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storyline one.

chronology -

00. word association w/ Sherlock

1. gen texting w/ Sherlock

2. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

3. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

4. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

5. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

6. texting w/ Sherlock

7. texting w/ Sherlock

8. texting w/ Sherlock

9. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

10. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

11. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

12. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

13. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

14. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

15. texting w/ Sherlock

16. otherwordly w/ Sherlock

17. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

18. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

19. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

20. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

21. texting - part one | texting - part two w/ Sherlock

22. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

23. texting w/ Sherlock

24. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

25. texting w/ Sherlock

26. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

27. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

28. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

29. truth or dare w/ Sherlock

00. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

30. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

31. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

32. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

33. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

34. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

35. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

36. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

37. texting w/ Sherlock

38. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

39. the case of the devil's root w/ Sherlock

00. word association w/ Sherlock

00. texting w/ Sherlock

00. penny for your thoughts w/ Sherlock

40. midnight texting w/ Sherlock

41. interlude w/ Sherlock

42. interlude w/ Sherlock

43. interlude w/ Sherlock

44. texting w/ Sherlock

45. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

46. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

47. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

48. texting w/ Sherlock

49. texting w/ Sherlock

50. texting w/ Sherlock

51. anniversary w/ Sherlock

52. texting w/ Sherlock

53. interlude w/ Sherlock

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[ John, thank God, doesn't draw away. He's been in a mood all day and Sherlock's managed to narrow it down to only three options (1) discomfort with regards to the... sexual thematics or 2) dislike for Irene or 3) some sort of jealousy or possessiveness (not as plausible, why would he be?)). He still isn't certain what to conclude, even now, with John pressing back against him, turning his head only slowly. Engaging. He relaxes somewhat, shoulders sinking. All right, then. He swallows, pushing his face against the back of his neck again, lips sliding over the hot skin right beneath his hairline. ]

Oh John, must we?

[ Just as John's question isn't really a question, Sherlock's isn't either; underneath the slightly patronizing tone of voice, there's an almost pleading edge, which he honestly hates more than anything. Excited is, perhaps, the word for what's been happening to his cock on and off throughout this entire, stupid day but it doesn't truly resonate within him over all. Rather, he's feeling... shook. Like... cracks in his very foundation. He keeps thinking about Irene's... guest, partner - strung up on the cross, literally senseless, his cock practically weeping while he waited for her to push him further.

He keeps imagining what it would be like. Not with her, mind. He inhales, John's familiar scent cueing a series of memories, snap-shots from today and earlier, seemingly random.

No, definitely not with her.

His cock gives a slight twitch and he sighs, audibly, and shifts backwards, away from John. Perhaps he ought to just go shower; cold water, freezing cold, dump it right on its stupid, needy little head. His grip, paradoxically, tightens around John's chest. He doesn't particularly want to do anything but lie here and pretend that Irene Adler hasn't left him completely besides himself, just by opening the door to another universe. And to be fair, she didn't even open it in the first place, did she? That was all him. ]

[ Must we, Sherlock non-asks and shifts backwards, away, where John won't feel the outline of his hard-on quite so clearly and John turns over all the way now, rolling onto his back and only by way of complete familiarity avoiding shouldering Sherlock in the face in the process. Sherlock doesn't let go of him. John likes that he doesn't, likes the heaviness of his arms, the tightness of his hold. Like this, at least, he knows where he's got him, he isn't on his way off to -- somewhere, someone. Else. He swallows something very close to being a lump and looks over at the other man in the shadows of the room. ]

Okay. [ A purse of lips, the line of his jaw working for a moment as his muscles tighten, relax, tighten again. ] I'll go first, then. [ Shift, shift from one shoulder to the other, reaching out with his left arm and quite unceremoniously just pulling Sherlock in against him, whether the man wants to play nice or not. Stay here, it says. In so many terrible ways, right? ] I've been jealous of that woman, you know.

[ Licking his lips, he takes in his own words, frowns, grimaces. They sound horrible, to be honest. Complete horrible. John has always prided himself of being -- not the type to get jealous, at least. A bit possessive now and then, maybe, yeah, but otherwise not that insecure or uncertain of himself, his position. However, he's never had a relationship that in any shape or form resembled what he has with Sherlock which is probably to be considered some sort of former survival strategy, not running around after serial killers and fucking in between, every single day of the week. You'd think. More lip-pursing, then he smiles, wryly, just a tug at the corner of his mouth. ]

I've been jealous of her all bloody day, Sherlock.

