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keelywolfeTitle: The Seven-Day Virgin: Day Three; Reprise
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:5000, this chapter.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.
Continued from:
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Three: Reprise
The laundry facilities were in the basement at Baker street, a washer and dryer that John shared with the other tenants and Mrs Hudson. They were all quite amicable about it all, politely bowing to the needs of others though John privately thought it was best that Sherlock's wardrobe was mostly dry clean only.
Most of the other tenants had actual jobs and that left the facilities well available during the day. John sorted his clothes into the machine, dumped in the soap and then slouched down to sit on the cool concrete floor, leaning back against the washer as he tried rather decidedly not to think.
Obstetrics was not really John's field of study. As it turned out, there weren't too many pregnant soldiers in Afghanistan or at least not any that lingered about to the actual birthing stage.
Still, he did read up on it occasionally in the medical journals and he recalled at least one study on promoting sleep in new-borns. One recommended technique was to place the infant in their car seat and set it atop a running washing machine. The motion, the liquid rhythm of it soothed them to sleep like that of a dim memory of the oceanic rushing of womb, mingled with their mother's heartbeat.
It seemed plausible though if he had any memories of his time spent in utero they'd naturally long since been lost to time. John couldn't say it was memory so much as a lulling white noise but either way it seemed to work well enough. John spent the better part of an hour drowsing against the machine, listening to the rhythmic thump and whoosh as it travelled through the various cycles. He roused himself long enough to transfer the clothes to the dryer and then resumed the position, ignoring the protesting throb in various bruised parts of his body at the hardness of the floor. There was just enough sound to keep him drowsy and even better, to keep him from thinking.
Or most of his thinking. John suspected the images that were filtering through the toneless thrumming of the dryer couldn't really be called thinking, the way Sherlock had looked, sprawled in his chair with streaks of come striping his shirt, Christ, the flush of colour to his normally pale face.
Stop it.
John couldn't get past the irrational belief that he was somehow mentally beaming his sexy thoughts up at Sherlock in a mental interruption which was...all right, yes, it was idiotic, there you have it. Any bloke who kept time with Sherlock was bound to go through a few delusions of idiocy from time to time.
Honestly, it was a touch embarrassing, this constant preoccupation with sex. Rather like being a teenager again, minus the spotty face, and that John would prefer not to endure again, that you very much. Living through the hormonal cocktail of puberty really should only be done once in a lifetime.
Course, there was Sherlock to consider, Sherlock who never did anything the boring way and if there weren't his height and voice to contend with John might have fancied that Sherlock had managed to bypass the original process entirely.
He hadn't, obviously, had gone through the physical changes while avoiding the attention of his peers. Still more than less a virgin, John's brain reminded him helpfully and if John were a better man he'd have some sense of shame at how just the thought made him hard.
Mostly a virgin, except for a bit of a rub off in a dir…clean bathroom, a wank on the sofa and something of a dry run in the direction of a blow job. Virginity was fluid, wasn't that what Sherlock had said? If so there were scads of things John hadn't been cajoled and bullied into trying yet and it would be the grossest of lies to say he wasn't looking forward to each and every one.
They hadn't even managed to be naked around one another yet, come to think of it, and that alone had to be a minor lapse in the direction of de-virginization. And John, who was fairly certain he hadn't been bisexual even a week ago and knew he hadn't been gay, was suddenly thinking about the little art project above their sofa, the porn collage, and he was imaging Sherlock, all that pale skin bared, perhaps they could leave his shirt on, just unbutton it and Christ, yes--
Um. No.
No. Irrational though the idea was, there would be no beaming sexual thoughts at Sherlock while he was trying to work, John reminded himself. None of that. The best that could come of it would be Sherlock was irritated and the worst might be one of them getting bent over Mrs Hudson's washing machine, putting its stress-relieving effects to the test.
Perhaps that should be vice versa...no, John scolded his brain firmly.
Nope, today was laundry day and there was absolutely nothing sexy about that. Not when the only pants you were washing were your own. As pleased as he had been that he was managing all this without a heterosexual crisis, he really didn't want to put a homosexual one in its place even if the crisis was as simple as wanting it so damned much.
The dryer finally shuddered to a stop and John had to stifle a yawn as he dragged up to his feet, stretching his stiff limbs. He winced as it pulled at his ribs painfully, pressing a hand against them until the pain dulled back down. Damn it all, anyway, he didn't want to take anymore paracetamol, he was foggy enough with injury-sleepiness and one did not spend time with Sherlock Holmes without being in top form not matter what a bloke was doing.
The throbbing eased into something bearable and John took a breath, checked his watch. There, that was a couple hours and some that he'd managed to stay out of the flat and John dearly hoped it was long enough for Sherlock to finish whatever his experiment had been because John made no promises about beaming those sexy thoughts about once he made it back to upstairs. He managed to linger a bit longer, half his toasty warm clothes neatly folded, with a mental promise of a hanger sent in the direction of a few others.
He'd just finished matching his socks, plain white, thank you, no need for a sock index for him, when his phone offered him a cheery little beep. John drew it out of his pocket, frowning down at the little screen. Another text from Lestrade and this one was bordering on the edge of the man having an apoplexy. As a medical doctor, John was starting to have serious concerns about the man's blood pressure. Of course, Sherlock on a bad day could induce a stroke in the saintliest of souls, much less those mere mortals who worked for Scotland Yard. John was giving serious consideration to offering the man a prescription, something he could take on those days when patience was a fantasy and control was as thin as rice paper. Might keep the man from any self-medicating of the nicotine kind.
Lestrade had gone from threats and anger into downright pleading in this one, begging John to corral Sherlock and drag him down to the Yard, with too many capital letters and a frankly horrendous amount of punctuation giving up their lives for Lestrade's text.
