docwithablog | storyline one.

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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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[ Paaaaause.

The pen stilling against the paper, Sherlock looks up very slowly, turning his head to stare at the other man. As they make eye contact, something instantly ignites. He swallows heavily after a moment, wondering at the utter volatility of the human mind. Aside from John's command (because it is, isn't it, it's nothing more and nothing less), nothing's changed, outwardly. They're still just sitting here, at a temporary limbo, waiting. They're still in a cottage in the southern-most part of England, listening to the wind whining outside while the shadows track across the walls.

But all the same, everything changes.

Getting to his feet after another brief moment, he heads for the kitchen wordlessly, setting about making coffee on the coffee machine without having ever used it before. He'd never normally squander cognitive resources on figuring out how to work this machine - John would make it for him or they'd simply make do with instant - but right now, he's doing it, step by step. Putting in a clean filter. Emptying two spoons of ground coffee beans into it, running the water. He doesn't pause, works fast and efficiently. Meanwhile, a part of him is screaming - what the hell are you doing, get back to work, he can make his own damn coffee, why are you playing this game, why are you enjoying it? - and he's doing his best to ignore it, biting his bottom lip and spending a couple of seconds realising that the machine isn't properly plugged in.

Right. Fixing that, moving on. ]

[ There's something intensely satisfying about watching Sherlock get up and do what he says. It's not just that normally Sherlock's a dick who would tell him to make his own damn coffee or that it's really payback for every time John's had to stride into the kitchen and make coffee for two, it's nothing as simple as that. It's not even that Sherlock's been bad and needs punishment accordingly. No, it's a complex, hard, grinding feeling in the pit of his stomach as Sherlock goes through every single step, taking no shortcuts, although he undoubtedly could make the machinery twice as efficient with, what, a look. He does it the right way, slowly, carefully, rights his wrongs, waits, waits. Oh, God. He shifts again, the paper rustling while he reluctantly returns his attention to the article about the local politician with the big, huge ambitions and something's definitely growing bigger, if not huge, then bigger between his legs. Yes.

It's satisfying, because it's what they do everywhere, just dissected and each part raised to the fifth bloody power. And it's so insanely arousing, he can feel himself harden almost instantly in his trousers. John purses his lips, finishes that article, moves on to the next. Goat farming, boring, but okay. Nothing much happens in Helston, apparently, besides this.

As he hears the coffee machine beep, finished brewing his coffee now and that was a nice way to end something that started out a bit shaky there, Sherlock, he doesn't acknowledge it besides clearing his throat again, voice coming out just a tiny bit breathy when he picks up where he left off: ] You know how I take it, one cup, brimming. Don't spill it on your way over here. [ It's precisely off-handed enough not to sound controlling, but demanding enough to expect compliancy. It's a fine line, you learn it pretty quickly in uniform, don't you? If you've got the right kind of commander, one who still respects that you're probably standing with a loaded weapon in your hands and could shoot his head off, if all else failed.

So, don't fail, that's the crux of it. Don't fail the arrangement, more importantly, don't fail Sherlock. ]

[ He watches almost stupidly, gaze slightly dazed, as the cup fills, registering John's words as clearly as if the man had been shouting commands at him (brimming, don't spill it). He can feel the man watching his every move, the hairs on his arms rising in response, the thought alone making his skin feel overheated. His mind jumps back to Rosehaven, to John correcting Taylor for his bad shave, to taking orders. Pretending.

They aren't pretending now.

As he takes the cup, careful about it in a way he rarely is with anything that isn't a petri dish sample, he makes his way slowly back to John's chair, realising only as he draws away from the kitchen counter that his cock is rock-hard. Every moment is uncomfortable, his trousers much too tight for this kind of predicament (or perhaps, exactly as tight as they ought to be). He closes his eyes. Breathes in deeply. After more than a month, he's getting better at tuning out the logical part of his brain that keeps demanding to know why he's not protesting, why he isn't doing what he'd do in any other context. John doesn't abuse it (of course he doesn't, John would die for him) and no cases are left unsolved so really, there's no reason why he should... abstain. Aside from all the obvious ones, of course.

He pauses next to John's chair. Looks straight at him and holds out the coffee. ]

[ It's pretty obvious from his movements, stiff and overly slow, even for someone trying not to cause a small coffee leakage on the carpet, that Sherlock's rock-hard as he walks across the floor, from kitchen counter to John's chair, stopping in front of him and holding out the cup. John ignores him for a full five seconds, keeps reading (mostly the headline of the next article, this one about a break-in at a harbour front store) until the air's positively electric from tension and he can't really bear not raising his chin and meeting Sherlock's gaze. The cup balances at the end of his fingers, held tightly between his fingertips, brimming, unspilled. He looks at it, then looks back at Sherlock's face. His long lines, his jaw and his nose and his bloody cheekbones. There's a flash where he imagines himself coming all over those features, just -- no holding back, spilling it. A sharp intake of breath through his nose, then he manages to leaf to the next page of the newspaper while simultaneously saying: ]

On your knees. [ A pause. Another sharp intake of breath. His dressing gown's on top of his regular clothes, so he's got a pair of trousers very much in the way right now and a Sherlock soon on his knees where it'll pretty much be impossible to ignore, but on the other hand -- who says he wants the other man to ignore it, who says he doesn't want him to notice and give it a good long consideration. Very good and very long. A huff of air escapes him, almost a scoff, that kind of amusement. ] I'm not taking it as long as you're taller than me and you know how that takes some contortion on your part.

