The Hollow Man. [[Oneshot]] {BBC Sherlock, Sherlock/John, NC-17}
Posted on 2012.01.27 at 02:31Current Location: Home
Current Music: God? - The Dodos
Title: The Hollow Man. [[Oneshot]]
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Smutty Sherlock/John oneshot. Sherlock has other ideas in mind and calls John off work one morning. Title and a few lines yoinked from the God that is T.S. Eliot.
Dedicated to the amazing Kelsey.
Sherlock's fingers trip down John's spine, the corner of his lips quirking as John shivers and turns around. He touches the very edge of John's boxers – the only thing he's wearing – and reaches forwards, plucking the shirt from John's hands and dropping it back inside the wardrobe.
“Don't,” he murmurs, catching John's wrists before he can bend to pick it up again. “I already called you in sick today.” John's expression hovers halfway between a frown and a rough look of affection and he slowly raises his eyebrows.
“Sherlock, you can't just call me in sick because you feel like it.”
“They'll be fine without you.”
“That's not the point. Some of us do have to work a regular job for a living, you know. Remember when they shut off the gas?” Sherlock lifts his hand and traces his thumb over John's raised eyebrow, watching. He's not really angry – just... admonishing.
“You can miss one day.”
“What if they fire me?”
“Sarah still has feelings for you, you won't be fired. Are we done talking about this? I want to go back to bed.”
“Sarah does not--...” John huffs, rubbing his face with the heel of his hand, ignoring Sherlock's other fingers trailing up his forearm to his chest. “This really isn't fair. What if I tried to drag you to bed halfway through a case?”
“Why would you?” Sherlock smirks, his fingers sweeping down over John's stomach. “You'd be there at the crime scene, working alongside me.” Something in John's face softens and his wide, warm palms press against Sherlock's hips.
“You're an arrogant, demanding bastard, you know that, right?”
“Of course,” Sherlock scoffs, leaning down and brushing his lips against John's. “It's part of my charm.” John laughs at that and digs his thumb into Sherlock's side. He opens his mouth but Sherlock shifts closer and cuts off his reply by flicking his tongue along the smooth line of John's teeth, curling deeper as his hands slip round to John's lower back and then his arse.
Sherlock manages to walk John halfway back to the bed before the kiss breaks and John puts his hands flat on Sherlock's chest.
“Now just--... just hold on a second,” he mumbles, but Sherlock rolls his eyes and sneaks his fingers under the elastic of John's waistband before tilting his hips and pressing their bodies together. He can feel the beginning of John's erection against his own, so he shifts his stance and grinds up against him.
John makes a soft noise that sounds equal parts hungry and annoyed, but he slumps as Sherlock bites at his lower lip and sucks.
“Come to bed, John...” he murmurs, and it's a request more than an order, dropping the pitch of his voice as he nudges them together again. John shudders against him and grips Sherlock's hips tight, snorting softly.
“God, Sherlock...” John pushes and Sherlock grins as the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sits, tugging John onto his lap. The position is a little awkward and John is balanced precariously, but Sherlock grips his thighs and kisses him again. It's slow and deep and when they break apart for air they're both panting, hard and hot against each other.
“Excellent choice, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock drawls, raking his nails down the insides of John's thighs before tugging him closer, toppling them back onto the mattress, John's hands on either side of Sherlock's head.
“Like I had a choice,” John snorts, shifting and balancing his weight before trailing one hand down Sherlock's chest. Sherlock wraps his fingers around John's wrist, his thumb stroking over a small scar on the back of his hand.
“You always have a choice,” he murmurs, utterly seriously. There are many, many things he could push John into doing – and he often does manipulate him – but something like this is too fragile. This is a level of interaction where cold logic doesn't always work. He could make John do this, could cajole and tease and seduce and even threaten (in a sense), but... it's not appealing. Not even a little. John's eyes flash warmer, a small smile touches his lips as he presses his palm to Sherlock's stomach.
“Like I'd ever say no to this. Not that that's a challenge,” he adds quickly, raising an eyebrow. “Or that you're allowed to call me in sick because you want to.”
“Duly noted,” Sherlock smirks, lifting his other hand and cupping the back of John's head. “Though I'm making no promises.” John rolls his eyes but leans down, nudging their foreheads together as Sherlock lets go of John's wrist and slides his hand down to rest on John's arse for a moment. Then he hooks his fingers under the waistband and tugs. John shifts and Sherlock uses both hands to push his boxers down and off, letting John do the same to him.
