I shrug my coat on, walking into the sitting room. Sherlock’s curled in his chair, long legs drawn up, my laptop balanced on his knees. I have to fight back a smile. Something about those bony feet folded over each other, about the way Sherlock’s able to get that lanky frame completely tucked within the confines of his chair...it always makes me feel protective somehow. Sherlock looks like a gangly, sulky teenager. Which he actually IS, quite a lot of the time. I stand there just watching him for a moment, as I so often find myself doing, then check my watch. Better get going.
“Sherlock. Put my laptop back. Why can’t you use your own bloody computer?” Arguing about the computer is more habit than anything else at this point. I don’t honestly care.
I used to be self-conscious about what Sherlock might find in my browsing history, but we’re way past that point. Sherlock brushes his teeth while I’m in the shower, for Christ’s sake. He’s actually reached into the shower to get shaving soap while I’m standing there naked, and neither of us batted an eye. We’ve more intimacy than some married couples. I just can’t be bothered to care anymore if Sherlock knows what gets me worked up. In fact, sometimes I think I’d rather like him to know. Shake my head to clear that thought, move toward the door.
“Like yours better. It’s faster.” He ducks his head around the screen, eyes narrowing as he looks me up and down. I can actually hear what he’s thinking. Jacket, pressed trousers instead of jeans, shoes wipes clean of London soot and mud. He know I have a date. “Where are you going?”
I let out a sigh. Every fucking time. “I have a date, Sherlock. We’re having dinner and going to the cinema, and I’ll be home later. I’ll pick up some shopping on the way home if we’re not too late.”
Sherlock sneers, puts his eyes back on the screen very deliberately, purposefully disinterested. “What’s her name this time?”
I clear my throat, feeling my nose automatically doing that sniffing thing I can never help when I feel anxiety rising. Deep breath, John. “Thom.”
There’s a moment in which Sherlock’s completely frozen, and then he slams the laptop shut so hard and fast, he must have cracked the screen.
“Oi! Feel free to fuck up your own property, but watch that. I can’t afford a new one, arsehole.”
Sherlock, of course, ignores me completely, and tosses the computer carelessly on his chair as he advances on me. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Here we go. It’s remarkably similar to being stalked by some kind of predatory animal, or so I imagine. I’m fighting the instinct to back up.
“I’m sorry, did you just say THOM? That is not a girl’s name, John.” Sherlock stops midway across the sitting room, his head ticked to the side, eyes pinning me where I’m hovering by the door.
“No. It definitely is not. Good deduction there.” I’ve confounded the great brain. Good. I very deliberately raise my eyebrows at him, clear my throat again, and turn on my heel. “Well, see you later, Sherlock.”
There’s a beat, just a beat of silence, but as I’m closing the door to the hallway behind me, the knob is suddenly wrenched out of my hand. Sherlock is there in the doorway, nothing but clenched jaw and simmering anger, his eyes absolutely burning.
“John. You are going on a date with a MAN? You are not leaving this flat. You have some serious explaining to do.” Sherlock makes a move like he’s going to insinuate himself between me and the exit, but he can’t quite fit between me and the railing. He settles for putting his hand against the wall beside my head, effectively boxing me in with his arm.
I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t think I do.” I duck under Sherlock’s arm, and make no effort to hide the satisfied smile on my face as I descend the steps.
The date goes pretty well. Thom’s a fellow doctor, tall, smart, fit. My ex, and now good friend, Sarah, had set us up. Thom’s a friend of hers from medical school, now head of oncology at Great Ormand Street, very well respected. There had been a few awkward silences, but not many, for a first date. Chaste kiss before I got into the cab, soft lips, and a promise to go out again soon. All in all, not so bad.
I pull my phone out and turn it back on. It starts vibrating madly as soon as the start screen clears, and Sherlock is practically exploding at me from the screen. There are twenty six texts from Sherlock. In four hours. Christ, he is completely insufferable.
John. You had better be prepared to talk to me when you get home. SH
How long is this date, anyway? SH
You have told eighteen people, in front of me, that you are not gay. SH
I expect you’ve turned your phone off. You had better come home tonight. SH
I’m waiting for you. We are discussing this. SH
Even if you come home at 4am, we’re talking. You know I don’t need to sleep. You can’t wait me out. SH
On and on they go, all bursting with frustration and snapping orders at me as if Sherlock’s my commanding officer. I erase them all, a ball of actual irritation gathering in my chest. Usually I can’t be bothered to be mad at him for too long. It takes too much effort, truthfully.
