Come Fly With Me (part 4)
Warnings: This chapter contains dub-con, specifically sex involving a sleeping person - although, it is sex initiated by said sleeping person. I don't know if that is triggering or problematic for any readers, so I figured it was best to be upfront about it. Please avoid if this subject matter may be upsetting to you.
A/N: Hello, all! Just wanted to drop a friendly line explaining that I’ve taken a few creative liberties with this chapter, and I think I’ve created a flight route, specifically: Bordeaux-Mallorca direct. I’m not really sorry about that, as it works rather well for my story (who’d’ve thought?), and is far more suitable than going back to earlier chapters and changing their holiday destination, and more interesting than putting the boys on a charter plane. So I’m hoping that I can be forgiven for this.
Read on! :)
---
John woke to Sherlock’s hand trailing lazily over his belly. It was so cosy, possibly the most cosy he’d ever been on a plane, and he’d dozed off as a result - on a flight which was again meant to last less than an hour, as well!
At some point, a steward/ess must have draped this airline blanket over him and Sherlock, and the empty seats across the aisle made the whole situation very enjoyable. He could almost imagine that they were on a private flight.
He sighed in satisfaction, and snuggled against Sherlock, whose hand dropped lower in response.
“John…” he murmured, and John grabbed Sherlock’s right hand to place a kiss in the palm. He twined the fingers of his left hand with the fingers of Sherlock’s right hand, resulting in having one arm crossed over his chest.
He then realised that although the movements of Sherlock’s other hand were slow and distracted; that was definitely an erection pressing against the back of John’s thigh. He smiled to himself. When the fuck had they both turned into such nymphos? It must be a side effect of the holiday.
John slipped his right hand under the blanket and flicked open the button of his trousers and unzipped the fly. He was nervous about being spotted by a passing steward/ess, but at the same time, he wanted it, wanted to feel what it was like to risk exposure.
It wasn’t the same as anything they’d done at Bordeaux; that was a private residence. This was an actual public location.
It actually took Sherlock a moment before his hand wandered across and encountered John’s unfastened trousers, but when he did, a pleased sigh escaped his lips.
“By the way, my arse feels a lot better now, thanks for asking.” John said wryly.
In reply, Sherlock grasped John’s cock firmly and began stroking in a regular rhythm.
“Oh…” John moaned, rocking his hips into Sherlock’s hand, “Good apology. Very good apology.”
Sherlock hummed, and the gentle rumble vibrated through John’s body as well.
“Oh, John.” he murmured again, and something struck John about the soft lethargy in Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock rocking his hips against John’s rear, however, soon distracted him from analysing it too closely.
Sherlock rocked upwards into John’s body, his movements just short of being actual thrusts, and John supposed the detective was being a little cautious of hurting him again. He’d have to reassure Sherlock that it took a little more than one night’s over-exuberant activities to really put him out of commission.
Until then, John decided, it was far more interesting to devote his attention to just how synchronised Sherlock’s strokes were with his near-thrusts, almost as though, were John not so inconveniently placed, Sherlock would merely be jerking himself off. But John didn’t feel as though he was in the way, as Sherlock’s hardness was pressed into him enthusiastically with every push-pull action, and a small patch of moisture was developing in a very specific location.
“Oh god, Sherlock.” he uttered, as a certain pressure built up, and his breath became more and more difficult to catch.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god - ” the plane lurched suddenly inn a patch of turbulence, and John joined the scattered cries of startlement with his own exclamation of almost-release.
Sherlock’s body changed, tensed, and his hand did something magical, delicious, twisted, and John was gone, spending everything over the unfortunate airline blanket, and biting into his hand hard, to muffle his actual orgasm.
John lay still for a moment, panting, then turned and shifted, to be able to access Sherlock’s cock.
“John?” Sherlock asked, his eyes lust-dark and hair beautifully skewiff.
John kissed away the expression of confusion, and set about returning the favour he had just received.
Sherlock wasn’t far from the edge, and John took in his tells urgently: loose jaw, head back, absolutely heaving for air, his eyes completely unfocused.
This was not going to be a Sherlockian, clamped-down breath of air as he came.
This was going to be a shout, a yell, and John’s reflexes kicked in.