[ Finally, he folds the newspaper in half, looking up and meeting Sherlock's eyes dead-on. It's not a challenge, if it were, he'd be expecting one of two possible outcomes, with this there's only one outcome that's acceptable. And that is, Jesus Christ, Sherlock getting down on his knees, without spilling John's coffee anywhere, please, and serving it to him like a very living and very attractive coffee table would. Quietly, sturdily and within perfect reach. ]

[ Oh. Oh. Sherlock can actually feel his lips parting, a shaky exhalation escaping between them whilst he fights, fights, not to spill the coffee. He stares at John (who's looking aroused himself, really, the bulge beneath his dressing gown is subtle still but noticeable, at least if you observe), blinks, stares. Then, he looks down, shuffles backwards very slightly - and does it.

Gets on his knees.

As he completes the motion carefully, each movement calculated and executed with the utmost precision (because spilling hot coffee in John's lap would be a mood killer beyond worlds), he realises that his mind is slowly but surely blanking out. The samples on the table lose significance. His different leads, all awaiting resolution, seem very far away, like he's watching all of that - the case work, his usual existence - through a glass wall. He balances on his knees for a moment, finding a point of balance; then, slowly, he holds out the cup once more, this time at perfect eyesight with John's abdomen. His crotch. He looks up at the other man. The posture is incredibly uncomfortable right now, what with his cock stiff between his thighs and his trousers stretching tight around it.

All the same, he keeps his expression blank, not intentionally but simply as a consequence. ]

[ He watches. Just like that, he watches as Sherlock takes a second to comply, but then obeys completely without protest, without any hesitation whatsoever. His breathing is turning increasingly shallow, John's, mind you, though Sherlock's isn't far behind, while the other man makes himself not-comfortable, because it can't possibly be, on his knees on the carpet in front of John's armchair, his trousers stretched tight around his bulge and John blinks a couple of times, purses his lips, thinking about eating Sherlock's cock, just swallowing it to the base, then he dismisses the thought with some determined reluctance and leans forward to take the cup instead, leaving Sherlock to hold the saucer in his outstretched palms. While John enjoys the first sip, one, two, three, longer now. Good, very good. Black. Lovely.

This is Sherlock's punishment, after all. He hasn't earned any blowjob rights yet.

Looking down at Sherlock over the rim of the cup, he raises an eyebrow at him slowly, stretching out his legs a bit, not touching him, just -- making sure he's aware they're there and drawing nearer while he makes the effort, yeah? John's naked feet look smallish in comparison to the long, thin column of thigh on the other man and John recalls drawing it upon arriving to this place. His thigh. The musculature. The flesh and bone and structure of him. His breathing evens out a bit. He leans forward again, placing the cup on the saucer and leaving Sherlock to hold both while he himself returns to the newspaper. ]

Thank you.

[ John takes the cup and sips it, looking... pleased enough, it seems, but then Sherlock did make it to his specifications (would have, even if John had left it to him to figure them out himself). He sighs, trying not to do so too audibly and watches. Waits.

John stretches out his legs, feet only inches away from his thighs and there's a nice little space here, isn't there, between John's bent legs? His body, caging them both in, though in a very subtle way that registers mostly because Sherlock's mind is so used to patterns, to seeing connections between points, drawing lines. As John places the cup back onto its saucer, he realises the full extent of what's happening. He's basically just... being used. As what, a... a coffee table? Something blooms in his abdomen, something warm and heavy, and his cock twitches behind its confinements. He gasps. This time, it's definitely audible but for God's sake...

It should be so humiliating. It should be degrading. Instead, all he really feels is the peace in his mind, the knowledge that yes, John is strong and steady and unyielding, there's nothing particularly odd about holding his coffee (about holding the world for him, basically, if necessary) and right now, he'd actually like... nothing better. Swallowing heavily, he shifts very, very slightly on his knees, managing not to spill the coffee (with the quantity left in the cup, he can keep his hands at a slight angle without any risk). He'd dearly like to touch his cock that would ruin the game, wouldn't it. Would make fools out of them both.

