Title: The Bone Fiddle
Authors:
htebazytook and
vulgarweedBeta Read By:
bethbethbeth THANK YOU!
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Download the fanmix In this chapter: One big death, and two little ones.
Chapter 10 - Gimme Danger, Gimme Shelter
Too late, though, because Jamie plunged the knife into herself over and over again. She said, "Close enough," dazedly before swiping the blade across her carotid artery. Her eyes saw nothing as she fell backwards into the mine shaft.
John caught Sherlock by his coat - he'd been lunging forward like an idiot, like he was actually considering going after her, and he twisted out of John's grip but stayed put after that.
They stood motionless while the impersonal crumble of rock and debris echoed up from beneath the earth. When John finally looked over at Sherlock, for the first time in what seemed like hours, his face was sprayed here and there in blunt bright blood spatter. His expression was disarmingly shocked, features lax and eyes stretched wide, but instead of inspiring sympathy it made John want to smack him upside the head and give him a lecture on taking better care of his toys.
What John said was, "Just what the hell were you thinking, Sherlock? Grabbing a loaded gun from a clearly unstable serial killer?"
"I didn't," Sherlock said, still sounding far away.
John barked a laugh. "Uh, yes, I think you did. I was there, you know."
"You're so dramatic. She wasn't that unstable." Sherlock collected himself, sharp intake of breath before he stood up straighter and looked at John for the first time in what felt like forever, come to think of it. "I knew it would be all right."
"Oh, right, of course, because you can just predict the actual future, right? Right. Got it. So, mm, just out of curiosity, what if things weren't all right, and she'd decided to shoot one or both of us?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, of course you - wait, what?"
"You heard me."
"Yeah," John said, suddenly losing momentum. "No, yeah." And Sherlock leaned very slightly forward then, so John just tugged him the rest of the way in and kissed him, this time.
Sherlock's face was chilled but his mouth was so warm, like hot syrup, or maybe that was just John's stomach talking. He was hungry for something, though, that was for sure, and he licked at the cold, chapped seam of Sherlock's lips to delve his tongue inside so it could melt against Sherlock's.
Sherlock gave a low, involuntary groan and struggled to keep up, and his clumsiness in being caught off guard tasted as good as his mouth did. John was getting dizzy with it, couldn't press the kiss any further so he dragged his mouth along Sherlock's neck instead and tasted the blood he'd forgotten about, which was horrifyingly warm.
Sherlock seemed to follow his train of thought, and laughed breathily before drawing John into another kiss, more self-assured this time, with firm icy fingertips at the base of John's skull to still him and yeah, this was just as delicious. And if John kept acting like this whenever there were dead bodies nearby then Sherlock was really going to get the wrong idea, but God, John really, really didn't care.
They broke for air. "We have," John panted, "got to stop doing this in such morbid locations."
"Yes," Sherlock said, even-voiced but his mouth was very red. "Like where?"
"Well . . ." John leaned in and traced a hand over Sherlock's cheekbone, trailed his fingers down until Sherlock captured the tips in his mouth. "Anywhere else, really . . . "
John drew in breath sharply as Sherlock sucked his index and middle fingers up to the knuckle. And then Sherlock pulled his mouth away, John's fingers caught in his hand, and Sherlock whispered, "Come home with me. Come to bed with me."
"Yes," John said quickly and quietly, because there was no other answer. Well, there were other possibilities, and he'd been thinking all along that there'd been no shortage of places he'd have been willing: at the Greenbrier, in his trailer, in the graveyard, in any remote corner of the woods at any time . . . but when it came down to it, given his first choice, he'd want a place where he and Sherlock could explore each other and splay each other out, in privacy, with no time limit, with no killers breathing down their necks, in a room with a large bed. Yes. He'd be willing to wait for that. Even if it was a few hours - and he really hoped it wouldn't be - it was still closer than it would have been a week ago, when he hadn't even met Sherlock yet.