Hm. John really ought to do something about that, shouldn't he? With a flick of his thumb, John went into the phone settings and turned off the text alert sounds before he shoved the phone back into his pocket.
There, much better.
Tomorrow, John decided, sending a mental promise in the direction of New Scotland Yard alongside one of apology for Lestrade. Tomorrow would be soon enough, they'd go down and do the paperwork, take a moment a relive nearly dying beneath a pile of rubble dropped atop them by a mad bomber, Sherlock crushed against him while their lungs had tried to learn how to breathe brick dust and mortar.
Without the warm throb of adrenaline the memory was skirting at the edge of unpleasant and a flash of memory caught behind his eyes; Sherlock after he'd been hauled out from beneath the collapsed wall, his hair dusted white with plaster and his teeth bloody and John hadn't even felt his bruised ribs just then, oxygen had been a priority, struggling to drag in dust-thick air while two uniformed officers had lugged him out of the thick of it, past the crumpled wall and into clear air and ambulances.
They'd both still been high on adrenaline at the hospital, John knew, giddy with pain killers and endorphins, case solved, the bomber arrested and taken away, and Sherlock's mouth had tasted like copper and apple juice, sweet-salt kisses—
John blinked, realizing he'd been standing here with a shirt in his hands for far too long, thinking about that first kiss. Which, quite frankly, was considerably longer than he'd thought about kissing Sherlock before he'd done it or even while he'd done it. He still didn't quite remember being the one to do it, it had just happened and it was still happening, they were in this post-semi-virginity stage and…and…and…
Christ, enough. John shook his head and tossed the last few shirts into his basket unfolded. If his brain was determined that he simply had to have some sort of crisis, he could at least have it at the flat.
He lugged his clean laundry back up the stairs, somewhat gratified that there were no unusual smells trailing out of the flat, and pushed open the door warily to find Sherlock on the sofa, watching the telly.
That was unusual in and of itself; aside from the news and the occasional crap bit of reality shows, Sherlock was not given to much telly watching. The particular programme he was watching now made John pause on the way up to his room, basket sagging to the floor as he stared at the screen in disbelief.
"Are you...Scooby Doo? Really?"
"Yes." Sherlock's eyes didn't waver from the screen.
John glanced around the flat, taking in the cleaned up experiment from earlier with something close to shock, though their pornographic collage was still firmly above the mantel. He made a mental note to check the new strings that had been added, linking a few more photos. He might not understand Sherlock's methods but if he could glean only a little forewarning it might be useful. "Have you been watching this all day?"
"It seems to be a marathon. I can't imagine how I have missed seeing this show before. Brilliant."
John wasn't entirely certain he wasn't still sleeping against the washing machine. "Brilliant? Really? Scooby Doo? I would have thought it would be, I dunno, beneath you?"
"Beneath me?" Now Sherlock looked up, his most scathing gaze directed at John to burn at his shirt as he demanded, "Have you ever seen this show?"
"Erm. Yes. Yes, I have, I mean, it's been some time. Shaggy and Scooby are entertaining enough, I suppose."
The scorn in his eyes flared to volcanic levels, "Of course you would appreciate the antics of those fools. I'm talking about Velma!"
"The woman in orange?" It was like having a conversation with insanity, it really was.
"Yes, of course, obviously Velma! Aside from her nauseatingly poor taste in friends, she's simply amazing! Brilliant! Her deductions aren't at my level, of course, but for an ordinary person she's gorgeous. Miles above your standard."
Now that stung a bit. Not only was Sherlock salivating over a cartoon woman, he also thought she was smarter than John?
Sherlock was oblivious to John's irritation, his attention refocusing on the telly, as he frowned, "The only area she seems to have a weakness is her preference for glasses over contact lenses. I suspect there must be a medical reason for it, though she might consider surgery in the future. Far too easy to exploit."
"Yes, yes, the cartoon woman should have imaginary eye surgery. You keep up with that, then," John turned on heel, headed towards the kitchen and his abandoned laundry. He made it all of a step when a hand caught the back of his shirt and pulled hard. Sherlock reeled him in like a particularly loud, complaining trout, forcing John to the sofa next to him and pinning him there with one leg across John's.
"Watch this with me," Sherlock commanded and John bristled instantly. That voice of God thing might work on their clients and the occasional new face at the Yard, but John wasn't so easily coerced.
"I am not sitting here watching Scooby Doo," John said shortly. Particularly not if he was about to spend time having his intelligence compared unfavourably to a bloody cartoon.
"Yes, you are. Please!" Sherlock added, too sharply for actual manners but just that he'd said it made John subside, warily.
"And why, exactly, should I sit here and watch Scooby Doo with you, of all things."
"I want you to," Sherlock said as though it explained everything. To him, it likely did. "Sit with me and watch telly. That's what normal couples do, isn't it? Watch telly and sit together. Also, you're warm."
It was said more like a sneer than a request, as though John had been the one to suggest an evening of telly watching and snuggling. Not that John would call this snuggling. Snuggling implied some kind of comfort and cosiness, irrevocably linked in John's head with soft curves and breasts. It was not being forcibly pinned against Sherlock's flat chest, long legs on either side of him that meant John couldn't lean properly against the sofa, and bony elbows digging into his shoulders where Sherlock had both arms wrapped tightly around him.
This was the exact opposite of cosy and John struggled to put a bit of space between them, ignoring Sherlock's increasingly tight grip as he tried to work his way free. There was nothing for it; Sherlock was clinging to him with the hard persistence of a man drowning clutching at piece of driftwood.
"I'm not going anywhere, you tosser!" John said, exasperated. "I'll sit here and watch the cartoons if you just let me settle in a bit."