Instead, he simply stays put and takes what he's given. He did, after all, make a fool out of John earlier in the day. He understands the logic quite well. His shoulders are trembling only minutely from maintaining the position but in five minutes, give or take, he'll be fighting to keep his arms level. Let's see how fast John deigns to finish his cup. ]

[ Sherlock accepts. With a small gasp, John telling him to be quiet, voice hushed and pleasant. He accepts just standing there, on his knees and it must require the engagement of his entire body, keeping his shoulders squared, arms up. All his muscles. John entertains the thought for some time, while reading about the gun-related episode in the shop that Ingram told them about, days back. That right now, Sherlock's thighs are working, his buttocks, his back muscles. Shoulders, upper arms, forearms, fingers. Neck. If he'd been naked, he'd have been a beautiful display of anatomy when it's in use and come on, you can't expect him, the bloody doctor, not to get some kind of kick out of that... Every so often, he reaches out and takes the cup from him, drinking another mouthful, another two mouthfuls, but it's a slow process and the minutes tick by in silence.

There's a certain sense of balance to it, honestly. Sherlock fucking up and John fucking him up, gently, in turn. Watching his composure slip a little more for every moment, watching his strength deteriorate in stages. After six and a half minutes the cup's empty and John places it back on the saucer for the last time, looking Sherlock over across the edge of his newspaper which he's also reaching the end of. Oh, it's been a good little show, hasn't it? Very nice. The man's taken it in stride. He looks tired now, though. Might be time to extend some rights back, yes?

Shifting a bit, hard as rock still, but the throbbing has turned almost meditative in the meantime, he folds up his newspaper, throws it off to the side, not really caring where it lands. Then, he fixes his eyes on Sherlock once more, the calmness that's descended resonating a bit now from an immediate spike of sexual tension. He licks his lips, leans forward, elbows on his knees, legs spread, closer to eye level like this. His voice sounds rough, throaty. ]

That was good. [ A long, lingering gaze in the general direction of the other man's crotch. Still hard, very hard, indeed. Coffee table analogies didn't exactly turn him off, apparently, because you can't tell him Sherlock Holmes didn't make the connection. John smiles, a tug at the corner of his mouth, inclines his head. ] Let's pretend for a moment you don't have to keep saying sorry. Let's say you can even speak now. What would you say if I told you to put the cup away, come back here and undress for me?

[ The seconds tick by, the silence only broken now and then by the clink of porcelain, the sound of John sipping his coffee, swallowing, sitting back in his chair. The rustling of clothes. Sherlock maintains the position, the cup balancing between his hands even as his lower arms start trembling, first, from the strain. He bites his lip. Relaxes his shoulders a bit, trying to keep his other muscle groups properly activated. When John finally shifts forward, fixing his gaze on Sherlock (like he's only just seeing him again; re-animating him, bringing him back to life), he's beginning to sweat from exertion. The dull ache in his arms and back has become a constant. His mind remains blank, his breathing even.

That was good, says John, sounding very much affected and Sherlock looks up at him, another burst of heat spreading through his body. He does look... pleased, doesn't he? No sarcasm. No fucking around. The thought is odd; it makes something happen within him that he can't quite categorize, something related to fighting, running up-hill, trying (desperately) to match an unreachable bar, trying to get better, faster, less stupid. He swallows. Takes a moment to answer. His voice is quiet, almost soft around the edges: ]

I'd say yes.

[ With that, he gets to his feet, the movement only a little bit stiff (blood flow increasing within his limbs - legs, in particular - quickly enough, muscles releasing and relaxing). He manages to keep the cup and the saucer perfectly balanced all the way to the kitchen where he places it on the counter. Then, he returns, the very slight remaining pain in his muscles overshadowed by the constant ache between his legs, his cock actually weeping precum at this point. He pauses in front of John. Stares at the other man for a beat or two before he starts undressing, from top to bottom. Shirt off (skin a little bit damp), trousers and socks, all of it going in a pile on the floor. His cock looks positively ready to escape, pants tented and slightly damp where the head's pressing against the fabric. With a barely audible sigh (John did tell him to be quiet), he hooks his fingers beneath the elastic and slips them down and off, bending down to complete the motion before straightening back up, looking straight at John, though there's only a partial challenge in his eyes. It's not really about that, at this point, he just can't completely deafen that aspect of him, of them.

That's how it is. ]

[ I'd say yes, says Sherlock and repeats with his entire bloody body, getting to his feet only slightly shakily, his legs probably numb from the long wait on his knees. John follows him with his gaze as he makes his way out into the kitchen, placing the cup and its saucer on the counter. Sherlock isn't as such an elegant man, let's be real, there's too much impulse charging his system for that, he can be all arms and legs and run-on sentences with no conclusion any regular person understands, least of all John, but like this -- quietened down and stripped to the bone in every sense but the physical, he's actually quite, well, refined. In his own way. John shifts in his seat. His trousers are really very much in the way of his hard as rock cock, but he can't be bothered with it now, this isn't what it's about. It's about the look Sherlock gives him when he returns to his spot, as he begins undressing, leaving his chest bared and damp, legs, feet, lastly his cock, his pants sporting a damp spot where the head pressed against the fabric, because he's weeping, isn't he? Precum, he's that gone. A deep breath through his nose. Another one. Sherlock is standing naked in front of him, meeting his gaze with just a grain of defiance, that part of him that can't and, honestly, shouldn't be erased, no matter how great a coffee table he makes.

