docwithablog | storyline one.

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storyline one.

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[ Case solved, no one actually died (no one else, that's to say) and they deserve a proper dinner. None of the takeaway boxed meals that they sometimes get, because they're very busy, apparently very important and just can't be bothered. John has fished out Jamie Oliver's quick and easy recipes from the bookshelf, whipping together a quick deep-pan pizza which has now been transferred safely to the oven -- a bit of a feat, considering how the entire length of the kitchen table as well as half the kitchen counter's full of chemistry equipment and experiments in various stages of completion. It's like moving through a bloody minefield.

Leaning against the counter, careful about the placement of his elbows, because Sherlock takes up quite a lot of space, even when he isn't there, John crosses his arms over his chest and watches the pan in the oven, the dough rising, the sausages sizzling. The smell of food is slowly drifting through the flat and in approximately twenty seconds, Sherlock's going to come through that door in search of its origin. That's how he works, always craving -- whatever, really. Work, drugs, food made by other people.

John doesn't mind. He thinks briefly about Kathy spreading her legs and telling him to entertain her, deciding without much hesitation on the matter that he's got the better deal, honestly. Little chemistry disasters, eyeballs in the fridge and a very, very strange affinity for murderers aside. Yeah, he's got it.

Raising his voice only minimally, sound travels extensively in the flat and sometimes, just sometimes he feels sorry for Mrs Hudson, John announces: ]

Tea in ten, Sherlock.

Edited 2020-04-26 13:34 (UTC)

[ He's on his bed with his back against the headboard, adding the details of Emilia Phelps' file to his digital archive. It's a relatively redundant exercise, really, as his mind palace generally carries every important detail picked up from his casework but all the same... it's like a post-case ritual, almost. With nothing else on the immediate horizon - he's working about six cold cases simultanously but right now, as it were, waiting on other people to get back to him - he can already feel a reaction coming on. Ugh. Consequently, he's also thinking about things he wouldn't be paying any heed otherwise, such as John checking out the ballerinas with their long legs and their close-fitting attires. Or Kathy, eating him with her gaze (right before she went into a coma from foxglove poisoning - not quite as cute anymore, presumably, convulsing on the floor and drooling all over the place).

No, surely he wouldn't care about that at all if he'd had something else to do.

At John's voice coming from the kitchen, Sherlock slams his computer shut, leaves it on the bed and gets to his feet. As he opens the door, he inhales, deeply. Pizza. His stomach immediately rumbles and he scowls at it, stalking into the kitchen and positively dropping into his chair by the table. Rustling around with his beakers for a moment, mostly to do something with his hands, he finally just pulls up the microscope and pops in a slide at random. He's stared at this particular blood sample all morning, granted, but here he is, doing it again. Aggressively. ]

[ He can still feel the rise (and fall and rise again) of Kathy's chest beneath his hands as he'd administered CPR after her, once more, very public, very dramatic collapse. She'd only survived her encounter with the foxglove due to her extremely healthy physique, his professional opinion being that just about anyone else would have kicked the bucket without any chance of resuscitation, so you got to give that much to Emilia Phelps... If you're supposed to give anything but a lethal injection to people like her, seriously.

As for Kathy, comas are really no fun, but at least they keep you hanging by a thread and sometimes that's really all the luck you'll get. That's what he's thinking about when Sherlock enters the kitchen, flopping into his chair and resuming work like they won't be eating homemade pizza in approximately eight minutes from now. John frowns, watches him for a long, contemplative second, one eyebrow going up. Oh. Is that how it's going to be? He pushes himself off the counter and walks over to his own chair, sitting down on it a bit more carefully. ]

Okay.

[ He says to Sherlock who's demonstratively not looking at him. John's learned at this point that whenever Sherlock's had a case, much like a high, it'll be followed by a comedown, unless something else presents itself. Preferably better, preferably grander, because he's found himself a junkie -- or the junkie found him, he simply doesn't know which one it is any longer. Whatever the case, it's just a cycle Sherlock does. You can almost time it. ]

Post-case blues kicking in?

[ His hands hang loosely between his spread knees, fingers interlaced. His expression neutrally interested. ]

[ He gives John a disgusted look. ]

Brilliant deduction, John, as always.

