Title: My Phone’s on Vibrate For You 2
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Sherlock’s made a promise and he intends to keep it.
Notes: Continuing from My Phone’s On Vibrate For You. This is the PWP portion of the evening.
The problem with the bus ride home is that it gives John time to think, and upon thinking — and trying not to think about the acts that Sherlock described — John decides he’s being ridiculous. Sherlock is his flatmate, for God’s sake, and he’s never given any indication before today of being sexually interested in anyone, much less in John. He’s messing around, has to be, for reasons comprehensible only to himself.
John gets off the bus when it stops on Baker Street, and thinks he ought to go to the Chinese restaurant on the corner before he goes home. He’ll go up to the flat with supper and they’ll eat and have a good laugh and forget about it tomorrow.
His phone beeps as he’s walking. John takes it out and reads the message Sherlock sent: “Where are you? I’m waiting. SH.”
John types, “On my way to get us supper,” sends the message, and continues the walk to restaurant.
His phone beeps again. “So you don’t want the blowjob? SH.”
John stops abruptly, staring at his phone, and barely glances up to mutter, “Sorry,” as someone bumps into him. His hands are trembling as he types, “I’ll get takeaway instead,” and he pivots on his heel to hurry to 221b.
He bursts into the flat, breathing fast from anticipation as much as from running up the stairs, and Sherlock looks up from the newspaper. “Sherlock,” John gasps, and Sherlock tosses the paper aside and rises from the armchair. “Sherlock, I,” John tries again, but Sherlock is already advancing to him, his expression determined, his eyes predatory and fixed on John’s mouth. “Sherlock,” John tries again weakly, and then can only whimper as Sherlock reaches behind him to close and lock the door.
John leans back against the door. He wants to close his eyes, but Sherlock is still staring at him intensely as his hands go to work on John’s trousers and John can’t look away, doesn’t even want to blink. His fingers scratch into the wood and he stares at Sherlock, into his eyes when he isn’t watching Sherlock’s mouth with its pink smooth lips.
Sherlock runs his fingertips over John’s stomach, making it shiver, and John finally closes his eyes with a moan. He feels Sherlock’s cool fingers push his jacket from his shoulders, unbutton his shirt, tug his trousers down his hips. He moans as he grasps Sherlock’s shoulders and feels Sherlock slide down his body.
“Lovely, just lovely,” Sherlock whispers as he sucks kisses onto John’s hip and lower belly, drawing up the skin between his teeth sometimes. John’s knees shake. He twists a hand into Sherlock’s hair and dares to open his eyes, just in time to see Sherlock’s candy-pink tongue dart out to taste the head of his cock.
John screws his eyes shut and thrusts his hand deeper into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock’s tongue circles the head and strokes the shaft, while Sherlock’s hands pin John in place, surprisingly strong, kneading lightly in a gentle rhythm. Sherlock’s hair is soft between his fingers, and when John slides his hand farther back to cup the back of Sherlock’s skull Sherlock hums softly and finally takes John’s cock between his lips.
John pants harder, biting his lip to keep from cursing, as Sherlock takes him deeper and then pulls back, pushes deep and pulls back, over and over until John gasps, “Sherlock!” and clutches at his hair again.
Sherlock pulls off and wipes saliva from his lips with the back of his hand. “I realized while I was waiting for you to come home that you fucking me on the stairs is impractical,” he says as he pulls off John’s shoes and pushes his trousers to his ankles. His normally smooth voice is rough around the edges as he takes John’s hands and leans close to whisper, “But I fantasize about it all the time.”
“Oh, God, Sherlock,” John breathes. He grabs Sherlock’s shirtfront and yanks him close, and kisses Sherlock fiercely, right on that beautiful mouth.
Sherlock is entirely unresponsive for a moment — and then he leans into John, bracing himself on the door. His lips part in a way John can only think of as shy, which is surprising given where that mouth just was. John eases up on his kiss, pushes his hands into Sherlock’s hair and coaxes Sherlock lips to part wider, Sherlock’s tongue to touch his.
Sherlock turns him, turns them, so that his own back is against the door and he can slide down it. It helps with the height difference somewhat, and John smiles and whispers, “You’re so clever,” and leans in to kiss him again.
Instead, Sherlock frowns at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, this was a good idea.”
“Oh.” He blinks a few times, but doesn’t turn away when John kisses him again.
John steps back, out of his trousers, and pulls off his t-shirt. Sherlock leads him to the couch, lies down as Sherlock directs him and tries to calm his breathing as Sherlock kneels over his body. Sherlock is still completely dressed, so John pops the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt as Sherlock kisses his mouth and licks his neck. “Are you,” John swallows hard, “are you planning to do — what you said? You’re going to lick me all over?”