We’re too close, too in sync with each other for much real anger to be sustained. Sherlock’s got his tricks for preventing a true row. I always know he’s doing it, but I can’t help but be disarmed by that flirty smile that he flashes only at me. A little flame always singes through me when he does that, burning away most of my anger.
But this is different. This is Sherlock actually being angry at me for dating someone. God, not even DATING, plural. ONE date.
I had guessed he’d be surprised, shocked, by me going on a date with a man. In the year we’d known each other, I’d only dated women. I didn’t expect this level of jealousy, though. This is a level of interest in my love life that he’s definitely not shown before. Through my anger, there’s a bit of satisfaction, thinking about him at home, waiting for me, wondering where I was and what I was doing with Thom. At least he can be roused to care a bit what my life is like outside of him.
Sherlock’s always been so clear, from that first night - ‘Married to the work, John’ - that’s he not interested in relationships, in sex, and certainly not in ordinary, idiotic me.
By the time the cab pulls up in front of Baker Street, he’s texted me twice more.
Where ARE you? SH
I’m going to figure out what cinema you’re at and come find you, if you don’t answer me. SH
I’m right furious at this point. And determined he’s not going to force me into a conversation about this tonight. I’m going straight to my room, and not even give him the opportunity to bait me into a row.
I click the front door shut, trying to be as quiet as possible. But before I can even turn around, Sherlock’s baritone voice rumbles behind me. The sodding fucker is waiting on the steps.
“Good evening, John. How was your date?” The last word rings out, hanging in the air, sharp with sarcasm. I turn and look at Sherlock, blue dressing gown billowing around his legs, fingers templed under his nose, his thin face all hollows and shadows in the low light. He’s staring at me with an intensity that I’ve only seen on his face during a case, and usually when it’s frustrating him.
I sigh, rubbing a hand down over my face. “Sherlock. It’s late, okay. Can we just not?”
“No. I have questions, and they cannot wait.” I know that tone. There’s not going to be any negotiation with Sherlock tonight. If I don’t acquiesce to this conversation, Sherlock will literally be banging on my bedroom door while I’m trying to sleep. Sometimes, I just have to give in.
“Okay, Sherlock. Fine. Can we at least go upstairs, and not do this on the steps?” The very last thing I want is Mrs Hudson coming out to us having a ‘domestic’ in the damned stairwell.
Sherlock considers me for a moment, blinking, and then nods, spins, and sweeps up the steps like some great fluttery bat. I plod up slowly behind him. I’m not looking forward to this.
“You are not gay. You have said that to eighteen people within my hearing.” Sherlock is balled up on the end of the couch, staring at me intensely.
I slowly take a sip of the tea I had insisted we make. I’m not going to let Sherlock direct this whole thing. Sip, tongue over my lips, sip again, set the cup down carefully. I’m driving him mad. He’s practically vibrating with impatience, long toes tapping on the leather.
“I’m not. I’m not gay. But...I never said I wasn’t something else.” Christ, how I loathe this conversation. I’ve always been of the mind that I should be able to date and sleep with whomever I want, without having to explain it to anyone. But somehow, it always ends up this way, with me explaining it. It’s getting old, at almost forty, to have to justify my sexuality to anyone.
Sherlock considers that a moment, head tipping to the side. “That is true. You never have asserted that you were straight, though that was certainly the implication.”
“No. It was the ASSUMPTION. YOUR assumption. But I never implied that I was straight. I simply said I wasn’t gay, and I’m not. I’ll you what I am. I’m already bloody tired of this fucking conversation.” I sip my tea, and set the cup down rather harder than necessary. Lean back into the cracked leather of the sofa, and throw a forearm over my eyes. “We’ve been living together for over a year now, Sherlock. Why do you suddenly care, anyway? You’re not gay, you’re not...anything...right? It’s not like we...It was all fine when I was dating Sarah.”
There’s a very long moment of silence. Long enough that I start to wonder if Sherlock’s even in the room anymore. He does that sometimes, just slips off the sofa, and out of the room, like some great cat, and I never know precisely the moment he’s left. But when I take my arm off my eyes, and open them, there’s Sherlock. Perched on the end of the sofa, just staring and blinking.
“Sherlock?” I sit up and wave my hand in front of his face. That gorgeous face, composed of the sharpest angles and the softest curves. A complete contradiction. Just like the rest of him. “Are you in your mind palace? Okay, well, if you’re not going to respond, I’m off to bed. I didn’t even want to talk about this in the first place.”
