Fic: Play for Me Tonight
Title: Play for Me Tonight, 1/2
Author: ruyu
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 2700
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sherlock, John
Pairing(s): Solo!John
Warning(s): Masturbation, music kink ^^
Summary: This prompt from the sherlockbbc_fic meme: John sat all alone in his bedroom, jerking off to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. Bonus points if it turns out Sherlock was playing whilst thinking about John.
After moving in, the first time John hears his flatmate pull his bow across his violin, he isn’t sure what to make of it. The hour is late and he truly isn’t expecting the sound. The small vibrations of the strings hum gently through the walls of their flat, soft and hesitant as though it is the first time the instrument has been played, despite Sherlock’s mentioning of it beforehand. The melody is gentle and reassuring and John is, oddly enough, comforted by it.
The next morning as he wobbles down the stairs and into the breakfast area, he gives Sherlock a hesitant smile. His friend sits somewhat stiffly in the chair, hands curled around his trusty cellphone, a simple breakfast of toast and tea untouched on the table. “Your performance last night was very good.”
Sherlock’s thumbs pause over his cellphone, showing his surprise when his face does not. “You heard?”
John continues to smile as he sits down at the table. “Well, yes.” John reaches for the tea. “I was wondering when I’d be hearing you play after you mentioned it when we first met.”
“It is rather unusual of me to go so long without having played. My cases have been keeping me busy enough. In that regard you are fortunate,” Sherlock explains, thumbs returning to their task and his eyes ever fixed on the small screen.
John checks to make sure Sherlock’s gaze remains on his gadget before he allows himself to blush. “On the contrary, I find myself very fortunate to have heard you play.”
“Ha!” Sherlock exclaims. “Then I suggest you talk to Ms. Hudson about that. No doubt she will enlighten you on the nature of my musical talents, or lack thereof.”
“How can--”
A small beep sounds from the consulting detective’s phone and Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he growls in response to his new message. “Am I the only intelligent man in London?!”
John can’t decide how to react to that statement, so he doesn’t react at all.
Sherlock rises from his chair, housecoat twisting dramatically behind him as he runs to his room to dress. Minutes later glass and metal crash together from his room and John nearly asks if the man needs help, but then Sherlock suddenly appears, fully dressed, cellphone in hand.
“My dear John, pay no head to my outburst. They are usually directed to London’s finest and not yourself.” Sherlock gives him a manic smile and takes off down the stairs.
John laughs and returns to his tea.
~
Over the next few hours of the morning and afternoon, John busies himself with arranging his belongings into their new location. Ms. Hudson helps him move one of the spare bookshelves up to hold a selection of his medical texts. John finds himself pausing in his tasks to ask the landlady questions about his flatmate - the strange and enigmatic Mr. Sherlock Holmes. But as he watches her pick up some of his books, read the spines and shake her head, he thinks better of it. And really, wouldn’t it be so much more interesting if he could get Sherlock to answer those questions?
So the subject of Holmes’s violin playing goes unmentioned by John and he is just fine with that.
~
When he retires for the night, Sherlock has not yet returned. Ms. Hudson reminds him that his flatmate often does this and not to worry, but John worries about everything. He still isn’t used to the noises of the house, the color of his room or the texture of his sheets and comforter and he certainly isn’t used to the habits of Sherlock Holmes.
John tosses briefly in his bed before falling asleep, Sherlock and his violin on his mind.
~
John wakes to the sound of music playing so softly he wonders how it had woken him at all. He turns to lay on his back and listen. The notes are haunting and... dangerous sounding. John can clearly imagine Sherlock playing reverently on his instrument, eye shut in deep concentration. What goes on in that man’s mind? He had said that he plays when he needs to think. John’s heart throbs painfully in this chest when he realizes that Sherlock does so because he has had no one to think out loud to.
In the other room, the violin produces a heart-aching chord that has John almost gasping for breath, reeling in emotions that are not his own. He is in awe of Sherlock’s ability to convert his feelings into musical notes, passages and entire movements of music, only to be forgotten moments later. At the end of the long chord, Sherlock moves onto a string of notes that makes John feel frustration and unexplained disappointment. Then, as though he were pushed off a cliff, the notes drop to a low octave and a slow time, filling John with uncertainty and shyness.
John remains awake for another hour, simply listening to Sherlock pour his thoughts into his music, sporadic and unorganized and honest. Only when Sherlock stops playing does John fall asleep, more sound in his knowledge of his flatmate.