Getting to his feet, movements only slightly stiff from being so stupidly aroused, do excuse him, he crosses the short distance between them, standing clothed before a completely bare Sherlock and that alone really marks the difference, doesn't it? It's nothing to do with how they work cases or how they do on any other ordinary day, it's this, here, now. John looking up at him and managing somehow to appear as if he's looking down his nose, a very special skill you develop when always being the shortest man around. He licks his lips, blinks slowly, controlled. They tend to exchange meaningful looks, this is simply the next level -- as he nods towards the chair and orders: ] Sit. [ He raises his chin, undoes the top two buttons on his shirt, only because the entire arrangement of fabric is beginning to feel tight, cramped. He's sweaty. He's so hard it hurts. Waiting for the other man to comply, he adds. Softer, like an afterthought. ] Spread your legs. [ He is going to eat him up, after all. Sherlock has earned his privileges. Once seated, John unceremoniously drops to his knees in front of him, the tables turned, except not really, not at all. ]

[ John gets to his feet and moves to stand in front of him. The quiet between them feels charged, heavy and expectant. There's something about John being dressed that makes him feel distinctively vulnerable but not in a wrong way, exactly. Hard to explain, all of this. As it happens, it makes sense to him but if pressed, he honestly wouldn't know why or how. It's the most dangerous, the most foolish type of sentiment and he shouldn't, he shouldn't, but Christ, Sherlock's always been addicted to danger and this kind of danger, on top of everything, is kind.

Not indulging is impossible.

He watches and waits as John looks him over, licks his lips and gives him a look that makes him seem a lot taller than he actually is. It's something John does, he's noticed, but not consistently. He rarely has a need, really, to feel or seem taller. In this instance, it makes his order seem even more efficient - because it's an order, even if spoken without edge or anger, without anything except mild authority. There's something about this effortless combination of gentleness and dominance that Sherlock can't readily imagine on anyone else. Anywhere. It's just so John-like. His cock twitches again as he takes a seat, spreading his legs and breathing out very, very shakily. He watches the other man through slightly narrowed eyes, his chest rising and falling just a bit rapidly. ]

John, I... [ Pause. He licks his lips, looks down at his crotch. His cock is pink and wet from arousal and he's fairly certain that John could make him climax just by looking at him for another few minutes. ] I'm not sure how long I can last.

[ The words almost tumble out of him. ]

[ It's one of the things they have a outstanding agreement about, Sherlock always warning him if and when he's coming, letting him know how far along in the process he is, giving John a chance to keep track. Rein him in. Slow them down. So when the other man tells him he isn't sure how long he's going to last, it basically means: I'm close and there's an implicit search for permission in it, too. He's asking to be allowed. Well, not quite yet. Still, what he says is: ]

Don't worry about it.

[ It doesn't, however, mean: okay, come on, then.

Being a medical man has certain advantages in bed, at least in terms of understanding the human anatomy, although you'd never get him to wear scrubs doing this -- other kinds of uniforms, perhaps, yes, but not his doctor's outfit, it would be plain wrong, yet John doesn't mind using a bit of the knowledge he has at his disposal now. Leaning forward on his knees, steadying himself against the armchair with one hand and reaching out for Sherlock's cock with the other. It's a firm grip and Sherlock will probably feel it, the momentary tightening of his fingers around the base of his shaft, thumb pressing in along the underside where his vas deferens runs. You have to be careful, not to cause injury in this area, but -- like he said, he is a doctor.

He's done this before.

Releasing his hold again, he looks up at Sherlock through lowered eyelashes, lets the man draw his own conclusions. When he leans in the rest of the way, it's in order to flatten his tongue against the underside of his cock, just above his fingers, running it wet and hard up, all the way to the frenulum. Nothing's out of the ordinary, Sherlock will definitely feel the build-up once it starts, but he won't climax from it, not as long as John decides to block it and come on, they've only just got started, yeah? Briefly, he draws back to inhale, deeply, filling his lungs, licking his lips, then he closes them over the glans of Sherlock's cock, giving him the full experience of wet tongue pressing over the exposed head and the tightness of his mouth around him. ]

[ He understands the implications, of course. It means that John will fix something for them, though his brain is too dazed right now for him to make any educated guesses as to what or how. As John shifts closer, balancing one hand on the armrest, the other going for his cock, he very nearly flinches back - not out of terror or reluctance or anything silly like that but rather, because he's actually quite... worried about climaxing. At this angle, he might very well hit the man right in the eye and then, who'd know how many cups of coffee he'd have to balance on his outstretched hands before they could do this properly? He keeps himself still with an effort.