[ There's no way around it -- but John goes first because he's not afraid of danger and Sherlock, for once, simply follows along into the storm.

Which... is not what he expected. ]

Jealous? [ He pulls back slightly, enough to tilt his head at John and glance down his nose at him. With his face partially in shadow, he looks as familiar as ever. Strong. Whenever John's there, there's always something comfortable about the darkness, though Sherlock generally chooses not to think about it overly much. It's the worst kind of sentiment; after all, the monsters in the dark don't exactly crawl away sniveling just because he likes to imagine that John would shoot them in a heartbeat. The world is not so kind. ] Of Irene Adler. [ A scoff.] That's ridiculous.

[ Since he came back, he's sent off a single text to Mycroft concerning the case (the photos are def. in belgravia, good luck getting in. do drop a few pounds before you don a leather harness - SH) and tried to delete it from his mind to no avail. She's taken up residence in his mind, Irene, with her quick thinking and cool composure. At the same time, he wouldn't want to be anywhere near her again. There's just something about her that throws him off, not unlike Moriarty though he, at least, is crazy enough that nothing he does or says will ever actively turn him on. He clears his throat, continues: ]

It's not... her.

[ Pause. Oh, for God's sake, he's reddening again. Just - ugh. ]

[ Sherlock pulls back, tilting his head at him and going it's ridiculous, like, thank you, he knows that, Christ. Rolling his eyes at the ceiling once, John reaches up with his left hand and runs his fingers through Sherlock's curls a bit. Long, even strokes. His hair's soft and springy between his fingers. Longer than you'd expect. Mm, he likes it, he likes the feel of Sherlock's body against his this way -- he's all strength and all pliancy at the same time and that's the true blessing about getting to fuck Sherlock Holmes, isn't it, you get to feel just a tad accommodated, like the man would probably never do anywhere else but in the bed. Which is why John doesn't ask something along the lines of, but if you're not interested in her, then what, because he isn't actually that surprised, simply figured it was what made the woman so appealing to him. Her flavour. ]

Ah. All right. It's because you're into what she does. [ Just an observation. Based on how Sherlock's blushing again, not too obvious in the darkness, but John does have eyes and Sherlock's very, very pale.

The thing is... Honestly, you can't spring all that many sexually related surprises on John and expect him to be -- actually surprised. He once treated a woman who couldn't stop orgasming. Quite a few people who got cucumbers and what not stuck in various bodily openings. Really, he's seen it all. If Sherlock likes to get dominated, well.

It's all fine. ] That's good. If it's not because you want her to treat you to it, we can work with that.

[ A small shrug, not in an effort to diminish it, just to emphasise that he honestly doesn't mind. It's not a big deal, though he kind of senses that it is to Sherlock. Is he surprised? The man who sees through everything and everyone in a matter of seconds hadn't exactly realised this about himself? John tightens his hold on him. Just a squeeze around the waist, his side sliding up Sherlock's front -- also flushing and slightly fuzzy, chest hair and treasure trail. He raises both eyebrows slightly, openly inquiring. ]

[ Oh.

That's good, says John, like it's anything like that at all. He's miswired, is what he is, and John thinks they can work with that, what, as in...

Pause. His cock takes a greater interest in the proceedings and he, in turn, flushes until he can't possibly flush any further. He's not an innocent little maiden, for Christ's sake, why is this so incredibly awkward for him? Not for John, obviously. But then again, John isn't basically admitting that he likes to be, what? Dominated? He shudders. Feels John's body against his and considers pulling away entirely, just to avoid exacerbating the problem between his thighs. He doesn't, though. He stays put because John's body is equal parts warm and strong against his front and because the other man's looking at him without letting go, seeming actually quite fine with the entire thing and if he's fine with it, then really... Really...

Eyes narrowing, he settles down a bit against the pillow with his nose pushed up against John's temple. One long breath, two. Then: ]

What, exactly, does that mean? Work with it? [ He keeps both arms locked around John, though the one he's currently lying on is starting to go numb. Whatever, doesn't matter. ] What do you know?

