Chapter Text
2:Sunday, 23:57
John stays where he is for a few more seconds, just savoring the feel of his body reassembling itself out of chaos into coherence. He’s done – two orgasms in three quarters of an hour means he is done, realistically – but one of the things John likes about having sex with another man is that it doesn’t really matter if he’s done, as long as the other guy isn’t. The bed shifts as Sherlock sits up, moves aside. John exhales an open-mouthed smile against his own arm. He loves this part, the part where his orgasm and even his arousal become irrelevant, subsumed in a gluttony of sensation … the indolent, indulgent pleasure of just surrendering his body to another man’s enjoyment. He rolls over onto his back, wiping one hand up over his face and through his hair. Still smiling, he looks at Sherlock, who’s kneeling at John’s feet, turning the tube of lubricant end over end between long, thin fingers. John’s gaze slides upwards, to the opaquely pale irises of Sherlock’s eyes. A thought struggles to thread itself through the soft blur of John’s afterglow: this may not actually be the best time to just give the other guy the keys and tell him to go wild.
“I suppose it’s safe to assume you haven’t refrained from having a cock in your arse for fifteen years,” Sherlock says, eyes moving deliberately over John’s skin.
“Um, yes, yes I can honestly say I’ve never done that.”
Sherlock flips the cap on the tube, squeezes out some gel, caps and drops the tube.
“How many men have had you, John?” he asks silkily.
“A … a few, some,” John says, trying to drag some fragment of his attention off Sherlock’s hand wrapping his own cock, slicking the shaft right down to its root. “Does it matter? I mean, I don’t think it matters.”
“Just … setting my expectations,” Sherlock says, taking the tube of lubricant up again and striping his fingers with gel. “I used to quite like fucking provided the other person could actually take it.”
John stares at Sherlock’s thumb and fingers crisscrossing wetly as he smears the gel between them. John briefly considers telling Sherlock about the Delta Force sergeant who spent three months as a lone wolf in Kandahar province hunting a fugitive warlord, and celebrated his success with three days in a hotel room in Kabul trying to find John’s definition of too much sex. You can’t win them all, John had told him when it was time for them to convoy south again.
“I’m – I’m sure I’ll be fine,” John says.
John’s gaze again drops to Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock is epically, extravagantly erect. Obviously, John’s already been up close and personal with Sherlock’s cock, but he finds that a distinct change in perspective often occurs when he’s about to be fucked. What was a luscious mouthful and a solid fistful a couple of minutes earlier is now just … big … thick and long, built for Sherlock’s heavy bones and generous features, not for the meagerness of the flesh on those bones.
“Hands and knees,” Sherlock says quietly.
John rolls and pushes up onto all fours. The slight tension of shoulders and thighs that the position necessitates feels good, as if supine relaxation is not a wholly safe response to the situation. Sherlock touches, one slicked finger twisting into John’s anus so deftly that John’s body doesn’t have a chance to resist. Sherlock’s finger slides deep, pulls back with a wicked turn, and plunges in again.
“Fuck -- Jesus,” John gasps, dropping his head between his arms.
With no other contact between them, the friction of Sherlock’s finger slipping quickly in and out is a shivery sharp sparkle on John’s nerves.
“Alright?” Sherlock asks flatly.
“Yes, yes, fine.”
“More?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock withdraws his finger, twists two in together without a second’s pause, the same deep push in and turning pull back and plunge in again. John exhales softly, his spine rounding in slow counterpoint to the quick thrusts of Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock keeps the pace fast, piling sensation up more rapidly than John’s sluggishly post-coital body can dissipate it.
“Alright?”
“Yes, yes.”
“More?”
“Yes just – God – yes.”
Two fingers out, three in with no pause and enough push to drive John’s breath out through bared teeth. The twisting withdrawal makes John’s hands splay and then fist on the sheets. Sherlock’s free hand scoops between John’s legs, palm bowling under the soft flesh of his genitals. John closes his eyes, shutting himself in with the lightning flash sensations cutting through the warm, weighty fog in his head. Sherlock takes hold of John’s cock, pulls rhythmically. Something rolls lazily low down in John’s guts.
“God that’s -- that’s -- ”
“I thought it might be,” Sherlock says complacently.
John twists to look back over his shoulder. He’s never seen anything quite so obscene as the quick, mechanical rocking of Sherlock’s right shoulder and biceps … unless it’s the dead calm in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s left hand moves from John’s cock to his back, pressing between his shoulder blades.
“Down,” Sherlock says.
John lets his head drop and hang down between his arms again.
“Farther,” Sherlock says, fingertips sliding up to the back of John’s neck.
John’s elbows yield gratefully, and he goes down onto his forearms. The shift of weight in his chest presses his breathing a little tighter; his body pulls open a bit more, the stretch almost indistinguishable from the heated pumping of Sherlock’s fingers inside him. Sherlock’s hand slides down to the small of John’s back.