~
The next morning is awkward for John; not so for Sherlock, who is once again entranced by his mobile phone. He wants to ask Sherlock many, many questions, but he is nervous of how to approach the subject.
“John, are you alright?” Sherlock beats him to the question and John laughs at himself.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Whatever for?”
John swallows the lump in his throat and carries on. “Last night... your music...”
His words cause the man to look up from his phone. “Did I wake you? My apologies. I was sure my volume was tolerable last night, at least for your sake.” Sherlock gives John a guilty look before returning to his phone, typing a few words and then placing it on the table.
“No, it’s perfectly fine. I was just wondering if you were alright. The music last night was somewhat troubled and frustrated. I was simply inquiring about your well-being.”
Sherlock gives him the oddest look he’s ever seen on the man. “This has never been a problem before.”
“What do you mean?”
“Having someone listen to my music who actually understands it. It’s a revealing process for me, I hadn’t noticed until now.”
John nearly blushes. “There is no problem.” This is most definitely not a problem for John.
They look away from each other, strangely embarrassed for no particular reason other than the fact that they finally understand each other on some basic, singular level.
“What did Ms. Hudson say about all of this?” Sherlock finally asks.
“I never asked her,” John admits, strangely proud of the fact.
Sherlock smiles and then leaves the room because really, there is nothing left to say.
~
“Sherlock?”
John looks over to his flatmate sitting crossed legged in his chair, piles of paper sitting in front on him with his cell phone placed atop one of the stacks. Sherlock glances up from his notes and regards John with a displeased, but nevertheless open expression. “Yes?”
John’s been secretly (at least he thinks he has been) looking for Sherlock’s violin case. He’s searched everywhere, but then again, this is Sherlock he’s talking about. “Where exactly do you keep your violin?”
His colleague seems to deflate at the question and picks up his phone again. “I keep it under your chair.”
“Really?” John replies in amusement, spreading his legs to take a peak beneath his chair.
“Honestly, John, will you believe everything I say?” Sherlock laughs from behind his stack of notes and data.
Head between his legs and fingers curled into the knees of his jean, John huffs and sits back up, eyeing Sherlock disapprovingly. “Well, you want the police to believe everything you say.”
“They are the police and you are you. Quite a difference.”
“How so?” John demands, careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. Sherlock rises to the bait, naturally.
“You would simply be of no use to me if you took everything I said as fact and truth. I don’t want you to follow me around, John, I want you to assist me and question things just as I do. You are my esteemed colleague, not my bloody secretary. The police, on the other hand, should do exactly as I say because they never ask the right questions, they are merely tools in my investigative process.”
“Well, I....” John stutters. “Yes, yes I see now.” John is blushing fiercely and he can’t help it. His flatmate has always been a bit odd when giving compliments, usually because he doesn’t know he’s giving them.
“Why are you blushing?”
The only thing John can do is to attempt to escape. "I-I’ll go to my room and... I’ll just be in my room then.”
Sherlock watches with him with curious, hawk-like eyes as he moves across the room and up the stairs. On the fourth step Sherlock says, “It’s in the chest at the foot of my bed.”
“Thank you,” John says without looking back, wondering if what Sherlock told him was true or not.
~
It’s around 11PM and John is finishing the last of his tea, getting ready to head for bed. Sherlock had long abandoned him to his reading, choosing to slip into his bedroom and leave John to his medical books, which he appreciates. Sherlock has finally come to understand the need for silence between them on occasions. He does his own thing while John does his, only their eyes meeting in the sitting room.
But Sherlock still hasn’t played his violin for him. John only hears it in the night when he suspects that Sherlock thinks he’s asleep. He is never disturbed by the music, rather his body wakes him up and wants him to listen to Sherlock play. It’s odd, really.
John walks up to Sherlock’s door and listens. The room is silent save for the soft ruffling of clothing, perhaps someone pacing or walking around the room. The old flooring beneath John squeaks and he stiffens in alarm. Sherlock’s room grows instantly quiet.
John holds his breath and prepares to back away from the door when he hears a voice from inside. “John?”
Fear and embarrassment render John speechless.
“John,” Sherlock whispers through the door.
Managing to find his voice, John takes a shaky breath and answers, “Yes, Sherlock?”
“Are you alright?” The door through which John listens through creaks as Sherlock braces himself against it to hear John better.
“Yes, I’m fine, but Sherlock...” Just ask him, just ask him.
“What?”
