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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[ There's a small pause during which he simply tries to breathe, his muscles trembling in his upper arms, shoulders, thighs. The heat in his buttocks is slowly but surely transforming from red-hot to something much deeper, something that burns even when John isn't touching him, something that lingers. The thought alone is beautiful. He made John angry, yes, and anger nearly always leads to some sort of emotional consequence (hurt, abandonment) but tonight, fantastically, it also means pleasure. Anger. Pleasure. Hurt. Love. He swallows heavily, fingers curling against the carpet.

Then, John says count them aloud and he has just enough time to feel his cock leap at the thought before John's hand comes down hard on his left buttock. He manages a very shake One before the next one - then Two - and onwards. For every smack, his body feels more and more foreign, like a wrapping for all the rest that he is, thoughts, feelings. Past transgressions. After another couple of smacks, he gets lost in it, counting without thinking, his body screaming and his cock impossibly hard between his thighs, the utter contrast making him feel lighter, lighter, lighter...

At some point, his voice goes from trembling to wet, eyes tearing up though he'd be at a loss to explain why. It's not the pain, the pain is negligible. The overwhelming sense of trust, however, of giving it and receiving it in equal measures, is staggering. He can't breathe. His curls, drying rapidly at this point, have started bouncing off his forehead with every shudder going through his body and somehow, he wishes they were longer. Like a curtain. He breathes harshly as they reach Fifteen, too rapidly (exactly right), his mind at a loss to keep up. ]

[ It proves meditative, smacking Sherlock -- it's true that sometimes, the way the man moves his face, sounds coming out of it, does leave even the best (John) with an urge to punch him, but this is different. This isn't violence. This is something else that is leaving both their cocks straining, Sherlock's hard as rock against his thigh at this point, while the man counts: seven - eight - nine... John hears himself breathing, deep down his lungs, looking down at Sherlock's arse, turning gradually redder, aggressively, violently, burning red. It'll be blue in the morning, bruising, possibly. Nevertheless, he doesn't stop until Sherlock hits fifteen and starts sounding choked up, halting abruptly, from one moment to the next, hands coming to a light rest on the other man's back for a moment. His curls have dried by now and are bouncing happily around his face in time with his inhalations, exhalations. John wants to have him, like this. He wants Sherlock to bloody well take him, take him even more. Pressing both hands flat against the man's side, he pushes, harshly. ]

Get off.

[ If you didn't know him better, except Sherlock does, Sherlock knows everything, you might think he was getting up and planning to abandon you to your smarting arse and humiliated self, but he isn't. Not at all. Instead, pushing Sherlock off of him, John gets to his feet and straightens up, his cock a very evident bulge in his boxers. Sherlock left to crawl at his feet, a bundle of a person, he unceremoniously pushes his underwear down his thighs, cock springing free.

Because Sherlock is ready to take all of him, he's allowed to have all of him. It's simple, isn't it? That simple. ]

Time to use your mouth, come on.

[ It stops, suddenly, after fifteen smacks and he blinks heavily, completely caught up in the physical sensations. The burn. His cock, so hard that he thinks he might actually be able to climax from this is John keeps it up, if he just -- ]

Mmf!

[ He actually tumbles to the ground when John pushes him off. He saves himself from landing on his side in a sprawl by bouncing off his hip slightly, a slap of pain reverberating through his body from his abused buttocks. Getting to his knees, he looks up at John in confusion until the other man starts pulling down his underwear. His cock looks incredibly hard, the tip slightly red, foreskin fully retracted. Use your mouth he says and there's something almost primal about him like this. It settles in Sherlock's nervous system like heat and desire and something a lot softer, too. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he shuffles closer on his knees and looks up at the other man. The sitting room is dark around them with the curtains closed, shadows stretching long and wide along the floor, the walls, the ceiling. John's face is familiar even like this, even in the dark.

On a long, heavy exhalation, he reaches up and curls his fingers around the base of John's cock before drawing closer. The smell of arousal, sweat and skin, increases with every inch until he's close enough to part his lips around the tip. Then, it explodes on his tongue. The taste of sex. Cock. With a gasp and a visible shudder, he sucks John's cock into his mouth, taking in about a third of the shaft before the head pushes against the back of his throat. He hollows his cheeks. Sucks on it, greedily, saliva dripping from his lips and onto the floor. ]

[ Sherlock takes only a second to figure out what's going on, of course, he does -- he'd have figured it out, even if John hadn't said a word. They watch each other for a long moment, while the other man shuffles closer on his knees, drying his face with the back of his hand and John realises too late, probably because he's an idiot, possibly because he's hard, that his treatment of the man's arse has left him teary-eyed, the realisation making his cock jump right before Sherlock closes his fingers around the base of it. For God's sake.