[ With that, he continues glaring at his sample, though he isn't actually seeing it properly. Within seconds, he exchanges the slide for another one, realising only once he's actually placed it that there's... nothing on it. Nice. He scowls, looking up. Makes eye contact with John for all of five seconds before looking off to the side instead. The pizza really smells rather good and somehow, it pisses him off even further. John's just sitting there, pretending to know how his mind works and being utterly wrong (well, maybe not utterly but he's certainly not exactly right which is the main issue here in any case) whilst cooking him dinner and looking quite handsome in his close-fitting t-shirt. The blue colour goes really well with his eyes.

He blinks. Thinks about Kathy, fondling his arm and showing her bra-less upperbody in John's face before pulling him inside the dressing room (it wasn't even her dressing room which somehow makes the whole situation even worse). His expression sours. Crossing his arms, he looks at his samples on the table, gaze jumping from one to the other erratically. ]

[ Sherlock gives him some attitude (making John roll his eyes slightly) after which he seems to exchange his blood-spattered sample for another one that John's pretty sure is clean (John's eyebrows going up somewhat in response). Obviously Sherlock Holmes is not quite in his element right now, because normally he'd definitely observe in the fraction of a second that the sample he's stuffing under his microscope's a blank and find something indefinitely more interesting to look at. As it is, Sherlock looks up at him, then away again, clearly avoiding eye contact which is normally not really a thing between them, is it. Christ, they probably eye fuck more than a good two-thirds of the population.

Sighing, eyebrows dropping a bit as he tries tempering his expression into something less scoffing, John licks his lips and leans forward more, elbows coming to a rest on his thighs. He's leaning in over the table like this, expertly avoiding a couple of florence flasks with weirdly coloured -- stuff in them. God knows what Sherlock's trying to distill from those. Whatever it is that has got the man's panties in a twist, he better untwist them very soon or John's grand plan of achieving orgasm before bedtime seems a pretty unobtainable goal for the evening. And he's been thinking about sex all day, so he's getting needy.

... Which might actually be the problem, now that he thinks about it. Grimacing once, he inclines his head to one sight, freeing one hand and gesturing with it, softly. ]

Listen. [ A breath. ] Sorry I made you think about sex in the middle of the case. I swear, I'm working on it.

[ Silence for a short moment - until John tries again, this time with a better offer, even if he still doesn't truly manage to hit at the actual problem. It's true, though, that their relationship remains a... distraction, during casework. Hopefully, in time they'll progress beyond this stage, whatever it is. All that aside, John really can't be blamed for making Sherlock think about sex; those were his own thoughts, spiraling out of control and whilst mirror neurons may or may not be a thing, he's still the sole master of his own thought processes. No, that's not the problem, either.

Huffing out an irritated breath, he finally just concedes that John will never get this unless he spells it out for him. He's known the man for months, it's no surprise at this point that he can't work out even simple problems without assistance. ]

Points for effort, I suppose. [ He sits back in his chair, looking at John. One beat, two - then, his gaze slips sideways once again because there's something quite... ridiculous about this, about having to verbalize it. It's like being back at university, trying (and failing) to make people understand the relevance of deduction, the practicality of it. Just a magic trick, they thought, smoke and mirrors and useless deception. He's grown wiser since then, presumably. Except here he is, isn't he, caring. When he should just leave John to his ignorance and get over it. ] I don't - [ Pause. He chews on his bottom lip. ] - this is stupid.

[ Points for effort, Sherlock says, huffing out an irritated breath and to be fair, that is undoubtedly the highest sense of praise you could hope to receive from the world's only consulting detective who invented his own job and is only spectacularly ignorant about things like the solar system and getting paid. John looks at him for a long time, hands dropping back into his lap while he desperately tries to figure out what the hell's gone wrong today, seeing as Sherlock's actually embarrassed about it. He's not exactly a man who lets himself be swayed by what others think, that's John's job. John suspects that what others may or may not have of opinions doesn't even really register with him. People are just clues and puzzles, the rest is irrelevant.

He didn't detain Emilia when he was told to, did he? However, at the time he had a more pressing job than standing guard over a deranged girl who likes to deal in poisons and besides, Sherlock did just fine on his own -- as is the case most of the time, right. For a man who needs an assistant, he's acutely self-reliant and walks off constantly. ]

Yes. Probably. [ John makes a frustrated sound and forces himself to relax his shoulders, straightening up. Nope, he honestly doesn't -- Come on, come on, take him through it already. ] Get over it, Sherlock.