He blushes to the roots of his dirty blonde hair and grits his teeth at what he’s about to say. “Play for me tonight,” he whispers.
John is confused and disappointed when there is no answer from the other side of the door and soon after the lights of the room go out.
The house is still silent as John falls into an uneasy sleep.
~
He’s awake and hears music before he even realizes it. Consciousness is upon him as though he had never fallen asleep; he was only lingering on the edge of it. Maybe he’s been waiting to hear Sherlock play all of his life, like it’s the only sound he’s ever meant to hear.
John knows that this night is different, knows that Sherlock is playing just for him, that he is thinking of John’s request as he plays. Play for me tonight. As he finally wakes completely and takes note of the sounds from downstairs, John is surprised at what he hears. Sultry, deep notes and long complicated passages that have John tugging at the collar of his shirt, unexplainable heat seeping into his skin. The tempo is not fast, but his heart is racing nonetheless and he throws the cover from his body, burning with heat. Sherlock skillfully shifts to another key, playing a strange, hypnotic rhythm, weaving a spell over John that makes him blush. Arousal is building inside of him at an alarming rate, dancing in his lower belly to the pace of Sherlock’s music.
John is touching himself through his pajama pants without having noticed. He gasps at how hard he finds himself, eyes snapping open when he doesn’t recall closing them. The tune wanes briefly and then dies, leaving John on edge and desperate for more. He needs Sherlock to play because it seems like the only way he can connect to the mysterious man, the only way he can get close to him. It seems unfair that he has nothing to give Sherlock in return for this stolen time together, not that they even spend it together. It’s become this odd, detached sort of game they have.
John begins to breath again as Sherlock continues, dancing his bow across those thin strings. He tightens his hand on himself through his pants, his palm feeling the damp spot that’s formed. Hips rock forward into his grasp and John feels guilty that he’s resorted to this while Sherlock performs. Most of John’s reservations and hesitancy disappear as Sherlock's volume increases, strangely in tune with the pace of John’s hand on himself. Heart pounding and muscles taunt, John finally slips his hand down his trousers, fingers brushing through his thin pubic hair to wrap around his painfully hard member. Sherlock’s tempo increases as notes fall from his bow in dizzying patterns, falling and rising with John’s pulse.
He must know, he must know, John thinks. Sherlock is seducing him with his melodies, his fingers, his quick compositions of breathless passions, all for John Watson in the upstairs bedroom, hand on his cock while Sherlock plays with the kind of precision that professionals would sell their souls for. Jesus, why did John ask Sherlock to play for him?! It was maddening and so good, but horrible because Sherlock wasn’t there with him, wasn’t in his bed seeing and feeling the effect that his music had on him.
Music slithers over his body, into his mouth and around his fingers as he strokes himself, squeezing harder when Sherlock plays a sharp note that has him panting and keening with pleasure. John sees Sherlock's long, thin, white hands holding his bow with such grace, and his fingertips molded over the neck of his violin, the dark wood of the instrument reflected in his pale eyes - imagining John as he plays.
John stifles a groan at that thought, using his other hand to push down his pants and fondle his sack, thighs flexed and straining with need and heat.... Jesus Christ, Sherlock!
Sherlock is approaching the crescendo of his passage, notes high, bright and somehow torturous in their clarity. It digs right underneath John’s skin and he can hardly breath from the pace of it. His hand is flying up and down his cock and his pants are tangled around his ankles, hips rising fitfully off the bed and he needs Sherlock there with him, over his lips, hands on his flailing hips, pushing him down, the pressure of him all around....
The music peaks with a single piercing note that has John crying and jerking and coming messily over his hand and stomach. His back is arched painfully above his soiled sheets, heels dug deep into the covers. Sherlock’s name is on his lips but he has no breath to speak or even moan it. Muscles burning and teeth grinding together, John gasps for air, tugging the last drops of pleasure from himself, still arching and rolling his hips into his own hand.
Sherlock’s last echoing note still roars in his ears, ringing and fading as his heart slows and he can breath easily again. The house is silent now, no music to be heard, no pacing of thoughtful bodies, or slick fists.
Still shellshocked from, quite frankly, the most powerful orgasm he's had in a long time, John untangles his pants and attempts to clean himself. He’s still shaky and weak and... still ridiculously high from the experience. Bed straightened and clothes righted, John falls asleep wondering how he’ll face Sherlock in the morning over their tea and if he’ll have the nerve to ask Sherlock to play for him again.
He most definitely will ask again.
