cleaned his mouth and took a deep breath.
“When you dressed yourself, did you put on your, er, favourite pair of underwear?” His brows raised on the last word. Sherlock lowered the paper, eyes narrowed in the most intense death glare than John had ever seen from his friend. He’d hit a nerve. Whoops John thought sarcastically, his frustration with Sherlock spurring him on.
“You know, the fancy ones? The frilly, lacy ones? The women’s knickers, Sherlock?” He punctuated each word carefully, his expression controlled as always. “Why did you even have them on? A...case? Some strange experiment?”
Sherlock folded the paper and tossed it aside, leaning forward over his plate, elbows placed circumspectly, fingers pressed together. He stared at John. “You think I didn’t know that you knew?”
John shrugged. “Are you wearing them now?” He crossed his arms.
Sherlock flushed at John’s harsh demeanour, surprised that he felt uncomfortable about the way the man was behaving. “Does it matter?”
John’s eyes grew large. “You are! Where did you even get them?”
Sherlock frowned. “I’m not. And from Ann Summers.”
John blinked. “Who’s she?”
Sherlock sighed, giving John his usual ‘you’re an idiot’ face. “It’s a chain store, John. Look, I know you haven’t seen much of my work with disguises, however I make a very convincing lady. Which is why I bought the first pair.”
“F-first pair? How many do you...” John realised he’d run head first into a conversation he now had no idea how to get out of. He also realised with rising panic that the thought of Sherlock in the scandalous garment had caused him to become aroused. Sherlock’s expression shifted to mischievous devil-like curiosity as he too realised the effect the turn of conversation was having on his dear doctor. He leaned even closer, voice dropping to a deep rumble that sounded in John’s ears like distant thunder.
“Your breathing has increased, forehead is sweating, cheeks flushed, knuckles white, your tongue keeps darting out over your dry lips and you can’t seem to sit still in your chair.” He smiled like a predator, his final words a growl. “This is getting you excited.”
John opened his mouth to defend himself, stammering and falling face flat on his own words, nothing comprehensible coming out. Sherlock whipped his hand up and pressed a long slender finger over his flushing flatmate’s lips. He stood, moved around the table and urged John to shift from the desk to an armchair, ran and locked the door to their rooms and then dashed through the kitchen, leaving John utterly baffled. John thought about continuing his meal, but could only sit and stare, a million wild thoughts running through his mind as his nails scraped at the old leather of the seat. He heard the floorboards of Baker Street creak as Sherlock returned, fidgeting in the doorway like an excited teenager. Sherlock’s pale cheeks were a deep scarlet, the tall brunette being uncharacteristically shy as he moved across the room with cat-like grace. There was a swagger in his walk as he moved to John, eyes rich with something John couldn’t quite comprehend right now. Sherlock sucked at his lip as he looked down at John, nervously pawing at his own dressing gown. He reached out and took Johns weathered hands in his.
“As I said, you’ve known for days, logical knowledge for me considering you changed my clothes. It shows, John. The way you kept looking at me. I wondered if you would ever mention it.”
Sherlock appeared as something otherworldly, his eyes bright and young, and his curls sat sharp against his pale skin, features much like a Renaissance angel, his underlying traits giving a dangerous aura. John was spellbound as Sherlock lifted his hand and pulled it beyond the curtain of his silk dressing gown. Sherlock tugged open the tie of his pyjama trousers and inched them down far enough to press John’s fingers to the scratch of lace and tickle of frills. John swallowed hard. Sherlock hissed at the touch, his unquenchable desire for excitement the driving force behind this little adventure. He watched John carefully and was pleased when the red-faced ex-soldier closed his eyes and began to explore the garment of his own accord, the blonde unable to suppress a soft moan.