[ Get over it, says John, and that's true, that's exactly what he should be doing. He pauses, looking at John for another moment before getting to his feet in a flurry of agitated limbs, his dressing gown flopping around at the motion. He retreats to the farthest corner of the kitchen counter, mostly to give himself at least a smidgen of distance before blurting out: ]

Could you at least stare at half-naked women when I'm not around to notice? It's not just distracting, it's ridiculous. [ He runs both hands through his curls, fluffing them up a bit too harshly, pulling at the strands. Giving John another glare, he turns partially away and stares out of the window. Baker Street's still bursting with life. It's early in the evening and people are either going home or going out. He frowns. His next words come out rushed: ] One of the men was crushing on Kathy, incidentally, and she'd drop you in a heartbeat for him once she figures it out. [ Pause. ] Assuming she lives, that is.

[ He shifts from foot to foot. The pizza smells better and better for each passing minute, though he's suddenly not certain whether he actually wants to eat or not. ]

Edited 2020-04-26 20:05 (UTC)

[ Could you at least -- Sherlock thought he'd been interested in... Oh. Oh.

Oh.

Two contradictory thoughts go through his mind at the realisation, one being that Sherlock for once in his bloody life is wrong about something and the other being that John's apparently been indiscreet enough in his staring at naked ballerinas that it has given the other man cause to worry. Worry about what? That John would rather have them than him? Come on, that's -- ridic...

Oh.

He stares at Sherlock's turned back, the way the man is watching over Baker Street the way he always is, observing, plotting the neighbouring cat's death or deducing which of the nearby restaurants will close over bad hygiene first. Then, he frowns slightly, not trying to quelch the flood of fondness rushing through him as much as attempting to figure out where the fuck it came from. Sherlock's being ridiculous as per his usual self, John should be irritated, instead he smiles. Shakes his head and smiles. His voice when he speaks is calm, but amused. Sherlock's probably going to tear his head right off, but so be it. This is it. He usually doesn't do soft this way, but since he started doing Sherlock, his emotional repertory has expanded quite a bit. ]

He can have her. [ Standing up, he walks over to the oven, glancing at the pizza. Allowing Sherlock an illusion of privacy, because he can tell this must be highly uncomfortable for him. For them. He's personally rather busy cursing his straying eyes. ] It'll be his funeral. Or, alternatively, it'll be hers. Aside from my professional pride, I'm really not interested.

[ Finally turning away from the food which will be done in less than two minutes, he faces Sherlock, looks him up and down. The man's jealous. You should think the sky was falling. ]

[ There's a long moment of silence during which John gets to his feet, saying he can have her and it's not the words themselves, really, but his tone of voice... Sherlock glances sideways at him. The atmosphere between them seems oddly loaded somehow, a... softness sneaking in and making the entire room, the air, the walls seem almost foreign. He swallows. Faces John when the other man looks him up and down.

I'm really not interested.

Well then. ]

You were clearly interested. [ He doesn't sound particularly accusative, though there's a hint of exasperation in his voice because as always, he does in fact observe, as opposed to other people he could mention. ] And why wouldn't you be? They were objectively attractive.

[ He sighs. Moves to stand with his back against the kitchen counter, hands resting lightly against the edge. Jealousy is new, he realises. He's never had anything (anyone) to get jealous over before, perhaps aside from Mycroft always being smarter and really, that's a pitiful thing to be jealous about. IQ is a brain matter, first and foremost. Biological in nature, set and (for the most part, at least) unchangeable. This is something else. John's... affection. His regard. ]

I think, just regarding this - [ He sneaks a glance at John, then looks away, down, at his feet. ] - for once, I would've preferred not to notice.

[ While he could have said any number of things, most of them defensive -- and honestly, he probably would have, had Sherlock been female, because girls can make these sorts of situations very complicated, John instead makes a sound at the back of his throat (contemplative, displeased) and walks around Sherlock to get plates out of the cupboard. Drinking glasses too. Cutlery. He leaves it on the edge of the kitchen table, then turns around and looks at Sherlock who has started staring at his feet. Jesus, could the man be any more adorable? You either want to kiss him or punch him. Possibly both.

Because he's right. John was staring at naked women in his immediate vicinity. It wasn't very nice or very thoughtful, but it so happens that John Watson has a slightly less controlled libido than Sherlock does. He can't always regulate what gets it going, especially not when it doesn't matter. Put a couple of boobs in the equation and he's lost for at least a hot second. Not clever. Not fair, but simply how it works. Obviously Sherlock is aware of this as well, because he's perceptive and John isn't hiding it, neither would he be hiding it very well, rumour has it.

