Work Text:
Anticipation coiled heavy in Sherlock’s gut, a slightly nauseous ball of nerves fizzing right on the edge of his consciousness. There, almost at the forefront of all that he could comprehend. Other thoughts streamed in the background, but the majority of his brainpower was focused on the implements of sensory deprivation adorning his frame.
A 1.25m length of silk loosely wrapped around his wrists, resting on the soft, yielding cotton of his pillow above his head. Sparking sensation with every shift. Although he knew anatomically that there was no nerve going directly from the thin, delicate skin at his wrists to his bared, sensitive nipples, the two points seem intimately connected at this moment as the decadent material triggers the nerves once more.
He gritted his teeth, cursing his skin’s sensitivity, cursing his mind, how it latches on to every minute detail.
He attempted to focus once more.
Plugs in his ears, simple soft foam ones which enabled him to hear only the loudest of sounds. His own voice when he speaks is barely detected, the vowels and consonants jumbled into a muffled mess. Part of him detests their presence. He won’t be able to hear that familiar voice crooning endearments to him as they become intimate, he’ll only hear the yell of completion – will it sound loud? Or will he miss its tone in his own rapture? Only time will tell.
Sherlock blew out a breath. The blind fold. The main instrument of tonight’s experimentation. The camouflage material was one of John’s old army bandannas, dug up from the bottom of his closet and washed to rid it of the musk of sweat and sand, although Sherlock’s finely tuned nose could still detect it lingering, a spectre of that time, imbedding the bandanna of John.
A vibration from the left, muffled sound.
“You know I can’t hear you,” Sherlock said.
A low sound that would have been John chuckling. No doubt. He knew just how petulant he would have sounded.
He sucked in a breath when the slightly weathered pads of John’s fingertips land on his sternum, rubbing in a slow circle, the unspoken question there.
“Yes. My body is yours. I know the safe word. Just…get on with it,” Sherlock murmured. The anticipatory bundle of nerves seemed to expand and move lower, his erection coming to stand at half-mast, just at the knowledge John was taking in the entirety of his nude body.
There was something fascinating about using a more limited amount of senses to deduce what John was going to do, what he was currently looking at. Sherlock could guess with a great deal of accuracy where his lover was gazing. Most likely at his face to ensure readiness, then sweeping over his body again, paying particular visual attention to his genital area. He swallowed, feeling the erotic tension mounting. John tapped two of his fingers against his chest before moving away completely. Sherlock controlled the urge to rear up and demand contact, instead registering the faint swirls of air on his skin from his left. John was disrobing then.
Oh, what would it be like to feel skin on skin when all he could do was touch, taste, and smell?
He shivered involuntarily, turning his head to the side, mouth moving in a wordless plea for touch.
Five seconds went by. Then another three, before a hot, humid gust of breath brushed against his neck.
He moaned. He knew it, even if he couldn’t hear himself. The vibrations from his chest were telling. He could feel John’s chuckle again, softer, lower in tone. Beautiful.
Soft lips dotted spine-tingling kisses from the mole on the arch of his throat up to his own lips, capturing them with ease. Sherlock moaned again, allowing John’s hot, slick tongue to breach his cupid’s bow and entangle with his own. He shivered again at the warm, loving kiss, and found he simply couldn’t bear not to be in contact any longer. He was glad that the silk around his wrists was loose, for he unbound himself easily and ran his hands up John’s muscular arms until he reached the short hair that was a captivating mix of brown, blond and grey. Although he couldn’t see the colours, he knew from memory just how the lamplight would shine off John’s hair, making his face seem younger. The kiss was more intense, the sensations concentrated. It was the difference between eau de toilette and eau de parfum. The new sensation stronger, more potent.
And the feel of John’s skin! Oh! Taut where it mattered, fantastically springy for his age, and so very, very warm. Sherlock revelled in the little differences in the textures of John’s hair and his skin, where there were bumps and rough textures from old scars (Sherlock knew each and every one of them, and knew exactly where they came from), and in the way the hair seemed silkier and coarser all at once due to his heightened senses.
He wound his arms around John, tugging him closer. He only had the barest minimum of contact. He wanted more.
“More,” he demanded aloud.
A muffled set of words. Sherlock was sure it would have been, “You greedy bastard.” Said in jest, with humour, compassion, never anger.
He was hard now, his erection aching and wanting something more than air to experience. His eyes rolled back into his head when he felt John shift, coming to rest between his spread legs.