[ He manages by some small miracle not to emphasise you too heavily. ]

It means, we can incorporate it.

[ He replies evenly, pushing back against the touch of Sherlock's nose to his temple. He knows literally nothing about sexual domination as such and he might need to rectify that before going all kinky of Sherlock's arse, but he's (very) eager to learn and generally a quick study, so it shouldn't be too big of a problem. As long as Sherlock doesn't expect him to give his back a go with his riding crop, seeing as John might indeed have a boundary there, now when he thinks about it. If nothing else, then because John will be the one to fix up the damage afterwards, because that's what he does and that's what they do, right. Apparently.

Shifting a little, mostly to get blood flowing back into his arm, still curled around the other man, he turns his head enough to look down his nose at Sherlock when the other man asks him what he knows, with just a tiny hint of that exact emphasis. Charming, Sherlock. Very charming. John purses his lips, raises an eyebrow and manages not to smile too dangerously, mostly because Sherlock's already blushing bright red and who knows if he'll start flashing all over the place, if John turns up the heat too much. Nevertheless, he is smiling. A flash of teeth. Eyes narrowing. If the man can show him attitude, then fine. John can pay him back in kind. ]

I mean, I only used to command a unit of 120 people, yeah. [ Pause. Wholly rhetorical. His smile sharpens. ] I admit you might be a handful, Sherlock, but you're still only one person. I can manage.

Edited 2020-05-02 18:13 (UTC)

[ And then, John proceeds to look at him in that way, with a flash of teeth and a particular sort of darkness behind his eyes, the one that reminds Sherlock that yes, the man is in fact a murderer. Fitting, isn't it, that he's ended up with one of those? But right now, all he can really think about is John's military reference and the fact that ohGod he'd look beyond outstanding in a uniform, wouldn't he? Telling Sherlock... what to do. How to stand, where to sit. Pause. Paaause.

I can manage, he says. And smiles.

Okay, that does it. Shifting abruptly, Sherlock rolls over on top of the other man, their legs entangled instantly beneath the duvet. His cock presses up against John's abdomen, fully hard and his breath catches in his throat at the sudden onslaught of friction from John's pyjama bottoms and the hardness of his thigh muscles underneath. Biting his lip for a moment, he looks down at John, gaze running over his face without actually cold-reading him, taking in his features instead and allowing the feeling of familiar, safe to settle within him. Then, he leans down and kisses him, angling his head at the very last second to avoid a very uncomfortable nose-bump. His blood is positively roaring for this, it's been an entire day worth of sexual frustration and confusion and John's been jealous because he thought Sherlock might actually run away with someone else, because he was afraid of it.

Imagine someone being as afraid of losing Sherlock as he is of losing them.

As he kisses John, the other man's lips soft against his own, he runs one hand up the side of his face, fingers curling in his hair. Possesively. Imagine, he thinks. Dream, she'd said, but why ever would he bother? ]

[ Sherlock's only reply -- and possibly the only reply needed, really, is rolling on top of him, their legs entangling beneath the duvet and the other man keeping himself balanced over him for a moment, biting his bloody lip and taking in his features. John doesn't question what he sees, the answer's everything. Everything there is to see, Sherlock can see and John isn't by any stretch intimated at the notion. Come on, he's got nothing to hide, no feelings to shove underneath the carpet, especially not when there's no carpet in existence strong enough to withstand Sherlock's x-ray vision anyway. Expression softening for a second before the other man leans down for a kiss, John meets him halfway, feeling the way Sherlock has turned completely hard against his thigh, the whole length of his cock slipping over cotton fabric, rubbing against him. His breath stunts a bit in his throat in response, catching somewhere low, coming out harsh and dark and wanting. He's only half-hard himself still, though the feeling of Sherlock's cock has done quite the number on a very limited stretch of time, but they're getting there and it's going to be fast tonight.

He's just decided.

Like he's just decided that he'll undoubtedly be possessive over Sherlock until they stop being together, eventually, maybe, because Sherlock's this and so much more and his hand's in John's hair, curling and gripping and taking. The full package. Bossy submissive, is that what they call it. An annoying dick. A grunt. He presses back against the man's lips, curling one arm around his waist and burying the fingers of the other in his hair, tugging back and being proactive now rather than inviting. Thus, pretty much shoving his tongue into his mouth. He's warm and wet and that, too, goes straight to John's cock, hardening rapidly, his pyjamas bottoms tenting between them.