And then, John curls his fingers around the base of his cock and presses in and he gasps, loudly, muscles jumping as his climax somehow... draws away, becomes a little less... acute. Oh. Oh, of course, basic anatomy. He does his best to breathe because John may be blocking his climax but he's also touching him and his fingers are like a shock of warmth. He leans in closer and there, the wet touch of his tongue against the shaft, the sensitive string on the underside. One second, two - and then... and then... ]

Ah! Oh God, John -

[ John closes his lips (wet, he just licked them) around the bared head of his cock and presses his tongue against it and he can't, oh, oh, it's too good - hips jerking, he grabs onto the arm rests, one hand closing almost instinctively around John's wrist. He breathes roughly, staring at the other man, at the way the tip of his cock disappears into his mouth, stretching his lips. Too good, this is -- ]

[ Sherlock makes an exclamation that is very enthusiastic and also, very much cut short as John's lips tighten around the head of his cock and he sucks the length of it into his mouth slowly, the curve of the head forcing his jaw open quite a bit. Christ. His lips stretch tight around the girth of him and meanwhile, Sherlock's fingers close over his wrist against the armrest, like he needs an anchor and supposedly, he does, that's the beauty of him. With all his deductions, his breaking and entering and his doing stupid shit in the middle of the night, like playing the violin, for example, he sometimes needs someone, John specifically, please, to take over, lead the way. And luckily for them both, that's an arrangement John wholeheartedly enjoys, isn't it?

He'd smile, but he has his mouth full currently.

Sounds growing increasingly sloppy and wet, he starts off a rhythm of bobbing his head up and down, the head of Sherlock's cock sliding along the back of his tongue while the shaft takes up whatever space is actually left in his mouth, John forcing it further and further back for each inward suck. He'll be deep-throating him in a moment, really. Eyes open, watching the shadows of his own body fall over Sherlock's lap, inner thighs, pelvic area, abdomen, enjoying the sharp taste of arousal and cock and precum slowly watering out to just -- spit and skin, he feels himself slipping into that meditative, yet aroused state of mind that comes with these sessions. It's nice. Very nice.

Briefly, he turns his hand over and runs his fingertips along the thin skin of Sherlock's wrist, before withdrawing it completely and quite unceremoniously pushing it up along Sherlock's right inner thigh to his balls, cupping them softly, not applying too much pressure. The man's sensitive, he might just combust. Let's not go there. From this angle, really, he's all pale skin and the glimpse of buttocks and John pretty much just wants to bury his fingers in him. Fill him up.

Just -- to keep a proper balance, yes. ]

[ John takes him in deep, his shaft sliding along the width of his tongue and Sherlock groans, leaning back slightly in the chair and fighting against the urge to push upwards with his hips. Distantly, he realises how perfectly logical and simple the overall equation is, in terms of what's currently happening between them. Sherlock, giving John attitude in Rosehaven and danger, simultaneously. Filling him up, setting him off. Paying him back with submission, with whatever he'd like because he'd like to give him more than attitude, he'd like to give him... yes. As much as... possible. And now, John... receives.

By giving back.

With a gasp, he finally can't help it - John's fingers against his balls just feel too nice, too promising and he spreads his legs just a bit wantonly, thrusting upwards very, very slightly into his mouth. John feels so tight and warm around his cock, the wetness of his mouth is incredible and though he knows he's still too close, he chases it; lets himself go along with the rush building in his abdomen. He pushes his other hand into John's hair, fingers running down the back of his head and curling against his neck. At this very moment, it doesn't matter even the slightest whether someone gets back to him on that thing he's waiting for (what, exactly, where, how?); it doesn't matter whether John's friend what's-his-name gets lost on his way from A to B. He just wants... God, he needs to come so badly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can feel that blessed emptiness from before, from sitting on his knees and offering John his will, threatening to blow up to maximum scale. Consequently, rather than simply letting himself fall, he digs the fingers of his free hand his into his palm, hard, and grounds out: ]

John.

[ Keep me off the edge, he thinks but he can't quite say it. Instead, there's a trembling quality to his voice, a warning and something else (a plea, oh god, it's not a plea, it is not, it is, it is). ]

[ He can feel it building. It's pretty obvious, actually, when you've got your mouth full of him and one hand curled around the base of his cock, that he's building towards climax again. The unmistakable beginnings of a pulsing, his hips working, the hand in his hair, fingers digging in around the back of John's neck, holding on. Even if Sherlock hadn't said his name like that, Jesus Christ, all begging and asking both to come and not to come at once... John would have known. Certain clues don't escape even him, it seems. Abruptly, he breaks off, draws back, leaving Sherlock's cock looking spit-glistening and slick in the late afternoon light, his hand around the base of it tightening noticeably, holding him back. Fingers around his balls slip backwards a little as the other man spreads his legs like a bloody -- whore, definitely wanting it and definitely getting it, too. In a moment. ]

Good. [ His voice sounds raw and used, his jaw slightly dislocated, so good is all he can get out at the moment, but probably also all the encouragement Sherlock needs. You're good for telling him, good for handing it over like that, please proceed. ] Let me take care of it, okay?