In light of that, John found momentary strength to nudge Sherlock's other hand away from his groin and grab it hard. "Sherlock, there are two people dead here. We have to get Lestrade. We just can't be . . . "
"I know what she meant for me. She wanted to proposition me, and kill me when I said no. Not if mind you, when. Of course I found her repulsive, she knew I would. But she never understood that, she just went by gossip. One of the most dangerous rumors circulating about me is that I'm a homosexual."
John watched him. "And?"
"It's not one hundred percent true, but it's more true than false. I gauge myself at about 5.14. Which, for the record, is about two-tenths to the right of Irene, who identifies as a lesbian but still desired me!"
John just looked at Sherlock's face, and something in him went soft. "Sherlock," he said firmly, grabbing Sherlock's wrists. "I thought I was straight until I met you, and that doesn't change the fact that I'm just waiting for you to call Lestrade and get the legal crap over with so we can go home together."
"It's a weakness. It's dangerous. It's one of the reasons why Mycroft needed me out of Washington."
"Yes, I can imagine," John said, still holding Sherlock's wrists, but more gently. It was Sherlock who was having a sexual identity crisis at the worst possible time? He was not alright with this - but someone had to be.
"Sherlock," John whispered. "Just call Lestrade and get the reports over with. I don't care about all that right now. I want the same thing you want. I want sex. With you. As soon as possible. Call him so we can get there."
"Alright, FINE!" Sherlock shouted, pushing John away so hard that John briefly felt hurt. Still, he followed Sherlock over the hill to where his hearse was stashed, and he couldn't help but ogle Sherlock's plump ass as the mad genius dug into the back, and pulled the CB radio out and plugged it in. And he couldn't keep himself from laughing as Sherlock pulled the mike to his mouth and muttered, "Breaker, breaker, Sheriff District 12, come in!"
"Sheriff District 12, 10-4."
"Wrong channel brother, go dark, you know the word, over."
Wait. Wait. The radio rattled from a covert channel.
"Breaker, breaker. Honeydripper, this is Silver Fox, come in."
"Silver Fox, this is Honeydripper, 10-4, ten-fifty-five times two. Ten-twenty is Old Easton-Bolan hole. I'm fine and so is Porcupine, but can't say the same for your prey. Tell all later. Come soon. Tired. Over."
"Honeydripper, I copy, on my way, over."
John just stared at Sherlock. "HONEYDRIPPER?" He was so exhausted and giddy all he could do was laugh.
Sherlock smiled. "You can't possibly think that I thought it up, do you? Though, to be fair, Lestrade didn't name himself 'Silver Fox' either.'"
"Oh, right," John said, still helplessly giggling. "The bees. Honey."
"Yes," said Sherlock, "And you didn't wonder about 'porcupine'? That's you. Prickly . . . but cute."
John eyed Sherlock crudely. "How long do you think it'll take him to get here?"
"About 20 minutes, why?"
John sighed and pursed his lips. "Not long enough for what I want to do to you. We'll have to wait."
Sherlock sucked in breath hard. "Twenty minutes is more than enough," he said as he reached for John's crotch, again.
John grasped Sherlock's wrist and stilled it, again. "Not long enough to make it good. I insist on this. We wait for Lestrade. We make sure we're clear. Legally. And then, as soon as he clears us, we'll be free, and then we'll go to your house. And oh GOD, I can't wait for that."
They were so close together. John couldn't help drawing Sherlock into another kiss; just one, just one - that hair, those lips, how could he resist? Dangerous. So very dangerous. Every kiss weakened their limbs.
They had already lain down on the frosty ground together with legs entangled, when Sherlock drew up his strength and pushed away from John. "I like the idea of what you want. You're right. We should wait."
"And just when I'd changed my mind, too," John groaned. "Why is Lestrade's timing always so terrible? Too fast or too slow. No middle ground."
But just as he said it, there was the sound of a car far away; even in their hazed state, it was blissfully clear. And just as fast, John and Sherlock leapt to their feet. John was grateful he'd been smart enough to wear his longer parka this time. Yes, he was picking up practical lessons from Sherlock, no doubt about it.