Sherlock let the pyjamas drop, stepping free of them, a huge grin on his face as he waited for John to notice. John’s fingers understood before his eyes, and they snapped open as he felt the metal clasps and a strap of fabric than ran down either side of the knickers. The lingerie was black with red trim, tiny roses running along the edges, but it wasn’t just underwear - It was a set; suspenders and garter belt connected to black stockings that hugged Sherlock’s long limbs. John felt faint as he watched his own fingers trail along the straps, playing with them. Sherlock gathered data on how John felt about this new development and was satisfied when he saw the state of the older man’s loins. Sherlock felt pride rush over him, always most pleased when he’d made John happy. The way his closest companion was admiring his body, touching him, and being just as curious as he was made him beam. John managed to gaze up, his face glowing hot, breathless, searching Sherlock’s eyes for something to hold on to in this frightening new territory. Sherlock stroked his cool hand along John’s face, reassuring him, hungry for more of the feeling. The brunette watched John like a hawk as he pushed off his dressing gown, the blue silk sliding to the floor instantly. He felt incredibly powerful standing before this calm man, so exposed and raw and open and himself, and so obviously a display of sexual iconography. It was liberating, and Sherlock knew right then that there was no-one in the world he trusted more than John Watson. Sherlock made a brave move, pushed John back in the chair and slowly moved into his lap, sliding one leg at a time sensually against John. He hardly ever felt attraction to anyone, but could not get the desire to give himself up to John out of his mind.
Sherlock whispered, the words sounding distant after such an unexpected few minutes. “You can touch me any way you like.”
John was running on pure, hot-blooded testosterone, his brain blocking off all the complex narration about sexuality and gender and rules. His body wanted what was before him and he was not going to argue with it right now. He groaned as Sherlock’s own desire pressed into him, John watching Sherlock’s erection shift under the lace of the garment. His hands were steady as he pushed his fingers into the silky texture of the stockings, Sherlock sighing as the sensational pleasure shot through them both. John rubbed circles into the taller man’s muscles, his sense of touch going mad from the variation of flesh, nylon and lace. He fingered at the space where the stockings joined the suspenders, tucking under them to feel Sherlock’s skin and hair.
Sherlock reached his arms around John’s neck, musician’s fingers toying with the trail of blonde and grey along his spine, John shuddering and clutching his thighs hard. Sherlock stroked his large hands hard down John’s front, Sherlock’s pale eyes locked on John’s dark blue ones, and finally rested purposefully on John’s arousal. John’s breath hitched, head falling into his bare chest. Sherlock nuzzled into the incredibly soft tresses of his companions hair, breathing him in as deep as he could, eyes rolling back from the addictive properties of John’s unique scent. He kneaded and groped at John’s trousers, and John groped back, his hands scrambling to feel Sherlock’s arse in the underwear. Both of them began to race, their desire running fast towards a cliff edge until it leapt into the sky, wings taking it above and beyond any going back. John panted into the taller man’s chest as those delicate fingers expertly freed him from his trousers and began to administer long warm strokes, and in return he grabbed and clenched and squeezed at Sherlock’s loins, the feeling of the lingerie driving them both mad. John wriggled writhed until his trousers shifted downward and fell about his ankles, Sherlock repositioning himself so that he could rub all along his blushing partner’s thighs and grind against his prick.
“Oh! Ahhhn, Sherlock!” He whimpered. He’d been with women wearing naughty garments but this was... John couldn’t think or understand why or how this was affecting him so much, and he didn’t care to try and work it out, instead grasping Sherlock’s hips hard as he began to buck into the gorgeous man. The pair of them drove into each other madly desperate for the heat and lust to increase; loud cries of ecstasy filled the room as Sherlock expressed his enthusiasm John didn’t want him to shut up, mesmerised by the beautiful sound of his friend’s pleasure. It was rapture, both of them trapped in the craving to see this curious encounter through to the end. Sherlock glanced down his body at the man who was causing him such bliss. John was so quiet and controlled but determination and pleasure was written all over his face and it made Sherlock rock, losing his senses. John tentatively kissed Sherlock’s heated skin, frowning at the delicious texture and then began to lick, wanting more of his taste. They could feel their stiff need through the veil of the knickers, trying to rub the most erogenous of zones in their haphazard bucking.
“Come on John.” Sherlock said raggedly as he rubbed himself up under John’s shirt and over his stomach, John feeling moisture stick among his hair. “You’re a dirty boy. It said so in your blog.”