Sherlock closes his eyes and wraps his arms around John's shoulders, tilting his neck and pressing his face to the space under John's chin. He exhales slowly, the warm weight and firm press of skin to skin all down his body is almost as soporific as it is arousing.
It slows him down. Draws him out. Curbs the white-light shrapnel in his brain, soothes the endless ricochet of his thoughts and lets him breathe a little easier. But with the calm comes the storm, and Sherlock flexes his hips as he sucks a mark below John's jaw and runs his nails down John's back.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John whispers, touching the corner of Sherlock's lips with his thumb before leaning down and kissing him. Sherlock grins into it as he flexes his fingers and grips the backs of John's thighs, tugging him down as he arches up, the kiss breaking when they both inhale sharply at the languid, heavy slide of their cocks.
Sherlock's almost tempted to stay like this. Even though John's weight and heat, his short, sharp breaths, the way his muscles bunch and tense and the feeling of being almost enveloped in warmth and pleasure is something he's beginning to know better, it's still shockingly new; and sometimes he aches for it.
But they did that last night against the wall in the kitchen, hard and fast and messy and John had mumbled something about them not being bloody teenagers before groaning 'to hell with it' and almost ripping Sherlock's shirt off him. Now that everything's treacle-heavy in the morning light oozing through the curtains, his limbs are too leaden for those sudden, snappy movements.
Sherlock reaches between them and wraps his fingers around both of their cocks, each slow stroke pressing their slick tips together. He angles his head and bites softly at John's lower lip, licking over the sting and back into his mouth, toes curling along John's ankle. He breaks away a moment after John's fingers join his, breathing heavily as he looks up at his lover.
“I want you in me...” his voice is low and scratchy, and he doesn't miss the way John's cock throbs along his as he speaks.
“Okay,” John breathes, letting go of them the same time as Sherlock does. They've done this a few times, both of them, but Sherlock still feels a thrill spill down his spine as they shift closer to the middle of the bed.
“Wait,” he murmurs, moving up onto his knees and gently nudging the other to lay on his back. He throws a long leg over John and straddles him, smirking as comprehension dawns on John's face. “Like this.”
“Are you--... are you sure...?” John asks. Sherlock shivers at the slow, hungry way John's hands slide up his thighs, spread over the other's. This position is new but it offers a lot of interesting opportunities – and it's perfect for the hot hunger gnawing at Sherlock, the ache to be in control, to set the pace, and to be fucked. He licks his lips, brushing his fingers over John's chest.
“Of course.” Sherlock reaches over to the beside cabinet and pulls out the half-empty tube of KY, tapping the edge of it against the underside of John's jaw before dropping it into his hand. John takes it, his palm stroking down Sherlock's back.
Sherlock leans down, on his knees and elbows, covering John. He buries his face back into the other's neck, breathing in and letting his lips and teeth trail across sensitive skin. This is something he never used to crave. This slow-burn, this tight patience, John's skin between his lips – someone else so close. No words, no deductions, no 'facts'.
Just sensation for the sake of sensation – pleasure for the sake of pleasure. It helps that John's praise carries on to the bedroom, and 'fuck, Christ, Sherlock, like that' is just as good as 'that was bloody fantastic back there'.
He hums low in his throat as a slick finger brushes against his entrance – clumsy and messy until John has his bearings, and then it's not yet quite practised, but it's confident as he presses in. Sherlock arches back, dragging his cock along John's when the hot-blade twist in his stomach claws for more. John's lips brush his temple, and it's those actions – those tiny gestures that at first seem so insignificant – that make his ribs constrict around his lungs and the tips of his toes tingle.
Sherlock pulls his head back, covering John's mouth with his own until he feels a second finger slowly edge past his entrance. He breaks the kiss, his body tilting to the side as he lifts his hand to cup John's cheek.
“You know,” he starts, swallowing when his voice catches and breaks, “you know that this... all of this... it has a meaning, John. To me.” John licks his lips, his hand slowing and then stilling. “I just need you to understand that.”
“I know,” John murmurs, and he's trying to keep a poker face, but Sherlock tracks the twitch of his jaw – muscles contracted and clamped to control a smile. He crooks a flash of one back and clenches down on John's fingers, raising an eyebrow.