“Ah!”he gasped. It was too much, so much, oh god oh god, the sensations, having to catalogue it all, oh yes, but he wanted more, every nerve singing with new data, all skin, wonderful human skin of the only person he had wanted to touch. His, all his, all-
A gentle finger came to rest on his babbling lips – he had been babbling? He hadn't heard himself at all – and stroked from his lips and up over the blindfold, settling at his temples and rubbing circles, reassuring, tender, loving.
Sherlock whined, arching up. Heat, friction, hard cock against cock, the smear of pre-ejaculate from his erection sticky beneath his navel.
John refused to budge above him, waiting for the torrent of sensation to ebb, pressing closed kisses over Sherlock’s cheeks, over his forehead, nibbling gently at his ear. He only shifted down to Sherlock’s neck when the man stopped trembling. From where John lay, Sherlock was already wrecked. Colour splashed high on those sharp cheekbones, mouth open, panting, little whines escaping. The high sounds were vulnerable, rarely loosened from Sherlock’s control.
He smiled and murmured, “You’re gorgeous.” Although he knew Sherlock wouldn't be able to hear his words, just feel them via vibration, he couldn't help his usual remarks from coming out. He was a lucky man, a man that had finally stopped living in denial, for Sherlock Holmes to trust so intimately. Without a doubt, Sherlock would have eloped with Donovan before letting anyone else deprive him of his senses like this.
John was, always and forever, the only exception to his rigid self governance.
When Sherlock twisted, grumbling something about ‘that blasted doctor’s patience,’ John sighed, “Oh, love,” and leaned down, latching onto Sherlock’s clavicle to suck a vivid love bite into the pale skin.
The reaction was awe inspiring.
Sherlock reared up, gasping, clutching John’s head and pleading for more.
John soothed the bite with soft licks, mouthing his way over to Sherlock’s sternum and sucking the flesh there. From there, he mapped his way over the skin with his tongue to Sherlock’s left nipple, near his heart. He felt the pulse of Sherlock’s racing life force below his lips as he caressed the sensitive little bud of flesh with a curling, flicking tongue. His lover continued to whine, his hips jerking up and his cock bobbing needily against John’s stomach.
Sherlock could only see white in his head. His thoughts were silent. Like he was during orgasm, but he wasn't orgasming. This was only the beginning. Almost too much, not enough. John’s mouth, that talented mouth, sliding wet and hot over his chest, going from one nipple to the other. He could smell John’s arousal and his own, mingling in the bedroom air. A thick pulse of want spread through his lower extremities, making his toes curl (oh…that had never happened before).
The sudden need to taste John rose up, drowning him until he couldn't even feel the rising and falling of his ribs as he sucked in air, attempting to balance out his thoughts.
“John! Please! I need to taste you,” Sherlock cried, throwing his head back when he felt John’s cock rub against his own.
Another moan escaped him when John’s sure, steady surgeon hands glided down over his sides and to his hips, pressing there as he rose up. He felt his pointer finger of his left hand tracing something against his flank. Letters.
W…h…e….r…e….
Impatient, Sherlock reached down blindly, finding those small hands and bringing the skilled digits up to his mouth. He wound his tongue over them, tasting the faint strings of basil from their pesto at dinner, the even fainter tang of soap and something that was overpoweringly John. His hands were the most travelled part of the man, embodying the soldier/doctor dichotomy beautifully. These were caring hands, brutal hands, these fingers had brought him pleasure numerous times. Honestly, John’s hands were one of his favourite parts about John’s body.
Now, hoping that his partner would get the hint, he took two fingers and sucked them into his mouth deeply, making little bobbing motions and lewdly wiggling his tongue.
He felt the moment John understood what he wanted. The ‘light bulb’ moment physically demonstrated – amusing, how obvious the other man could be.
The fingers of John’s other hand tapped twice against his cheek. A sign for surety.
“Of course. Get up here!” Sherlock demanded.
The smaller man carefully levered himself up, straddling Sherlock’s chest.
Sherlock could feel the lines and folds of his body against his own, the way heat emanated from John’s core, and he could smell the familiar tang wafting from John’s erection. Sherlock breathed it in. He never thought he would ever enjoy sex but to find that he craved John was a pleasant surprise. He could inhale noisily at the thatch of hair surrounding his cock all day if he knew he could get away with it. He yanked himself out to the present, using his hands to map out John’s body, seeing that compact, muscular body with just his touch. He could feel John’s sighs and groans of pleasure as he memorised each flex of muscle, labelled every bone, and felt his own mouth fill with saliva at the thought of feeling John’s thick length plunging into him.