John groaned exasperatedly and grabbed Sherlock’s arse hard, urging him to kneel. He licked along Sherlock’s abdomen as he rubbed the wet end of himself into the nylons, Sherlock giggling like a madman at how much it tickled. He gripped the back of the chair as John pulled aside the underwear so that he could slide within them, their cocks flush against each other, the pair losing control completely at that point and fucking into each other as though the world might end. Sherlock called John’s name begging for him, begging for more, but God, to hear Sherlock beg had John mindless with pleasure. Sherlock’s hips rammed wildly, his erection slipping from the knickers, his release spilling over them both, a hoarse scream sure to let everyone on the street know he was on top of the bloody universe. John whimpered clutching his friend as his painfully hard arousal scraped against the lace of the lingerie, making a thorough mess of the set. Sherlock’s legs and arms trembled as John lasted, driving into the slick, wet, rough material, until he too sped up his thrusting, vibrating with pleasure, head thrown back in silent freedom. Sherlock collapsed into John, both of them gulping for air, hot and sweating and never wanting to let go of each other.
Neither of them moved for God knows how long. At some point Sherlock pulled the dressing gown around them and snuggled back into John, the warm buzz of dopamine much better than any drug he’d experienced. They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to. They just held each other, each pleased for reasons of their own, neither wanting to break the elated aura.
Fin.
So this project has kind of consumed me over the last week. I don't write a whole lot of fanfiction, but I had this monster in my head and wanted to get it out. I'm a lot happier with the writing than the art but all in all, I like the final product.
VERY HUGE THANKYOU to warriorbot for her incredible feedback. I reccomend her as a beta to everyone, she was very helpful and communicative. Everyone throw love at her! <3
Title: The Red Lace
Fandom: BBC Sherlock Holmes
Characters: Sherlock/John, gang members
Summary: NC17. This fic includes graphic sex and images. Sherlock gets into trouble on a case and John discovers something surprising about his friend.
PDF Download here PDF Link
The Red Lace
A Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are original characters of Sir Conan Arthur Doyle, re-imagined by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I claim no ownership to the characters and make no profit from this fan creation. This fanfic contains adult concepts and should not be viewed by anyone under the age of 18.
John cried out, his voice breaking as he watched his best friend topple over the barrier and into the filthy Thames, and proceeded to fire off a shot into the leg of the thug who had attacked Sherlock. He avoided several attacks from the other gang members as he climbed the rail, took a deep breath and jumped into the murky water below. The freezing temperature hit him like a truck. He scrambled about under the water until he could pull his head free, gasping desperately for air. The afternoon sky was dark with storm clouds that made it difficult to see as John searched desperately for his friend. Minutes passed and his anxiety rose with each second as he saw no sign. The rain became torrential, and the water threw him about as it sent him rapidly downstream. Sherlock could be anywhere, unconscious and underwater. John tried hard to stay calm and force the concept of losing yet another friend from his mind. He saw a mound in the dark ahead, figuring debris had caught and clumped. As he got closer, his heart jumped from its dull ache as he spotted pale skin among a mop of black hair. John manoeuvred so that he could catch the edge of a log and pull himself towards Sherlock. Pulse? Check. John let out a huge breath and clutched Sherlock close to him, thankful that it was hard to kill this bastard.
John’s survival skills kicked in and adrenaline aided him in climbing from the drag of the water onto the mound and he took Sherlock with him, then pushed the motionless giant of a man onto the wall of the embankment and hoisted himself up. He took a moment to catch his breath before he began to help Sherlock. His friend was breathing, so that was fine. John had done his best to avoid hitting anything in the river, but had gained a few scratches and bumps, so being out of it meant that Sherlock hadn’t been so lucky. His head was bleeding from where the metal pipe had knocked him out. His lip was busted, and he was missing a glove, his fingers scraped. John opened his heavy coat and hissed as he saw the pink stain of fresh blood mixed with water staining Sherlock’s dress shirt. The doctor fumbled as he opened the shirt, hands shaky from the freezing water, and frowned as he found no wound. He spotted a large gash in Sherlock’s jeans, and moved quickly to unbutton and unzip the trousers to inspect the damage, feeling something scratch at his numb fingers as he dug under the waistband and pulled them open. John’s heart stopped. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at to begin with, the shock overwhelming him. He traced his icy digits over the trim of the lacy under garment in disbelief, his eyes wide.