Sherlock finally speaks when I’m halfway to the door. “John. I care now because I thought I was your exception.”
I’ve no idea what he’s on about. I can feel my brow furrowing. “Sorry, Sherlock, you’re over my head. Exception to what?”
“Exception to women.” Sherlock finally meets my eyes, and I see genuine confusion there.
I sink back down onto the couch, closer to him than I was before, and resist the urge to brush his fringe back from his forehead. His eyes are wide and bright, cerulean blue, mouth soft and pouting. He looks about twenty years old, and inviting as all fuck.
“Sherlock. You made it VERY clear to me that very first night that you do not date, that you were married to your work. I got the message loud and clear, alright? So, I have no idea what you’re talking about with this exception business. We’re not together. We’ve never been.” As much as I wanted to be. How many times have I replayed that dinner at Angelo’s, trying to figure out if I could have said anything to make the outcome different? I’d eventually come to the conclusion that Sherlock genuinely wasn’t interested in relationships, and I hadn’t thought about it in a very long time now. Months.
Sherlock opens and closes his mouth several times before any actual words come out. “But I always say that. It’s just to put people off. And I said that BEFORE. Before I knew that I would...before I knew you at all. Is THAT why you never…?”
I feel like my head is exploding from all the things that aren’t being said here. I press my thumbs into my temples, as hard as I can bear it, until I see stars behind my eyes.
“Sherlock, what in the HELL are you trying to say? Because I am having a really hard time, with my ordinary little brain, to understand what is happening right now.”
“I thought that you knew that rule didn’t apply to YOU. I thought we were…more. I thought we were building towards something. The women were tolerable, because we had...this. All of this.” Sherlock gestures around at the flat, at our newspapers drooping off the table, leftover coffee cups from breakfast leaving rings on the pages, my book open on my chair, a half done experiment of Sherlock’s taking over the kitchen, an open package of biscuits we shared over tea.
Us. Here at Baker Street. Our life, together.
Sherlock’s eyes shift away from mine again, and there’s some colour rising on his pale cheeks. Then he lifts his eyes to mine, and there’s determination there, a challenge. Tell me this isn’t real, John. Tell me there’s not something between us. I dare you.
My mouth has fallen open. I snap it shut, shake my head, trying to clear my brain. I feel like our entire relationship was something different than I thought...like I never understood a moment of what’s been between us the last year. This is my best friend, the best friend I’ve ever had, the person who makes me completely mental and completely content, the person who TOLD me he didn’t do relationships, who TOLD me flat out, you’ve got no chance here.
And now. After a year of repressing all my attraction to him, telling myself there was no chance, that anything beyond friendship was completely off the table, now he’s saying that isn’t true? I feel a bit like the earth has shifted on its axis. I’m half expecting the room to tilt, books to start flying off shelves, and furniture to slide across the floor. That’s how this feels.
“Sorry, what?” I just can’t wrap my head around this. “Sherlock...I’ve been dating people the entire time I’ve lived here. Why are you only saying this now?”
Sherlock says nothing, just stares at me. He seems gobsmacked. That’s a first. Sherlock, speechless.
Right. It’s going to be up to me, then. “Okay, Sherlock, let me ask you this. You thought we were ‘building toward something’, but you also thought I was straight? How does that work, exactly? Is this your ‘exception’ thing, because I’m not really grasping this.”
Sherlock shifts on the sofa so that his bony knees are mere inches from mine. I can feel the heat from his body, and I want to fall into him, to breach this wall that’s been between us, that now he’s saying never existed. I always have to work so hard to not respond to Sherlock’s body near mine. Because, so often, Sherlock’s arm will brush past my back in the kitchen, or his knee rest against mine in a cab, and I have to fight to hide how my breath quickens. Have to fight not to grab his wrist and swing his body into mine, my hand in the small of his back, pressing us together.
He said no, John. He doesn’t feel things that way. He’s not interested, in anyone, remember?
But I am.
And now he’s telling me he is that way, that he DOES feel these things. And he’s leaning forward, his face dangerously close to mine. I can see every pore on his nose, every bristle of stubble, every long black eyelash. My throat feels tight.
“Like I said, John. I thought I was your exception. I thought I was the only one, the only man you’d ever want. I knew you wanted me, since that first night.” Sherlock’s eyes are decidedly darker than they had been a few minutes previously. Pupils wider, eyelids lowered, his face close enough to mine that our breath is mingling. “I never felt the need to compete with the women you dated, because I thought we had something different, something unique for you.”
