Title: My Phone’s on Vibrate For You 3
Word Count: 2300
Summary: John has no idea what’s going on, but he does know he’s never been happier.
Notes: Continued from part 2.
It was only a matter of time, John reflects, before one of them ended up handcuffed to a bed.
That first night — John doesn’t know what he expected that first night, but after they washed up and got dressed and ordered food, it was like dozens of other nights at Baker Street. The kitchen was a mess of papers and experiments, the fire crackled comfortably in the hearth, and Sherlock sat at the partner’s desk to entertain himself with answering emails and abusing the poor sods who commented on his forum.
The only difference between all the other nights and this was that John’s mouth still tasted faintly of Sherlock’s, and there were scratches from Sherlock’s nails stinging his back, and he felt far more relaxed than he had for weeks. He supposed they would talk about it sooner or later — there was no way flatmates could start sleeping together without it getting complicated fast — but it was so comfortable between them , with the fire and Sherlock reading out various comments from the forum and John’s own blog in need of updating, he didn’t bring it up.
When John got up to go to bed he hesitated, thinking he should make Sherlock the offer to join him, but he only said, “Good night, Sherlock,” and Sherlock hummed absently in response, absorbed in typing.
This meant, John was sure, that their tryst was a one-time occurrence. Sherlock lived a life of the mind, and sex, like food and sleep and socializing, only interested him when he had nothing else with which to occupy himself.
The next few weeks seemed to prove this right. Sherlock only texted John for the usual reasons, to talk about cases or to ask him to pick up something at the shops. Still, every time his phone beeped to alert him of a text John felt his face flush and his heart start to beat a little faster.
Then came the day when Sherlock texted him a blunt, “Come home and fuck me. SH,” and a few weeks after that John woke up to a text of, “I’m downstairs and naked. Where are you and why aren’t you here? SH,” and then only a few days passed when Sherlock texted him from across the room, “Take off your clothes. I want to do stuff to you. SH,” which made John laugh out loud, but he also took off his clothes.
It only happened in the sitting room, on the couch or on the floor, as if it were neutral territory. Sherlock never brought John back to his room and John never invited Sherlock to his. Afterwards, at most Sherlock would doze against John for a few minutes, and then would pull on his clothes and go back to whatever he was doing before, whether it was reading the newspaper or updating his website or making phone calls to badger Lestrade or Molly into yielding to whatever his demands were that night.
They had something like a routine now. Every few days — more often than John expected, given Sherlock’s insistence that sex was not his area — Sherlock texted John with a proposition, and John hurried to wherever Sherlock was so that they could indulge in each other. John feels a pleasant buzz throughout his skin, down to his bones, from the constant attention and satisfaction; he feels sharp mentally, attuned to Sherlock , able to follow his mental leaps and skips far better than he ever had before.
When John asks himself what exactly is going on with them, he has no answer. All he knows for certain is that he’s happier than he’d been for years, and Sherlock smiles more often.
And then came today.
John was on his way home when he got Sherlock’s text. He took out his phone casually, thinking it would be request for tea or to pick up Indian for supper, but what he read was, “I have stolen something from Lestrade. I’m using it on you when you get home. SH.”
John’s breath caught and he typed back quickly, “What did you steal?”
Instead of a text in response, Sherlock sent a picture — of himself, holding a pair of handcuffs.
Which is how John finds himself handcuffed to the rails in the headboard of Sherlock’s bed, naked, trying not to strain against the cuffs as Sherlock kisses and licks his body. Sherlock is still dressed — he doesn’t like to take off his clothes until he’s good and ready, which is just fine with John because that means he feels the friction of Sherlock’s shirt and trousers against him, a sensation that’s even more carnal than bare skin. John likes to shove his hands into Sherlock’s hair, stroke his neck and narrow shoulders, so not being able to touch him makes John dig his fingers into his own palms and try to channel his frustrated desire into something productive, like moaning in encouragement.