He clasped his hand over Sherlock’s mouth, inadvertently smearing a little of his own saliva over the other man’s face.
Sherlock instinctively bit down, and John allowed himself a sharp exhalation to deal with the pain.
A final shudder from Sherlock indicated to John that it was all over, as did the splash of hot come over John’s fingers.
The tension vanished from Sherlock’s body again, and his tongue darted out to caress the four red crescents on John’s palm. He lifted his eyes to meet John’s gaze, revealing that the expression of confusion had returned to his face. But he didn’t speak, yet.
John used the airline blanket to wipe Sherlock clean - should they leave it on the plane, or take it with them when they disembarked? Surely the airline wouldn’t want to use it again? - and then used it to guard against any wandering eyes, as he tucked himself back into his trousers.
Sherlock absently did the same, with a little more difficulty since John was inhibiting his movements.
“John - ” he started again, but was silenced with another kiss.
“It was a lovely way to be woken up.” John assured him.
“Um.” Sherlock replied, rubbing his temple aggressively. “Have I…mentioned to you previously that I’m somewhat of a…that is…well…you know.”
John was at a complete loss as to what the madman was rambling about.
Clearly, this incomprehension was showing on his face, because Sherlock drew a deep breath and explained, “I somnambulate, John. Quite often, really. I’m surprised you haven’t encountered it previously with me.”
His fingers were dancing nervously over John’s body, plucking at his sleeves, unsettled and anticipating some form of negative judgement.
“Somnambulate?” John repeated quizzically. “What does that have to do with anything?” he inquired.
“I was asleep just then.” Sherlock explained, still worried, but patiently walking John through to understanding.
“But you didn’t even walk anywhere, unless you’re able to lift me off your lap in your sleep and then lift me back onto your lap without waking me up either…” John disputed, trying to make sense of things.
A memory flashed up in his brain, of a dry medico joke, referring to the more immodest bedbound patients as ‘ambulatory’: it was a shorthand that minimised the embarrassment caused to nurses (especially newly qualified ones) from walking in on too many episodes of patients’ self-gratification.
His eyes widened in comprehension. Sherlock mirrored John’s eyes, but the rest of his face maintained a mournful expression.
“When…when did you wake up?” John asked, concern now edging his voice.
“When you decided to turn around and toss me off.” Sherlock said with an emotionless certainty. “Which was rather disorienting, I can tell you, because the dream that I’d been having just prior to this was remarkably closely related to the reality. It was, as you said, a very nice way to wake up.”
John took a moment to absorb the information. He was fine with Sherlock being a somnambulist, he really was. Except… “It’s not bad, is it? I mean, the…sex, while you were still asleep. I didn’t know that you were asleep, otherwise I wouldn’t have, um…”
Sherlock’s lips quirked, in his surprised-that-someone-was-showing-him-compassion expression.
“From what I have deduced, John,” he brushed his fingers over the toothy indentations on John’s palm, “I managed to toss you off in my sleep. I don’t think that I need to give you my consent for that, more the other way around, and also, it was merely a sexual interaction, quite satisfactorily enhanced by my subconscious, but not the more intimate and involved actual act of sexual intercourse.”
John rubbed his nose abruptly, and flicked his eyes away from Sherlock’s face for a moment. Sherlock’s eyes widened in realisation.
“Are you suppressing a blush, John?” he asked in an intense breath, craning forward to get a closer look at the hue of John’s skin.
“Maybe.” John mumbled, and the temperature of his cheeks increased under the touch of Sherlock’s hand.
“Impressive.” Sherlock complimented, his voice still hushed in awe. “Wonderful. You must show me how you do that one day. Stop it now. I like to see you turn pink because of me, because I’ve said something, or done something to influence just where your blood rushes to.”
John mumbled into his chest.
“What was that?” Sherlock pried, tilting an ear closer to John, and playing his fingers in the fine hairs on the nape of John’s neck.
John cleared his throat and met Sherlock’s gaze with a pseudo-confidence, an expression that defied others to ridicule him.
“You could keep discussing sex in that ridiculously clinical manner,” he offered, causing Sherlock to kiss his cheek happily, then his mouth with love, with reward for being so good for telling Sherlock something that he enjoyed, that turned him on.