“If you don't mind...?” John snorts, kissing at the curve of Sherlock's clavicle just before he spreads his fingers wide and Sherlock hums again, a little louder.
In the beginning, it was different. It wasn't about anything like love or caring, it was about property and ownership. John was his, a toy, a skull, a play-thing, and in the beginning he was a convenience. Something at Sherlock's call and beckon – and if John didn't like it, he could leave.
But he hadn't. Not even when he'd accidentally thrown out Sherlock's impeccably ordered collection of dyed and natural hairs and Sherlock had played Stravinsky outside his door for two nights straight. Not even when Sherlock had almost poisoned him by leaving arsenic in the sugar bowl.
Not even when, in a sudden seizure of uncontrollable, uncontainable emotion, Sherlock had shoved him down onto the sofa and kissed him.
Sherlock groans softly as three fingers slip deep inside him. John is methodical, thorough and everything a medical professional should be with his hands – but he's gentle and almost curious too, utterly sincere in wanting to do this with Sherlock, wanting it to be as good as it can.
He doesn't fully understand it – isn't quite able to grasp that depth and complexity of John's emotion, but he appreciates it. He can, as much as Donovan and Anderson might scoff at his ability to feel anything at all, sense it in himself too. He just can't quite catch it, show it, revel in it the same way 'normal' people can.
It must be love, but it doesn't feel as stupid and inane as he'd heard it described. He doesn't feel giddy or fluttery, doesn't feel the urge to write sonnets or songs. He'd always believed it to be a big, complicated, exasperating torrent of undesirable emotions, but everything is just... easier to deal with.
He feels less like a comet, smashing through galaxies and into stars in a snap-crash explosion of inferno-light and more like a planet orbited by its steady moon.
“John,” he murmurs, planting his hand flat on John's chest and pushing himself up to sit. “I'm ready.” He's touching breathless, cock hard and the space between them is sticky with sweat and precome. John nods and pulls his fingers free.
“Condom...?” He asks, holding his hand out, but Sherlock shakes his head. They're both clean, and Sherlock wants to be as close as they can be.
“Like this.” John hesitates, and Sherlock can almost see the medical arguments flicking through his mind before he heaves a sigh and crooks an eyebrow, giving in.
“Alright.” Sherlock plucks the bottle of gel from the rumpled sheets, slicking up his palm and reaching between them to twist his fingers around John's length. John grips Sherlock's thighs tighter as he shivers, licking his lips and exhaling slowly when Sherlock lets him go and rises up onto his knees, dragging his body along John's and reaching behind him. He shifts, stroking John's cock once, twice, before he straightens his back a little and angles himself so the tip is against his entrance.
The burn is instant but more than welcome – a hot, sharp ache up his vertebrae that feels like every drop of cartilage is trembling, the tendons and ligaments catching fire and spitting sparks, and this is his favourite part. The bonfire-push of John's cock, the clench of muscles and the feeling of utter fullness.
It shuts his brain down, and it is glorious. In these moments he's at peace. All he can do is feel, and it's astounding how something as basic as sex, as simple as pure, natural chemical changes in his brain gives him the reprise drugs and cigarettes touch upon.
Sherlock huffs out a low noise, sinking his body down on John in one long, slow movement until their hips are flush together and John is shaking beneath him.
“Christ, Sherlock,” he breathes, cheeks red and eyes glazed. Sherlock trails his fingertips along the contours of John's jaw and smirks as he clenches around him just to feel the way John grits his teeth. He drops his palms, splaying his hands over John's chest for leverage as he slides his body up before rocking back down again.
It's bliss. Sherlock tilts his head back with a short groan and concentrates on the whip-snap-crack pleasure, focuses on angling his hips so that as he arches the tip of John's cock grinds against his prostate. His nails dig into the firm muscles of John's sternum and his toes catch and curl in the sheets.
“John,” he breathes, “look at me. Keep... keep your eyes on me...” John's eyes drift back open and he grits out several swear words, his fingers curving around Sherlock's cock. He moves as slow and lazy as the roll and dip of Sherlock's hips, the curve of lips and aching grip of his knees locked tight.
“Sherlock, Sherlock...”
“Keep looking at me...” Sherlock clenches tighter around him, each breath punctured by a twist of a gasp and a moan, quiet and low and bubbling out from the base of his throat – and John is groaning softly. Neither of them are loud, but John is whispering 'God, yes, Sherlock, perfect', and it's so much better than vulgar screaming or wailing.
