storyline one.

[docwithablog]

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

Comments

[docwithablog]

[ 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. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ 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). ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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. ]

[acuriousincident]

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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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.

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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.

[acuriousincident]

[ 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. ]

[docwithablog]

[ 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. ]