"Fine," Sherlock said tersely, but he let John pull back a little, rearranging things. Tugging Sherlock down to lay on the sofa, his head propped on a pillow so that John could settle against him properly. Nesting together like a proper set of those little dolls, his head resting comfortably on Sherlock's chest, and John drew Sherlock's arms back around him, let them drop naturally over his shoulders to drape against his back.
"There, isn't that better?" John murmured, though he rather thought the answer was obvious. Sherlock didn't reply verbally, one hand drifting up John's back to settle warily into his hair, as if he wasn't quite sure of its welcome there.
And why should he? Virgin, John reminded himself, and why should Sherlock be familiar with the intricacies of cuddling up on a sofa? The sexual aspect was in the forefront of John's mind but it wasn't as though Sherlock would have done anything like this either. Sit together and watch telly like a normal couple, he'd said, and they were nothing like a normal couple--
Sherlock had called them a couple.
Slowly, John took in a breath, let it out. And again. Again, until the sudden, wild flare of what-the-fuck-are-you-doing settled to a low, uncertain murmur at the back of his head. No heterosexual crisis nor a homosexual one but John felt like he was on the border of a Sherlockian crisis and he wasn't about to let that sink its teeth into him while Sherlock was lying beneath him, trying this relationship-couple thing on for size for the first time in his life.
The cartoon was a mediocre distraction at best, what with Sherlock's fingers scruffing against his hair and his heartbeat a quiet thud beneath John's ear. That low throb was as lulling as the washing machine had been and John was close to drowsing again when Sherlock shifted beneath him, waking him a bit.
He didn't seem to be able to settle down, not that odd when a fellow considered just who it was he was curled up with. Sherlock was capable of long periods of stillness when he was thinking, though, so why he was practically squirming beneath John now was a bit strange.
Ah.
Well, that was a side effect he wasn't accustomed to from his spooning partners.
John shifted enough to prop his chin up on his hand, peering up beneath his lashes as he took in Sherlock's reddened face. "Having a bit of a problem, are we?"
"You've seen it close enough for better measurements than a bit of," Sherlock muttered resentfully and John grinned. Oh, and wasn't Sherlock lovely when he was surly and turned on.
"Nearly lost an eye, earlier," John said agreeably. "And now its trying to poke a hole through my belly button. Have a care with that, would you, my ribs are bruised enough."
"John," Sherlock said, the faintest edge in his voice. "If you'd like to stop being ridiculous—"
"Says the man watching Scooby Doo." John scooted up enough to cut off any protests with a warm press of lips, sliding his tongue gently over Sherlock's mouth until he opened it and words were lost in a quiet sigh. The cheery laughter drifting from the telly was lost in Sherlock's startled gasp as John nipped at his tongue, teasing at it with his own as Sherlock squirmed beneath him, pushing his hips up pleadingly.
"Think we were supposed to try something earlier today, weren't we?" John murmured into his mouth, wincing as Sherlock chose in that moment to bite him back.
"You were supposed to fellate me," Sherlock panted and honestly, that shouldn't have been as arousing as it was. That deep, posh voice vibrating beneath him, through him, and John shivered, leaning back on his knees.
"Right," John said and he was rather proud that his voice didn't waver at all. "Need to get your trousers off, then."
It should have been disturbing to have Sherlock looking up at him, owl-eyed and pink-mouthed, should have been strange to want to kiss that mouth again, Christ, the things John wanted to do to that mouth but—not now.
Instead, he slid a hand down Sherlock's chest, resting it low on his belly and feeling the quick-quick rise and fall of it as he breathed, matching the low blurts of John's as he considered just what he was about to do.
"Or, not, if you'd rather," John whispered, his eyes never straying from Sherlock's as he slid down, slowly, and he only looked away to bury his face into Sherlock's lap, felt the hard line of his erection against his cheek through the expensive fabric of his trousers.
The quiet, choked moan above him was the loveliest of distractions and John nuzzled against linen and cock alike, grazing his teeth on both. He was reaching up, fumbled at the buckle of a fine leather belt before he'd thought about it, strange at this angle and then it was open and so was the zip, sliding Sherlock's trousers down and off and he was bare beneath them.
Bare feet, bare legs, long, heavy line of his bare cock and John couldn't be bothered with more, just pushed the shirt up and out of the way as he knelt beneath Sherlock's spread legs.
"You can put your hand on my head, if you like, just don't push down, all right?" John managed and his mouth was watering a bit, he wanted to do this, wanted to try. A second chance to do this properly.
"I...all right," Sherlock agreed and John could have gotten a years' worth of masturbation material from that deep, shaky voice alone.
"Good," John whispered, let his mouth brush against hot, taut skin. He parted his lips, just a bit, flicked his tongue out for a taste. It seemed incongruous that Sherlock could taste like sex, the familiar flavour of it and yet, he did. Slick, clear fluid beaded at the head and John steeled himself, slid his tongue through it and felt that single touch jolt through Sherlock like an electric shock.
John rolled the taste of it in his mouth, brow furrowed as he considered. A bit bitter, a little salt. Not bad, really. He flicked a glance up at Sherlock's face and blinked to see Sherlock was staring at him, his expression rapt. Well, of course he would be. "Like that, did you?"
Sherlock startled like he hadn't realized John was allowed to speak, mouth dropping open and he wet his lips, dragging in a quick, sharp breath. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I, yes."
John's own cock gave a little leap at the obscenity, God, wasn't that a thing to hear dropping from Sherlock's posh mouth?
He leaned in, took another lick and again, Sherlock jerked beneath him, knees bobbing up and then flattening down again almost instantly as Sherlock caught himself. A hand settled lightly on John's head, pushing into his hair and John sighed a bit, felt Sherlock flinch as his breath gusted over wet skin.