Sherlock likes to hear him. Sherlock will whisper, “Make some noise,” in John’s ear or against his neck, the request making John shudder and groan louder every time, but he doesn’t need to ask. The more he sucks John’s nipples, the harder he sucks John’s cock, even if he rubs the sole of John’s foot the right way, John lets out a groan or a shout or a shuddering sigh.
Sherlock holds John by the hips and John lets his legs sprawl open. John has topped Sherlock whenever he’s asked, and Sherlock has used his fingers and tongue on John. But tonight Sherlock has a look, a gleam in his eye and a curl to his lips that tell John he’s interested in more than mild bondage tonight.
He says quietly, his hands on John’s hips, “Do you trust me?”
“Completely,” John says, quietly too, trembling.
“I want to open you up,” Sherlock whispers. “I want to be deep inside you. Deeper than this.” He holds up his hand and regards his fingers. John shivers, remembering when they’ve been inside him, making him crazy as they twisted and stroked. “Would you let me do that?”
“Yes. God, Sherlock, yes.” He calms his breath, preparing himself. It’s been a long time, years, since he’s let anyone do this — but this is Sherlock. John wouldn’t deny him anything.
Sherlock bends over John and kisses him. He doles out kisses as if he has an allotment and doesn’t want to go through them too quickly; John hoards them, tries to make them last as long as possible, tries to claim as many as he can get. He groans against Sherlock’s mouth and wraps his legs around Sherlock’s slender hips, pulling Sherlock closer the best he can. Sherlock settles onto him, elbows bent by John’s head, and they kiss, wet and deep.
John whispers, “Sherlock,” and Sherlock rests his nose against John’s neck before pushing himself up. He hunts among the bottles and books on his nightstand, but instead of the bottle of lubricant John expects he gets the key to the handcuffs and unlocks them. John lowers his arms and Sherlock rubs his wrists.
“I’d like you to touch me now.”
John smiles and draws his fingers over Sherlock’s, over his hands and down his wrists. Sherlock’s wrists have always fascinated him. He pushes back Sherlock’s cuff and scrapes his teeth over one to feel Sherlock’s pulse, his eyes on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock exhales with a shudder, eyes fluttering closed, and without opening them he places John’s hands on his shirt front. John undoes the buttons and sits up so he can kiss Sherlock’s fine skin and suck his nipples, and when Sherlock makes an impatient noise and tugs on his hair John undoes his trousers and pushes them off. His boxer shorts are dark purple this time, silky and soft, and John bunches them in his hand before he yanks them off.
Sherlock’s body is long and slender and pale all over, from the lean muscles in his arms to his endless legs, and when John touches him he expects Sherlock’s skin to feel cool, like a statue.
Instead he’s warm. He’s so warm.
“On your side,” Sherlock whispers and kisses John’s ear. John nods and moves onto his side, facing the window that looks out onto the street. He wonders, as Sherlock’s fingers glide down his back and between his cheeks, if Sherlock ever lies here and looks up at the stars, or if the view is just another thing Sherlock denies himself.
And then he tilts back his head to touch Sherlock’s cheek with his temple as Sherlock’s slick fingers work inside him and all thought flees.
Sherlock is gentle when he wraps one arm around John’s waist and the other across his chest. He kisses the side of John’s neck and whispers, “Tell me if it’s too much,” as he opens John’s legs with one of his and pushes into him.
John reaches back to clutch Sherlock’s hip — his breath catches his chest and he gasps, “Fuck,” causing Sherlock’s hips to still. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” John whispers, “don’t stop,” and Sherlock kisses his shoulder and doesn’t stop.
As good as it feels — and it does feel good, once Sherlock finds his rhythm and the right angle, and his big beautiful hands stroke John’s skin and his lips brush John’s shoulder and neck — John takes Sherlock’s hip again and gasps, “Wait, stop,” and Sherlock stops, panting against his neck.
“Nothing, nothing,” John assures him. “I just like it better when I can see you. Please.”
Sherlock kisses him and pulls out, and John rolls onto his back. Sherlock gets onto his knees, frowning as he studies John’s body. “Sex from behind is supposed to be easier on an inexperienced bottom.”