"Hey there," Lestrade said, "10-55s, eh?"
"They took care of each other," Sherlock said. "In a sense."
Tanner's body drew Lestrade's attention, of course, and the sheriff peered down at it. "You witnessed it?"
"Oh yes," John said.
"And of course neither of you boys . . . ?"
"I think you'll find that neither of these deaths fit the running pattern very well," Sherlock cut in. "Tanner Greer wasn't an intended victim, and neither was Jamie Rowe, who you'll find over there in the pit along with my favorite revolver which she used to shoot him, if you can manage to get some good spelunking equipment."
Lestrade took a deep breath that said 'God, give me strength' as eloquently as any old hymn. "But they were about to strike again, right?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "I was the intended victim. Obviously that didn't work out as planned. I'm going to offer you a choice, Sheriff. I can give you a cursory and grudging and monosyllabic statement right now, or I can tell you the whole story in detail tomorrow. I know you're not entirely lacking in intellectual curiosity . . . "
"Sheriff, he's really, really tired - " John cut in. "We ain't slept all night, or the night before either, he's been workin' so hard, and . . . "
"Dr. Watson," Lestrade said. "Can you give me your word that none of the bullets in those people came from either one of you?"
"I sure can."
"Fine, that's the important part. Go get some sleep. We gotta get these bodies out. But Sherlock - "
"What?"
"What do you mean by tomorrow? It's morning now."
"Night."
Lestrade sighed. "Fine. But if you don't answer the phone by 8, I'm gonna bust in your door. Again."
"And you'll fix it yourself. Again."
And with that, Sherlock turned and strode down the hill towards the hearse, with John close behind him. They were no sooner in the front seat than they lunged upon each other again, with roaming hands and licking, biting mouths.
"Sherlock," John managed to gasp into his ear. "Take us home. Now. Please."
"Home," Sherlock said in a strangely broken voice. "Yes, that's the place. Alright." With heroic force, he uncoiled himself from John and started up the hearse and turned it back onto the road.
John was breathing deep, counting slow, visualizing rotting corpses and naked Nixon, and trying with all his willpower not to use the two actual human deaths he'd just witnessed as fodder to control his lust.
I'd have done it if I had to. I'd have killed her.
John couldn't take his hand off Sherlock's thigh, though part of him thought he should. That was asking too much. He was anchored to the pulse and heat he felt there.
I've just met him, and I could have lost him. And it's going to be like this, isn't it? It's not safe. He's not safe. Not to himself, not to me, not to anybody. But right now, we are. Safe. We're okay.
The air was bitter cold, but John still rolled the window down a crack. The chill helped him breathe.
Sherlock took a hand off the wheel and reached in his pocket. He lit a cigarette and sucked it hard, blowing out blue smoke that evaporated quickly in the wind . . .
"I'm glad you're smoking. Not chewing."
"I'll be wanting your tongue in my mouth again very soon," Sherlock said almost calmly. "And vice versa."
"Right," John said. "Can you spare a drag?"
Sherlock pulled over on the narrow shoulder of the road and pulled John close, breathing sharp smoke right into his mouth. Then he passed the cigarette over to let John suck at it, and turned back onto the road, trying to pretend to focus completely on driving.
"Oh, you fuckin' cocktease," John groaned.
"I try," Sherlock said with a little chuckle. Then, as John watched him in the weak early morning light and the greenish glow from the odometer, Sherlock's brow furrowed and he seemed to look puzzled.
John let it go for a curvy mile, then moved his hand up a half inch higher and gave the tiniest of squeezes. "I can hear you cogitatin' from over here. Wanna share with the class?"
"I'm thinking about what we're going to do. I can't stop thinking about it. I should know what you want, but I don't, and it bothers me that I don't. I will find out though. I will read you like a Tijuana Bible, and I will do everything you like. Have you ever performed fellatio before?"
The whiplash took John by storm. No one asked things like that - except Sherlock.