Half a minute till the pizza's done. John purses his lips. Crosses, then uncrosses his arms. And now Sherlock wishes he didn't have to see... ]

It's an automated reaction at this point, Sherlock, it doesn't imply anything about my attraction to you. [ Timer beeps. John takes a moment to get the sizzling pan out of the oven, placing it unceremoniously in the middle of the table, surrounded on all sides by -- stuff. Sherlock's stuff. This is apparently how they eat in this household. For God's sake. ] You get yourself a leotard and I'd progress beyond staring in less than ten seconds.

[ It's a joke. ... Mostly a joke. Maybe a joke? Whatever it is, it's also John telling him that none of them, the girls, no one, really, has much of an upper hand on Sherlock. It's not just the job, it's this, the way he's God knows how old and still all gawky and lanky like a teenager -- and sometimes just as emotionally challenged. Rather than seating himself, John turns towards Sherlock fully, cocking his head in his general direction. ]

Edited 2020-04-27 04:25 (UTC)

[ John serves up the pizza and sets the table whilst talking, the familiarity of the situation juxtaposed against the utter absurdity of the subject matter. It's an automated reaction says John and proceeds to reassure him (ugh, reassure?) that it doesn't hold any bearings on... Jesus. Sherlock looks away, huffs out another angry breath, mostly directed at himself this time. He grabs onto the counter edge a bit harder, fingers trembling minutely in response. It's clear as day that they have different libidos, him and John. In addition, Sherlock's spent years suppressing his, to the point that he could probably run through an entire case with John naked besides him without succumbing to temptation. Married to my work, yeah? It's been like that for so long, his brain is having a hard time adjusting to whatever this new reality is.

John, by his side, reminding him of his body, too. Of needs and urges and skin.

He blinks at the floor for a moment. John's turned towards him and he looks up, meets his gaze. His own is slightly blank now, emotions carefully concealed. All the same, John tends to read him better than most, which is very interesting when you think about how he seemingly refuses to read his surroundings or anything else, really. It's just Sherlock. And isn't that exactly what the man's trying to tell him? ]

Oh. [ He looks at John for a long moment. Then, he raises an eyebrow and when he speaks, there's a hint of something lighter, maybe warmer, in his voice, though he glances away again at the last sentence: ] I've worn a leotard, once. Afraid it didn't end well.

[ Sherlock hides his emotions well, it seems to just be -- a coping mechanism he employs to, what, protect himself. It's stupid, sure, but understandable. When you have a big brother like Mycroft and (former) friends(?) like Sebastian the Bastard Banker, supposedly you come to rely on not being too readable. Too transparent. However, seeing as the one he's facing currently is John, it's also extremely idiotic and he should stop doing it. Watching his face for a moment at his last comment, his voice lighter and warmer, his eyebrow adding a whole dimension of character to his features, John licks his lips. Swallows. Smiles. If this is the sword swallowing story again, he's getting increasingly interested in hearing it.

Eventually. With Sherlock it's always the bloody eventuality, isn't it? ]

Sounds like a very interesting story, you should tell it to me. [ The mere thought of Sherlock in a leotard, opening wide and swallowing things that can actually kill you, makes him simultaneously awfully mushy and we're going to ignore that one completely, in favour of the other sensation. The sensation of warmth and burning heat in the pit of his stomach, something very abrupt. Unexpected, seeing as they should be having dinner. He shrugs -- Oh, well. They'll be eating something at least. And pizza goes in the microwave pretty easily, it can wait. Seriously, Sherlock in a leotard. Foils. Wide, open mouth.

John has never, in his life, cared less about dancing girls. ] Later.

[ Deep breath through his nose and he straightens up, rolls one shoulder once and walks over to Sherlock, waiting to catch his gaze. Right in front of him, they look at each other finally, John raising an eyebrow as well, reaching out and unceremoniously shoving his hands beneath the belt of the other man's dressing gown. Not touching directly, but these aren't exactly subtle implications. Sherlock's clever, figure it out. ]

[ He looks up when John approaches, something in his tone of voice changing the mood completely. Later. Though one could argue that the likelihood of Sherlock following through on that request is close to nil - he'll either forget about it or simply decide that it isn't relevant - there's something about the way John says the word... sounds like a promise, doesn't it? A promise wholly unrelated to leotards. Sherlock tilts his head sideways slightly, when John reaches for the belt in his dressing gown. The heat in his gaze is doing all sorts of funny things to his stomach (and seconds later, lower body) and he shifts, from one foot to the other. Oh. His... oh.