Licking his lips, he reaches down and runs one hand through Sherlock's now almost dry curls, his hair soft between John's fingers, bouncy and resistant in every way Sherlock certainly isn't, for once -- opening his mouth and sucking the tip of John's cock in between his lips, the heat of his mouth, the wetness an onslaught on all of his senses simultaneously. John sucks in a harsh breath, spreading his legs some more for balance and watches as a third of his shaft disappears into Sherlock's mouth now before he hollows his cheeks and sucks. Very good, very receptive, yes. He tightens his grip on the man's hair, tugs.

He thinks about sitting on the terrace with Sholto, telling him about Sherlock, thinking himself out of hearing range, thinking himself safe. Jesus, he should know better by now, he should've known, shouldn't he and typically Sherlock to make such a bloody fool of him, but at the end of the day... Sherlock heard what he had to say. He'd repeat it in a heartbeat, he's repeating it right now in a different lingo.

John groans at the back of his throat and lets his head fall forward a bit, though he keeps his eyes open, watching, taking in the visual. Sherlock. Sherlock sucking him off. Sherlock having him and Sherlock taking him. No, no. This isn't punishment, is it, this is reassurance. ]

[ When John runs his fingers through his hair, Sherlock closes his eyes, leans into the touch slightly. His grip quickly turns into a tug and that, in turn, makes his own cock jerk in response, his buttocks tightening as he shifts on his knees. The pain has transformed itself again, into something resembling a warm numbness. He'll be bruised tomorrow, probably. That's what it usually feels like. The thought makes him groan, loudly, as he starts bobbing his head up and down, John's cock sliding along the width of his tongue. He takes care to press against the underside, feeling out the veins there, the structures. Gently, he folds his hand more fully around the bottom half of the shaft, just to give the sensation of pressure and tightness. He won't attempt to deep-throat him tonight, not from this angle and with his mind already in shambles. Instead, he establishes a quick, almost dirty rhythm of back and forth, letting John's cock hit the back of his throat at every instroke. The taste of cock soon diminishes, replaced by the general scents of skin and sweat, along with that very distinctive, dark flavour associated with John when he's sexually aroused.

It's nice. He lets himself fall into a pace, slightly too fast for his jaw, really, but he can ignore that in favour of giving John exactly what he deserves, now, in the wake of the past many hours. They are, in a way, re-establishing the balance and Sherlock's having now, with John giving himself freely this time rather than being tricked or fooled into doing so. There's a very crucial difference - Sherlock's rationally aware of it, though he rarely thinks about it in his daily life - and with his buttocks smarting and his cock almost achingly hard, his mind rumbled and exhausted and done, he finds himself... grateful. That John's given him the chance to feel it, too, and to accept it.

He takes him in another inch and keeps going, tightening his hand slightly around the shaft. ]

[ It very quickly melts into a blur of sensations only, visual, audio. The sloppy wetness of Sherlock's lips and tongue, working him at a fast pace, probably hurts a bit, keeping that up, but it's good. It's really very good and John groans again, doing his best to hold back the thrusting movement his hips insist on making and succeeding at least half the time. The rest of it, he's pressing himself up against the very back of the other man's throat and it's tight and promising and he wants to grab his head and just shove it down where it belongs.

He doesn't, of course. Even here, even now, John's very well-behaved in bed. That's the whole bloody point of it, isn't it?

As soon as Sherlock hits the right rhythm, the pressure builds rapidly, unstoppable and John doesn't try to temper it tonight. Edging is for another time, orgasm denial for a third, this is for quick and dirty and using Sherlock's mouth as a hole, pretty much. So he groans and groans and groans until his balls draw up, almost violently, his orgasm washing over him in tsunami-like waves. Then, he falls very quiet, riding his climax in complete silence except for the wet sound of Sherlock's mouth, the street outside, London by night. His cock pulses, he spends himself and it's perfect, it's absolutely perfect, the way he grabs Sherlock by the scalp and holds him still. Comes inside him.

Slowly releasing Sherlock's hair, he hears himself breathing shallowly. His shoulders are heaving, he's sweaty as all hell. Everything stinks like sex. It's good. Looking down at the other man again, he raises an eyebrow, nodding first at him, then at the chair behind them. One-handedly he pulls up his boxers. ]

Go stand over the chair and I'll fix you.

[ As emphasis, John steps aside only slightly shakily, his orgasm weighing down on his muscles like stones. The chair's in plain view now and the backrest is in perfect height for a little grabbing and a little bending.