“I’m certainly going to try,” Sherlock murmurs and nibbles John’s throat before moving lower. John pushes at Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock kneels up to undo his cuffs and pull the shirt off, smiling faintly all the while.
John runs his hands over Sherlock’s pale, sleek body. He knows he shouldn’t want this — what he should be doing, he knows, is talking sense into Sherlock, being the grounded one, that’s his role in Sherlock’s life — but more than that he wants to taste this skin, tease those nipples with his tongue, feel that heart beating under his lips.
And more, he realizes as he unbuckles Sherlock’s belt and Sherlock lets him, that same faint smile on his lips. He wants to do everything with Sherlock that Sherlock wants to do with him.
He sits and pulls Sherlock closer by the legs as Sherlock watches him through his lashes, and dips his head to lick Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock kisses his hair. “John, I’m fine, I don’t need –”
“Sex should be mutual,” John whispers. He kisses the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. “You can lavish attention on me later.” He reaches between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock growls, low, while John wants to laugh out loud. The great Sherlock Holmes, the detached Sherlock Holmes, married-to-his-work Sherlock Holmes has an erection that only grows harder as John traces it with his fingers. “I’m just glad to see you’re actually human.”
“Of course I’m human,” Sherlock bites out and pushes into John’s hand insistently.
“Human enough to want sex sometimes,” says John.
Sherlock turns his face away, eyes closing. “Human enough,” he says, still in that gruff, impatient voice, and John doesn’t have time to wonder what he means before Sherlock pushes him onto his back and bites his neck. “I believe I said I wanted you to fuck me.”
“Yes, yes, we did say that,” John says, dazed, all equilibrium the little break gave him fleeing. Sherlock’s back is smooth under his hands, the skin warm, and he strokes Sherlock’s back as Sherlock kisses his chest. He groans loudly as Sherlock closes his mouth around a nipple and sucks.
“Knew you were sensitive there,” Sherlock lifts his mouth long enough to say smugly and resumes sucking him, rubbing the other nipple with his thumb.
“Oh?” John gasps. “How d’you figure?” He shoves his hand into Sherlock’s hair again.
“The t-shirts,” Sherlock mumbles. He switches to the other nipple, twisting and pinching the damp first between his finger and thumb until John pushes his hand away.
“Too much, God, Sherlock, you’re driving me mad.”
“That is the idea,” Sherlock says, looking smug again, and John wraps his arms around him and rolls Sherlock beneath him — not the easiest maneuver on the narrow couch, and John feels pretty impressed with himself that he pulled it off.
“Mutual,” he admonishes when Sherlock starts to protest, and then dips his head to lick Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock grips John’s shoulders, and he lifts his hips obligingly as John tugs on his trousers.
It’s no surprise at all that Sherlock wears silk boxer shorts — burgundy in color, exquisite to the touch, doing nothing to hide the length and weight of Sherlock’s prick as John wraps his hand around it and strokes. Sherlock inhales, long lashes fluttering as his eyes close, and John moves closer so he can feel the slippery sensation of silk against his cock as he rubs alongside Sherlock’s.
“Oh,” Sherlock says faintly and his fingers dig deeper into John’s shoulders. “That’s — that’s very good.”
John chuckles into Sherlock’s neck. He wants to just rut away against Sherlock until they both come, and with so much left to do of Sherlock’s requests, it means they can go on having sex until the entire list is got through. God only knows when Sherlock will be in the mood to have sex again.
But Sherlock’s hand is already between them, pushing down his boxers, and John kneels between his legs to help him take them and his trousers and shoes off. He runs his fingers over Sherlock’s instep and smiles when Sherlock shivers, and holds Sherlock’s leg so he can mouth his way from Sherlock’s calf to his thigh.
Sherlock makes more of those faint, surprised, “Oh,” sounds as John sucks him. John rather likes it, though it makes him wonder how many of Sherlock’s lovers — and he always assumed the number was small, though now he supposes he needs to adjust that view — let Sherlock do all the work and never touched him back.
“I can’t provide testimonials,” John admits when he pulls off, and he runs his tongue over his teeth, marveling at the taste still in his mouth, the lingering heat. He looks up at Sherlock — one arm thrown over his head, color high in his cheeks, eyes closed, lips wet — and adds, “I think I’m doing all right, though, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes and rakes a hand through John’s hair. “You’re splendid.”