“This inexperienced bottom wants to see your face.”
Sherlock smiles the hesitant half-smile that John always wants to kiss, and pulls John’s legs up against his chest to tilt up his hips. John wraps his hands around Sherlock’s upper arms and groans as Sherlock pushes into him again.
John tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and pulls him down, and nips his lower lip before sweeping his tongue over it. Sherlock makes a surprised noise but doesn’t pull away — he places his hands flat on the mattress and kisses John, his hips moving fast and purposeful, his tongue tasting John’s mouth carefully and then probing deep.
He pushes himself up and John cradles his face, thumbs brushing over Sherlock’s impossible cheekbones. “Sherlock,” John whispers and raises his head to kiss him, smiling as Sherlock sighs against his lips. That breathtaking open look comes over his face as his chest hitches, and John gives him light, teasing kisses as he curls his hands around Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock body’s shudders and he groans, that low, drawn-out, “Ohh,” that makes John shiver, and he lowers John’s legs as he gasps for breath. John holds Sherlock’s head to his chest, trembling and trying not to hump his still-hard cock against Sherlock’s stomach.
Sherlock raises his head and gives John a promising smile, and then slides down his body. “Oh, God,” John breathes, grasping Sherlock’s shoulders, and he has to close his eyes as Sherlock’s tongue bathes his cock in slow, lingering licks. Sherlock’s hand joins his tongue, stroking the shaft in a firm and tight grip. “Sherlock,” John moans in warning, “Sherlock!” and he opens his eyes in time to see Sherlock’s long fingers stroking his cock, tongue dancing over the head, and John clutches at the sheets and shouts as he comes.
Sherlock gets onto his knees and slowly wipes his lips, his gaze never leaving John’s. “I think I’d like to do that again sometime.” John can only hum feebly in response, and Sherlock chuckles and flops onto his back. He stretches his long limbs with a deep sigh. “It’s astonishing how good I feel after sex with you.”
“Astonishing,” John mumbles, stretching too. He’s going to feel this tomorrow. Quite possibly for a few days after, too. “Truly astonishing.”
Sherlock slants a look at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No. Feel too good.”
“And tired,” Sherlock observes. “You’re neglecting your pronouns.”
“Too tired for pronouns.” He smiles.
“And yet I did all the work and I feel fine. Energized, one might say.”
“Well, you’re weird.”
Sherlock harrumphs and pulls up the duvet, wrapping most of it around himself. John chuckles and tugs on it until Sherlock relents and lets him get under, too. It’s warm smells of Sherlock’s skin, and John presses his nose to Sherlock’s chest and inhales.
“Weird but brilliant,” he amends.
Sherlock’s hand rakes through John’s hair. “All right,” he says simply and holds John’s head to his chest.
It feels perfectly natural, to be held like this, and John closes his eyes. He’s dozed on the couch to the sound of Sherlock typing or tinkering in the kitchen, but never curled up against Sherlock’s body and fallen asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
When he wakes he’s disoriented. The room is dark except for the glow of a computer screen and Sherlock is reading beside him, frowning at the computer in a way that precursors a declaration of “Wrong!”
John sits up slowly, blinking and yawning, and says, “Sorry,” as he starts to get out of bed.
Sherlock looks at him, a faintly surprised look on his face. “For what?”
John gestures to him. “Sleeping on you. Sleeping here. Sleeping at all when you’d probably rather I left.”
“Oh.” Sherlock looks back at the computer. “You can stay if you like.”
John furrows his eyebrows, then nods. “All right. Thanks.” He lies down again. The mattress is firm under his back, and the sheets are soft — cotton, nothing frivolous like satin, but still a pleasure to the skin. John bunches the pillow under his head and watches Sherlock’s profile. It’s much better than being banished away, and he wants to tell Sherlock this — that he wants to stay, he never wants to leave.
But all he says is, “It’s a nice bed. Very comfortable.”
“Hm,” says Sherlock, already engrossed in something else. John nods, conversation closed, and falls asleep to the click of Sherlock’s computer keys.
End ch. 3.