Basically, he just wants to see the man's arse on display. ]

[ Sherlock loses all sense of time whilst John rides his mouth towards his climax, hand tight in his hair and his cock thick and wet against his tongue. He just takes it, takes it and gives. Sex, he realises distantly, is easier than most other things in life with transactional components. So long as you strike a nice rhythm with your partner, it works out almost by itself without all the potential failings of regular, social interaction. John groans multiple times, clearly stopping himself from simply thrusting down Sherlock's throat (they ought to try that one day - Sherlock notes it for later) until suddenly, abruptly, he comes. Sherlock tastes salt on the back of his tongue and swallows, dutifully. It's so quiet - John. John is quiet. Around them, the world persists, as it does. For a long moment, they're frozen in time like this; John, falling over the edge and Sherlock, stretched around him, taking him in and down.

Then, John releases his hair and pulls back. Sherlock massages his jaw with one hand and licks his lips, tasting John's cock, a hint of cum. He shifts on his knees, his legs cramping slightly from his weight. Looks up at John, following his movements without analysing, without knowing (seeing - and just that). Consequently, when the other man pulls up his boxers and tells him to stand over the chair, he blinks and stares at him for a long moment, trying to put two and two together.

Getting to his feet shakily, he realises only then that oh - yes - his cock is still rock-hard. His arse, incidentally, feels bruised all over. He resists the urge to twist around, just to sneak a look at himself. Instead, he pads over to the chair, grabbing on to the backrest and pausing. He wants - what? Fix you, he said which can mean quite a variety of things. With a frown, he realises that it doesn't matter; John will know. He'll choose right. Thus, Sherlock spreads his legs very slightly and leans down, sticking his arse out because really, take a look at it, John.

Fix it. ]

[ After Sherlock is done taking it and he takes it very nicely, indeed, he gets to his feet shakily and looks at him with a rare moment's confusion, although he doesn't question it, simply does as John asks and isn't that an extremely rare thing? The combination of Sherlock obeying and Sherlock not asking any damn questions. John follows him with his gaze, the way the muscles in his back work as he passes him and leans in over the chair, grabbing the backrest. The way his buttocks are shining, reddish and swollen, in the sparse light when he -- sticks his whole arse out with just enough attitude to make John wish he had another go in him. He doesn't, no, but one could wish there was time to really stick it all the way down the other man's throat on a second try, yeah.

Instead, he crosses the distance between them, stopping right behind Sherlock, close enough that he should be able to feel his presence like a heat against his skin and that might sting a little, his buttocks so utterly abused at this point. John flexes his fingers once, then reaches up with his left hand and brushes his sweaty, overheated palm down over the imprint of his own fingers on the other man's skin. Reddish now, sure, but they'll be purple tomorrow. Black and blue. Most likely Sherlock won't be able to sit down for a whole day and what a fun day that should prove to be.

And just to give him a taste of it, John presses his hand flatly against Sherlock's left buttock, letting him feel the full impact of pressure and heat against his bruised skin. ]

I like the way you wear me, you know.

[ There's a moment, again, when he has to forcefully remind himself it isn't the violence that turns him on, he isn't that kind of person, he isn't that ruthless, even if he has killed a man (several, actually) for a cause he believed in. It isn't the hitting itself, it's the game, the constant back and forth, give and take between them. Naturally, he doesn't mind crawling around after Sherlock when they're on a case, on his stomach if need be, but he loves how Sherlock in turn doesn't mind subjecting himself to him here, now.

As such, he slowly, slowly slides his hand sideways, until his fingers slip into Sherlock's arse crack, just a dip of middle and index, tips digging into very tender flesh. ]

[ Sherlock's breathing quickens as John steps closer, his growing proximity almost like a physical emission of heat, translating itself into Sherlock's blood stream like burning, desperate arousal. He shifts from foot to foot, hands clenched around the backrest.

At the first brush of fingers against his skin, he gasps, forcing himself to stay still. God, it's sore - John's fingertips feel like nails and needles, pushing in. Head bowed slightly, he manages one, long inhalation before John actually just... presses his hand against his buttock, his palm warm and damp and ohmygodohmygod - Sherlock blinks rapidly, air stuck in his throat. The muscles in his back tighten as he fights not to pull away. It's a purely instinctual reaction, shying away from pain and discomfort (just as there's an instinctual need to press back, to get more, because it's John and John is touching him). He swallows heavily, the taste of cum and cock intensifying for a moment in the back of his throat.