John kisses Sherlock’s hand. “I don’t suppose –”
“Of course,” said Sherlock and points a languid hand. “Trouser pocket.”
“Brilliant.” John scoops them up and hunts in the pockets, laughing when he finds the little bottle of lubricant and condoms Sherlock had put there. He’s just so damn happy, but that doesn’t stop him from being a gentleman. “Are you certain this is what you want?”
“Quite certain. I need this, John. Sometimes I just — need it.”
“All right, Sherlock.” The hair on Sherlock’s legs is dark and fine, and his skin rasps faintly under John’s fingertips. John lubricates his fingers and holds Sherlock’s thigh as he pushes into him, stopping when Sherlock’s hips buck. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll go easier.”
“No, it’s good.” Sherlock grips his shoulder. “It’s good. Deeper. More.”
“Deeper,” John whispers, face flaming. “More. Yes.” He adds another finger to open Sherlock, tries to follow the cues from Sherlock’s writhing body and the soft sounds Sherlock makes. He can’t hold back a triumphant smile when Sherlock arches his body and groans loudly, and John spends a few minutes stroking him deep, loving the unfamiliar vulnerability of Sherlock’s expression as he loses himself in physical pleasure.
They’re both trembling when John rolls on the condom and takes hold of Sherlock’s hips. Slow, John reminds himself, he wants it slow, and bites hard on his lower lip to ease into Sherlock’s lean, tight arse. “Oh,” Sherlock breathes again, and his arms curl around John’s shoulders when John bends over him and pushes deep.
Neither of them closes their eyes, even when they’re near enough for eyelashes to brush. John cradles Sherlock’s head in his palm and watches his eyes, fascinated with how usually they’re so cool and cataloguing and how different they look when filled with heat and lost in the moment. He traces the outline of Sherlock’s lips with his thumb — where all this started, he never would have let any of this happen if he weren’t so entranced with the thought of these lips stretched around his cock — and Sherlock’s gaze never leaves his as he sucks John’s thumb into his mouth.
“Christ,” John murmurs, “how are you so gorgeous?” and Sherlock gives him a teasing smile in return.
“Up,” Sherlock says and pushes on John’s hips. “I want to be on top.”
“God, yes,” John says and gets onto his back, one foot on the floor to brace himself on the slippery cushions. Sherlock climbs onto him — this flushed, trembling, man so different from his self-contained flatmate, hair wild, pale skin covered with the sheen of perspiration — and takes hold of John’s cock to guide him back into his arse. John holds Sherlock’s hips until Sherlock finds his rhythm, and then wraps a hand around Sherlock’s cock again. It makes Sherlock’s eyes grow even wider, and he curls his body over John’s, eyes fixed on his, one hand clutching the back of the couch and the other on John’s chest.
Sometimes Sherlock looks at him like an experiment, with a detached curiosity that John finds unnerving; sometimes Sherlock looks at him like a puzzle he’d like to solve; sometimes, it must be said, Sherlock looks at him like a proud parent whose child has just learned to walk.
But he’s never looked at John like this. Not like a mystery — like an answer.
John moves his hand to splay over Sherlock’s lower back and uses the other to continue stroking him, and tells him he’s beautiful, so amazing, his body is incredible and feels so good, smells so good; and finally says, with a tight fist on Sherlock’s prick and gasping for breath to get the words out, “Come for me, Sherlock, I want to see your face too.”
Sherlock’s exhales a long, “Ohhh,” as he shudders, his come hot on John’s hand and chest. His eyes are open wide and his lips are parted, and there’s a look of bliss and contentment that John has never seen on his face. Happiness is not something Sherlock does — at most he’s excited, interested, but John has never seen him like this, like he can stop searching for a while.
Sherlock is still making those lovely sighs as he rides John’s cock, hands placed on either side of John’s head. John can feel his orgasm coiling at the base of his spine and he shoves into Sherlock more urgently, holding his hips. Their faces are so close John can see every tremble of his eyelashes and the capillaries in his eyes. It’s terrifyingly intimate, to be watched so closely, and somehow John manages to keep his eyes open as he comes. He has no idea what his face does during orgasm but whatever Sherlock sees, he likes it — he breaks into a smile and nudges his lips against John’s, whispering, “You’re perfect. You’re just perfect.”
John coaxes Sherlock’s head against his neck, still gasping for breath. “Oh, my God, Sherlock,” he whispers. “Oh, my God.”
Sherlock rumbles agreeably into John’s neck, skin still damp and slick as John strokes his back. He rouses enough to say, “Didn’t you say something about takeaway?” and John bursts out laughing.