Molten gold bubbles through his veins as they move again and again and again, his blood singing with it as arousal and pleasure curl tighter, tighter, tighter – sunk down in his stomach. Sweat clings to the hollows of his face – to the lines on John's – and he leans down with a sharp snap of his hips, biting at John's lip in a kiss that howls 'mine'.
It's not all about ownership and possession, not at all, but John is his and Sherlock will never let anyone take him away.
John's hips stutter underneath him and his fist around Sherlock's cock is moving faster, harder, shakier – it's like gunpowder, like lighting the fuse, the napalm on his skin and he is burning, burning, burning, burning - O Lord John Watson pluckest me out, O Lord John Watson pluckest – burning.
His head spins and he is growling vibrant noises into John's mouth as the whirlwind fire tears at them, his cock throbbing and sheer bliss thrumming through his whole body – sharp and tight; and his skin is stretched over his bones, the hair tugging at the follicle and the crash and stretch of John's cock in him is all he knows.
Sherlock's movements are bordering frantic, John's erratic and he can feel his orgasm start to pull from the very corners of his body, nails through taffy, sweet and thick and sticky and he is not a hollow man, not like this, not anymore.
John comes with an aching groan, scrabbling for purchase on Sherlock's skin. Liquid warmth floods him and John strokes three, four, five times and every speck of Sherlock's self shatters into stained glass, raining colour as he chokes out John's name and comes between them, every joint locking.
He slumps over John a long moment later, face hitting the pillow as he sighs out his utter bliss, the post-coital fog in his mind almost as good as the sex. John's hands trace the bones of Sherlock's spine as they breathe again and Sherlock hums a content note, nudging his nose under John's ear to kiss a mark.
“... Much better than telling the same people they've just got a cold...” John snorts at that and pinches Sherlock's side, rubbing his thumb over the sting immediately after.
“I'm not going to agree with you because I don't want to encourage you calling me off work when you want to.”
“Even though it's true?”
“Even though it's true,” John yawns, looping his arms around Sherlock's waist. “Fancy sharing the shower?”
“... In a moment,” Sherlock murmurs. When the machine-gun fire in his brain starts up once more, but not until then.
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Smutty Sherlock/John oneshot. Sherlock has other ideas in mind and calls John off work one morning. Title and a few lines yoinked from the God that is T.S. Eliot.
Dedicated to the amazing Kelsey.
Sherlock's fingers trip down John's spine, the corner of his lips quirking as John shivers and turns around. He touches the very edge of John's boxers – the only thing he's wearing – and reaches forwards, plucking the shirt from John's hands and dropping it back inside the wardrobe.
“Don't,” he murmurs, catching John's wrists before he can bend to pick it up again. “I already called you in sick today.” John's expression hovers halfway between a frown and a rough look of affection and he slowly raises his eyebrows.
“Sherlock, you can't just call me in sick because you feel like it.”
“They'll be fine without you.”
“That's not the point. Some of us do have to work a regular job for a living, you know. Remember when they shut off the gas?” Sherlock lifts his hand and traces his thumb over John's raised eyebrow, watching. He's not really angry – just... admonishing.
“You can miss one day.”
“What if they fire me?”
“Sarah still has feelings for you, you won't be fired. Are we done talking about this? I want to go back to bed.”
“Sarah does not--...” John huffs, rubbing his face with the heel of his hand, ignoring Sherlock's other fingers trailing up his forearm to his chest. “This really isn't fair. What if I tried to drag you to bed halfway through a case?”
“Why would you?” Sherlock smirks, his fingers sweeping down over John's stomach. “You'd be there at the crime scene, working alongside me.” Something in John's face softens and his wide, warm palms press against Sherlock's hips.
“You're an arrogant, demanding bastard, you know that, right?”
“Of course,” Sherlock scoffs, leaning down and brushing his lips against John's. “It's part of my charm.” John laughs at that and digs his thumb into Sherlock's side. He opens his mouth but Sherlock shifts closer and cuts off his reply by flicking his tongue along the smooth line of John's teeth, curling deeper as his hands slip round to John's lower back and then his arse.
Sherlock manages to walk John halfway back to the bed before the kiss breaks and John puts his hands flat on Sherlock's chest.