[ Once he can feel the other man's orgasm has subsided somewhat again, he gets right back to it. Loosens his grip around the base, giving it a slight, warm and sweat-slick stroke, before opening his mouth and sucking it right back down, further this time around, feeling the head press against the back of his throat and he dips it in just a little, ignoring his gag reflex and opening up momentarily. It's not lodged in his windpipe like this, it's just... pressing... past... God, he loves this, he loves taking him in this way. He tastes like hot skin and precum and promise of surrender and it's beautiful, really.

With his other hand, he reaches up and sucks two, index and middle, into his mouth along with Sherlock's cock on the outtake, wetting them thoroughly before slipping them down along the softness of Sherlock's perineum, all the way up between his buttocks, slightly spread, very much on display here. Managing to keep a nice, slow, even rhythm with his mouth, nothing that'll get him off so easily, John runs his fingertips over the other man's arsehole, two, three times before probing at him slightly. Not forcing anything, not slipping inside, just feeling him. The tightness of him.

His own breathing sounds wheezing now whenever he's drawing back from his sucking. ]

[ John comes through for him, of course, they're both playing by the rules right now and the way he presses in against the base of his cock is exactly as expected. Exactly so. And all the same, all the air positively whooshes out of him as he jerks in the chair, his heels pressing down against the floor. God. God. The urge to come subsides slowly this time, leaving a burning sensitivity in its wake. John's fingers, the warmth of his skin, the tightness of his mouth and the back of his throat -- Sherlock throws his head back, staring up at the ceiling (unfamiliar shadows, patterns in the wood equal parts obscured and emphasised by the darkness). His mind gives up, all thought processes centered around the heat beneath his skin. The painful tightness in his balls, the light touch of fingertips against his arsehole. He can't - oh -- ]

I - [ ... he swallows, clears his throat. Tries again: ] - it's so good, John, it's... [ Pause. God, the sucking sounds of John's mouth, the way his breath sounds laboured, he's working for it, he's definitely working for it. Equal footing, despite all appearances. Despite everything you might think. ] It hurts a bit.

[ That last part is spoken in a low voice, rough around the edges, not the least bit bothered. It's mostly a statement but also, at least a little bit, a concession. It hurts, after all, because John's pushing him almost over the edge only to pull him back, send him flying, pull him back and it's making his head spin, the beauty of it, the simplicity. He needs to come so badly. God, it's too much, every touch is too much but it's also not enough. He stares upwards, blinks, breathes. Completely and utterly stuck in his body, his mind a dead-end at every available turn. ]

[ It would. Hurt a bit, John's basically holding him over the edge by the roots of his hair, of course it's bound to be felt. Groaning around his mouthful, he presses the full width of his tongue up against the underside of Sherlock's cock, dragging it along the sensitive string there and sucking greedily around the glans, lips tightening, relaxing, releasing, back down, up, down, up. At this point, it's more a mediative exercise than anything else, they're both just waiting -- no, running towards that moment when John's bound to let go of his cock and allow him to come in his mouth. At this point, John can't ignore how hard he is himself either, though he's honestly done his best this entire while. His trousers are straining, zipper feeling borderline deadly against his boner and he shifts a bit restlessly from knee to knee while he is basically having Sherlock fuck his mouth. Open, wide.

Carefully, seeing as it's only covered in saliva and not actual lube, he probes at Sherlock's arsehole with his index finger, pressing against the tight rim of it for a couple of second, pushing past the initial resistance patiently. His arse is warm, burning, and tight, he honestly can't stand the thought of it, he might just bloody well come. Nevertheless, he slowly buries the entire length of his right index finger inside of the other man, twists slightly, pushes up. Prostate, there. It's a matter of seconds now. It's a matter of building it up just right. Gasping in a breath, he moves his head up and down, sucking Sherlock off with undeniable suction now around the head, lips tight down the shaft, back, up, down, up, down.

Then, he releases his hold on his cock. Steadies himself against the armchair while he fucks him with long, even strokes of his hand. He's sweating profusely in his shirt, the smell of arousal and bodily fluids stark between them. It's good. It'll be good, Sherlock, he's made sure, absolutely perfectly sure. For you. ]

Oh G -

[ He doesn't manage even the rest of the word as John presses into him, his finger thick and warm and just a bit slick from spit. At the first touch to his prostate, he comes. Throwing his head back, curls bounding all over the place and his fingers digging into John's neck, he forgets to breathe as his climax rages through him, his cock pulsing in John's mouth and his buttocks tightening up. For a very long moment - who knows how long, what is time and why would anyone care? - he floats. His body feels light, his mind in a complete disconnect as he spends himself in John's mouth, his cock hypersensitive. His arse contracts around John's finger multiple times and he can't, he can't, it's impossible, he's disappearing into this, it's everything and nothing all at once. Blinking harshly, he struggles for air for a second before managing a long, trembling inhalation.