His cock is taking a definite interest in the proceedings, apparently. And seeing as he isn't wearing anything underneath the dressing gown, it's also a fairly... visible interest, at that. When he speaks, his voice is gruff, the sound sticking in his throat somewhat: ]

Thought you wanted to eat.

[ Quick nod at the table, very unspecific. He's never felt less hungry in his life. Gaze flickering across John's face, he stares at his mouth, the curve of his lips. He'd rather like to - hm. Craning his neck, he leans in and kisses him, curving one hand against the small of his back. ]

[ Of course Sherlock gets it. There is very little in this world that Sherlock Holmes doesn't get, aside from normal human interaction, presumably and it's fine, it's good. He smells faintly like sweat and heated skin, the product he uses for his hair. The other man says thought you wanted to eat, but undoubtedly already knows that John's answer would be yeah, you, because he leans down and kisses him, hand stupidly huge where it curves against the small of John's back -- his dressing gown furthermore tenting nicely, John saw, yes, he's not that unobservant, is he.

Making a content noise at the back of his throat, he presses back against Sherlock's mouth, lips parting and breath ghosting out across the other man's lips. He's warm and soft, although he doesn't yield at the pressure, come on. Sherlock's like a cat, he only moves when and where he wants to. Honestly, John would never have thought he'd become a cat person, he's hardly even a people person, but perhaps that's the exactly right mix when you're dealing with one of the most unsociable men in existence. You got to be a little bit of an arse yourself. Apparently.

Opening wider, he draws out Sherlock's tongue more than he's actively attacking. Meanwhile, his hands are very busy, loosening the belt of Sherlock's dressing gown and pushing the fabric aside, baring most of his front. Fingers making contact with chest, thin scatter of hair, hard muscle, bones, all ribcage and collarbone, he inhales harshly at the feeling of all that bloody nudity.

When he thinks about it, he's rather hungry, after all. ]

[ It takes less than three seconds for the kiss to grow hotter, deeper, Sherlock slipping his tongue between John's lips, the other man urging him on whilst he works his dressing gown open more fully. His grip tightens against the small of John's back, fingertips slipping lower, beneath the hem of his jeans. They don't get much farther due to the belt but there's a time and a place to fix that. He just needs a bit more of John's mouth - yes, exactly so - perfect. John's fingers feel nice against his bare chest, there's something a little bit like... well, worship, really, about it. What an odd man, John Watson, worshipping thin skin and harder bones, when he could have had a conventionally attractive ballerina with above-average, facial symmetry.

Perhaps this is what makes it feel so perilous. The utter perplexity of it.

With a sigh, he leans back slightly against the counter, pulling John along with him until he's close enough for Sherlock's cock (hardening progressively at this point) to push against his thigh. The resultant friction makes him gasp against John's lips. He tastes like beer (lager, Tennent's) and something less definable. Warm, he thinks and breaks the kiss for a moment, gaze slightly hooded as he looks at John's lips, the curve of his nose. Warm and dark and just a bit volatile.

John-like. ]

[ Sherlock takes. It's nice, it's nice the way he just goes exploring on his own, no hand-holding with him, really. Ever. Sometimes you might even wish hand-holding was a bit more of a thing between them, but it isn't and the result is this, Sherlock's fingers slipping down beneath the hem of his jeans, making John's skin break out in goosebumps as he presses back against the feeling, cock growing harder, slowly. He's definitely done thinking about ballerinas, he's had enough ballerina to last him a lifetime, let's be frank and besides, there's the curious mental image of Sherlock in a leotard to pursue here... Along with his tongue, the sensation of lips against lips, the wetness of saliva and the pressure of muscle. John groans when Sherlock gasps, the feeling of his hardening cock against his thigh really getting things going in that particular department, Jesus. He shifts to follow the other man back, not let even a sliver of distance come between their bodies.

Once they're there, the counter probably not at all very comfortable against the other man's back, but he's had worse, you'd assume, John reaches down and steadies himself against the edge of it with one hand, the other continuing its exploration of Sherlock's front, very focused on the lines of his pecs, not particularly defined, but there, hard, nipple just an inch higher up. Breathing out shakily, cock definitely on the rise now, more than half-hard and the bulge of his jeans pressing in against the side of Sherlock's hip, John leans down and presses his open mouth to the side of the other man's neck, long neck, bordering on giraffe-like, really, seeing as he insists on keeping his shirts unbuttoned at the top most days. When he doesn't walk about in this, nothing, absolutely nothing. It's gorgeous.