“But now, now that I see I’m not your exception, that you’re not straight, obviously, I feel the need to stake my claim. I would never, NEVER, let another man have you. In any way.” Sherlock’s voice isn’t raised, but there’s a tone that doesn’t brook argument. A ripple of arousal pulses through my belly. I always did like feeling a bit...possessed.
“You wouldn’t? Why not?” Oh please, let him tell me all the reasons I belong to him. I want to hear every single one. And then I want to climb on top of him and let him take me apart. Every single moment of desire I’ve ever repressed feels like it’s coalescing under my rib cage, something visceral and real and weighted. I’ve stopped trying to hide how heavily I’m breathing.
“I never imagined anyone would be, could be, more important than the work.” Sherlock’s face is centimeters away now, his eyes focused on my mouth. He licks his lips, and I realise I’m staring at his mouth, too. “But you are. You are, John. You’re MY exception.”
“Yeah? Why?” I shift closer to him, our knees touch.
“Because you make me better. You give me...focus. I THINK better when you’re there, when you’re talking to me. Just when you’re next to me. If I can just feel you’re there...Everyone else, they’re just a distraction. You bring me clarity, John. You make everything brighter.” I’ve never seen such genuine feeling in Sherlock’s eyes before, so open, and honest. He’s completely unguarded, his eyes almost translucent.
“Sherlock. Jesus. That’s the most amazing thing anyone has ever said to me.” My hand is on Sherlock’s thigh, the wool scratchy, the line of his muscle smooth and hard under my palm, and I exert some pressure with my thumb. His leg tenses, and then relaxes under my fingers. “But, we need to really think about this, okay? Once we cross this line, there’s no going back. We’ll never just be friends ever again.”
Sherlock’s eyes shift, looking at me like he can’t believe I just said that. His mouth ticks up the corner, and mine does in response.
“We have never been just friends, John. You came onto me the very first night we met. ‘It’s all fine, I’m not attached, do you have a boyfriend?’ Remember?” Sherlock’s eyes flick down to my hand on his leg, and then back up to mine, that authentic grin that I so rarely get to see crossing his face. His eyes are twinkling mischievously.
“Well, you got me there, Sherlock. And then you shot me down in flames. Remember that part?” I almost laugh, but then I meet Sherlock’s gaze, and the look in his eyes knocks the breath out of me. He looks like he wants to devour me. Good. My hand slides a bit farther up his thigh, and he moves his leg under my hand, shifts his whole body forward, one hand slipping next to my hip on the sofa, and he’s practically crawling toward me.
“And then you moved in with me. That was my answer. You moved in, into my flat, my work, my life. So, no more men. Or women.” His voice, oh god, it’s unfair, that voice. Every single nerve ending in my body is drawn to that voice. I could fall into it, lose myself just listening to him talk.
He leans forward farther, and I reach up with the hand that’s not on his leg, catch his face in my palm. He shuts his eyes, nuzzles into my hand, stubble rubbing against my fingers. We’re really doing this. I forget why I was angry with him earlier, forget what even started this whole conversation, forget everything except the electricity of our skin touching, his breath on my face, his weight leaning into me.
His nose nudges against cheek, breath warm, ghosting over my jaw. “No more. Now that we understand each other. You’re mine. You hear me, John? You are mine, you belong to me. So, no more. I won’t have it.”
I can’t swallow. I’m his. I like that more than I’d care to admit. “No, no more. They were all just…”
“A substitute for me. Which you no longer need.” Sherlock darts his tongue out and licks my upper lip. A sharp gasp escapes me, the flick of his tongue reverberating down my spine in a line directly to my cock, which has come to life shockingly quickly, and is hard and thick and constricted in my jeans.
I can hardly think. I run my thumb over that lower lip, that insanely pouty, perfect, sinful, bottom lip that I’ve wanted to touch a hundred times. His tongue peeks out again, wetting the tip of my thumb. He withdraws it with a slow circle, our eyes locked together. My whole body shudders, and my groin is on fire, everything tight and pulsing. I’m squirming like a randy teenager. I want him to be touching me, right now.
“They were. They were just because I thought I couldn’t have you.” I breathe out hoarsely. I realise now that’s entirely true, has been since the first night.