John licked his lips, followed the soft pressure of Sherlock's hand down. He let the flared head rub against his lips, smearing them with slickness before he finally parted them and allowed Sherlock to push a bare inch inside. Just that little bit felt enormous and John swallowed hard, struggling to work his tongue beneath to cover his teeth. No biting, right, no teeth at all, this might be both their first blowjobs in one way or another but John wanted rather desperately for it to be a good one, at least for Sherlock.
Sucking, there was supposed to be sucking and John gave that a tentative go, managed a brief moment before he lost suction with a loud, awkward pop. The hand on his head flexed, nails grazing his scalp and John pulled back to lick an apology against tautly drawn skin, working his tongue ineptly beneath the foreskin.
Christ, what was he doing? Trying to give his…whatever Sherlock was to him, John wasn't even certain anymore, trying to do this, he was licking at Sherlock's cock, he was trying and—
The hand in his hair flexed again and this time the nails dug in almost painfully. John winced and looking up was automatic.
Fucking God.
Sherlock was sprawled against the arm of the sofa, his head thrown back and the smooth, pale line of his throat was begging for teeth to mark it, for a mouth to suck possessive bruises into it. His mouth was open and through the open neck of his shirt John could see his chest rising and falling with short, frantic breaths. His face was tight, eyes clenched shut, sweat glistening in a fine sheen and just then John wanted him more than he would have ever believed possible. No idle fantasy, no half-forgotten dream was near as desirable.
The hand that wasn't trying to get a hold on John's head was across the back of the sofa, clenched into a fist, his knuckled bleached white from pressure and John's eyes caught on that, watched the flex of his fingers as Sherlock struggled beneath him for breath.
"John," Sherlock pleaded and he startled, realized he'd stopped doing much of anything, slowly dipped his head again and let Sherlock's prick breach his mouth again. A bit deeper this time and he kept his tongue pressed hard beneath it, guided it to brush the roof of his mouth.
He had to stifle a giggle, it tickled a bit but the sound Sherlock made beneath him, the sudden tension in his thighs as John took a flustered breath through his nose and then tried again to suck was heady. He was really doing this, managing it, he was, and he took it a bit more, swallowed hard around the heavy thickness resting on his tongue.
Sherlock groaned, shifting, and John felt a bare foot draw up the back of his thigh and over his arse, the curve of a calve settling into the small of his back, holding him in. Trapping him and John was ruefully aware that he now he really was caught one way or another.
It was difficult to mind, that, not with Sherlock trying not to squirm beneath him as John again sucked hesitantly, let Sherlock slide out until he was almost gone and then taking him in again. Almost too deep that time and he quickly wrapped a hand around the base. To his surprise, having a brace made it easier, helped him let Sherlock press his cock into the warm, slick pressure of his mouth up to the obstruction of his hand.
There was a rhythm to it, a sex rhythm, and John was drooling a bit, the hand he had wrapped around the shaft was wet with his own spit. His jaw was starting to ache, the bump of cock against the back of his throat was an odd awkwardness that made him swallow away a gag and Sherlock was bloody well coming apart beneath him.
Both hands were on John's head and if they weren't quite holding his head still so that Sherlock could fuck up into John's mouth it was a close thing. There was a heel digging sharply into his side, the leg it was attached to was tight against John's back, and Sherlock was sobbing out little gasps and whimpers, hands flexing painfully and it was John's only warning before a hot spurt of bitter fluid rushed over his tongue. He nearly choked, struggling to breathe through his nose as Sherlock arched hard beneath him, ignoring the frantic grip John had on his hips as he tried to hold him down. It was too late to do anything but ride the hard wave of it along, swallowing as much as he could, warm trickles escaping and trailing down his chin. Sherlock was shuddering through it, jerking spasmodically and John held on to him, thumbs stroking the jutting hollows of his hipbones until Sherlock sagged back down into the cushions, trembling like…well, like the virgin he very nearly was.
The hands on his head loosened and fell away. John pulled back, let Sherlock's cock slip free of his mouth and he swiped the back of his hand automatically over his mouth, only succeeding in smearing the wet mixture of semen and spit over his lips.
"Don't," Sherlock whispered and he grabbed at John pulled him back down, his mouth moving frantically over John's. Licking him, sharing the taste of himself between them and John huffed out a strangled laugh, God, he'd, he'd really, he'd done it and—
"Let me," Sherlock's mouth never stopped moving, words blurred into John's lips, against his chin, "Let me touch you, John, please."
Sherlock's hands were as clever as his mind, yanking open John's trousers and he gasped aloud as Sherlock suddenly had two hands wrapped around him, moving with possessive ease, stroking John with growing familiarity. It was all too much, he was already too close and John came with a harsh groan, the taste of Sherlock still vivid on his tongue as he shuddered and spilled over the cool, large hands moving over him.
They were both a smeary, sticky mess between them, skin clinging damply and the sofa was mired in sweaty bodies and ruined clothes. John paid none of it any mind, sank down to sprawl across Sherlock's mostly naked body, noting with some bemusement that both of them still had their shirts on. He even still had his trousers on, tangled around his thighs like a hobble. Beneath his cheek, Sherlock's shirt was sodden with sweat and all John wanted to do was knot his hands into it and drag it up against his face to inhale it all.
Christ.
"That was somewhat different than I had expected," Sherlock said, quietly, rumbling beneath John's ear and he choked out a laugh.
"Yeah," John agreed, blurrily. "Yeah. Yes." His lips were a bit sore, a faint ache in his jaw lingered and salt was still heavy on his tongue and he was completely unprepared for what Sherlock said next.
"Now that you've managed it, would you be agreeable to me trying that on you?"
God. John swallowed hard and closed his eyes. God, Sherlock.
"Tomorrow." John croaked out and Sherlock hummed thoughtfully beneath him, his hands drifting back to John's hair as though they belonged there.