"Um . . . actually . . . um . . . once, yeah. We were really drunk though. So trashed. Especially him, he couldn't even stay hard."
"I wouldn't have that problem," Sherlock said with certainty.
"I'll make sure you don't," John growled, sliding his hand up another inch. Sherlock gasped a little, and the hearse wavered enough on the narrow bend to make John think that was a bad idea.
But Sherlock was still thinking, and that was worrying. "You've mostly been with women, I know that, and I think your experience with them is fairly extensive. Have you ever penetrated one of them anally?"
John was almost close to jumping out the door again. Why, oh why, did this county have to be so big, and the murder site and Sherlock's house on opposite ends of it? "Well . . . um . . . yeah, I have, she asked me to try it, and . . . "
"Did she like it? Did you?"
"Oh hell yeah," John blurted, and then coughed.
The silence after that was painfully long to John's mind. Seconds in the real world, decades in mortified horn-dog years.
"That's what I want," Sherlock finally said. "I want you to do that to me."
"Oh GOD," John cried, and threw all caution to the wind to reach across Sherlock's hips to his coat pocket where the cigarette pack lay. With shaking hands, he pushed in the hearse's lighter and drummed his fingers while he waited for it to heat. He really, really wished it also had a whiskey-shot dispenser. "You don't believe in takin' it slow, do you?"
Sherlock just laughed. "We've known each other for five days. What do you think?"
John lit his cigarette and smoked it hard, shaking his head. By his mental map, they were close. Sherlock turned the wheel one more time, and then they were on the glorified driveway that was Route 221. John's trailer, then Mrs. Hudson's cottage, and then, finally, Sherlock's huge house.
As the hearse stilled in his driveway, John wondered if Sherlock wanted him to take him right then and there. He wouldn't have been averse to it. Instead, John took a deep breath and opened the passenger door. Sherlock got out of his side and stood there, frozen, strangely swaying.
"Is something wrong?" John asked.
Sherlock twitched uncomfortably, his whole body tensing slightly. "It's . . . a strange thing. For me. I mean . . . I feel sexual desire towards you."
"Yeah, well, I ain't no genius, but I figured that out," John said. He didn't think he should have that laugh in his voice, but he couldn't quite help it. "Likewise, it's mutual, you know that too."
"I also enjoy your company most of the time," Sherlock said, as if he were just realizing it himself.
"Also mutual."
Sherlock's face pinched a little bit, and his hands twitched. "I've . . . never encountered both traits in the same person before."
John had no idea how to respond to that. He just looked up, taking in Sherlock's restless beauty in the cloudy dawn. Sherlock was not a talk-about-your feelings kind of guy, and for him to stop everything like this . . .
"I'm honored," John said. "I really am. You have no idea - "
And the moment passed, and then Sherlock seized John's arm and marched him up the porch.
Sherlock only fumbled a little with the keys at the door, and that was enough opportunity for John to turn quickly and press him against the wall. John leaned up on his toes so they were face to face, mouth to mouth, and deliberately held back from kissing him. Face to face, so close, Sherlock's eyes the same color as the clouded morning sky -
"Get the door open," John whispered.
It was ridiculous from then on; legs tangling, hands reaching, as they fumbled through the parlor and kitchen and towards the stairs like some creature who'd suddenly sprouted twice the usual number of limbs and hadn't figured out how to move well yet.
John found himself one step higher than Sherlock on the stairs, and took that chance to kiss him again, because for a change he could look down and reach down, and lift Sherlock's chin, and lower his own lips. Maddening. Good. Sherlock turned his face for John's kiss differently this way, a little bit further to the left than usual, turned his nose further sideways, and used his long arms to reach down and caress the backs of John's legs from calves to knees to thighs. John groaned and stood up straighter. Six stairs ahead, and then the hallway of the second story. Sherlock pressed him so hard into the stairwell wall, John thought he might get carried the rest of the way. Instead, Sherlock just grabbed his hand and led him.