Sherlock’s hand is a fist in my shirt, dragging me to him, our mouths meeting, not quite in a kiss, but oh god, our lips are touching and it’s fire shooting down my neck and my thumb is caught between our lips, Sherlock’s tongue is flicking out to lick it over and over, slowly, in circles, up and down, and I can’t stop looking at his tongue on my skin. I’m shivering like mad and I can’t believe this is how this night is ending, because I never imagined for one second that it would. I can barely breathe with us this close together.
“Well, now you know that you can...what are you going to do about it, Captain Watson?” Sherlock’s voice purrs rough in my ear, one hand slinking in between my legs, his fingertips just barely ghosting over my erection, and I can’t help my hips jumping up, pushing into his hand, can’t help the feral gasp, the grunt, as my fingers tighten on his thigh.
Oh, fuck, I love that. Captain Watson, oh god. How did he know about that one little particular kink of mine? Because he’s Sherlock, of course. He’s probably already deduced every single thing I like in bed from the colour socks I wear or something. God, he’s going to wreck me. He’s already wrecking me, and we haven’t even done anything yet.
With a growl, I push him back on the couch, lay him flat underneath me, our hips aligned, push his hands over his head and hold them there. His fingers curl around my hands and he lets his head fall back, exposing that long smooth neck, a soft breathy moan rumbling deep, the sound of which makes me nearly mad with desire.
“You want me, John?” Sherlock’s lips are at my ear, brushing with the lightest touch, barely felt, his voice throaty and smokey, sending shivers down my neck and making my head swim.
“Oh, god, so badly. I always have. You KNOW that.” I can’t even play hard to get, or tease, or banter. I’m just aching for him, months of everything unsaid and denied and repressed burning inside me like fire. I turn my head, seeking out his mouth, but he swings his head to the side, making me chase him.
“You’re not going to see Thom again.” It’s not a question.
“No, no, I already said...only you. It’s always been you.” I’m desperate to kiss him, trying to reach his mouth with mine, but he keeps ducking, avoiding me, making me huff in frustration. I let go of his hands, run mine down the length of his arms, over the ridges of ribs sticking out too far, and the soft hollow of his belly, the swell of his hip. All the places I’ve always wanted to touch him, but couldn’t. My hands are shaking.
His hands skim down my back, lips tracing around my ear. He draws my earlobe into his mouth, nibbles with his teeth, and simultaneously rolls his hips up into me. His erection hits my stomach, making my own contract and jump, my back curling like a cat as I drop a foot to the floor to brace myself and roll my hips right back into him. We both moan, and the sound of Sherlock like this, aroused because of me, wanting me, when I never allowed myself to think that he ever might...god, my blood is absolutely singing through my veins. I want to kiss him so badly, try again, and he ducks his head to the side, grinning.
“And no one else. Ever again.” He breathes out against my temple, hands yanking my shirt out of my trousers, slipping long cool fingers over my stomach. I’m shuddering against him, I can’t help it.
“No, Sherlock, there’s never been. Not since we met. Not like this.” And it’s true. Meeting Sherlock was a singular moment in my life. I’d never felt drawn to someone like that, ever. Never wanted someone so immediately and powerfully. I wanted to grab him by lapels and shove him up against the wall of the lab in Bart’s within five minutes of meeting him, and kiss him until we couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even explain why. I just wanted to give him everything, including me.
We were alone, and then we found each other.
Sherlock pushes me back by my shoulders, his eyes sweeping over me appraisingly. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
“Ah, okay.” I swallow, heart pounding, watching him walking out of the room, down the hall to his bedroom. He’s getting something out of the bedroom. My teeth are digging into my bottom lip.I can’t believe we’re really doing this. It’s everything I’ve wanted since the moment we met, and that it’s happening is surreal.
Then he’s back, eyebrow ticked up, a bottle of lubricant in his hand. Oh.
“Lie down.” He’s got the same commanding demeanor he has when we’re on a case, except now it’s making a red heat spread through my entire body.
I lie down, silently. The only sound in the room is the leather creaking as Sherlock puts his weight on the sofa and leans over me. My breath is so fast I can’t possibly be getting enough oxygen, my entire body thrumming with arousal, skin quivering. Sherlock’s undoing my shirt buttons, one long leg bent over my hips, watching me intently.
“You didn’t kiss him, did you, John?” He murmurs softly, parting my shirt and trailing his fingertips lightly down my chest to the waist of my trousers.
“Did I...what? Are you still on about Thom? God, it was nothing, nothing compared to this, to you, Sherlock.” I can barely form a sentence, his fingers dancing over my stomach, over my nipples, the weight and heat of him on top of my thighs.