John was starting to think perhaps they did.
---
Chapter 5
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:5000, this chapter.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.
Continued from:
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Three: Reprise
The laundry facilities were in the basement at Baker street, a washer and dryer that John shared with the other tenants and Mrs Hudson. They were all quite amicable about it all, politely bowing to the needs of others though John privately thought it was best that Sherlock's wardrobe was mostly dry clean only.
Most of the other tenants had actual jobs and that left the facilities well available during the day. John sorted his clothes into the machine, dumped in the soap and then slouched down to sit on the cool concrete floor, leaning back against the washer as he tried rather decidedly not to think.
Obstetrics was not really John's field of study. As it turned out, there weren't too many pregnant soldiers in Afghanistan or at least not any that lingered about to the actual birthing stage.
Still, he did read up on it occasionally in the medical journals and he recalled at least one study on promoting sleep in new-borns. One recommended technique was to place the infant in their car seat and set it atop a running washing machine. The motion, the liquid rhythm of it soothed them to sleep like that of a dim memory of the oceanic rushing of womb, mingled with their mother's heartbeat.
It seemed plausible though if he had any memories of his time spent in utero they'd naturally long since been lost to time. John couldn't say it was memory so much as a lulling white noise but either way it seemed to work well enough. John spent the better part of an hour drowsing against the machine, listening to the rhythmic thump and whoosh as it travelled through the various cycles. He roused himself long enough to transfer the clothes to the dryer and then resumed the position, ignoring the protesting throb in various bruised parts of his body at the hardness of the floor. There was just enough sound to keep him drowsy and even better, to keep him from thinking.
Or most of his thinking. John suspected the images that were filtering through the toneless thrumming of the dryer couldn't really be called thinking, the way Sherlock had looked, sprawled in his chair with streaks of come striping his shirt, Christ, the flush of colour to his normally pale face.
Stop it.
John couldn't get past the irrational belief that he was somehow mentally beaming his sexy thoughts up at Sherlock in a mental interruption which was...all right, yes, it was idiotic, there you have it. Any bloke who kept time with Sherlock was bound to go through a few delusions of idiocy from time to time.
Honestly, it was a touch embarrassing, this constant preoccupation with sex. Rather like being a teenager again, minus the spotty face, and that John would prefer not to endure again, that you very much. Living through the hormonal cocktail of puberty really should only be done once in a lifetime.
Course, there was Sherlock to consider, Sherlock who never did anything the boring way and if there weren't his height and voice to contend with John might have fancied that Sherlock had managed to bypass the original process entirely.
He hadn't, obviously, had gone through the physical changes while avoiding the attention of his peers. Still more than less a virgin, John's brain reminded him helpfully and if John were a better man he'd have some sense of shame at how just the thought made him hard.
Mostly a virgin, except for a bit of a rub off in a dir…clean bathroom, a wank on the sofa and something of a dry run in the direction of a blow job. Virginity was fluid, wasn't that what Sherlock had said? If so there were scads of things John hadn't been cajoled and bullied into trying yet and it would be the grossest of lies to say he wasn't looking forward to each and every one.
They hadn't even managed to be naked around one another yet, come to think of it, and that alone had to be a minor lapse in the direction of de-virginization. And John, who was fairly certain he hadn't been bisexual even a week ago and knew he hadn't been gay, was suddenly thinking about the little art project above their sofa, the porn collage, and he was imaging Sherlock, all that pale skin bared, perhaps they could leave his shirt on, just unbutton it and Christ, yes--
Um. No.
No. Irrational though the idea was, there would be no beaming sexual thoughts at Sherlock while he was trying to work, John reminded himself. None of that. The best that could come of it would be Sherlock was irritated and the worst might be one of them getting bent over Mrs Hudson's washing machine, putting its stress-relieving effects to the test.
Perhaps that should be vice versa...no, John scolded his brain firmly.
Nope, today was laundry day and there was absolutely nothing sexy about that. Not when the only pants you were washing were your own. As pleased as he had been that he was managing all this without a heterosexual crisis, he really didn't want to put a homosexual one in its place even if the crisis was as simple as wanting it so damned much.
The dryer finally shuddered to a stop and John had to stifle a yawn as he dragged up to his feet, stretching his stiff limbs. He winced as it pulled at his ribs painfully, pressing a hand against them until the pain dulled back down. Damn it all, anyway, he didn't want to take anymore paracetamol, he was foggy enough with injury-sleepiness and one did not spend time with Sherlock Holmes without being in top form not matter what a bloke was doing.
The throbbing eased into something bearable and John took a breath, checked his watch. There, that was a couple hours and some that he'd managed to stay out of the flat and John dearly hoped it was long enough for Sherlock to finish whatever his experiment had been because John made no promises about beaming those sexy thoughts about once he made it back to upstairs. He managed to linger a bit longer, half his toasty warm clothes neatly folded, with a mental promise of a hanger sent in the direction of a few others.
He'd just finished matching his socks, plain white, thank you, no need for a sock index for him, when his phone offered him a cheery little beep. John drew it out of his pocket, frowning down at the little screen. Another text from Lestrade and this one was bordering on the edge of the man having an apoplexy. As a medical doctor, John was starting to have serious concerns about the man's blood pressure. Of course, Sherlock on a bad day could induce a stroke in the saintliest of souls, much less those mere mortals who worked for Scotland Yard. John was giving serious consideration to offering the man a prescription, something he could take on those days when patience was a fantasy and control was as thin as rice paper. Might keep the man from any self-medicating of the nicotine kind.
Lestrade had gone from threats and anger into downright pleading in this one, begging John to corral Sherlock and drag him down to the Yard, with too many capital letters and a frankly horrendous amount of punctuation giving up their lives for Lestrade's text.