A hand came to rest in his hair, fondling the curls and scratching lightly at the roots.
It was good. So very, very good. He shuddered and sighed as John found his favourite weak spot and began to pet him.
“Stop it. You’re distracting me,” he groused, finally returning his own hands to broad hips and tugging him forward. He opened his mouth and craned his neck forward, hoping that he could find his prize.
He growled in frustration when he felt the hot, throbbing head bump into his nose instead of his mouth but corrected it by tilting his head up, lipping delicately at the fraenulum where a bead of pre-cum had trickled. He drew the liquid onto his tongue, the flavour bursting like fireworks across his tastebuds. Bitter, sweet, salty, musk, rolled into one, addictive, wonderful, John.
The grip on his head tightened briefly and then relaxed, the man above him sagging into him when he licked a broad stripe up the underside. He tasted air, misjudging how long his lick was, before returning his mouth to the tip of John’s cock and sealing it there, lightly sucking. He was rewarded by another rake of fingers against his sensitive hair follicles and a sonorous groan from above.
Emboldened, Sherlock bobbed his head, letting the thick flesh sink into his mouth and swiping his tongue from side to side. He desperately wanted to rip off the blindfold so he could look up and watch John come apart. But he found himself quite content to gently suck, the feel and taste of John’s erection new and sharper. The muscles had little give, flushed with blood and pulsing against his tongue. He could sense the prominent vein on the underside and the way the head flared out before joining onto the shaft. He hummed, letting it slip out almost all the way before hollowing his cheeks and sucking it in again, guiding John’s hips closer to his face.
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock bucked at the sudden intrusion of John’s voice into his black world of floating points of pleasure. It was delicious. He urged John forward, wanting the man to just take his mouth, fuck it for all he was worth. He needed the animal, the need, he wanted John to lose control and overwhelm him with his cock. He whined around the length in his mouth, teasingly letting his teeth carefully scrape along the sensitive underside.
He could almost hear John’s profanities, and was shaken from the cloud of desire then two fingers tapped against his cheek again. Disgruntled, Sherlock pulled off, speaking aimlessly in John’s general direction. “I want you to come in my mouth. Now.”
Effortlessly, John guided his cock back into welcoming heat and jerked his hips in small, measured movements as Sherlock hummed and sucked, unknowingly leaking pre-cum of his own and bucking his hips into the air, searching for more stimulation. Sherlock encouraged John, hands sliding up and down over his sides, hard enough not to tickle, marvelling at how he couldn't tell when John was close. All the usual indicators he could have observed were unavailable to him. He could only wait in glorious expectation for the surprise first burst of release.
Just as Sherlock relaxed his throat, taking John in deeper from before, pubic hair tickling against his nose and testicles swinging against his chin, he felt it. The bone deep juddering that began from below and worked its way up John’s body until he came with a shout and drawn out moan of completion.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god, Sherlock!” he was calling. Sherlock could only just pay attention to it, his senses too blinded by the sudden data influx from the gooey hot liquid spurting out from John’s cock and decorating the inside of his mouth. He positively drooled, his tongue hypersensitive – his own teeth feeling rough against the appendage he was worshipping with his lips. He swallowed it down, gulping it like water and nuzzling against the half-hard cock as John pulled back. He grinned, just imagining what John was feeling. Completely boneless, delightfully sated, and wanting nothing more than to rest.
What he didn't count on was how debauched he in turn appeared.
John gazed down at a grinning Sherlock, lust and love tightening his throat. He couldn't speak, in awe.
The man before him was sex personified.
A small bit of ejaculate dribbled down from the corner of his mouth, pearly in the lamplight. He watched, feeling a throb in his balls as Sherlock realised it and a pink tongue darted out to lap it up greedily. Affectionately, he caressed down the side of the detective’s jaw line, trailing his soft touch down as he levered off his lover, down into the dark hair smattered all over Sherlock’s abdomen.
“Your turn,” he promised with a sly smile.
Before Sherlock could do any more than take a deep breath, John attacked. His mouth plundered Sherlock’s, his hands raced over sweat slicked skin, tripping sensitive nerves and thrilling the taller man with his accuracy. Every touch was amplified, intense, every sensation concentrated down to its purest form – it was all Sherlock could do to hang on for the ride as John pushed him towards the precipice of orgasm.