“Now just--... just hold on a second,” he mumbles, but Sherlock rolls his eyes and sneaks his fingers under the elastic of John's waistband before tilting his hips and pressing their bodies together. He can feel the beginning of John's erection against his own, so he shifts his stance and grinds up against him.
John makes a soft noise that sounds equal parts hungry and annoyed, but he slumps as Sherlock bites at his lower lip and sucks.
“Come to bed, John...” he murmurs, and it's a request more than an order, dropping the pitch of his voice as he nudges them together again. John shudders against him and grips Sherlock's hips tight, snorting softly.
“God, Sherlock...” John pushes and Sherlock grins as the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sits, tugging John onto his lap. The position is a little awkward and John is balanced precariously, but Sherlock grips his thighs and kisses him again. It's slow and deep and when they break apart for air they're both panting, hard and hot against each other.
“Excellent choice, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock drawls, raking his nails down the insides of John's thighs before tugging him closer, toppling them back onto the mattress, John's hands on either side of Sherlock's head.
“Like I had a choice,” John snorts, shifting and balancing his weight before trailing one hand down Sherlock's chest. Sherlock wraps his fingers around John's wrist, his thumb stroking over a small scar on the back of his hand.
“You always have a choice,” he murmurs, utterly seriously. There are many, many things he could push John into doing – and he often does manipulate him – but something like this is too fragile. This is a level of interaction where cold logic doesn't always work. He could make John do this, could cajole and tease and seduce and even threaten (in a sense), but... it's not appealing. Not even a little. John's eyes flash warmer, a small smile touches his lips as he presses his palm to Sherlock's stomach.
“Like I'd ever say no to this. Not that that's a challenge,” he adds quickly, raising an eyebrow. “Or that you're allowed to call me in sick because you want to.”
“Duly noted,” Sherlock smirks, lifting his other hand and cupping the back of John's head. “Though I'm making no promises.” John rolls his eyes but leans down, nudging their foreheads together as Sherlock lets go of John's wrist and slides his hand down to rest on John's arse for a moment. Then he hooks his fingers under the waistband and tugs. John shifts and Sherlock uses both hands to push his boxers down and off, letting John do the same to him.
Sherlock closes his eyes and wraps his arms around John's shoulders, tilting his neck and pressing his face to the space under John's chin. He exhales slowly, the warm weight and firm press of skin to skin all down his body is almost as soporific as it is arousing.
It slows him down. Draws him out. Curbs the white-light shrapnel in his brain, soothes the endless ricochet of his thoughts and lets him breathe a little easier. But with the calm comes the storm, and Sherlock flexes his hips as he sucks a mark below John's jaw and runs his nails down John's back.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John whispers, touching the corner of Sherlock's lips with his thumb before leaning down and kissing him. Sherlock grins into it as he flexes his fingers and grips the backs of John's thighs, tugging him down as he arches up, the kiss breaking when they both inhale sharply at the languid, heavy slide of their cocks.
Sherlock's almost tempted to stay like this. Even though John's weight and heat, his short, sharp breaths, the way his muscles bunch and tense and the feeling of being almost enveloped in warmth and pleasure is something he's beginning to know better, it's still shockingly new; and sometimes he aches for it.
But they did that last night against the wall in the kitchen, hard and fast and messy and John had mumbled something about them not being bloody teenagers before groaning 'to hell with it' and almost ripping Sherlock's shirt off him. Now that everything's treacle-heavy in the morning light oozing through the curtains, his limbs are too leaden for those sudden, snappy movements.
Sherlock reaches between them and wraps his fingers around both of their cocks, each slow stroke pressing their slick tips together. He angles his head and bites softly at John's lower lip, licking over the sting and back into his mouth, toes curling along John's ankle. He breaks away a moment after John's fingers join his, breathing heavily as he looks up at his lover.
“I want you in me...” his voice is low and scratchy, and he doesn't miss the way John's cock throbs along his as he speaks.
“Okay,” John breathes, letting go of them the same time as Sherlock does. They've done this a few times, both of them, but Sherlock still feels a thrill spill down his spine as they shift closer to the middle of the bed.
“Wait,” he murmurs, moving up onto his knees and gently nudging the other to lay on his back. He throws a long leg over John and straddles him, smirking as comprehension dawns on John's face. “Like this.”