“I know that. That’s not what I asked.” There’s a dangerous tone in his voice that gives me a shiver.
His eyes are searing into mine, even as his fingers are deftly undoing my belt. Somehow, I choke out, “Just a goodnight kiss. It was nothing.”
Quicker than I can react, he’s flat against me, nose to nose. “Unacceptable. You can’t kiss me until every trace of him is gone.”
Oh god. This is a side of him that I have never seen, this jealousy, this possessiveness. It’s a bit frightening, and dead fucking sexy. There’s a seeping wetness inside my pants now. I want his hand on me so badly I want to scream.
“You want to kiss me, don’t you?” His voice is so deep, its inhuman. He’s still flat on top of me, his lips centimeters away, my arms pinioned to my sides, long fingers wrapped tightly around my wrists. I’m so used to being dominant during sex, I’m completely disarmed by how commanding he’s being. I can’t even gather my thoughts enough to decide if I want to protest.
Then Sherlock’s tongue is gliding down the center of my chin, over my Adam’s apple, playing in the hollow above my sternum, and my hips are moving on their own, and I decide I really don’t.
“I do, Sherlock. I want to kiss you so badly.” Oh god, I sound like I’m begging. Which I sort of am.
His lips are working over my collarbone, teeth dragging. “I know you do. But you’re not going to, not until every last trace of that man is off you.”
My ears are humming, my whole body quaking with need. This is torture. Exquisite torture.
He suddenly releases my wrists and sits up. “Go to the bathroom. Wash your face. Then you can come back and kiss me.” He curls on the end of the sofa and looks at me, waiting.
I don’t take orders like this, especially not in bed. I swallow, staring at him. “Sherlock. I don’t think…”
“You’ll do it, or you won’t kiss me.” His eyes are unyielding.
Something in me breaks, and I realise I want him so badly, I’d do just about anything. “Okay.”
As I’m washing the soap off my face, I catch my reflection. I already look completely destroyed, which satisfies me in a profound way. I pat my face dry and go back to Sherlock.
He’s sitting up on the sofa when I walk into the sitting room, and he curls a finger at me, letting his legs fall open a little. Christ, he’s so sexy. I can hardly stand it. He wraps his long arms around my hips the second I’m within reach, and pulls me onto his lap, my legs automatically sliding on either side of him. He traces my mouth with the tip of his index finger. “Good job. Let me just make sure.”
He wraps a hand around the back of my head and draws my face down to his, but instead of kissing me, he licks my lips. Lapping, tracing, his tongue dancing over my mouth. A long low moan escapes me, at the sound of which, Sherlock presses a flat hand into the small of my back and pulls me closer, still licking at my mouth relentlessly.
Oh god, if he doesn’t touch me soon, I’m going to die.
Finally, he nips my lower lip with a little satisfied sound. “Alright. He’s all gone. Come here.”
The first brush of lips is hesitant, almost shy, but within seconds I’m pushing my tongue between his lips, my hands twisting into his hair, and we’re both filling the room with moans and sighs and sharp little grunts. My hips are arching into him, aching for contact, and his hands slip down to my arse, cradling it in his long hands.
He breaks free, kisses across my jaw as I’m rubbing my face into his, my arms wrapped impossibly tightly around his shoulders, panting out his name over and over. “Take everything off, John.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I’m scrambling off his lap, yanking my jeans and pants off, toeing my socks off. He’s just watching me.
“And you, Sherlock.” I nod at him, feeling a bit exposed.
He’s cool as ever, one eyebrow cocked, his eyes roaming all over my body. I’m suddenly self-conscious about everything, from the size of my cock to my slight belly to the scar on my shoulder. He bites his lip and looks up at me from under those coal black lashes.
“You do it.” He leans back, lets his legs fall open completely, the hardness of his erection tenting his trousers.
I’ve never, ever, let someone order me about like this. I’m stunned at how much it turns me on.
I kneel between his legs, reach up and start unbuttoning his shirt. His head falls back, eyes closing, and he puts one hand on top of my head. A hard shiver runs through me. Push his shirt open, and off, as he helps me only marginally, sitting up a little when I need to pull it out from behind him. I unbuckle his trousers, my hand passing over his cock inside, and he moans deeply, pressing up into my hand.
Once I’ve got him unzipped, I hook my fingers into the waistband to tug them off. “Lift your hips.’ My voice is hoarse with desire, broken.