When they got to Sherlock's bedroom, John was so dumbstruck he forgot their main objective for at least a solid four seconds - because it was impeccably tidy. Not up to military standards, but only because Sherlock owned too much stuff. All of which, in this room, was neatly organized. The Periodic Table on one wall. A framed Judo Black Belt certificate on another (which John found a sudden and powerful turn-on).
It wasn't a very long pause or a big distraction but it was enough to short-circuit John's brain completely when he found himself being quickly lifted off the floor and thrown across the big wooden bed, and that was just too much, being reminded like that how Sherlock was so quick, and so much stronger than he looked.
John lay back on his elbows and looked at Sherlock standing between his feet, looming over him, and just said, "Take off your clothes. I want to see you naked."
"Again, you mean," Sherlock said. He unwound his scarf and shucked off his coat and jacket and started work on his shirt buttons with those long pale fingers.
"At the Greenbrier. In the bathroom. You did that on purpose."
"I was testing a theory. It was a deduction in progress."
"A seduction, you mean."
"It was both," Sherlock admitted, working his way down the placket, showing off only a little as he peeled the mulberry shirt from his shoulders. John sat up straight and reached up his hand to touch, running his fingertips over all the sensitive and vulnerable places at chest and belly where Jamie's knife could have pierced.
Sherlock undid his belt with graceful efficiency and let his pants fall to the floor, and was free of them and beautifully nude with two small steps of his long feet, and John was nearly face to face with his cock, but chose to lift his face a little and press his lips against Sherlock's stomach, just above his navel, feeling pale fine down against his mouth.
"It's not fair," John muttered. "A brain like yours in a body like this. It's too much."
"It's just transportation."
"There's a big difference between an AN-24 COKE and a Learjet 35."
Sherlock just laughed softly and ran his fingertips over John's cheek, sliding the tip of his index finger into John's mouth. "Take off your clothes too. Give me something to watch."
Oh God. With steady hands, John unbuttoned his shirt, sitting up straight, knowing perfectly well Sherlock would study his scars, and if he hadn't shown them to anyone since, well, what better time than now. As he bared his shoulders and torso, he heard Sherlock draw in breath sharply - but if John was any good at reading expressions, it definitely wasn't pity there. So he kept going, and quickly at that, because the sooner he got his own clothes off, the sooner he could touch Sherlock again, so he undid his belt quickly and pulled down both jeans and underpants quickly, let his hard dick bounce free, and got his pants tangled immediately on his socks and boots.
And Sherlock went to his knees to undo John's shoelaces. Never losing contact with his eyes for a second. John groaned.
"Oh, John," Sherlock whispered, nudging his way up the inside of John's legs.
"Graveyard," John said, still a little bit off-guard. "You fucking tease. I went home and jerked myself raw and thought of you the whole time."
"I did the same," Sherlock said.
"You jacked off and thought of yourself? Wouldn't put it past ya." John's hand curled and tightened in Sherlock's hair. Clearly a misstep, because Sherlock was done with his work, and John was about the nudest he'd ever been in his life, and Sherlock was creeping back up between his legs, pausing for just a moment at his throbbing cock and nuzzling it. John gasped at the feel of it: Sherlock's cheek, every so slightly stubbly; Sherlock's lips, closed at first and then opening enough to take in half of the side of his shaft, tongue moistening the way. "Sherlock, fuck, no, let me touch you first, let me play with you . . . "
"Gladly," Sherlock murmured, and John surged up to meet him, running his hands up Sherlock's sides to his chest. He flicked his thumbs against Sherlock's dark rosy nipples and was rewarded with a muscle twitch and a gasp.
"Oh, you like that."
"Yes."
John bent his mouth to lick one, the left, arbitrarily chosen. It was hard before but it stiffened further under his attentions and he pressed his lips around it to suck, drew his lips back to gently bite. He repeated this on the right side, fingertips rising up to toy with the abandoned left one, and let himself be entranced by the pleasure of giving pleasure.