~
Continue to Part ♫
Author: ruyu
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 2700
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sherlock, John
Pairing(s): Solo!John
Warning(s): Masturbation, music kink ^^
Summary: This prompt from the sherlockbbc_fic meme: John sat all alone in his bedroom, jerking off to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. Bonus points if it turns out Sherlock was playing whilst thinking about John.
After moving in, the first time John hears his flatmate pull his bow across his violin, he isn’t sure what to make of it. The hour is late and he truly isn’t expecting the sound. The small vibrations of the strings hum gently through the walls of their flat, soft and hesitant as though it is the first time the instrument has been played, despite Sherlock’s mentioning of it beforehand. The melody is gentle and reassuring and John is, oddly enough, comforted by it.
The next morning as he wobbles down the stairs and into the breakfast area, he gives Sherlock a hesitant smile. His friend sits somewhat stiffly in the chair, hands curled around his trusty cellphone, a simple breakfast of toast and tea untouched on the table. “Your performance last night was very good.”
Sherlock’s thumbs pause over his cellphone, showing his surprise when his face does not. “You heard?”
John continues to smile as he sits down at the table. “Well, yes.” John reaches for the tea. “I was wondering when I’d be hearing you play after you mentioned it when we first met.”
“It is rather unusual of me to go so long without having played. My cases have been keeping me busy enough. In that regard you are fortunate,” Sherlock explains, thumbs returning to their task and his eyes ever fixed on the small screen.
John checks to make sure Sherlock’s gaze remains on his gadget before he allows himself to blush. “On the contrary, I find myself very fortunate to have heard you play.”
“Ha!” Sherlock exclaims. “Then I suggest you talk to Ms. Hudson about that. No doubt she will enlighten you on the nature of my musical talents, or lack thereof.”
“How can--”
A small beep sounds from the consulting detective’s phone and Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he growls in response to his new message. “Am I the only intelligent man in London?!”
John can’t decide how to react to that statement, so he doesn’t react at all.
Sherlock rises from his chair, housecoat twisting dramatically behind him as he runs to his room to dress. Minutes later glass and metal crash together from his room and John nearly asks if the man needs help, but then Sherlock suddenly appears, fully dressed, cellphone in hand.
“My dear John, pay no head to my outburst. They are usually directed to London’s finest and not yourself.” Sherlock gives him a manic smile and takes off down the stairs.
John laughs and returns to his tea.
~
Over the next few hours of the morning and afternoon, John busies himself with arranging his belongings into their new location. Ms. Hudson helps him move one of the spare bookshelves up to hold a selection of his medical texts. John finds himself pausing in his tasks to ask the landlady questions about his flatmate - the strange and enigmatic Mr. Sherlock Holmes. But as he watches her pick up some of his books, read the spines and shake her head, he thinks better of it. And really, wouldn’t it be so much more interesting if he could get Sherlock to answer those questions?
So the subject of Holmes’s violin playing goes unmentioned by John and he is just fine with that.
~
When he retires for the night, Sherlock has not yet returned. Ms. Hudson reminds him that his flatmate often does this and not to worry, but John worries about everything. He still isn’t used to the noises of the house, the color of his room or the texture of his sheets and comforter and he certainly isn’t used to the habits of Sherlock Holmes.
John tosses briefly in his bed before falling asleep, Sherlock and his violin on his mind.
~
John wakes to the sound of music playing so softly he wonders how it had woken him at all. He turns to lay on his back and listen. The notes are haunting and... dangerous sounding. John can clearly imagine Sherlock playing reverently on his instrument, eye shut in deep concentration. What goes on in that man’s mind? He had said that he plays when he needs to think. John’s heart throbs painfully in this chest when he realizes that Sherlock does so because he has had no one to think out loud to.
In the other room, the violin produces a heart-aching chord that has John almost gasping for breath, reeling in emotions that are not his own. He is in awe of Sherlock’s ability to convert his feelings into musical notes, passages and entire movements of music, only to be forgotten moments later. At the end of the long chord, Sherlock moves onto a string of notes that makes John feel frustration and unexplained disappointment. Then, as though he were pushed off a cliff, the notes drop to a low octave and a slow time, filling John with uncertainty and shyness.
John remains awake for another hour, simply listening to Sherlock pour his thoughts into his music, sporadic and unorganized and honest. Only when Sherlock stops playing does John fall asleep, more sound in his knowledge of his flatmate.