He didn’t do that nearly often enough, as far as Sherlock was concerned.
“I was certain of that already.” Sherlock told him, but the usual note of egotism was absent from his voice, only adulation could be detected now. “Thank you, though.”
“Of course you knew.” John chuckled, settling back into Sherlock’s embrace. “Do you know you talk in your sleep as well?” he inquired after a moment.
“And is there anything of merit contained in my somniloquy?” Sherlock replied in lazy curiosity.
“Well, you’re not exactly spouting case-solving deductions,” John teased. “So probably nothing of merit by your standards. But your verbalisations are quite comprehensible, which is quite noteworthy.”
“Now who’s being clinical?” Sherlock accusing, waving the bait in front of John.
John opened his mouth to bite, and just at that moment, the seatbelt sign switched on. Both men glared daggers at the small light.
“Madames et monsieurs, L'avion atterrira à environ cinq minutes. S'il vous plaît se préparer à l'atterrissage, et je vous remercie de voler avec nous aujourd'hui.” * The announcement was then repeated in Spanish before being finally delivered in English, but John and Sherlock had already disentangled themselves from each other to sit up correctly in their seats.
John didn’t wince at all with the movement, Sherlock noticed.
“Feeling better?” he checked, in case John’s new ability to suppress physiological responses applied to this as well.
“Much, yes.” John answered with a small smile.
“I think I’ll have to check that once we get to the cabin.” Sherlock decided suggestively.
“Oi! Which one of us is a doctor, here?” John protested, good-naturedly. “I think I’d have a pretty good idea whether I’m well or not.”
“I don’t know, you might have made a mistake.” Sherlock argued cheekily, deliberately taking a moment to run his tongue over his lips. John’s eyes traced the movement. They always did. “I demand a second opinion.”
John laced the fingers of his right hand into the fingers of Sherlock’s left hand, and drew them to his mouth for a soft kiss.
“Then a second opinion you shall have.” he promised.
----
Part 5 (In which Sherlock and John are enjoying the natural wonders of Mallorca...well, kinda)
* "Ladies and gentlemen, the plane will be landing in five minutes. Please prepare for landing, and thank you for flying with us today."
A/N: Hello, all! Just wanted to drop a friendly line explaining that I’ve taken a few creative liberties with this chapter, and I think I’ve created a flight route, specifically: Bordeaux-Mallorca direct. I’m not really sorry about that, as it works rather well for my story (who’d’ve thought?), and is far more suitable than going back to earlier chapters and changing their holiday destination, and more interesting than putting the boys on a charter plane. So I’m hoping that I can be forgiven for this.
Read on! :)
---
John woke to Sherlock’s hand trailing lazily over his belly. It was so cosy, possibly the most cosy he’d ever been on a plane, and he’d dozed off as a result - on a flight which was again meant to last less than an hour, as well!
At some point, a steward/ess must have draped this airline blanket over him and Sherlock, and the empty seats across the aisle made the whole situation very enjoyable. He could almost imagine that they were on a private flight.
He sighed in satisfaction, and snuggled against Sherlock, whose hand dropped lower in response.
“John…” he murmured, and John grabbed Sherlock’s right hand to place a kiss in the palm. He twined the fingers of his left hand with the fingers of Sherlock’s right hand, resulting in having one arm crossed over his chest.
He then realised that although the movements of Sherlock’s other hand were slow and distracted; that was definitely an erection pressing against the back of John’s thigh. He smiled to himself. When the fuck had they both turned into such nymphos? It must be a side effect of the holiday.
John slipped his right hand under the blanket and flicked open the button of his trousers and unzipped the fly. He was nervous about being spotted by a passing steward/ess, but at the same time, he wanted it, wanted to feel what it was like to risk exposure.
It wasn’t the same as anything they’d done at Bordeaux; that was a private residence. This was an actual public location.
It actually took Sherlock a moment before his hand wandered across and encountered John’s unfastened trousers, but when he did, a pleased sigh escaped his lips.
“By the way, my arse feels a lot better now, thanks for asking.” John said wryly.