That might have been a mistake, because Sherlock pushed him down and climbed on him, awkward and graceful at once, a predatory light in his eyes. "John," Sherlock said. "Up on your knees. Please. Close together. Come up behind me. Like this."
John got his first long look at Sherlock's long naked back, his beautiful bare round ass, and did as he was told, melding himself right up against that creamy skin and lean muscles. His cock was taking the lead now, and he moaned as Sherlock rose up a little on his own knees, so that the head of John's dick fit against his buttocks just right. "You know what I want," Sherlock groaned. "There's Crisco in the drawer. Please."
"Why do you have Crisco in your nightstand drawer?"
"Why do you think?"
John bit Sherlock's shoulder and ran his hands over the front of Sherlock's body, taking that big erect cock in his hand and giving it a stroke. It was Sherlock's long arm that reached for the drawer and pulled out the jar. "Go," Sherlock ordered. "I don't need much prep. I know what I like."
"Well, I don't really know what I like yet with men," John said. "I only know I like you. I want to play with you. I don't want to rush."
Sherlock actually whimpered. Damn, he was a demanding son of a bitch. "John. I want your cock inside me. Badly. Don't tell me you don't want to hold me down and make me scream. I know damn well I've pissed you off enough."
"You did that on purpose, too," John said, breathing in the scent of Sherlock's sex musk, biting his shoulder. No fool, though, he'd already dipped his fingers in the slick shortening. Just to be cruel, John trailed that particular glob around the head of Sherlock's cock, tightened two greasy fingers in a ring around it and squeezed, and let Sherlock's involuntary hip movements fucking John's hand incite John's own cock to even further hardness.
With one quick breath, John drew in strength and crooked his other arm across the back of Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him face down into the pillow. Sherlock cried out in a sound that could not be misinterpreted.
John was tired of looking gift horses in the . . . well, at Sherlock's beautiful posterior, spread open and presented to him and begging. One slick finger in, then two, and then Sherlock's hips began to rock back and forth, and he was clearly so eager for it, and it was a three-times-repeated order after all. John pressed the head of his greased cock against Sherlock's hole, and pushed.
Sherlock thrust backwards, hard, and John cried out to find all his gentle prep plans ruined; he was already buried fully inside, and Sherlock was fucking him, and the feel of that tight pulsing tunnel constricting his cock, combined with the sight of that long lean back and bowed, submissive shoulders, and the flip of dark curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck . . . God, John thought he didn't need to move at all to come, not with those sensations and that sight. He hoped he wouldn't have to move much. He wanted to last, and this was . . .
"Like that? You okay?" John asked.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Yes. I like a long, deep in-and-out to start with, and when you're buried very deep, roll your hips in a circle. Mortar-and-pestle motion for a while, that's very good. Alternate that with quick teasing sharp thrusts at the very edge, and then go back to long, deep in-and-out strokes."
"Sir, yes, sir," John groaned, and did as he was told. The sensations were incredible as he concentrated only on the things his cock was doing deep within Sherlock's tight heat, and the way Sherlock's body was responding in so many different ways. Twitch of his sphincter, slower tightening and loosening of the muscles of the pelvic floor. Possible response to prostate stimulation? Oh, John hoped so. Grind of his hips, spread of his thighs, arch of his pelvis as he received and gave back everything he'd asked for.
John let his hands tighten on Sherlock's hips and pull him up closer as he worked; he let his fingers snake down the front of Sherlock's thighs and let his nails scratch there; he bent down to lick sweat from Sherlock's spine and let his own drip there from his forehead. Above all, he kept his motion varied but constant, savoring the feel of the slickened slide, the tightening and loosening, becoming exquisitely sensitive and alert to every minute signal Sherlock gave off in breath and whisper and groan and scent.
"You're close, you're close," Sherlock said in a broken, panting voice. "You want to come. Use me. Fuck me hard. Take what you need."
"Oh God."
"I want it rough now. I'm close too. Shove it in. Give it to me." Sherlock snapped his spine up, and took John in, even deeper.