The way you wear me, says John and there's a throaty, well-fucked quality to his voice that makes Sherlock want to turn around on the spot and kiss him senseless, maybe drop to his knees and suck him, get him hard all over again. He thinks about tomorrow, about walking around in the flat with his buttocks aching and burning at every movement. About putting on his tightest trousers, just to feel it properly.

Then, John runs his fingers into the cleft of his arse. ]

Oh. [ He sounds exactly as breathless as he is. ] Oh, yes - yes.

[ His cock twitches, balls so tight and drawn up that it'll take mere minutes for him to get off. He shudders, spreading his legs just a fraction more in invitation. ]

[ He leans in over him a bit, they aren't touching, but somehow they're aligned anyway. Two parallel lines at an odd, awkward angle. John spreads the other man's buttocks apart with his fingers, as much as he can which is actually quite a stretch, considering the size of his hand, baring his arsehole in the process and John glances downwards, eyes seeking out the shadows. His cock actually does give a small, very weak jerk at the sight. It never seems to really stop, with Sherlock. He never seems to get enough, to get bored. Go figure. He used to date a new, what, girl by the month, literally.

Breathing out unevenly, he withdraws his hand and raises it to his lips, the musky smell of arse and arousal and Sherlock tickling his nostrils, sucking two fingers into his mouth and slicking them up good. Well and good. Then, he drops his hand to his arse again, pushing his fingers roughly in between Sherlock's buttocks and pushing straight for his entrance, running his fingers along the tight rim of it, rubbing over his opening roughly a couple of times before probing. It's not a gentle approach he takes today, he's definitely more forceful than he'd usually be, but give him a break -- Sherlock's arse is shining like beetroot and will carry John's imprints around for days. Sherlock will carry him with him. He needs to... to...

Muttering a throaty, hoarse-sounding you need to be quiet tonight, Mrs Hudson's got a visitor, can't have him thinking you're a slut, he unceremoniously pushes inside Sherlock's arse with two fingers, just the tips at first, but the rest follows soon after. Two full fingers, all the way to the knuckles. There.

Take it. ]

[ When John spreads him open, he has to force himself to breathe because he might just, eventually, faint for lack of air otherwise. Breathing shakily, he waits as John prepares, the wet sound of him sucking on his fingers going straight to Sherlock's cock. He has to fight himself not to reach down and jerk off; God, he needs it, he needs it so badly. All the same, he waits - waits for John to pop his fingers out of his mouth once more, waits for him to reach down, rubbing his arsehole roughly with his fingertips before feeling it out. He bends his neck and glances sideways over his shoulder, seeing the outline of John's shoulder and upperbody, his face cast in shadow from this angle. He breathes in. Smells him in the air, heavy and warm and dangerous.

Then, John actually speaks, growling in his ear and calling him a slut and Christ, his eyes widen as his brain fights to process it, to deal with the absolute burst of arousal rushing through his blood -- ]

Aaah! Oh God, oh - [ He bites down on his lip hard as John presses two fingers inside him. They feel large and broad, his arsehole stretching wide around them and as his buttocks tighten in response, he's reminded of his abused skin, pain flaring. John told him to be quiet but he can't, he can't possibly, as he presses back slightly against John's fingers, urging him deeper. ] Fuck, John.

[ Those last words - John's name, in particular - come out as a whimper and he'd be ashamed of his own weakness, really, if he weren't so incredibly desperate to get off. And if John didn't seem to render all those feelings of shame, of self-reproach and disapproval, obsolete. It just doesn't matter now (and he knows by now that it won't matter in the aftermath, either). He holds onto the chair for dear life, eyes falling shut as he senses his mind locking out all unnecessary input slowly but surely. In a few moments, there'll be nothing worth noting except John, John inside him, around him, on him.

What a perfect way to be. ]

[ Sherlock, naturally, doesn't quieten down even when told to. It's an unfair expectation in bed in general, supposedly, but when you've just shoved two fingers up the man's arsehole, stretching him quite thoroughly -- not to mention, when you know you're dealing with Sherlock Holmes who's rather infamous for doing exactly what he bloody well wants at any given time, maybe John shouldn't be surprised. Surprised would be the wrong word, anyway. He's -- what, excited? Delighted? Something along those lines. The quality of Sherlock's voice (fuck, John) fills him with a heavy, substantial need to take over. Normally, it would have translated itself into an urge to punch the idiot, probably, but this isn't normally, this is very, very special indeed and if Sherlock can't manage one little order on his own, John's certainly here to help him.