In reply, Sherlock grasped John’s cock firmly and began stroking in a regular rhythm.
“Oh…” John moaned, rocking his hips into Sherlock’s hand, “Good apology. Very good apology.”
Sherlock hummed, and the gentle rumble vibrated through John’s body as well.
“Oh, John.” he murmured again, and something struck John about the soft lethargy in Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock rocking his hips against John’s rear, however, soon distracted him from analysing it too closely.
Sherlock rocked upwards into John’s body, his movements just short of being actual thrusts, and John supposed the detective was being a little cautious of hurting him again. He’d have to reassure Sherlock that it took a little more than one night’s over-exuberant activities to really put him out of commission.
Until then, John decided, it was far more interesting to devote his attention to just how synchronised Sherlock’s strokes were with his near-thrusts, almost as though, were John not so inconveniently placed, Sherlock would merely be jerking himself off. But John didn’t feel as though he was in the way, as Sherlock’s hardness was pressed into him enthusiastically with every push-pull action, and a small patch of moisture was developing in a very specific location.
“Oh god, Sherlock.” he uttered, as a certain pressure built up, and his breath became more and more difficult to catch.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god - ” the plane lurched suddenly inn a patch of turbulence, and John joined the scattered cries of startlement with his own exclamation of almost-release.
Sherlock’s body changed, tensed, and his hand did something magical, delicious, twisted, and John was gone, spending everything over the unfortunate airline blanket, and biting into his hand hard, to muffle his actual orgasm.
John lay still for a moment, panting, then turned and shifted, to be able to access Sherlock’s cock.
“John?” Sherlock asked, his eyes lust-dark and hair beautifully skewiff.
John kissed away the expression of confusion, and set about returning the favour he had just received.
Sherlock wasn’t far from the edge, and John took in his tells urgently: loose jaw, head back, absolutely heaving for air, his eyes completely unfocused.
This was not going to be a Sherlockian, clamped-down breath of air as he came.
This was going to be a shout, a yell, and John’s reflexes kicked in.
He clasped his hand over Sherlock’s mouth, inadvertently smearing a little of his own saliva over the other man’s face.
Sherlock instinctively bit down, and John allowed himself a sharp exhalation to deal with the pain.
A final shudder from Sherlock indicated to John that it was all over, as did the splash of hot come over John’s fingers.
The tension vanished from Sherlock’s body again, and his tongue darted out to caress the four red crescents on John’s palm. He lifted his eyes to meet John’s gaze, revealing that the expression of confusion had returned to his face. But he didn’t speak, yet.
John used the airline blanket to wipe Sherlock clean - should they leave it on the plane, or take it with them when they disembarked? Surely the airline wouldn’t want to use it again? - and then used it to guard against any wandering eyes, as he tucked himself back into his trousers.
Sherlock absently did the same, with a little more difficulty since John was inhibiting his movements.
“John - ” he started again, but was silenced with another kiss.
“It was a lovely way to be woken up.” John assured him.
“Um.” Sherlock replied, rubbing his temple aggressively. “Have I…mentioned to you previously that I’m somewhat of a…that is…well…you know.”
John was at a complete loss as to what the madman was rambling about.
Clearly, this incomprehension was showing on his face, because Sherlock drew a deep breath and explained, “I somnambulate, John. Quite often, really. I’m surprised you haven’t encountered it previously with me.”
His fingers were dancing nervously over John’s body, plucking at his sleeves, unsettled and anticipating some form of negative judgement.
“Somnambulate?” John repeated quizzically. “What does that have to do with anything?” he inquired.
“I was asleep just then.” Sherlock explained, still worried, but patiently walking John through to understanding.
“But you didn’t even walk anywhere, unless you’re able to lift me off your lap in your sleep and then lift me back onto your lap without waking me up either…” John disputed, trying to make sense of things.
A memory flashed up in his brain, of a dry medico joke, referring to the more immodest bedbound patients as ‘ambulatory’: it was a shorthand that minimised the embarrassment caused to nurses (especially newly qualified ones) from walking in on too many episodes of patients’ self-gratification.
His eyes widened in comprehension. Sherlock mirrored John’s eyes, but the rest of his face maintained a mournful expression.