~
The next morning is awkward for John; not so for Sherlock, who is once again entranced by his mobile phone. He wants to ask Sherlock many, many questions, but he is nervous of how to approach the subject.
“John, are you alright?” Sherlock beats him to the question and John laughs at himself.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Whatever for?”
John swallows the lump in his throat and carries on. “Last night... your music...”
His words cause the man to look up from his phone. “Did I wake you? My apologies. I was sure my volume was tolerable last night, at least for your sake.” Sherlock gives John a guilty look before returning to his phone, typing a few words and then placing it on the table.
“No, it’s perfectly fine. I was just wondering if you were alright. The music last night was somewhat troubled and frustrated. I was simply inquiring about your well-being.”
Sherlock gives him the oddest look he’s ever seen on the man. “This has never been a problem before.”
“What do you mean?”
“Having someone listen to my music who actually understands it. It’s a revealing process for me, I hadn’t noticed until now.”
John nearly blushes. “There is no problem.” This is most definitely not a problem for John.
They look away from each other, strangely embarrassed for no particular reason other than the fact that they finally understand each other on some basic, singular level.
“What did Ms. Hudson say about all of this?” Sherlock finally asks.
“I never asked her,” John admits, strangely proud of the fact.
Sherlock smiles and then leaves the room because really, there is nothing left to say.
~
“Sherlock?”
John looks over to his flatmate sitting crossed legged in his chair, piles of paper sitting in front on him with his cell phone placed atop one of the stacks. Sherlock glances up from his notes and regards John with a displeased, but nevertheless open expression. “Yes?”
John’s been secretly (at least he thinks he has been) looking for Sherlock’s violin case. He’s searched everywhere, but then again, this is Sherlock he’s talking about. “Where exactly do you keep your violin?”
His colleague seems to deflate at the question and picks up his phone again. “I keep it under your chair.”
“Really?” John replies in amusement, spreading his legs to take a peak beneath his chair.
“Honestly, John, will you believe everything I say?” Sherlock laughs from behind his stack of notes and data.
Head between his legs and fingers curled into the knees of his jean, John huffs and sits back up, eyeing Sherlock disapprovingly. “Well, you want the police to believe everything you say.”
“They are the police and you are you. Quite a difference.”
“How so?” John demands, careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. Sherlock rises to the bait, naturally.
“You would simply be of no use to me if you took everything I said as fact and truth. I don’t want you to follow me around, John, I want you to assist me and question things just as I do. You are my esteemed colleague, not my bloody secretary. The police, on the other hand, should do exactly as I say because they never ask the right questions, they are merely tools in my investigative process.”
“Well, I....” John stutters. “Yes, yes I see now.” John is blushing fiercely and he can’t help it. His flatmate has always been a bit odd when giving compliments, usually because he doesn’t know he’s giving them.
“Why are you blushing?”
The only thing John can do is to attempt to escape. "I-I’ll go to my room and... I’ll just be in my room then.”
Sherlock watches with him with curious, hawk-like eyes as he moves across the room and up the stairs. On the fourth step Sherlock says, “It’s in the chest at the foot of my bed.”
“Thank you,” John says without looking back, wondering if what Sherlock told him was true or not.
~
It’s around 11PM and John is finishing the last of his tea, getting ready to head for bed. Sherlock had long abandoned him to his reading, choosing to slip into his bedroom and leave John to his medical books, which he appreciates. Sherlock has finally come to understand the need for silence between them on occasions. He does his own thing while John does his, only their eyes meeting in the sitting room.
But Sherlock still hasn’t played his violin for him. John only hears it in the night when he suspects that Sherlock thinks he’s asleep. He is never disturbed by the music, rather his body wakes him up and wants him to listen to Sherlock play. It’s odd, really.
John walks up to Sherlock’s door and listens. The room is silent save for the soft ruffling of clothing, perhaps someone pacing or walking around the room. The old flooring beneath John squeaks and he stiffens in alarm. Sherlock’s room grows instantly quiet.
John holds his breath and prepares to back away from the door when he hears a voice from inside. “John?”
Fear and embarrassment render John speechless.
“John,” Sherlock whispers through the door.
Managing to find his voice, John takes a shaky breath and answers, “Yes, Sherlock?”
“Are you alright?” The door through which John listens through creaks as Sherlock braces himself against it to hear John better.
“Yes, I’m fine, but Sherlock...” Just ask him, just ask him.
“What?”