There in the bitter cold on a deserted bank of the Thames, John Watson’s face grew hot. He did his best to keep calm and carry on, patching Sherlock as best he could as a temporary effort. He checked his phone, knowing already it would be useless. After a great effort he hauled Sherlock from the riverside and to the closest road. The golden lights of passing traffic broke through the sheets of rain until finally a black cab pulled over. Sherlock roused long enough to protest to going to the hospital, so John urged the driver to get them to Baker Street as quickly as the weather permitted.
***Over the next few days, John took care of Sherlock, tenderly nursing him back to health. At first he was worried Sherlock might not wake up, never having seen him sleep for such a long time. As soon as the dark haired patient was awake he made a point of it loudly and John joked that he had been getting bored of the quiet. Sherlock moaned and complained about being forced to stay in bed eager to try and salvage the case. John convinced him to let The Yard take over so he could heal, Mrs. Hudson helping him with the parental diplomacy routine. Sherlock begrudgingly allowed it and behaved much like a child does when they realise a younger sibling wants a toy of theirs, so it suddenly becomes ‘their most favouritest thing ever’ and proceed to make a grand fuss about handing it over.
Neither of them talked about the few times a flush over John when his eyes would drift to Sherlock’s abdomen and then dart away hurriedly.
Several days passed and one morning John had set breakfast for them both. Sherlock was up and about, trying to ignore the pain but knowing he should rest for at least another two days. Lestrade had sent news only an hour earlier, telling of the triumph of taking down Hathaway’s men and closing down the gang, which had put Sherlock in a terribly sour mood. He played with the food on his plate, complaining about his own failure and Lestrades stupidity and how he should have heard the thug sneaking up on him, and how Lestrade hadn’t caught the real leader and that the gang would just go deeper underground now and-
“Are you quite done?” John interrupted his voice perfectly calm.
“Hmm? Oh no, I haven’t even touched this.”
“I meant your ranting.” John corrected before shovelling egg and toast into his mouth. Sherlock’s pale eyes narrowed, much like a cat who has had their fur rubbed backwards. He was irritable, he was testy, and now he was feeling intentionally cruel.
“I’m glad I was well enough to put on my own clothes this morning. It seemed you may have dressed yourself in the dark.”
John looked very confused. “What?” Sherlock simply stared at his clothes as if trying to set them on fire with his eyes. John looked down at himself, seeing no problems with his unbuttoned grey sweater vest and plaid shirt combination. Sherlock shook his head and tsked. “It does confirm my theory about people’s choice of fashion and their overall I.Q level.”
Sherlock snapped the newspaper open, John thinking him a coward for such a low blow. John fumed silently, giving his toast a good chew. He’d saved the man’s life, protected him from police custody, helped bring down notorious criminals and made him breakfast. Usually he would let the arrogance and insults slide, but Sherlock was attacking him so childishly he needed to make a stand. He slowly placed down his knife and fork, cleaned his mouth and took a deep breath.
“When you dressed yourself, did you put on your, er, favourite pair of underwear?” His brows raised on the last word. Sherlock lowered the paper, eyes narrowed in the most intense death glare than John had ever seen from his friend. He’d hit a nerve. Whoops John thought sarcastically, his frustration with Sherlock spurring him on.
“You know, the fancy ones? The frilly, lacy ones? The women’s knickers, Sherlock?” He punctuated each word carefully, his expression controlled as always. “Why did you even have them on? A...case? Some strange experiment?”
Sherlock folded the paper and tossed it aside, leaning forward over his plate, elbows placed circumspectly, fingers pressed together. He stared at John. “You think I didn’t know that you knew?”
John shrugged. “Are you wearing them now?” He crossed his arms.
Sherlock flushed at John’s harsh demeanour, surprised that he felt uncomfortable about the way the man was behaving. “Does it matter?”
John’s eyes grew large. “You are! Where did you even get them?”
Sherlock frowned. “I’m not. And from Ann Summers.”
John blinked. “Who’s she?”
Sherlock sighed, giving John his usual ‘you’re an idiot’ face. “It’s a chain store, John. Look, I know you haven’t seen much of my work with disguises, however I make a very convincing lady. Which is why I bought the first pair.”