His skin tastes like him. Casework, quickly diffusing. Then, something musk-like, slightly tart. Deeper, darker, a slightly erratic taste. Uniquely Sherlock. John slips his fingertips up over his chest enough to brush them over the man's nipple, rub, rub, rub. ]

[ John follows along, of course, leaning in against him and steadying himself against the counter. His other hand keeps exploring as he leans in close, pressing his lips to the side of Sherlock's neck. Hotness, dampness, softness... He moans, his cock jumping against John's thigh and he's just about to reach for the other man's belt when he slips his fingertips up his chest and - ]

Ah!

[ He jerks, neither backwards nor forwards, more like a sort of twitch, breaking the kiss mostly by accident. He's got incredibly sensitive nipples (sensitive everything, basically) and John's fingering is making him light-headed, pleasure emanating all throughout his upper body and down, heat pooling in his stomach. God, that's nice. Breathing stuttering out of him, he inhales as deeply as he can and re-focuses. Re-positions his hands on John's belt and undoes it, going at the button and the zipper on his jeans next. The food keeps registering in his mind on a somewhat peripheral level, just a reminder that it's there, it's cooling off fast and they won't be eating it anytime soon.

He can't sort these things, these inputs, out. They're there or they're not, unlike John who never seems to waver, who'd blow himself up to save Sherlock's life and who'd shoot a man without even the tiniest glimmer of hesitation. Ridiculous, really, for Sherlock to even care about the ways his eyes might wander, like the man hasn't proven himself quite enough for a whole bloody life time. Eyes falling shut, he slips both hands down the hem of John's boxers, palms flattening against his hips. He's hot to the touch. ]

[ He leaves a trail of spit along the beating pulse of Sherlock's jugular, following it downwards where it squares into shoulder, hardens into collarbone. The various textures of Sherlock's body, curves and angles, register peripherally, though he's really more focused on the way Sherlock moans, Jesus Christ, and twitches against him as he fingers his nipple into hardness. You can't really be surprised that the man is sensitive, he removes the labels from his clothing, after all, but there's something incredibly satisfying about being able to make him react like this, isn't there?

Closing two fingers now around his nipple, he goes for a slight pinch just as Sherlock shoves his hands down his boxers, jeans left hanging open and loose, thank God, around his hips. As a result, the pinch might be a bit on the hard side, sorry, Sherlock, he mutters -- he'll make it up to you. John twists his lower body a little, pushing very firmly back against Sherlock's bigger than life hands, feeling the warmth of his palms against his hips. It's grounding, in its own way, even if sex is probably the closest to an out of the body experience he's likely to get on this side of a stroke or some other version of near death. Drawing back from Sherlock's right collarbone, leaving it looking glistening and wet in the overhead lights, John glances up at Sherlock's face, pushes the whole, at this point very hard length of his cock up against his thigh at the same time that he leans down, sucking the man's left nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the hard nub.

The grinding motion makes him grunt against the other man's chest, a heavy, hard groaning sound.

Fuck, he likes Sherlock this way. He likes actually being able to affect him, means it doesn't only happen the other way around all the bloody time. It also means he should really stop looking at others, just because they happen to take their stupid clothes off, because it's just a fact -- they don't even come close. So, a ballerina can kick her leg up over her head, come on. Sherlock can do this. He sucks at his nipple more softly now. ]

Oh Christ!

[ His voice sounds airy, his hips bucking slightly against John's, as the other man pushes his cock up against his thigh. His nipple feels almost over-sensitive from that pinch he just did (sorry, John said, like he's got anything to be sorry about) so when John closes his lips over it and sucks it into his mouth, the combined sense of wetness and heat, of pressure around the tip, very nearly makes his knees buckle. He gasps, fingers gripping John's hips hard enough to bruise, before he slips both hands around to his front, pushing his thumbs along the lines of his groin and downwards. He massages his inner thighs slowly, breathing faster now, more erratic. ]

John, if you - [ Pause. He swallows, brushing one hand lightly over the length of John's cock. ] - if you want to do anything, you'd better get to it.