They have to go, obviously. Once he's done with Sherlock's mouth, lips, their breaths mingling hotly. ]

[ Oh, it's nice - John's hand in his hair, taking hold, his tongue filling his mouth, giving back... He groans, angling his hips slightly, rubbing his cock along John's inner thigh, feeling the outline of the other man's cock underneath his pyjama bottoms. The friction is perfect (albeit there isn't nearly enough naked skin in this equation yet), pleasure shooting through his groin, up his spine. Letting John take his mouth for a moment, he closes his eyes and simply leans into it, the feeling of being taken doing all sorts of funny things to the rest of his body. After a few seconds, he pushes back against it, slides his tongue into John's mouth and tastes him well and good because he can't not, John doesn't need a passive doll for a bed partner (if he does, Sherlock will happily get him a sheep or what have you).

John's cock is growing steadfastly harder against his thigh and as he breathes out slowly, tasting John's mouth again and again, he twists his hips and rubs their crotches together, feeling the whole, warm length of him through the thin cotton fabric. So good, yes - they could probably get off like this if they wanted to, though it would be better without clothes. He shifts, repeating the motion of his hips, his blood running faster and faster as he breaks the kiss, gasping against John's lips.

He thinks about Belgravia, about the thick, black doors near the back wall leading God knows where, into private rooms full of equipment, closed off from the world, hidden away in secrecy. Then, he thinks about the two of them, here like this, and knows exactly what he prefers. If he had to have an inconvenient burst of self-realisation today, at least he's got this to catch him afterwards, rather than some bondage mat behind a locked door. ]

[ They're pretty much frotting all over each other, Sherlock having a taste of John's mouth as well and John letting him, slipping his tongue lazily up the other man's as he goes on the explore. Sherlock's cock is hard and heated where he rubs himself all over him, thigh, crotch (oh, his own cock likes that, he can tell) and they're kind of just thrusting around like fish on dry land. Very charming (not) and very, very good, so who cares. Sex makes everyone look ridiculous. Irene Adler's leather mask didn't improve on that particular tendency, although it also looked quite effective, granted. His cock gives a happy little jerk, making him suck in a harsh breath. Sherlock pulls back, breathing hard against him, nice deep gasps that taste warm across John's lips. He frowns for a moment, eases back on his shoulder blades completely and looks up at the other man with a contemplating sort of look. Supposedly they can do this fine without masks and riding crops. He's got hands. And a voice. And an affinity for order which Sherlock's in constant, stubborn opposition to. Shouldn't be that hard, should it?

Something heated and tight is collecting in his lower abdomen and while is isn't arousal, neither is it not, it's just -- extra. Don't make him explain it, he's got no clue. It's making his lower body throb quite vehemently, though, so it's going to be welcome on the grounds of feeling quite nice, actually. Along with Sherlock's weight on top of him and the increasingly sticky sensation of his pyjamas bottoms at the front, it seems par for the course. Throb, throb, throb. ]

Sherlock. [ Although his voice sounds slightly raw, just a tiny bit beside itself (sex-voice, that's good), he manages to hold a deliberately even tone, level and firm, no shaking, no pauses, no um's or er's. Military talk. Like he told the man, 120 people, right? ] Get me out of my bottoms.

[ Just that. He meets the other man's gaze, heavily. ]

[ He's getting into some sort of build-up, heat growing fast in his abdomen and his balls feeling tighter and tighter, when John interrupts his flow. Sherlock, he says and he says that a lot, doesn't he, there shouldn't be anything particularly significant about it. But there's something about the infliction in his voice that makes Sherlock pause, pull back slightly from the kiss. John's sex voice is always a pleasure but right now, there's something downright... striking about it. About the way he looks up at him, all steadiness, firmness.

He then follows up with...

Oh. Oh. Sherlock stares at him, blinking stupidly for a couple of seconds while his cock positively surges in response. Swallowing heavily, he senses a part of himself, warring with another; do it, do it now, at odds with don't let anyone tell you what to do, be alone at the core of yourself, always and he has to look away for a moment, collecting himself. Then, on a rough exhalation, he shifts downwards over John's body, pulling the duvet along. He pauses, knees on either side of John's legs and looks at his pyjama bottoms (nicely tented). He bites his lip. Then, wordlessly, he pushes his fingers beneath the hem and starts working them off the other man's hips, giving John a second to lift up before pulling them all the way down and off.