He blushes to the roots of his dirty blonde hair and grits his teeth at what he’s about to say. “Play for me tonight,” he whispers.
John is confused and disappointed when there is no answer from the other side of the door and soon after the lights of the room go out.
The house is still silent as John falls into an uneasy sleep.
~
He’s awake and hears music before he even realizes it. Consciousness is upon him as though he had never fallen asleep; he was only lingering on the edge of it. Maybe he’s been waiting to hear Sherlock play all of his life, like it’s the only sound he’s ever meant to hear.
John knows that this night is different, knows that Sherlock is playing just for him, that he is thinking of John’s request as he plays. Play for me tonight. As he finally wakes completely and takes note of the sounds from downstairs, John is surprised at what he hears. Sultry, deep notes and long complicated passages that have John tugging at the collar of his shirt, unexplainable heat seeping into his skin. The tempo is not fast, but his heart is racing nonetheless and he throws the cover from his body, burning with heat. Sherlock skillfully shifts to another key, playing a strange, hypnotic rhythm, weaving a spell over John that makes him blush. Arousal is building inside of him at an alarming rate, dancing in his lower belly to the pace of Sherlock’s music.
John is touching himself through his pajama pants without having noticed. He gasps at how hard he finds himself, eyes snapping open when he doesn’t recall closing them. The tune wanes briefly and then dies, leaving John on edge and desperate for more. He needs Sherlock to play because it seems like the only way he can connect to the mysterious man, the only way he can get close to him. It seems unfair that he has nothing to give Sherlock in return for this stolen time together, not that they even spend it together. It’s become this odd, detached sort of game they have.
John begins to breath again as Sherlock continues, dancing his bow across those thin strings. He tightens his hand on himself through his pants, his palm feeling the damp spot that’s formed. Hips rock forward into his grasp and John feels guilty that he’s resorted to this while Sherlock performs. Most of John’s reservations and hesitancy disappear as Sherlock's volume increases, strangely in tune with the pace of John’s hand on himself. Heart pounding and muscles taunt, John finally slips his hand down his trousers, fingers brushing through his thin pubic hair to wrap around his painfully hard member. Sherlock’s tempo increases as notes fall from his bow in dizzying patterns, falling and rising with John’s pulse.
He must know, he must know, John thinks. Sherlock is seducing him with his melodies, his fingers, his quick compositions of breathless passions, all for John Watson in the upstairs bedroom, hand on his cock while Sherlock plays with the kind of precision that professionals would sell their souls for. Jesus, why did John ask Sherlock to play for him?! It was maddening and so good, but horrible because Sherlock wasn’t there with him, wasn’t in his bed seeing and feeling the effect that his music had on him.
Music slithers over his body, into his mouth and around his fingers as he strokes himself, squeezing harder when Sherlock plays a sharp note that has him panting and keening with pleasure. John sees Sherlock's long, thin, white hands holding his bow with such grace, and his fingertips molded over the neck of his violin, the dark wood of the instrument reflected in his pale eyes - imagining John as he plays.
John stifles a groan at that thought, using his other hand to push down his pants and fondle his sack, thighs flexed and straining with need and heat.... Jesus Christ, Sherlock!
Sherlock is approaching the crescendo of his passage, notes high, bright and somehow torturous in their clarity. It digs right underneath John’s skin and he can hardly breath from the pace of it. His hand is flying up and down his cock and his pants are tangled around his ankles, hips rising fitfully off the bed and he needs Sherlock there with him, over his lips, hands on his flailing hips, pushing him down, the pressure of him all around....
The music peaks with a single piercing note that has John crying and jerking and coming messily over his hand and stomach. His back is arched painfully above his soiled sheets, heels dug deep into the covers. Sherlock’s name is on his lips but he has no breath to speak or even moan it. Muscles burning and teeth grinding together, John gasps for air, tugging the last drops of pleasure from himself, still arching and rolling his hips into his own hand.
Sherlock’s last echoing note still roars in his ears, ringing and fading as his heart slows and he can breath easily again. The house is silent now, no music to be heard, no pacing of thoughtful bodies, or slick fists.
Still shellshocked from, quite frankly, the most powerful orgasm he's had in a long time, John untangles his pants and attempts to clean himself. He’s still shaky and weak and... still ridiculously high from the experience. Bed straightened and clothes righted, John falls asleep wondering how he’ll face Sherlock in the morning over their tea and if he’ll have the nerve to ask Sherlock to play for him again.
He most definitely will ask again.
~
Continue to Part ♫