“F-first pair? How many do you...” John realised he’d run head first into a conversation he now had no idea how to get out of. He also realised with rising panic that the thought of Sherlock in the scandalous garment had caused him to become aroused. Sherlock’s expression shifted to mischievous devil-like curiosity as he too realised the effect the turn of conversation was having on his dear doctor. He leaned even closer, voice dropping to a deep rumble that sounded in John’s ears like distant thunder.
“Your breathing has increased, forehead is sweating, cheeks flushed, knuckles white, your tongue keeps darting out over your dry lips and you can’t seem to sit still in your chair.” He smiled like a predator, his final words a growl. “This is getting you excited.”
John opened his mouth to defend himself, stammering and falling face flat on his own words, nothing comprehensible coming out. Sherlock whipped his hand up and pressed a long slender finger over his flushing flatmate’s lips. He stood, moved around the table and urged John to shift from the desk to an armchair, ran and locked the door to their rooms and then dashed through the kitchen, leaving John utterly baffled. John thought about continuing his meal, but could only sit and stare, a million wild thoughts running through his mind as his nails scraped at the old leather of the seat. He heard the floorboards of Baker Street creak as Sherlock returned, fidgeting in the doorway like an excited teenager. Sherlock’s pale cheeks were a deep scarlet, the tall brunette being uncharacteristically shy as he moved across the room with cat-like grace. There was a swagger in his walk as he moved to John, eyes rich with something John couldn’t quite comprehend right now. Sherlock sucked at his lip as he looked down at John, nervously pawing at his own dressing gown. He reached out and took Johns weathered hands in his.
“As I said, you’ve known for days, logical knowledge for me considering you changed my clothes. It shows, John. The way you kept looking at me. I wondered if you would ever mention it.”
Sherlock appeared as something otherworldly, his eyes bright and young, and his curls sat sharp against his pale skin, features much like a Renaissance angel, his underlying traits giving a dangerous aura. John was spellbound as Sherlock lifted his hand and pulled it beyond the curtain of his silk dressing gown. Sherlock tugged open the tie of his pyjama trousers and inched them down far enough to press John’s fingers to the scratch of lace and tickle of frills. John swallowed hard. Sherlock hissed at the touch, his unquenchable desire for excitement the driving force behind this little adventure. He watched John carefully and was pleased when the red-faced ex-soldier closed his eyes and began to explore the garment of his own accord, the blonde unable to suppress a soft moan.
Sherlock let the pyjamas drop, stepping free of them, a huge grin on his face as he waited for John to notice. John’s fingers understood before his eyes, and they snapped open as he felt the metal clasps and a strap of fabric than ran down either side of the knickers. The lingerie was black with red trim, tiny roses running along the edges, but it wasn’t just underwear - It was a set; suspenders and garter belt connected to black stockings that hugged Sherlock’s long limbs. John felt faint as he watched his own fingers trail along the straps, playing with them. Sherlock gathered data on how John felt about this new development and was satisfied when he saw the state of the older man’s loins. Sherlock felt pride rush over him, always most pleased when he’d made John happy. The way his closest companion was admiring his body, touching him, and being just as curious as he was made him beam. John managed to gaze up, his face glowing hot, breathless, searching Sherlock’s eyes for something to hold on to in this frightening new territory. Sherlock stroked his cool hand along John’s face, reassuring him, hungry for more of the feeling. The brunette watched John like a hawk as he pushed off his dressing gown, the blue silk sliding to the floor instantly. He felt incredibly powerful standing before this calm man, so exposed and raw and open and himself, and so obviously a display of sexual iconography. It was liberating, and Sherlock knew right then that there was no-one in the world he trusted more than John Watson. Sherlock made a brave move, pushed John back in the chair and slowly moved into his lap, sliding one leg at a time sensually against John. He hardly ever felt attraction to anyone, but could not get the desire to give himself up to John out of his mind.
Sherlock whispered, the words sounding distant after such an unexpected few minutes. “You can touch me any way you like.”