The act itself, basic and relatively harmless at the face of it, is sending shockwaves through his system, his mind fighting to either re-write or delete what he already knows. Consequently, his face is a bit blank, though his cock is looking nothing if not enthusiastic. ]

[ It takes a moment.

Things rarely take a whole moment with Sherlock, he's in and out and onwards in a matter of seconds, but this -- apparently takes a bit longer than that to swallow. That's all right. John did notice that it was something the other man seemed to have a problem with, his interest in getting dominated, so it's probably just the natural course of things. Adjustment. Acceptance. Eventually, though, he breathes out hard, John doing somewhat of the same, while Sherlock shifts down his front, taking the duvet with him and laying John bare in the process. Shit, his pyjamas bottoms really are tenting.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looks down at the other man, watches him push his fingers beneath the hem of the trousers and start to work them off. Always a bit inelegant, isn't it? John shifting about to let them slip down his hips, around his arse, but they manage -- Sherlock manages and he manages very well, pulling the bottoms down and off. They land somewhere on the floor, soundlessly.

John swallows. Allows himself a second to try and read the expression on Sherlock's face, mostly blank and untouched. It's just new, right? It's just because it's new, it's not because he doesn't like it. His cock sure likes it, at least. A frown. Then, since he's the one in charge now, he makes a decision and shifts a bit from one buttock to the other, his cock bobbing slightly at the movement. His voice, when he speaks again, is the same. Level, firm. Assertive. ]

And now -- [ Small, possibly, probably unnecessary nod towards his crotch and his very hard, very weeping cock. ] -- suck it.

[ There's a small break, a matter of seconds, when they simply look at each other, equally naked and possibly, equally uncertain about how to walk the path from here, new and very much untouched. Sherlock thinks about John, following him from crime scene to crime scene, looking for relevant cues in the newspapers, running errands at the blink of an eye. Submitting to him, of all people, in bed really isn't... He couldn't, he thinks, for anyone else. It simply wouldn't be possible. He watches John's face as the other man comes to a decision, realising a split second before it happens that the mood has changed, properly now, they're not just playing around.

Suck it, he says.

Sherlock forgets to breathe for a moment.

Hands clenching hard by his sides, his cock positively weeping now even without any friction to keep things going, he looks from John's face and downwards, eyeing his cock and feeling suddenly ravenous, his body alight with it, with the craving for more. He recognises the basis of the feeling, of course, because he's been a junkie for many years. But there's something different about it, too. It's a rush, he thinks and swallows, hard. It's a rush but it's also safe. ]

Yeah. [ His voice comes out deep and ragged. ] I - yes.

[ Shifting onto his knees properly, he looks up at the other man, just for a glimpse - then dives right in, parting his lips and sucking the head of his cock between his lips. The sudden taste of skin and cock and arousal explode on his tongue as he takes him in about half-way, the shaft gliding slowly and firmly along his tongue. He breathes through his nose. Then, he hollows his cheeks and sucks, gently, keeping his head still for now. ]

[ Yeah, Sherlock says, yes -- and proceeds to shift onto his knees, bending in over John's lap and wordlessly sucking, very much sucking there, shit, his cock into his mouth. Halfway, then he halts, hollows his cheeks, really fucking sucks. No friction beyond the suction, the tightness around the head of his cock, wetness and the softness of tongue along the shaft, just this. He breathes in deeply, desperately through his nose and lets his head fall back a little, just enough that he's completely stretched out, but still with a good view of Sherlock, keeping an eye on him, yeah, watch what he's doing. He's good. He's very good. The man is doing what you tell him to, for bloody once.

Licking his lips, he corrects him gently. It's not a request for repetition, but rather just a note that he knows Sherlock will store in that big bloated head of his. Remember it for next time, it means. ] Yes, sir. [ His voice sounds decidedly more breathless now and John's eyes are basically slits, taking in the way the other man's bent in over him, how his mouth has eaten half his cock and feeling the dribble of saliva, the warmth of breath. For God's sake -- ] You've got a big mouth, right? You can take it, come on.