Then, he slumps back into the chair, his hand against the back of John's neck going limp along with the rest of his body. Lips parted, he stares blankly upwards, feeling utterly undone, his muscles trembling as he comes down only slowly. He feels immaterial, in the philosophical sense of the word. Without boundaries, beginnings or endings. It's much too fluffy and undefinable for his mind and consequently, he just sits there, stunned, stroking the back of John's neck softly while he waits.

It's a chemical rush after all, orgasm. A high. And even if it's a high like no other he's ever known and even if consequently, he understands very little of it, he knows that the laws of physics do apply. If it goes up, it goes down as well and until then, he'll float. That's what he'll do. ]

[ To be fair, John has given various people very good orgasms in his time, but even it it were comparable, what he does with Sherlock, to any other sort of sex he's had ever (which it isn't, mind), he's never reached quite so thorough a result as this. Sherlock groans something out that could be words, could -- with some goodwill be considered syllables and then his body works underneath him, in his mouth, the man's cock pulsing and spurting semen absolutely everywhere and his arsehole clenching multiple times, hard, around his finger. The association of tight muscle contracting around something inserted is enough to make John exhale sharply in turn, too busy swallowing his load to really turn up the volume himself, though he would have. He definitely would have.

After a while of that, John doesn't clock it, but it lasts more than a couple of seconds, Sherlock slumps back in his seat and just -- stays there, obviously utterly and completely neutralized. Slowly, John draws back, slips his softening cock out between his lips, cum-stained, and withdraws his finger, flexing his hand a couple of times as he balances himself against the armchair and gets up, impatiently. Dear God, he's hard. It's going to be his undoing, this thing, this man, Christ. Looking down at Sherlock who's not -- quite in the right height, nor in the right mindset for a blowjob when sitting there, debauched, the idea hits him and he doesn't even think twice about it which he should probably feel just a tiny bit bad about, but he doesn't. It belongs, all right. It's part of it. So, John begins unzipping his trousers, letting them slide down his hips and hooking his pants beneath his balls, before his cock springs free, finally. Shit. ]

Sherlock. [ He says his name breathily and brusquely at the same time as he spits in his palm, saliva mingled with cum, giving his cock the first stroke, slow, slow. ] Get on your knees, look up at me and open your mouth. [ Like an afterthought. ] Close your eyes.

[ It ends, gradually, as John releases him from it - from his mouth and his fingers, respectively. Eyes falling shut, he sits there for a long moment, simply drowning; one breath, two, three. Repeat. Exist. John gets to his feet and draws back and it's only at the sound of his trousers being unzipped that Sherlock realises he hasn't climaxed yet. Must be dying to, even. With difficulty, he forces his eyes open again and looks up, just in time to see John standing there with his cock out, hard and heavy against his (partially clothed) abdomen.

At his command, Sherlock blinks. Takes more than a couple of seconds to put two and two together before realising - oh. John wants to - he wants to...

His cock gives a pathetic little jerk and if he hadn't already come so hard, he'd be hard again at the thought alone. There's something very... dirty and primal and possessive about it, something that goes very well in hand with treating Sherlock like his own personal coffee table or denying him orgasm multiple times only to make him explode almost beyond endurance. It's equal parts crazy and amazing and consequently, it just fits them. Perfectly. That's why he slides to his knees (inelegantly), straightening up only a bit to raise his face, seeking out John's eyes in the darkness. At this level, he could suck his cock as well if he'd had the energy (he would have found it if John had asked him to). He can smell the other man's arousal, sharp and sweet.

He licks his lips. Looks up at John for a second longer before closing his eyes and opening his mouth, the act alone - so subservient - making something inside his chest tighten almost painfully.

It's not that he wants to do this, he realises. It's the fact that he wants to do it so much. ]

[ Sherlock pretty much glides out of the chair, onto his knees, inelegantly, finding his balance and turning his face up -- in the faint light from the lamps here and there, he's all skeletal shadows, deep, dark cheeks, prominent cheekbones, jawline, nose, lips, opening. Oh, fuck. Opening. John grunts something out that could be his name, could also just be noise, really. As soon as Sherlock's closes his eyes, he starts stroking himself. It's unapologetic, hard jerks, palm down the shaft, thumb over the head. It's meant to get him off, little else. No elegance, neither of them can muster than now, if ever and no refinement, just efficiency and pace. Keep up the pace, damn it. He half-moans for each backwards stroke, touching the bared head of his cock, his balls drawing up gradually. It won't be a long wank, this. Not when he's looking down at Sherlock and Sherlock's ready. To take. To take it.