[ Implied: If you don't get me off soon, it's pretty much just going to happen by itself. He's got no stamina to speak of in bed, Sherlock, none at all. Why would he, it's not like he's had any sort of practice worth mentioning, unless practicing celibacy merits its own category. Another gasp as he arches his back, pressing his nipple into John's mouth and spreading his legs slightly to give him more room. He runs his palm up and down John's shaft, just a light pressure, his skin silky soft beneath his fingertips. Reaching further down, he curls his fingers around his ballsack for a moment, palming it gently. ]

[ Always rushing them onwards, Sherlock. At least in bed he doesn't (tend to) leave John behind for any substantial amount of time and even more rarely (there was that once, of course) without John having a say in it, but he honestly hasn't rushed through sex this desperately since his early twenties. It's charming. No, really, he likes it, likes the sense of adrenaline and high pace, heart rate, his blood pumping, Sherlock going straight for his cock. He breathes out harshly, giving Sherlock's nipple one last lick before pulling back, hips working forward into the touch of the other man's hand. Still too dry, but the sense of pressure is good, the warmth of his fingers against his ballsack making his skin break out in goosebumps. God. So good. Exhaling deeply, he raises his free hand to his mouth, licking his palm -- a fat, wet trail over his skin before quite unceremoniously reaching down and closing his fingers around the base of Sherlock's cock. ]

Oh, I'm doing. [ Breathlessly, for the most part. Swallowing a bit, he presses up against Sherlock's front, some corner of his dressing gown getting caught between them, with the whole full length of him which might not be all that tall, but he's broad and he could pin the other man in place with one arm, basically. Like this, he also pushes his lower body in against Sherlock's palm, the friction making him groan slightly while he shifts to spread his legs more, giving the man room to keep up doing that thing to his balls that he does so exceedingly well. ] I'm doing...

[ Like this, John's on perfect level with Sherlock's neck again, his ear and the last couple of words he's basically humming against the shell of it, lips nibbling at his earlobe lightly. Meanwhile he gives the first pull of his hand, feeling the slick skin of his palm slide along the man's shaft, thumb following the frenulum up to the head, repeating the movement once before dragging his thumb over the glans, foreskin retracted and the whole thing pretty much throbbing in his grip. His own cock jerks happily against the other man's hand now, John's breath coming out hard and noisily, nose pushing into the curls just behind Sherlock's ear. Smells like product and something even sharper and beneath all that, him. ]

[ His nipple keeps tingling in the wake of John's tongue, even as he pulls back. At the sight of him licking his palm, Sherlock breathes out very slowly, trying to keep his body from simply... rushing onwards on its own account. Thank you, it's happened. A disappointing finish, all in all. He bites his lower lip just as John reaches down, his slick fingers closing around the base of his cock and the friction explodes through his nervous system, his toes curling and his fingers very nearly clenching around John's balls. He manages not to do that, though. Just.

Breathing raggedly, he takes a moment to simply stand there with John pressed up against his front, his breath warm against his ear - everything about him heavy, steady, grounding, oh - whilst the other man jerks him off, working his thumb over the head of his cock and making his balls tighten in response, heat building and building in his groin. He can't think, he can't - God, it's so good, it's - ]

John, oh, you - don't stop, you really can't stop.

[ Freeing his hand quickly, he spits in his palm. Using his other hand to push John's underwear further down, he pulls him out and closes his slick fingers around the base of it, mirroring him with just the tiniest delay. It's how they do this, this... sex thing. Their usual dynamic, somewhat turned on its head. Breath stuttering out of him every time John's thumb brushes over the head of his cock, he starts working his hand up and down. John's big, yes, but Sherlock's fingers are long and consequently, he has no trouble giving the other man a proper little tunnel to fuck whilst he pushes up into his grip, chasing his own release. The pace quickens, now. He senses it and goes with it, lets it take them where it will. ]

[ Sherlock, regardless of how John's working his cock (he's a trooper, then, unrelenting focus even now), spits in his palm with the lewdest fucking sound, making John's cock harden even more, who knew it was possible? Something like a scoff shudders out of him, the other man's begging resonating at the back of his mind, don't stop, you really can't, and he presses his forehead hard against the side of Sherlock's face, mumbling something like not stopping, don't worry, keep going which dissolves into a row of moans when Sherlock actually -- Christ, curls his long as all hell fingers around his length, tightening until it's like fucking a threaded pipe for every forward thrust, pretty much, his palm sloppy and his handiwork good. Jeans hanging low around his knees, somewhat awkwardly but who cares, John's eyes fall closed. He keeps stroking Sherlock's length primarily through the sense of touch, there's shaft and there's head and there's the ridge of foreskin (brush), frenulum (rub). The smell of sweat and sex and precum is quickly overtaking the smell of cooling pizza, not that you can mind, can you? Cumberland sausages really have nothing on this.