He does, but not much, and I have to really work to get his trousers off. I pull his socks off with them, and toss the whole bundle a few feet across the room, look at the creature laid out on the sofa in front of me. God, he is gorgeous. Rail thin, his belly hollow even when he’s sitting up, the perfect pale skin stretched over the curve of hipbone, the bump of collarbone, pink nipples standing out against the white, his black curls like a halo.
And a very long, thick cock standing hard and flushed against that perfect stomach.
He knows how beautiful he is, the little shit. His mouth curls up, as he watches me, and he wriggles his hips just a little. “Well, come on, then. Get up here.”
I pull myself onto his lap, hands sliding up his chest. The first touch of our cocks together is almost more than I can bear. The electricity of it shoots through me and I’m falling forward, gasping, my forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder. His hands encircle my hips, pushing and pulling, moving us against each other.
“John. Look at me. We do this together, like everything else.” He puts two fingers under my chin, and brings our faces together. “Don’t close your eyes.”
I try not to, but as our mouths come together, I can’t help it. Our hips have found a rhythm, cocks rubbing together, jumping into our bellies. Kisses deep and full of emotion, the longing we’ve both felt for each other all this time spilling out between swollen lips and hot tongues. Fingers twisting at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, his curls tight in my hand.
“I didn’t even know how badly I wanted you.” I gasp out, already on the edge, my breath ragged.
“I did. I knew how badly you wanted me. And now you know how I wanted you, too.” Sherlock kisses my neck softly, lips closed, peppering kisses all over my neck and chest, over my scar. “You’re mine. You’re mine, John.”
“Ahhhh, I know. I am. I’m yours.” Oh god, I’m right there, my cock leaking, balls tightening. I feel my back arching...and then suddenly, Sherlock’s strong hands are on my hips, pressing, holding me still. I’m rocking against his hands, trying to overcome the resistance.
“Not yet, John. You’ll come when I say. When I’m inside you, and filling you up, and you’re riding me until you can’t breathe. That’s when you can come.” Sherlock’s black eyes are on me, his whole body flushed red with arousal, nipples hard and gorgeous.
Those words alone send a pulse of desire through me that’s so powerful my cock twitches hard and a bead of pre come drips down. I jerk forward, but Sherlock’s got my hips so tight, I’ll have bruises tomorrow, and I can’t move.
He reaches over to the cushion of the couch and grabs the lube, spreads some on his fingers, and reachs around behind me with a devilish smile. As his fingers make contact, he looks up at me. “You can’t come. Not even when you want to fuck yourself on my fingers. You can’t.”
“Oh my fucking god, Sherlock,” is all I can get out of my mouth before one long slicked finger is inside me, and my entire body contracts around it, and I’m shouting, moaning, pushing backward into his hand.
“Mine, John. You’re mine. No one else’s.” He pushes another finger inside me, and kisses my chest, traces patterns with his tongue. “Say it.”
I can’t speak. It’s taking all my concentration not to come, with his fingers inside me, his cock slowly rubbing against mine, and his beautiful face watching me, a look of sheer wonder in his eyes.
“Say it, John.” He pushes a little deeper, and I’m clenching all around him, thigh muscles tightening and pushing me up off his lap.
“Ah, god...I’m yours. Yours, Sherlock. I am...oh god…” I can’t take much more. I’m trying so hard not to come that it hurts.
“Ready, John?” The baritone voice rumbles through me like a train engine, and before he can even finish speaking my name, I’m rising up, pushing the head of his cock against me. He bucks forward, digging his fingers into my arse. “Oh, you ARE ready. Remember, I say when you come. And not before.”
“Oh, god, Sherlock, please…” Now I really am begging. I’ve never felt like this during sex before. This must be what people mean when they say someone takes you apart. He’s taken me completely apart. I’m in pieces because of him, and for him, and I would do anything for him right now.
Silently, he slicks himself up and motions for me to position myself over him. He slides down a bit, so I can get in the right spot, and then he’s lowering me down, pulling on my hip with one hand as he guides himself inside with the other. It burns like fire. And I want more. I want to be on fire, to burn away in this moment, turn to ashes.
When I’ve sunk fully down, and he’s pressed deep inside me, I start to rock a little, hands braced on his chest. Oh my god. This is ecstasy. I find his eyes as I find my rhythm. He smiles at me, and runs his hands up my back, curling his fingers over my shoulders so he can pull me down, our bodies so pressed together, there’s no space at all between our skin.
He meets my rhythm, and with every little thrust, he whispers, “Mine.”