Hm. John really ought to do something about that, shouldn't he? With a flick of his thumb, John went into the phone settings and turned off the text alert sounds before he shoved the phone back into his pocket.
There, much better.
Tomorrow, John decided, sending a mental promise in the direction of New Scotland Yard alongside one of apology for Lestrade. Tomorrow would be soon enough, they'd go down and do the paperwork, take a moment a relive nearly dying beneath a pile of rubble dropped atop them by a mad bomber, Sherlock crushed against him while their lungs had tried to learn how to breathe brick dust and mortar.
Without the warm throb of adrenaline the memory was skirting at the edge of unpleasant and a flash of memory caught behind his eyes; Sherlock after he'd been hauled out from beneath the collapsed wall, his hair dusted white with plaster and his teeth bloody and John hadn't even felt his bruised ribs just then, oxygen had been a priority, struggling to drag in dust-thick air while two uniformed officers had lugged him out of the thick of it, past the crumpled wall and into clear air and ambulances.
They'd both still been high on adrenaline at the hospital, John knew, giddy with pain killers and endorphins, case solved, the bomber arrested and taken away, and Sherlock's mouth had tasted like copper and apple juice, sweet-salt kisses—
John blinked, realizing he'd been standing here with a shirt in his hands for far too long, thinking about that first kiss. Which, quite frankly, was considerably longer than he'd thought about kissing Sherlock before he'd done it or even while he'd done it. He still didn't quite remember being the one to do it, it had just happened and it was still happening, they were in this post-semi-virginity stage and…and…and…
Christ, enough. John shook his head and tossed the last few shirts into his basket unfolded. If his brain was determined that he simply had to have some sort of crisis, he could at least have it at the flat.
He lugged his clean laundry back up the stairs, somewhat gratified that there were no unusual smells trailing out of the flat, and pushed open the door warily to find Sherlock on the sofa, watching the telly.
That was unusual in and of itself; aside from the news and the occasional crap bit of reality shows, Sherlock was not given to much telly watching. The particular programme he was watching now made John pause on the way up to his room, basket sagging to the floor as he stared at the screen in disbelief.
"Are you...Scooby Doo? Really?"
"Yes." Sherlock's eyes didn't waver from the screen.
John glanced around the flat, taking in the cleaned up experiment from earlier with something close to shock, though their pornographic collage was still firmly above the mantel. He made a mental note to check the new strings that had been added, linking a few more photos. He might not understand Sherlock's methods but if he could glean only a little forewarning it might be useful. "Have you been watching this all day?"
"It seems to be a marathon. I can't imagine how I have missed seeing this show before. Brilliant."
John wasn't entirely certain he wasn't still sleeping against the washing machine. "Brilliant? Really? Scooby Doo? I would have thought it would be, I dunno, beneath you?"
"Beneath me?" Now Sherlock looked up, his most scathing gaze directed at John to burn at his shirt as he demanded, "Have you ever seen this show?"
"Erm. Yes. Yes, I have, I mean, it's been some time. Shaggy and Scooby are entertaining enough, I suppose."
The scorn in his eyes flared to volcanic levels, "Of course you would appreciate the antics of those fools. I'm talking about Velma!"
"The woman in orange?" It was like having a conversation with insanity, it really was.
"Yes, of course, obviously Velma! Aside from her nauseatingly poor taste in friends, she's simply amazing! Brilliant! Her deductions aren't at my level, of course, but for an ordinary person she's gorgeous. Miles above your standard."
Now that stung a bit. Not only was Sherlock salivating over a cartoon woman, he also thought she was smarter than John?
Sherlock was oblivious to John's irritation, his attention refocusing on the telly, as he frowned, "The only area she seems to have a weakness is her preference for glasses over contact lenses. I suspect there must be a medical reason for it, though she might consider surgery in the future. Far too easy to exploit."
"Yes, yes, the cartoon woman should have imaginary eye surgery. You keep up with that, then," John turned on heel, headed towards the kitchen and his abandoned laundry. He made it all of a step when a hand caught the back of his shirt and pulled hard. Sherlock reeled him in like a particularly loud, complaining trout, forcing John to the sofa next to him and pinning him there with one leg across John's.
"Watch this with me," Sherlock commanded and John bristled instantly. That voice of God thing might work on their clients and the occasional new face at the Yard, but John wasn't so easily coerced.
"I am not sitting here watching Scooby Doo," John said shortly. Particularly not if he was about to spend time having his intelligence compared unfavourably to a bloody cartoon.
"Yes, you are. Please!" Sherlock added, too sharply for actual manners but just that he'd said it made John subside, warily.
"And why, exactly, should I sit here and watch Scooby Doo with you, of all things."
"I want you to," Sherlock said as though it explained everything. To him, it likely did. "Sit with me and watch telly. That's what normal couples do, isn't it? Watch telly and sit together. Also, you're warm."
It was said more like a sneer than a request, as though John had been the one to suggest an evening of telly watching and snuggling. Not that John would call this snuggling. Snuggling implied some kind of comfort and cosiness, irrevocably linked in John's head with soft curves and breasts. It was not being forcibly pinned against Sherlock's flat chest, long legs on either side of him that meant John couldn't lean properly against the sofa, and bony elbows digging into his shoulders where Sherlock had both arms wrapped tightly around him.
This was the exact opposite of cosy and John struggled to put a bit of space between them, ignoring Sherlock's increasingly tight grip as he tried to work his way free. There was nothing for it; Sherlock was clinging to him with the hard persistence of a man drowning clutching at piece of driftwood.
"I'm not going anywhere, you tosser!" John said, exasperated. "I'll sit here and watch the cartoons if you just let me settle in a bit."