“When…when did you wake up?” John asked, concern now edging his voice.
“When you decided to turn around and toss me off.” Sherlock said with an emotionless certainty. “Which was rather disorienting, I can tell you, because the dream that I’d been having just prior to this was remarkably closely related to the reality. It was, as you said, a very nice way to wake up.”
John took a moment to absorb the information. He was fine with Sherlock being a somnambulist, he really was. Except… “It’s not bad, is it? I mean, the…sex, while you were still asleep. I didn’t know that you were asleep, otherwise I wouldn’t have, um…”
Sherlock’s lips quirked, in his surprised-that-someone-was-showing-him-compassion expression.
“From what I have deduced, John,” he brushed his fingers over the toothy indentations on John’s palm, “I managed to toss you off in my sleep. I don’t think that I need to give you my consent for that, more the other way around, and also, it was merely a sexual interaction, quite satisfactorily enhanced by my subconscious, but not the more intimate and involved actual act of sexual intercourse.”
John rubbed his nose abruptly, and flicked his eyes away from Sherlock’s face for a moment. Sherlock’s eyes widened in realisation.
“Are you suppressing a blush, John?” he asked in an intense breath, craning forward to get a closer look at the hue of John’s skin.
“Maybe.” John mumbled, and the temperature of his cheeks increased under the touch of Sherlock’s hand.
“Impressive.” Sherlock complimented, his voice still hushed in awe. “Wonderful. You must show me how you do that one day. Stop it now. I like to see you turn pink because of me, because I’ve said something, or done something to influence just where your blood rushes to.”
John mumbled into his chest.
“What was that?” Sherlock pried, tilting an ear closer to John, and playing his fingers in the fine hairs on the nape of John’s neck.
John cleared his throat and met Sherlock’s gaze with a pseudo-confidence, an expression that defied others to ridicule him.
“You could keep discussing sex in that ridiculously clinical manner,” he offered, causing Sherlock to kiss his cheek happily, then his mouth with love, with reward for being so good for telling Sherlock something that he enjoyed, that turned him on.
He didn’t do that nearly often enough, as far as Sherlock was concerned.
“I was certain of that already.” Sherlock told him, but the usual note of egotism was absent from his voice, only adulation could be detected now. “Thank you, though.”
“Of course you knew.” John chuckled, settling back into Sherlock’s embrace. “Do you know you talk in your sleep as well?” he inquired after a moment.
“And is there anything of merit contained in my somniloquy?” Sherlock replied in lazy curiosity.
“Well, you’re not exactly spouting case-solving deductions,” John teased. “So probably nothing of merit by your standards. But your verbalisations are quite comprehensible, which is quite noteworthy.”
“Now who’s being clinical?” Sherlock accusing, waving the bait in front of John.
John opened his mouth to bite, and just at that moment, the seatbelt sign switched on. Both men glared daggers at the small light.
“Madames et monsieurs, L'avion atterrira à environ cinq minutes. S'il vous plaît se préparer à l'atterrissage, et je vous remercie de voler avec nous aujourd'hui.” * The announcement was then repeated in Spanish before being finally delivered in English, but John and Sherlock had already disentangled themselves from each other to sit up correctly in their seats.
John didn’t wince at all with the movement, Sherlock noticed.
“Feeling better?” he checked, in case John’s new ability to suppress physiological responses applied to this as well.
“Much, yes.” John answered with a small smile.
“I think I’ll have to check that once we get to the cabin.” Sherlock decided suggestively.
“Oi! Which one of us is a doctor, here?” John protested, good-naturedly. “I think I’d have a pretty good idea whether I’m well or not.”
“I don’t know, you might have made a mistake.” Sherlock argued cheekily, deliberately taking a moment to run his tongue over his lips. John’s eyes traced the movement. They always did. “I demand a second opinion.”
John laced the fingers of his right hand into the fingers of Sherlock’s left hand, and drew them to his mouth for a soft kiss.
“Then a second opinion you shall have.” he promised.
----
Part 5 (In which Sherlock and John are enjoying the natural wonders of Mallorca...well, kinda)
* "Ladies and gentlemen, the plane will be landing in five minutes. Please prepare for landing, and thank you for flying with us today."