I feel like I’m high. That’s miraculous, hearing him say that as he thrusts up and into me, my muscles tight around him. Our eyes still locked together, I move a little faster, and reach to take my cock in my hand. He immediately grabs my wrist and puts my hand back on his chest, shaking his head slowly. “None of that. You’ll come from me inside you, and that’s it. Unless you want to ask me nicely.”
“Please. Sherlock. Please touch me. Please.” I would ramble please forever if he would just put his hand on me. I’m dying for his touch on my cock.
He smiles, very slowly, and I feel one hand sliding down my back. “Alright, Captain. Since you asked me very nicely.”
Oh god, this dichotomy of him calling me Captain and yet being completely in charge is driving me mad. I’ve never been so turned on in my life, because usually I would have come fifteen minutes ago. He is taking me apart, bit by bit. And I’m letting him, because I know he’ll put me back together.
The first touch of his fingers on me shoots through me like I’ve been electrocuted. Clenching muscles around him, I lose my rhythm, shouting and moaning, my head rolling back on my neck. Everything is tightening again, my lower belly is full of flames. I want to come so badly.
“Please, Sherlock. Please.”
He pulls a long upstroke on my cock, gently but firmly, and with his other hand, pulls my head down to kiss me. “Okay, John, you can come now. Come for me.”
And I am, before he’s even finished talking, my whole body shaking and convulsing, ribbons of come pulsing all over Sherlock’s chest and abdomen, for minutes, coming so hard I can't even make a sound. Just silent and shaking to my core. I've never come so hard or long in my life.
“Oh, that’s lovely, John. God, you’re perfect. That’s it, darling, you don’t have to stop.” He’s stroking me gently, murmuring in my ear, his other hand in my hair. I’m still coming, riding out smaller spasms. “Oh, I love you.”
My head snaps up to meet his eye, and he looks shocked at himself. Then his expression softens, and the hand that was in my hair comes to cradle my face. “I do. I didn’t mean to say it right then, but it’s the truth.”
“I love you, too.” Feeling drunk and boneless from endorphins, I curl forward to press my lips to his.
He reaches forward and grabs a handkerchief off the coffee table to clean himself up quickly, then tosses it to the floor. He’s still hot and hard inside me. I start moving again, slowly, lazily, leaning my weight into his chest, my arms draped over his shoulders. His hands settle on my waist, and I feel him lean back into the sofa. “Oh god, John. Make me come. Ride me until I come inside you.”
I respond by speeding up, my adrenaline kicking back in, drawing my legs tighter around Sherlock’s thighs. His head rolls to the side, and one hand leaves my waist to pull at his curls. Those perfect lips have fallen open, swollen and red, and his lashes are so black against his cheeks. He’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.
“Are you close?” I breathe out, turned on all over again by watching him like this.
“Yeah…” He pushes up a little, and I can feel his cock throbbing.
“Yeah? Come inside me, Sherlock. Make me yours.” My cock is twitching a little to see how close he is.
“Say that again.” He clutches my hip forward, moving me off rhythm, but deeper. We both groan, and I have to put a hand on his shoulder to hold myself up.
“Make me yours. Make me yours, Sherlock.” I roll my hips forward in a slow, deep circle, and I feel him stiffening beneath me, “Yeah, come on…”
“Oh, John…” he dissolves into gasping out my name, his whole body going rigid as I feel the heat flooding into me.
We collapse against each other, sweaty and spent, Sherlock’s fingers languidly tracing down my back. I put my nose in his neck, smelling his shampoo, and sex and sweat. Oh god, I never imagined I would have him like this. It’s the most amazing thing. I’m high from the sex, from him, from all of it.
He rolls me off of him, and I lay back on the cold leather, wincing a bit. But then he’s draping himself on top of me, and I forget about the coldness at my back. There’s really no room for two adults to lay on this couch together, but we make it work, pressing ourselves together until there’s not enough room for air between us. Sherlock’s head is on my chest, those messy, sweaty curls falling across my skin, and he’s swirling his index finger all over my chest and my stomach. I reach a hand up and tangle my fingers in his hair.
There’s no need to talk. We’ve already said everything we needed to say tonight.
Finally, Sherlock looks up at me, chin on my chest. “It’s very late, John. Shall we to bed?”
“Yours or mine?” I stretch and he curls to my side, lips against me.
“Ours.” He whispers roughly. Our eyes meet, and then our lips meet, and as we break apart, I whisper it back.
“Yeah, Sherlock. You're right. Ours.”