[ By some miracle, his tone remains level, even, though it's lighter, breathier and he's panting, too. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he remembers long days and long nights on base, orders not like, but not entirely unlike these, either, raining down over him. Sholto in their container bedroom, undressing, telling him to come make up for the fluke John had managed in the field that day, because he doesn't always think, sometimes he acts first, sometimes he's all heart and no brain. Well, he's got to be both heart and brain now.

For Sherlock's sake. ]

[ Sir, says John (corrects him, almost like a reminder) and God, he actually moans around his mouthful, his cock aching almost painfully as he pulls back for a second, only to push right back down over the other man's shaft. He takes it in farther this time, lets it slide past the back of his throat and further, further (relax, ignore gag reflex, angle head right, give it a slight... push) until he's burying his nose in John's pubic hair. He's drooling all over the place, his brow furrowed in concentration as he takes one second, two, three - and then pulls back again, faster. He can feel the head of John's cock as it opens his throat, keeps his mouth nicely filled and Christ, he'd call John sir quite happily, really, except then he'd have to pop out his cock and that's a no-go.

Breathing in harshly, he goes straight back to swallowing him up, though he doesn't take him as far down this time. Instead, he sets a very sloppy, uneven rhythm of back and forth, lips pressing in around the length of John's cock, his other hand coming up to hold the base, keep it angled properly, foreskin retracted. He thinks about John's voice, about the way his breathing keeps growing heavier, needier, and he can't, he has to -

Reaching down, he curls his fingers around his own, throbbing cock and the friction is almost enough to make him come then and there, his balls drawing up almost immediately. He groans. Keeps his mouth working as he simply holds onto the base for a moment, almost afraid to stroke himself to climax. It'll be so fast... ]

[ If you'd told him right here and now that Sherlock's been sexually active for months rather than years, he'd have scoffed at you and called your bullshit. It's not that it matters, of course, it's just that the man is such an accomplished, little (okay, not so little, it's a manner of speaking) cocksucker that you'd think he'd done it always. The fact that he hasn't either makes him a natural which John won't put past him, he might very well be, or it's that big brain of his once more, his mental drawers full of irrelevant knowledge, ready to be put to use when -- well, useful. Like now. As Sherlock takes him down that bit further, before pulling back, readying himself for the big showpiece, John can honestly feel his toes curling beforehand, the sounds of sloppy mouthwork, suction and wet slurping making his balls draw up tightly. Oh, but he's got to hold this one out. Can't just come on the spot.

No matter how much he'd like to as the other man swallows him to the base, face burying into his pubic hair and his cock staying absolutely lodged in his throat for one, two, three seconds before he draws back, all drool and harsh panting. He moans, a low undercurrent of a sound. After that, John inkling his head to get a better view, Sherlock sets an uneven rhythm, lips tight around him and his hand grabbing the base. John's upper arms feel like jelly and he actually has to steel himself there for a moment, not to just collapse down onto his back again. Every second exhalation is a tight, held-back grunt.

Gasping for breath, he vaguely notices how Sherlock's other hand pushes down between his own legs, fingers curling around the base of his cock tightly. No. No, no, no, you're not, Sherlock. You're absolutely not. He reaches up with one hand, all his weight now on his right arm, straining, and buries his fingers in Sherlock's hair, tightening his hold slightly, pushing him down just the tiniest bit over his cock. Oh, fuck. For God's sake -- His voice shakes, when he speaks this time. ]

Don't touch yourself yet. [ Pant, pant. Dear God, it's going to be a hard one, just. In a moment. Make the man work for it, right? Make him work, he likes the work, he needs the work. ] No coming until I say so, are we clear?

[ He's trying to work out a pacing, something more even and consequently, more satisfying, when John suddenly buries his fingers in his hair, his grip tight as he pushes him down just slightly over his cock. Consequently, Sherlock half-way deep-throats him mostly as a happy accident, his breath catching in his airway and his back tensing for a second before he remembers to relax his throat. The small, subtle show of force has left his cock weeping at the tip. Naturally, that's when John tells him no coming and oh God, he's an actual sadist, too? He's been hiding it well, clearly, but there you have it. Sherlock groans, deep and rough. He looks up slowly through narrowed eyes, catching John's gaze. The man's holding himself up on the right arm (naturally), his muscles tensed up all the way over his shoulder and down his front. Strong, he thinks as he slowly releases his cock, leaving it bopping uselessly against his abdomen, his climax dissipating and his balls feeling positively blue.