Licking his lips, his entire system building up gradually, balls tightening almost painfully, he thinks about the absurdity of the situation, this, here. They're waiting to eat and they're fucking simultaneously and Jesus, John's never been in a relationship before where you could really combine the two, where you got everyday life and then you got the God damn excitement. Sherlock manages to keep him at it, right now very physically so. Honestly, always very physically so, even if it's a 100 yard long sprint to catch some serial killer or other. One or the other. Groaning low in his throat, he pushes up against Sherlock's front, mindful of the counter edge somewhat, and curls his free arm around the other man's waist, tugging him in close against him while he keeps jerking him off, noises slippery, not exactly subtle. ]

God, you feel so good, Sherlo -- oh --

[ Sherlock's fingers feel broad and long and deceptively soft, John's cock weeping precum at this point, making the entire motion of hand against shaft, against head that much easier. Better. ]

Edited 2020-04-29 07:35 (UTC)

[ His focus slowly but surely narrows down until there's nothing truly registering in his mind except for pressure, heat, wetness and a myriad of impressions all related to John (his cock between his fingers, his hand against his waist, the strength of his thrusts, the smell of precum and skin, basically just sex). John whispers hoarse promises against his face which hardly matter, he doesn't owe Sherlock anything at all, least of all reassurances. He'll remember this, going onward. He'll make sure to remember. Gasping, Sherlock tightens his grip slightly, pushing his other hand between John's legs as well and cupping his balls again, rolling them gently against his palm. It's an awkward angle, what with John more or less pressed flush against him but as always, they make it work.

Isn't that what they do, really? ]

Oh, John - it's - I'm -

[ And that's all he manages before the pressure suddenly surges like a bolt of electricity, exploding from his balls and outwards. He comes hard and fast and abruptly, coating John's hand in cum as his muscles tighten almost to the point of agony. He slams his head back, black spots dancing in front of his eyes as his climax rages through him and distantly, only distantly, he remembers to keep his hands working, though it's on a purely instinctual basis now. Mouth slightly agape, he blinks and looks at the other man, pressing his chin against the side of his face.

Breathing hard but somewhat slower, now, he keeps up the motion of his hand around his cock, working his foreskin up and down, dragging his thumb over his weeping slit. Feeling dazed, still, he stares at nothing whatsoever, all inputs on pause, his brain completely drenched in post-sex transmitters. ]

[ They're running completely on automatics, the kind of routine that comes with most bodily needs, your system just knowing what it wants, when and how. At some point, John would be hard-pressed to say exactly when, time's a blur at this point, what with all the jerking, Sherlock shoves his free hand down between John's legs, cupping his balls again and it's almost overwhelmingly intense, the way he rolls them against his palm, all friction and heat. John grunts, feels Sherlock's cock beginning to pulsate slightly between his fingers seconds before -- yes, yes, come on, God, Sherlock comes, hard and fast and quickly, cum running down over John's hand, warm and wet. Slightly sticky. His own thrusts are more of a piston-like movement of his hips than anything else at this point, completely desperate as he chases the high he can feel build in his groin. ]

Jesus, Sherlock -- [ He feels sweaty where his forehead presses against the jut of Sherlock's jaw, like he's overheating which he basically is, physiology aside, he's on the brink of exploding like a bloody volcano. There's a deep moan when he finally feels the edge disappear quite abruptly beneath his feet and he's falling, his orgasm hitting him like a fist to the chin, to the nose, right in solar plexus. Like he's fought himself to get here. Maybe he has, in some way, some very weird, indescribable way. ] -- oh God, please don't stop.

[ The thing is, Sherlock isn't. Stopping. It's been like this from the beginning, it's been like this since before they started shagging, there's no reason he should stop now, it's just a run, a chase, an adrenaline-infused rush. They both want this, yeah? They both -- want. Coming all over Sherlock's hand and his stomach and no doubt his dressing gown as well, not to mention John's pants, he exhales shakily, hard, again and again, against the line of Sherlock's jaw, really tasting him. A couple of seconds into it, his muscles start feeling lax and he sags slightly, keeping himself up by sheer force of will as well as thigh musculature that's still pretty well-trained. Shaking a little, though. Now. ]

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acuriousincident - 2020-04-29 14:33 (UTC) - Expand

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

storyline one.

22.

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