"Fine," Sherlock said tersely, but he let John pull back a little, rearranging things. Tugging Sherlock down to lay on the sofa, his head propped on a pillow so that John could settle against him properly. Nesting together like a proper set of those little dolls, his head resting comfortably on Sherlock's chest, and John drew Sherlock's arms back around him, let them drop naturally over his shoulders to drape against his back.
"There, isn't that better?" John murmured, though he rather thought the answer was obvious. Sherlock didn't reply verbally, one hand drifting up John's back to settle warily into his hair, as if he wasn't quite sure of its welcome there.
And why should he? Virgin, John reminded himself, and why should Sherlock be familiar with the intricacies of cuddling up on a sofa? The sexual aspect was in the forefront of John's mind but it wasn't as though Sherlock would have done anything like this either. Sit together and watch telly like a normal couple, he'd said, and they were nothing like a normal couple--
Sherlock had called them a couple.
Slowly, John took in a breath, let it out. And again. Again, until the sudden, wild flare of what-the-fuck-are-you-doing settled to a low, uncertain murmur at the back of his head. No heterosexual crisis nor a homosexual one but John felt like he was on the border of a Sherlockian crisis and he wasn't about to let that sink its teeth into him while Sherlock was lying beneath him, trying this relationship-couple thing on for size for the first time in his life.
The cartoon was a mediocre distraction at best, what with Sherlock's fingers scruffing against his hair and his heartbeat a quiet thud beneath John's ear. That low throb was as lulling as the washing machine had been and John was close to drowsing again when Sherlock shifted beneath him, waking him a bit.
He didn't seem to be able to settle down, not that odd when a fellow considered just who it was he was curled up with. Sherlock was capable of long periods of stillness when he was thinking, though, so why he was practically squirming beneath John now was a bit strange.
Ah.
Well, that was a side effect he wasn't accustomed to from his spooning partners.
John shifted enough to prop his chin up on his hand, peering up beneath his lashes as he took in Sherlock's reddened face. "Having a bit of a problem, are we?"
"You've seen it close enough for better measurements than a bit of," Sherlock muttered resentfully and John grinned. Oh, and wasn't Sherlock lovely when he was surly and turned on.
"Nearly lost an eye, earlier," John said agreeably. "And now its trying to poke a hole through my belly button. Have a care with that, would you, my ribs are bruised enough."
"John," Sherlock said, the faintest edge in his voice. "If you'd like to stop being ridiculous—"
"Says the man watching Scooby Doo." John scooted up enough to cut off any protests with a warm press of lips, sliding his tongue gently over Sherlock's mouth until he opened it and words were lost in a quiet sigh. The cheery laughter drifting from the telly was lost in Sherlock's startled gasp as John nipped at his tongue, teasing at it with his own as Sherlock squirmed beneath him, pushing his hips up pleadingly.
"Think we were supposed to try something earlier today, weren't we?" John murmured into his mouth, wincing as Sherlock chose in that moment to bite him back.
"You were supposed to fellate me," Sherlock panted and honestly, that shouldn't have been as arousing as it was. That deep, posh voice vibrating beneath him, through him, and John shivered, leaning back on his knees.
"Right," John said and he was rather proud that his voice didn't waver at all. "Need to get your trousers off, then."
It should have been disturbing to have Sherlock looking up at him, owl-eyed and pink-mouthed, should have been strange to want to kiss that mouth again, Christ, the things John wanted to do to that mouth but—not now.
Instead, he slid a hand down Sherlock's chest, resting it low on his belly and feeling the quick-quick rise and fall of it as he breathed, matching the low blurts of John's as he considered just what he was about to do.
"Or, not, if you'd rather," John whispered, his eyes never straying from Sherlock's as he slid down, slowly, and he only looked away to bury his face into Sherlock's lap, felt the hard line of his erection against his cheek through the expensive fabric of his trousers.
The quiet, choked moan above him was the loveliest of distractions and John nuzzled against linen and cock alike, grazing his teeth on both. He was reaching up, fumbled at the buckle of a fine leather belt before he'd thought about it, strange at this angle and then it was open and so was the zip, sliding Sherlock's trousers down and off and he was bare beneath them.
Bare feet, bare legs, long, heavy line of his bare cock and John couldn't be bothered with more, just pushed the shirt up and out of the way as he knelt beneath Sherlock's spread legs.
"You can put your hand on my head, if you like, just don't push down, all right?" John managed and his mouth was watering a bit, he wanted to do this, wanted to try. A second chance to do this properly.
"I...all right," Sherlock agreed and John could have gotten a years' worth of masturbation material from that deep, shaky voice alone.
"Good," John whispered, let his mouth brush against hot, taut skin. He parted his lips, just a bit, flicked his tongue out for a taste. It seemed incongruous that Sherlock could taste like sex, the familiar flavour of it and yet, he did. Slick, clear fluid beaded at the head and John steeled himself, slid his tongue through it and felt that single touch jolt through Sherlock like an electric shock.
John rolled the taste of it in his mouth, brow furrowed as he considered. A bit bitter, a little salt. Not bad, really. He flicked a glance up at Sherlock's face and blinked to see Sherlock was staring at him, his expression rapt. Well, of course he would be. "Like that, did you?"
Sherlock startled like he hadn't realized John was allowed to speak, mouth dropping open and he wet his lips, dragging in a quick, sharp breath. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I, yes."
John's own cock gave a little leap at the obscenity, God, wasn't that a thing to hear dropping from Sherlock's posh mouth?
He leaned in, took another lick and again, Sherlock jerked beneath him, knees bobbing up and then flattening down again almost instantly as Sherlock caught himself. A hand settled lightly on John's head, pushing into his hair and John sighed a bit, felt Sherlock flinch as his breath gusted over wet skin.