But he listens, all the same, and at this point, slowly but surely, all thoughts of resisting or working against John's commands have disappeared. Instead, his mind is starting to feel empty in a way he can't recognise from anything else, not sex, not drugs, nothing. He just wants to keep doing this, basically, until John tells him otherwise and it should feel wrong and pathetic but instead, all he can truly think is bliss.

His cock tastes mostly like skin at this point, skin and the beginnings of precum. Moving his free hand to John's thigh, fingers curling against muscle, digging in, he gets back to work, head moving up and down, lips growing slowly but surely numb as John's cock slides in, slides out, perhaps a bit faster. ]

[ Because apparently they've landed in a parallel reality in which Sherlock just -- does what John says, no sassy comments or logical explanations as to why he shouldn't, the man releases his cock, his balls looking so tight and drawn up that they might spontaneously combust. John breathes hard through his mouth now, something more shallow than panting while Sherlock returns to working his cock with his mouth, head bobbing, John following the movement slightly with his hips, chasing it, more, more, more. It's wet and tight and warm and without removing his left hand from Sherlock's hair, he unceremoniously just keeps him at that angle, in that mode. Holds them both to it, because it's good. It's -- yeah, very good.

His balls are drawing up, too, now. More. More, more. Jesus, Sherlock, it's intense. ] You're -- [ John manages, having to catch himself halfway and even out his breathing to be able to say anything at all. His cock is pushing back into Sherlock's mouth for every bob he does of his head. ] -- doing very well. [ Sherlock, he'd say, if he could, breath abandoning him in stages. He feels faint, God, he's so close. He could've called him private, but then he'd need a uniform.

John might have to think in getting one at some point, let's be honest. If Sherlock can have a pet, John certainly can have a private. ] Very good -- [ Awful grammar there, but really. Come on. Come on. ] - very, Christ!

[ When he finally comes, it's like hitting a wall of pleasure and pretty much slamming through it. He's a moaning, trembling mess, his hips jerking involuntarily and his balls drawing up to the point of agony. His muscles are tightening, releasing, tightening and he doesn't let go of Sherlock's hair, keeps him at it, be sure to swallow... nicely... all of it...

Fuck. What an absolute... fuck. ]

[ Though his jaw is starting ache noticeably, Sherlock keeps going, keeps the pace fast and his lips tight. John tells him he's doing well and the words register, as they would in most contexts, but his mind performs a curious processing response, dimming the literal meaning behind the words and leaving him with an impression of them. A warm, heavy feeling that goes straight into his chest and his abdomen, his cock jerking helplessly while he follows John, taking him towards the edge faster, faster -- ]

Mmf.

[ He lets out a gutteral sound coming from deep within his throat when John's cock suddenly starts pulsing between his lips. John's grip on his hair doesn't lessen, far from it, and Sherlock finds himself incapable of doing anything except swallowing, again and again, while the other man spends himself down his throat. The experience of it is equal parts foreign and intoxicating and when he finally pulls back, popping John's cock out of his mouth (careful not to dislodge his grip on his hair), he feels completely devoid of rational thought. There's just this, the taste of John on his lips, the ache in his jaw and mouth. The desperate need to come. ]

John...

[ He says John's name roughly, his vocal cords sounding thoroughly abused. He looks up at the other man slowly, gaze half-way blank, cheeks flushed and his lips swollen. He doesn't know what else to say, at this point. His cock is so hard that he almost can't bear it but he doesn't reach down, doesn't touch himself. Instead, he simply looks at John. Speaks his name again (John), thinking that he can't ask, he can't make himself.

Not yet. ]

Edited 2020-05-04 14:49 (UTC)

[ He comes to only gradually, blinking himself back into this world at present -- there, sheets, sweaty and sticky against his skin, there, his arm, finally giving in as he collapses onto his back, staring up at the ceiling blindly for a few seconds, until Sherlock's voice brings him around, full-circle. John wets his lips and lifts his head, looking down at the other man who's popped his cock out of his mouth and is sounding like he's just gone through a pack of cigarettes. Hot, very hot. Also, although his cock looks absolutely painful between his thighs, he's not gone ahead and just started working on it, he's waited, because John told him to, because John said so. A rush that's roughly comparable to the very good orgasm he just had hits him and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself, except follow through. Take it home, boys, as they'd have said in the army. Not about this specific mission, of course, but there are similarities worth of note, he thinks. They've been to war. They've been comrades. Now they need to get out alive.