Fucking him shallowly with his fingers a few times, he eventually twists his hand a bit, knowing exactly where to locate the man's prostate. Without a word, without warning pretty much, he leans forward, chest coming up against Sherlock's back as he reaches forward and clamps his free hand over the other man's mouth, hard, keeping his nose free, because he doesn't want him to choke, now, does he. He just wants him to be quiet, like he told him to be, yes. His cheek presses against the back of Sherlock's neck, his curls smell like sweat and sex and all the attitude that Sherlock is and shouldn't ever stop being.

Not if John can help it. ]

Were you listening to me? [ Pause. His breathing sounds laboured in his own ears and he's approximately ten minutes from a unmistakable hard-on. Softer: ] Shh. You can touch yourself now, go on.

[ And with his one hand pressed flat over Sherlock's mouth, the other working his arse open, fingers rubbing over his prostate at ever instroke, John just leans against him, all broad chest and half-mast against his upper thigh. He's breathing shallowly, pressing light kisses against the side of Sherlock's head, his hairline, his hair.

Waiting for him to surrender. He knows, between these four walls, at least, he won't be waiting in vain. The rest of the world, then, can kindly go fuck itself. ]

[ His brain can't pick a point of focus - there's John's fingers in his arse, stretching him, curving just like that and ohgod prostate, oh - there's his body, warm against his back, his scent everywhere, his taste on his tongue.

And then, there's the other man's hand, pressing over his mouth, blocking off his next moan which breaks off midway in sheer surprise. He stares forward, wide-eyed, as John fingers him, telling him to touch himself, telling him shh and he's everywhere, he's everything and his lips are so soft. Sherlock meets his thrusts with small, shallow twists of his hips, his buttocks smarting with the movement and suddenly, abruptly, his thoughts simply shut off. He stops. Everything stops. Instead, there's just his body, working and assimilating and he's nothing, just something being fucked, taking it, something that John... loves, because he can realise that now when he's nothing, when he can't think and when he can't be. It's just a fact like so many others, a physical, undeniable fact.

With a choked gasp, he reaches down and curls his hand around himself, not wet enough but warm. Tight. His body's shaking every time John hits his prostate, pleasure surging through his lower body and making his balls feel close to bursting. Moaning against John's hand, open-mouthed and without restraint, he starts jerking off. The additional friction throws him over the edge almost immediately and within seconds, he's coming, hard, spending himself in fast burst, his arse contracting around John's fingers. As his muscles tense and release, tense and release, he finally slumps against the chair, one hand still clenched around the backrest. Legs shaking and lips still parted against John's palm, he gasps for air, feeling wrung out and undefinable.

He inhales John's scent, again and again. Squeezes his eyes shut and relases his cock before wiping his face with the back of his hand. Insanity, he thinks when his hand comes away wet, has never been this grand. ]

[ Doing as he's told and of course he would, he's got absolutely nothing to lose on it, Sherlock wraps his fingers around his cock and starts jerking off, moaning loudly against the palm of John's hand, keeping quiet only by way of force. Very typical, isn't it, and very hot. Very, very hot. John can feel the man's entire body shaking for every stroke, his buttocks working which must sting, yes, clenching as he simultaneously pushes back against John's fingers, fucking himself. John slips into a calmness that's weirdly arousing, his cock definitely interested now, but he's pretty sure once Sherlock comes -- And Sherlock comes. Spending himself all over the chair, they'll probably need to get rid of it, really, Mycroft wouldn't want to sit on that, his arsehole contracts around John's fingers and John keeps the instrokes going until, eventually, Sherlock slumps against the chair, a heavy weight against John's back, a tight bundle of quivering muscles around his fingers, against his hand. He pulls out and dries off his fingers in his boxers briefly, before unceremoniously wrapping his free arm around the other man's front, supporting him while he releases his face with the other and gives his shoulder a yank, all but flipping him in his grip. ]

Come on. [ Although still terribly throaty, his tone of voice is softer now. Yeah, the man hasn't got any more to give and that's fine, that's good. He's been reasonably well-behaved, he deserves this. After all, John can feel that while he couldn't wring out Sherlock for anything else sex related, he can hardly even expect him to walk right now, his legs visibly shaking and his expression vacant. Who's the vacant one now, Sherlock? Isn't it nice? John smiles, softly, slips his arm down so it's holding the man by the curve of his buttocks, before sort of hoisting him over his right shoulder with a loud, laboured hmph. ] Let's go.

[ It's an afterthought, lifting him up and walking towards the bedroom, leaving the wet spot to dry and only matter in the morning. Not that Sherlock doesn't weigh, what, something that feels like half a ton, but John's still carried around sand bags much, much heavier than him. Sure, he was fitter then and not invalided, but Sherlock's thin and right now he's cooperative, too. John's got this. He's got him.

He's got him. ]

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