John licked his lips, followed the soft pressure of Sherlock's hand down. He let the flared head rub against his lips, smearing them with slickness before he finally parted them and allowed Sherlock to push a bare inch inside. Just that little bit felt enormous and John swallowed hard, struggling to work his tongue beneath to cover his teeth. No biting, right, no teeth at all, this might be both their first blowjobs in one way or another but John wanted rather desperately for it to be a good one, at least for Sherlock.
Sucking, there was supposed to be sucking and John gave that a tentative go, managed a brief moment before he lost suction with a loud, awkward pop. The hand on his head flexed, nails grazing his scalp and John pulled back to lick an apology against tautly drawn skin, working his tongue ineptly beneath the foreskin.
Christ, what was he doing? Trying to give his…whatever Sherlock was to him, John wasn't even certain anymore, trying to do this, he was licking at Sherlock's cock, he was trying and—
The hand in his hair flexed again and this time the nails dug in almost painfully. John winced and looking up was automatic.
Fucking God.
Sherlock was sprawled against the arm of the sofa, his head thrown back and the smooth, pale line of his throat was begging for teeth to mark it, for a mouth to suck possessive bruises into it. His mouth was open and through the open neck of his shirt John could see his chest rising and falling with short, frantic breaths. His face was tight, eyes clenched shut, sweat glistening in a fine sheen and just then John wanted him more than he would have ever believed possible. No idle fantasy, no half-forgotten dream was near as desirable.
The hand that wasn't trying to get a hold on John's head was across the back of the sofa, clenched into a fist, his knuckled bleached white from pressure and John's eyes caught on that, watched the flex of his fingers as Sherlock struggled beneath him for breath.
"John," Sherlock pleaded and he startled, realized he'd stopped doing much of anything, slowly dipped his head again and let Sherlock's prick breach his mouth again. A bit deeper this time and he kept his tongue pressed hard beneath it, guided it to brush the roof of his mouth.
He had to stifle a giggle, it tickled a bit but the sound Sherlock made beneath him, the sudden tension in his thighs as John took a flustered breath through his nose and then tried again to suck was heady. He was really doing this, managing it, he was, and he took it a bit more, swallowed hard around the heavy thickness resting on his tongue.
Sherlock groaned, shifting, and John felt a bare foot draw up the back of his thigh and over his arse, the curve of a calve settling into the small of his back, holding him in. Trapping him and John was ruefully aware that he now he really was caught one way or another.
It was difficult to mind, that, not with Sherlock trying not to squirm beneath him as John again sucked hesitantly, let Sherlock slide out until he was almost gone and then taking him in again. Almost too deep that time and he quickly wrapped a hand around the base. To his surprise, having a brace made it easier, helped him let Sherlock press his cock into the warm, slick pressure of his mouth up to the obstruction of his hand.
There was a rhythm to it, a sex rhythm, and John was drooling a bit, the hand he had wrapped around the shaft was wet with his own spit. His jaw was starting to ache, the bump of cock against the back of his throat was an odd awkwardness that made him swallow away a gag and Sherlock was bloody well coming apart beneath him.
Both hands were on John's head and if they weren't quite holding his head still so that Sherlock could fuck up into John's mouth it was a close thing. There was a heel digging sharply into his side, the leg it was attached to was tight against John's back, and Sherlock was sobbing out little gasps and whimpers, hands flexing painfully and it was John's only warning before a hot spurt of bitter fluid rushed over his tongue. He nearly choked, struggling to breathe through his nose as Sherlock arched hard beneath him, ignoring the frantic grip John had on his hips as he tried to hold him down. It was too late to do anything but ride the hard wave of it along, swallowing as much as he could, warm trickles escaping and trailing down his chin. Sherlock was shuddering through it, jerking spasmodically and John held on to him, thumbs stroking the jutting hollows of his hipbones until Sherlock sagged back down into the cushions, trembling like…well, like the virgin he very nearly was.
The hands on his head loosened and fell away. John pulled back, let Sherlock's cock slip free of his mouth and he swiped the back of his hand automatically over his mouth, only succeeding in smearing the wet mixture of semen and spit over his lips.
"Don't," Sherlock whispered and he grabbed at John pulled him back down, his mouth moving frantically over John's. Licking him, sharing the taste of himself between them and John huffed out a strangled laugh, God, he'd, he'd really, he'd done it and—
"Let me," Sherlock's mouth never stopped moving, words blurred into John's lips, against his chin, "Let me touch you, John, please."
Sherlock's hands were as clever as his mind, yanking open John's trousers and he gasped aloud as Sherlock suddenly had two hands wrapped around him, moving with possessive ease, stroking John with growing familiarity. It was all too much, he was already too close and John came with a harsh groan, the taste of Sherlock still vivid on his tongue as he shuddered and spilled over the cool, large hands moving over him.
They were both a smeary, sticky mess between them, skin clinging damply and the sofa was mired in sweaty bodies and ruined clothes. John paid none of it any mind, sank down to sprawl across Sherlock's mostly naked body, noting with some bemusement that both of them still had their shirts on. He even still had his trousers on, tangled around his thighs like a hobble. Beneath his cheek, Sherlock's shirt was sodden with sweat and all John wanted to do was knot his hands into it and drag it up against his face to inhale it all.
Christ.
"That was somewhat different than I had expected," Sherlock said, quietly, rumbling beneath John's ear and he choked out a laugh.
"Yeah," John agreed, blurrily. "Yeah. Yes." His lips were a bit sore, a faint ache in his jaw lingered and salt was still heavy on his tongue and he was completely unprepared for what Sherlock said next.
"Now that you've managed it, would you be agreeable to me trying that on you?"
God. John swallowed hard and closed his eyes. God, Sherlock.
"Tomorrow." John croaked out and Sherlock hummed thoughtfully beneath him, his hands drifting back to John's hair as though they belonged there.
John was starting to think perhaps they did.
---
Chapter 5