John swallows heavily and sits up completely, one long push of abdominal muscles and upper chest working. Nodding once, breathing through his nose roughly, he gestures at Sherlock with a wrist maybe slightly looser than normally. He did just have the orgasm of his lifetime, okay, give him a break. ]

You've got permission. Touch yourself.

[ Small pause, mostly to allow for a deeper intake of breath, open mouth, all the way into his lungs. Chest heaving. He supports himself with both arms at this point, easing into the most comfortable position he can manage, leg stretched out in front of himself. He holds Sherlock's gaze, doesn't even blink. ]

Let me watch.

[ John releases his hair and sits up, looking well and truly spent, his movements laxer than normal and his expression dazed, his pupils still slightly dilated from orgasm. He nods, gesturing at Sherlock to go ahead and follows up with words, more words, and God, they go straight to his cock as well, everything inside him screaming for release. Let me watch he says and holds Sherlock's gaze, unblinkingly, the way you associate with hunters and Sherlock swallows heavily, the taste of cum lingering on the back of his tongue. Gaze slipping away from John's, he spits in the palm of his hand and reaches down, sitting up partially on his hip and keeping his thighs spread because someone wanted to watch and Christ, he'll get to watch.

With a long, outdrawn sigh he folds his fingers around the base of his cock, giving it a slight squeeze before stroking upwards towards the head. His breath comes out shaky now, his thighs quivering as he tries not to just push himself wantonly towards the void except he can't - he needs it so badly. Eyes gliding shut, he leans his head back slightly and just goes with it, his hand moving up and down slickly, thumb brushing quickly over the head on every upstroke. He's not trying to finesse it in any way, shape or form. Instead, he just chases the end, lips parting and breath coming out in short, airy gasps as it builds up, builds up, builds up - ]

Oh -

[ When he comes, coating his fingers and his thighs with cum, it feels like weightlessness. His mind blanks out as he slowly, almost as if in agony, lies down with his head on John's stomach, curled in on himself, his cum-covered hand stuck between their bodies. He's breathing, he thinks. It's actually pretty hard to tell. ]

[ The thing about orgasm is that it's one of those bodily reactions you know looks ridiculous on yourself, but it's absolutely beautiful on everyone else. Now is no less the case. Now is actually the prime example of that rule of thumb. Sherlock starts touching himself, strokes himself harshly and without any finesse whatsoever, nothing like how John would have taken him through it, if he'd done it for him, but it's good, it's incredibly arousing watching him jerk off, chasing his climax. Really, if John hadn't been well and truly spent at this point, he'd probably been left with another erection for it, but fortunately that's just not going to happen and he can focus on the movements of Sherlock's huge hand, his long fingers, brushing over the head, taking him -- yes. He gasps for breath just a little bit as Sherlock finally comes with a simple sound of oh, surprise, and what in the world is left that can surprise this man, reaching out automatically as he collapses in the wake of it, head on John's stomach, curled in on himself like he's in pain. Which John very much imagines he's not. It's just -- it's huge. It's big, all right. This thing, between them.

Breathing out slowly, he leans down and folds both arms around Sherlock's upper body, kind of dragging him up along his front, getting cum all over his hip and side, but who cares, it'll wash off tomorrow. Tugging the other man's head in against his shoulder, he aligns himself with him, their legs slightly entangled. Pushes his chin into Sherlock's curls, breathes him in. He smells like sex and arousal and cum. And something sharper. Darker. Always underlying everything else with him. ]

Just stay here, okay?

[ He doesn't say anything sappy like I've got you, though he means that whole-heartedly, or you're safe, because by now Sherlock must know. If John weren't a murderer before he met him, and it's highly debatable, let's be real, he certainly became one afterwards, to save him. Not to mention, they survived Moriarty, face-off number one. Yeah. He just holds him like this, arms soft where they touch. It's okay, it means, you can stay in this space a little while longer.

Some things need orders, others don't need words at all. John can tell the difference, always has. ]

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