John was running on pure, hot-blooded testosterone, his brain blocking off all the complex narration about sexuality and gender and rules. His body wanted what was before him and he was not going to argue with it right now. He groaned as Sherlock’s own desire pressed into him, John watching Sherlock’s erection shift under the lace of the garment. His hands were steady as he pushed his fingers into the silky texture of the stockings, Sherlock sighing as the sensational pleasure shot through them both. John rubbed circles into the taller man’s muscles, his sense of touch going mad from the variation of flesh, nylon and lace. He fingered at the space where the stockings joined the suspenders, tucking under them to feel Sherlock’s skin and hair.
Sherlock reached his arms around John’s neck, musician’s fingers toying with the trail of blonde and grey along his spine, John shuddering and clutching his thighs hard. Sherlock stroked his large hands hard down John’s front, Sherlock’s pale eyes locked on John’s dark blue ones, and finally rested purposefully on John’s arousal. John’s breath hitched, head falling into his bare chest. Sherlock nuzzled into the incredibly soft tresses of his companions hair, breathing him in as deep as he could, eyes rolling back from the addictive properties of John’s unique scent. He kneaded and groped at John’s trousers, and John groped back, his hands scrambling to feel Sherlock’s arse in the underwear. Both of them began to race, their desire running fast towards a cliff edge until it leapt into the sky, wings taking it above and beyond any going back. John panted into the taller man’s chest as those delicate fingers expertly freed him from his trousers and began to administer long warm strokes, and in return he grabbed and clenched and squeezed at Sherlock’s loins, the feeling of the lingerie driving them both mad. John wriggled writhed until his trousers shifted downward and fell about his ankles, Sherlock repositioning himself so that he could rub all along his blushing partner’s thighs and grind against his prick.
“Oh! Ahhhn, Sherlock!” He whimpered. He’d been with women wearing naughty garments but this was... John couldn’t think or understand why or how this was affecting him so much, and he didn’t care to try and work it out, instead grasping Sherlock’s hips hard as he began to buck into the gorgeous man. The pair of them drove into each other madly desperate for the heat and lust to increase; loud cries of ecstasy filled the room as Sherlock expressed his enthusiasm John didn’t want him to shut up, mesmerised by the beautiful sound of his friend’s pleasure. It was rapture, both of them trapped in the craving to see this curious encounter through to the end. Sherlock glanced down his body at the man who was causing him such bliss. John was so quiet and controlled but determination and pleasure was written all over his face and it made Sherlock rock, losing his senses. John tentatively kissed Sherlock’s heated skin, frowning at the delicious texture and then began to lick, wanting more of his taste. They could feel their stiff need through the veil of the knickers, trying to rub the most erogenous of zones in their haphazard bucking.
“Come on John.” Sherlock said raggedly as he rubbed himself up under John’s shirt and over his stomach, John feeling moisture stick among his hair. “You’re a dirty boy. It said so in your blog.”
John groaned exasperatedly and grabbed Sherlock’s arse hard, urging him to kneel. He licked along Sherlock’s abdomen as he rubbed the wet end of himself into the nylons, Sherlock giggling like a madman at how much it tickled. He gripped the back of the chair as John pulled aside the underwear so that he could slide within them, their cocks flush against each other, the pair losing control completely at that point and fucking into each other as though the world might end. Sherlock called John’s name begging for him, begging for more, but God, to hear Sherlock beg had John mindless with pleasure. Sherlock’s hips rammed wildly, his erection slipping from the knickers, his release spilling over them both, a hoarse scream sure to let everyone on the street know he was on top of the bloody universe. John whimpered clutching his friend as his painfully hard arousal scraped against the lace of the lingerie, making a thorough mess of the set. Sherlock’s legs and arms trembled as John lasted, driving into the slick, wet, rough material, until he too sped up his thrusting, vibrating with pleasure, head thrown back in silent freedom. Sherlock collapsed into John, both of them gulping for air, hot and sweating and never wanting to let go of each other.
Neither of them moved for God knows how long. At some point Sherlock pulled the dressing gown around them and snuggled back into John, the warm buzz of dopamine much better than any drug he’d experienced. They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to. They just held each other, each pleased for reasons of their own, neither wanting to break the elated aura.
Fin.