"Oh God." John bit his lip and stopped trying to hold back, and put every memory of how Sherlock had pissed him off recently right into the base of his spine, and started pistoning in and out of Sherlock's hole cruelly, at last letting himself be driven by the devil in his balls.
The obscene sounds of their slapping skin and Sherlock's gasping cries undid him, along with Sherlock's evil squirmy little twists and clenchings. John broke open in a long pulsing orgasm that felt so good it almost hurt, and he fired his come deep into Sherlock's body, with the full force of days' worth of teasing and longing. Sherlock kept rocking back against him through every spasm of it, so eager to feel it all.
When John finally managed to collect his breath, he found Sherlock boneless and weak and almost, apparently - pure illusion of course - submissive beneath him. But when he withdrew himself carefully, and kissed Sherlock's shoulder, and pulled his friend around to look at him, he found Sherlock still erect and alert.
John leaned down to brush his forehead against Sherlock's, and got caught by a skilled hand pulling at the back of his neck. Sherlock's mouth was open, his tongue was still searching, and as John kissed him deep again, he ran his hand back down that beautiful torso, now completely soaked in sweat. His hand curled around Sherlock's cock, which was still so hard it had to be hurting by now.
"I ain't lettin' that go," John murmured into Sherlock's mouth. "No, no, you're getting some rest now, and I know that ain't happenin' til I make you come."
He kissed his way down Sherlock's throat and chest and belly. And he remembered what Sherlock had asked him on the drive. He'd do a good job of it this time, or choke to death trying.
John lifted Sherlock's cock to his mouth, and licked circles around the head. He was rewarded with a strangled cry. Good start, then. John opened his jaws and took the head between his lips, using his tongue to taste the whole wet coating of salty pre-ejaculate, tightening his mouth and sucking as he worked his lips down and back up again, as far around the shaft as he could manage at a stroke. A little further down with each dip.
Sherlock's twitching, shaking hand came to rest at the back of his head.
John took his cock further in, exhausted mind pulling up from its memory banks everything his girlfriends had done that he liked. Can't deep-throat? Use your hand around the base, slide it up and down. He did that, and Sherlock's hips moved.
Squeeze his balls gently. Play with them. Roll them around. Tug them lightly. Men like that. Sherlock did.
Slide your fingers back there, press his taint, curve them up into his hole. Men like that. John liked that; Sherlock's ass was still slick with John's come, and that was hot. That had been a hard fuck; Sherlock must still be a little sore. John wouldn't press the issue there. That was hot too.
So hot that John, knowing Sherlock's ass was vulnerable and off-limits, used his mouth to pump Sherlock's cock as if it was just another kind of fuck, which it was, and soon Sherlock was arching up and begging, with words for once: "John, please, right there, like that, don't stop . . . oh that, like that, oh now, now, please, yes, fuck . . . "
Long fingers tightening on his head, holding him down, hard thrusts down his throat, sudden bitter eruption in his mouth . . . and John loved it, groaning through the spill, holding Sherlock's hips hard and sucking to make sure he caught every drop and worked Sherlock all the way through every single pulse of pleasure.
John's eyes were watering, his mouth was drooling, his jaw was cramping, and he wasn't entirely sure that wasn't a stray jet of Sherlock's semen shooting out through his nose. It stung and made him want to sneeze, but that was okay, it was worth it. He swallowed most of the rest.
When he finally felt Sherlock's dick softening against his tongue, John pulled away and looked down on the single most beautiful sight he'd seen in his life. If he'd thought Sherlock was breathtaking before orgasm - and he had - it was nothing compared to seeing him after, loose and debauched and relaxed and heartswellingly happy.
All John could do was commit that sight to memory for the rest of his life, chuckle a bit and kiss Sherlock's treasure trail. All he could do after that was crawl upwards, aim his head at a pillow, and vaguely flail his already half-asleep arms in a Sherlockian direction. He knew he'd be asleep before he could even register whether Sherlock embraced back.
***
Chapter 11