When John slithered down the sheets, torturously rubbing against his neglected erection, Sherlock felt like he could scream. His hands scrabbled uselessly against the sheets, rocking his hips back and forth and whining with need.
“Easy love,” John muttered into the tender crease where his thigh met his pelvis. The crimson cockhead twitched and Sherlock felt like he had been dunked into a searing hot pool of water. Pleasure was a pinball in the machine, ricocheting everywhere and uncontrollably sending his body quivering and arching.
He knew that it would not take much to throw him into climax. He was too wound up for penetration and said as much. He felt John’s nod, he bit his lower lip as clever fingers stroked in and around his pubic hair, intentionally avoiding his jutting flesh.
Finally, finally, John was merciful enough to press a sloppy, open mouthed kiss at the base of Sherlock’s cock.
“Ah!”
“Too much?” asked John, then cursed his satiated mind for forgetting Sherlock couldn't hear. Instead, he tapped his fingers against a plump arse cheek.
“Go on! Please…John, please,” Sherlock begged, gasping for air, overcome by the humid gusts of air wafting around his genitals.
John’s answer was to duck down and slowly draw one tight, firm testicle into his mouth, wetting it in saliva before turning his attention to the other one. He hummed around it, and almost got knocked away by the abrupt thrust of Sherlock’s hips. He felt a hand stroke through his hair in apology. He didn't mind – he so loved to see Sherlock just melting into pleasure, so responsive, the most erotic thing he had ever seen. To avoid another incident, his hands held Sherlock’s hips down firmly as he continued to pay attention to the textured sac below the engorged penis.
He pulled back, allowing his lover a moment to recover and breathe, and dotted tiny kisses up from the base to the tip of Sherlock’s cock. He paused for just a moment there, massaging his lips over the leaking tip, before plunging down, relaxing his throat to engulf him down to the root. He sucked and hummed, glancing up over the heaving chest to see Sherlock’s mouth stretched wide in a garbled cry, the tendons in his neck graceful arches of strain.
John had barely taken more than a few artful sucks when Sherlock bellowed, his whole body shaking with the force of his orgasm.
The doctor was surprised by the amount of release – definitely more than usual from the last time he had gone down on the detective. It was gratifying to see, feel, and taste.
He withdrew until only the head of the cock was held in his mouth, caressing it with his tongue to prolong the pleasure. Sherlock was breathing hard, little moans expelled on every third breath. His cock twitched one final time to coat John’s tongue with salty sweet semen before he flopped back, wrung out with the effort. He could hardly speak.
John reached over to the bedside table to fetch the washcloth, quickly cleaning them up before reaching up to pull the earplugs from Sherlock’s ears.
Noise flooded into Sherlock’s brain, the suddenness of it made him gasp weakly. The background noises of London filled the room through the crack in their window, and he could hear the clock in the kitchen and the heating rattling away. Best of all, he could finally hear John whisper to him, soothing him with a low ‘shh, love. It’s all good. You were magnificent.’ He clutched John to him – the man was his fixed point, the north star of his life, and was needed to ensure he was cognizant of his surroundings when his cloaked senses were unleashed. He leaned into John’s hand as the blindfold was carefully undone and taken away from his eyes. Sherlock blinked, the low lamplight as blinding as the sun for a moment before his partner’s face appeared above him.
“Hi,” John said.
“Hello,” Sherlock replied breathlessly, managing to smile. He doubted that even the thought of an interesting serial killer was enough to get him out of bed now.
John cupped his head to angle him properly so they could kiss, almost chase touches that spoke of their sexual contentment. Sherlock finally found the strength to roll them over onto their sides, snuggling into John’s chest and tucking his head under his head, easily relaxing into a wakeful drowsiness that usually followed after fantastic sex. He hummed smugly when muscular arms held him close.
“So I take it you feel amazing,” John said.
“Mmm.”
“Can I film you next time? Let me tell you, that was one of the sexiest fucking things I've ever seen,” the doctor praised. He smirked when a tremor ran through the lithe body in his arms. Seems like Sherlock was perfectly on board with the idea.
“On one condition,” rumbled Sherlock.
“Yeah?”
Sherlock’s verdigris eyes were alive with want and adoration as he looked up. “I get to take you to pieces like you did for me tonight. In the exact same way,” he said.
John smiled down at him. “Oh yes please,” he replied.