“Are you--... are you sure...?” John asks. Sherlock shivers at the slow, hungry way John's hands slide up his thighs, spread over the other's. This position is new but it offers a lot of interesting opportunities – and it's perfect for the hot hunger gnawing at Sherlock, the ache to be in control, to set the pace, and to be fucked. He licks his lips, brushing his fingers over John's chest.
“Of course.” Sherlock reaches over to the beside cabinet and pulls out the half-empty tube of KY, tapping the edge of it against the underside of John's jaw before dropping it into his hand. John takes it, his palm stroking down Sherlock's back.
Sherlock leans down, on his knees and elbows, covering John. He buries his face back into the other's neck, breathing in and letting his lips and teeth trail across sensitive skin. This is something he never used to crave. This slow-burn, this tight patience, John's skin between his lips – someone else so close. No words, no deductions, no 'facts'.
Just sensation for the sake of sensation – pleasure for the sake of pleasure. It helps that John's praise carries on to the bedroom, and 'fuck, Christ, Sherlock, like that' is just as good as 'that was bloody fantastic back there'.
He hums low in his throat as a slick finger brushes against his entrance – clumsy and messy until John has his bearings, and then it's not yet quite practised, but it's confident as he presses in. Sherlock arches back, dragging his cock along John's when the hot-blade twist in his stomach claws for more. John's lips brush his temple, and it's those actions – those tiny gestures that at first seem so insignificant – that make his ribs constrict around his lungs and the tips of his toes tingle.
Sherlock pulls his head back, covering John's mouth with his own until he feels a second finger slowly edge past his entrance. He breaks the kiss, his body tilting to the side as he lifts his hand to cup John's cheek.
“You know,” he starts, swallowing when his voice catches and breaks, “you know that this... all of this... it has a meaning, John. To me.” John licks his lips, his hand slowing and then stilling. “I just need you to understand that.”
“I know,” John murmurs, and he's trying to keep a poker face, but Sherlock tracks the twitch of his jaw – muscles contracted and clamped to control a smile. He crooks a flash of one back and clenches down on John's fingers, raising an eyebrow.
“If you don't mind...?” John snorts, kissing at the curve of Sherlock's clavicle just before he spreads his fingers wide and Sherlock hums again, a little louder.
In the beginning, it was different. It wasn't about anything like love or caring, it was about property and ownership. John was his, a toy, a skull, a play-thing, and in the beginning he was a convenience. Something at Sherlock's call and beckon – and if John didn't like it, he could leave.
But he hadn't. Not even when he'd accidentally thrown out Sherlock's impeccably ordered collection of dyed and natural hairs and Sherlock had played Stravinsky outside his door for two nights straight. Not even when Sherlock had almost poisoned him by leaving arsenic in the sugar bowl.
Not even when, in a sudden seizure of uncontrollable, uncontainable emotion, Sherlock had shoved him down onto the sofa and kissed him.
Sherlock groans softly as three fingers slip deep inside him. John is methodical, thorough and everything a medical professional should be with his hands – but he's gentle and almost curious too, utterly sincere in wanting to do this with Sherlock, wanting it to be as good as it can.
He doesn't fully understand it – isn't quite able to grasp that depth and complexity of John's emotion, but he appreciates it. He can, as much as Donovan and Anderson might scoff at his ability to feel anything at all, sense it in himself too. He just can't quite catch it, show it, revel in it the same way 'normal' people can.
It must be love, but it doesn't feel as stupid and inane as he'd heard it described. He doesn't feel giddy or fluttery, doesn't feel the urge to write sonnets or songs. He'd always believed it to be a big, complicated, exasperating torrent of undesirable emotions, but everything is just... easier to deal with.
He feels less like a comet, smashing through galaxies and into stars in a snap-crash explosion of inferno-light and more like a planet orbited by its steady moon.
“John,” he murmurs, planting his hand flat on John's chest and pushing himself up to sit. “I'm ready.” He's touching breathless, cock hard and the space between them is sticky with sweat and precome. John nods and pulls his fingers free.
“Condom...?” He asks, holding his hand out, but Sherlock shakes his head. They're both clean, and Sherlock wants to be as close as they can be.
“Like this.” John hesitates, and Sherlock can almost see the medical arguments flicking through his mind before he heaves a sigh and crooks an eyebrow, giving in.