As his orgasm starts building rapidly now, he reaches out with his free hand and runs his sweaty, stinking palm up the side of Sherlock's face, fingers curling around his neck, fingertips digging in. He groans some more, moans, whimpers. Tugging the other man forward, uncaring about his balance point, he'll fix it accordingly, won't he, all but pressing his dick in his face, he feels his climax washing over him almost explosively. He does say his name now, he says it twice, even, then he comes. John's fighting for his breath, looking down at how he's pretty much coating the entire right side of Sherlock's face in strings of cum, semen forming little intricate patterns over his pale skin, over the structure of his features, chin, nose, cheekbones, lips. Cheekbones. Pools and droplets and long lines. He keeps coming, keeps coming hard until it's suddenly over and he has to keep himself from collapsing on top of the other man.

He releases his face. There's cum on his wrist, too. Without letting go of his cock, he smears the last remnants of jizz out over his lips with the head of it, oversensitive and throbbing. ]

That -- [ He sounds like he's run a marathon, straightening up, stepping back one step, two. ] -- was good. We're done now.

[ The slick sounds of John's hand working his cock, fast, hard, without finesse seem to resonate in his mind as he keeps his eyes closed and his lips parted, fully capable of imagining the picture he makes for the other man, pliant, open, taking it. The thought of that, in turn, makes the heat in his chest spread to all his limbs. He breathes in deeply. Waits.

John runs his palm up the side of his face, coating his skin in sweat and remnants of cum, the smell of sex, of cock. He keeps breathing, keeps waiting, letting himself getting pulled closer until John's basically pressing his cock against his face and then - wetness. Sticky, stringy wetness all over the side of his face. John, moaning his name and that's actually quite beautiful. He doesn't look though he'd suddenly like to, quite badly in fact (just to see the cum escape from the slit of John's cock, the texture of it, its speed of projection). John told him to keep his eyes shut and at this point, he's doing exactly that and nothing less.

At the touch of John's cock against his lips, he can't help but touch the tip of his tongue to whatever he can reach, the taste of cum landing on his tongue like a salty emphasis. His breathing is still slow, almost too slow, his muscles utterly relaxed. When he finally opens his eyes (We're done now, says John), he has to blink the cum from his right eyelid, some of it getting stuck in his lashes. He doesn't look up. Doesn't look at anything, really, because he can't - he really can't. Instead, he simply gives up.

Crumbling down onto one hip, he presses one hand flatly against the floor to keep at least partially upright. His upperarm trembles slightly from his weight. Head bowed, he just blinks and stares and blinks again, mind out of business and body equally so. His world is reduced to basic questions, the barest essentials. Sleep? Like this? Fall over? John? And beneath it all; exit. That's what this is and that's what it feels like. He wipes his other hand sloppily across his face, smearing John's cum everywhere in the process and then, he just lets it be. ]

[ As if by some kind of automatic response, like we're done now were a magic spell, Sherlock crumbles to the ground, bonelessly, only just managing to catch himself against the floor with one hand while reaching up limply with the other and wiping his palm across his cum-covered face, getting the stuff absolutely everywhere and John shouldn't find it beautiful, but he does. Jesus, he really, really does. His own breathing is still escaping him in hard puffs of air, his lungs burning like he's been doing a lap (or a couple) on the obstacle course back in Helmand, burning sun, water post ahead. Slowly, he collects himself, packs his cock away in his pants, zips up his trousers and rights his shirt as much as, well, can be salvaged. Then, he straightens up and crosses the small distance between them, bending down and closing his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, pretty much dragging him first to his knees, then to his feet, supporting him on one side all the way. ]

Come here. [ He keeps his voice soothing, more soothing than most get to hear John Watson sound, mind you. Tone calm and volume lowered. Looking sideways up at Sherlock's face, his cum still sticking to two-thirds of his features, no doubt drying and uncomfortable, he breathes out through his nose, manages to fish up Sherlock's shirt and leans in to wipe the worst of the fluids off him. Just... right eyelid, free, lips, there, cheekbones. The rest is tracing. It'll have to do until the man's in a mindspace again where showering seems a feasible activity. Not now. ] Let's get you to bed.

[ It's not normally a long walk, but with Sherlock basically under one arm and post-orgasmic bliss raging through his muscles, it feels like it is a long walk all of a sudden. The bedroom temperature has cooled down over the evening and the curtains drawn, shadows following them inside. John puts Sherlock in bed, just -- places him on the mattress and pulls up the duvet. While he undresses, he watches him. The way he's been pacified completely.

It's how it works between them, of course. After sessions. The problem being if it works that way with anyone, right? John blinks, toes out of his socks and walks over to the bed, lying down behind Sherlock and pushing up against his back, draping an arm around him from the right.

Like that, he keeps him close, very close. ]

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