“Alright.” Sherlock plucks the bottle of gel from the rumpled sheets, slicking up his palm and reaching between them to twist his fingers around John's length. John grips Sherlock's thighs tighter as he shivers, licking his lips and exhaling slowly when Sherlock lets him go and rises up onto his knees, dragging his body along John's and reaching behind him. He shifts, stroking John's cock once, twice, before he straightens his back a little and angles himself so the tip is against his entrance.
The burn is instant but more than welcome – a hot, sharp ache up his vertebrae that feels like every drop of cartilage is trembling, the tendons and ligaments catching fire and spitting sparks, and this is his favourite part. The bonfire-push of John's cock, the clench of muscles and the feeling of utter fullness.
It shuts his brain down, and it is glorious. In these moments he's at peace. All he can do is feel, and it's astounding how something as basic as sex, as simple as pure, natural chemical changes in his brain gives him the reprise drugs and cigarettes touch upon.
Sherlock huffs out a low noise, sinking his body down on John in one long, slow movement until their hips are flush together and John is shaking beneath him.
“Christ, Sherlock,” he breathes, cheeks red and eyes glazed. Sherlock trails his fingertips along the contours of John's jaw and smirks as he clenches around him just to feel the way John grits his teeth. He drops his palms, splaying his hands over John's chest for leverage as he slides his body up before rocking back down again.
It's bliss. Sherlock tilts his head back with a short groan and concentrates on the whip-snap-crack pleasure, focuses on angling his hips so that as he arches the tip of John's cock grinds against his prostate. His nails dig into the firm muscles of John's sternum and his toes catch and curl in the sheets.
“John,” he breathes, “look at me. Keep... keep your eyes on me...” John's eyes drift back open and he grits out several swear words, his fingers curving around Sherlock's cock. He moves as slow and lazy as the roll and dip of Sherlock's hips, the curve of lips and aching grip of his knees locked tight.
“Sherlock, Sherlock...”
“Keep looking at me...” Sherlock clenches tighter around him, each breath punctured by a twist of a gasp and a moan, quiet and low and bubbling out from the base of his throat – and John is groaning softly. Neither of them are loud, but John is whispering 'God, yes, Sherlock, perfect', and it's so much better than vulgar screaming or wailing.
Molten gold bubbles through his veins as they move again and again and again, his blood singing with it as arousal and pleasure curl tighter, tighter, tighter – sunk down in his stomach. Sweat clings to the hollows of his face – to the lines on John's – and he leans down with a sharp snap of his hips, biting at John's lip in a kiss that howls 'mine'.
It's not all about ownership and possession, not at all, but John is his and Sherlock will never let anyone take him away.
John's hips stutter underneath him and his fist around Sherlock's cock is moving faster, harder, shakier – it's like gunpowder, like lighting the fuse, the napalm on his skin and he is burning, burning, burning, burning - O Lord John Watson pluckest me out, O Lord John Watson pluckest – burning.
His head spins and he is growling vibrant noises into John's mouth as the whirlwind fire tears at them, his cock throbbing and sheer bliss thrumming through his whole body – sharp and tight; and his skin is stretched over his bones, the hair tugging at the follicle and the crash and stretch of John's cock in him is all he knows.
Sherlock's movements are bordering frantic, John's erratic and he can feel his orgasm start to pull from the very corners of his body, nails through taffy, sweet and thick and sticky and he is not a hollow man, not like this, not anymore.
John comes with an aching groan, scrabbling for purchase on Sherlock's skin. Liquid warmth floods him and John strokes three, four, five times and every speck of Sherlock's self shatters into stained glass, raining colour as he chokes out John's name and comes between them, every joint locking.
He slumps over John a long moment later, face hitting the pillow as he sighs out his utter bliss, the post-coital fog in his mind almost as good as the sex. John's hands trace the bones of Sherlock's spine as they breathe again and Sherlock hums a content note, nudging his nose under John's ear to kiss a mark.
“... Much better than telling the same people they've just got a cold...” John snorts at that and pinches Sherlock's side, rubbing his thumb over the sting immediately after.
“I'm not going to agree with you because I don't want to encourage you calling me off work when you want to.”
“Even though it's true?”
“Even though it's true,” John yawns, looping his arms around Sherlock's waist. “Fancy sharing the shower?”
“... In a moment,” Sherlock murmurs. When the machine-gun fire in his brain starts up once more, but not until then.