“More?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock’s fingers give a deep shove, twist free so suddenly that John gasps. Sherlock shoves the head of his cock against John’s anus, and pushes fractionally, eases for a second, then pushes again so slightly that he’s just pressing his glans onto the opening of John’s body. John’s brain slides as his nerves struggle to recalibrate for silk, and soft, and a stir of not enough.
“God that’s -- ”
“More?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock gives his quick short pushes a little more force, just enough to dip his glans into John’s anus without really opening it. John lifts his head, arches his spine and pushes back, trying to get more, but Sherlock can read intention in the muscles of John’s back beneath his hand and pulls away.
“Bugger,” John says, twisting his hips in frustration.
“Any minute now,” Sherlock says.
¬
John drops his head, laughing a little.
“Alright, you’re driving,” he says.
Sherlock takes him by the hips and draws him in a little so there’s a sweet stretch down the backs of John’s thighs. One of Sherlock’s hands leaves, and John feels the dab of Sherlock’s cock against him again, and Sherlock’s hand returns, fingers spreading around John’s hipbone. Sherlock starts to rock again, maddeningly insufficient little dips, interspersed with slightly deeper pushes that put his glans all the way in and then pull it out again before John’s body can do anything useful with the sensation.
“God – good – nice,” John says breathlessly, pleasure stuttering and fluttering along his nerves.
“More?”
“Oh God yes.”
Sherlock keeps rocking, quick and smooth and always shallower than John wants, but the trend is inwards, until at least some of Sherlock’s strokes are slipping half the length of his cock into John’s body. He plays the head of his cock from side to side, sending shivers of sensation through John’s pelvis.
“Oh – that’s – that’s – ”
“ – the inferior hypogastric plexus, left and right,” Sherlock says.
“ -- good,” John says. “That’s good.”
“More?”
“Definitely.”
John’s resigned to more of the same teasingly gradual increase of depth, but what he gets is a smooth generous push that fills him, stretches him enough make him groan, and brings Sherlock’s stomach against the curve of John’s behind.
“Oh God … ”
“Alright?”
“Yes, yes – very – definitely alright.”
Sherlock moves, subtle rocks and slight withdrawals and longer pulls away and scattered sweet slides all the way back in, but no pattern and no rhythm that John’s body can make any sense of … just beautiful tumbling bits of sensation that are slowly piecing together something heavy and heated and unspeakably good in his pelvis. There’s no way for him to reciprocate; any attempt at moving in counterpoint would turn the thing into complete disorder and probably unjoin them. All he can do is breathe and accept.
“God that’s – keep doing that,” he says huskily.
“I wasn’t planning on stopping.”
Sherlock very gradually ratchets up the intensity. The shifts and slides of his hips are still unpredictable and unpaced, but the sum total of the randomness goes deeper, harder. The heat and weight in John’s groin gets less diffuse. He goes down onto his good shoulder, reaching under and cupping himself, feeling the sluggish thickening of his cock.
“God … I’m getting hard again … this is insane.”
“Parasympathetic stimulation – the pelvic splanchnic nerves can be stimulated even if the prostatic plexus is in post-orgasmic latency,” Sherlock says, his voice steady despite the uneven pull and press of his hips.
John’s eyelids flicker and the muscle at the corner of his jaw flexes.
“Stop, that’s it, that’s enough,” he says, pulling away so that Sherlock’s cock comes free.
“What? Why? I can make you come – there’s a trick the -- ”
“No.”
John twists, turning on his knees to face Sherlock. For a second Sherlock’s expression is pure impatience, and then something shifts in his eyes.
“You’re changing your mind,” he says, voice perfectly controlled, but then there’s just the slightest hesitation before he says “I’d rather you didn’t, John.”
“I’m not changing my mind,” John says. “I just -- ”
Sherlock waits, expression smooth and composed, eyes still and cold. John’s gaze tracks across the tangle of sheets under Sherlock’s knees.
“Sit,” John says, even as he’s twisting away again and grabbing the pillows, shoving them into a heap against the wall at the head of the bed.
“What?”
“Sit there, back against the wall,” John says.
“Is this -- ”
“I’m the one being bribed with sex,” John cuts in, “I’m the one who’s being offered anything. Just … sit. Please.”
Sherlock breathes elaborately, but does as John asks, unfolding long limbs and stretching past John and refolding himself into a slouch with his back to the wall and his knees partially drawn up. John moves, straddling Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock’s mouth quirks fractionally, and his eyes flicker. John reaches back, finds Sherlock’s cock and guides it into place. He starts to push down. His body’s easy and open, but the angle’s less forgiving than before. Pain flickers softly along John’s nerves, before he takes hold of his own cock and strokes slowly, and everything blurs into pleasure again. He leans his behind into the angle of Sherlock’s flexed thighs, lets his weight finish impaling him, and there’s a darkly pressed flutter in the pit of his stomach.
“God … and it is seriously the size of your ruddy intellect you’re so proud of?” John says creakily.
“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asks quietly.
“No, no it’s – it’s good.”
“Do you want me to make it hurt?” Sherlock asks in the same caressing tone, the smooth edges of his fingernails pressing subtly into John’s sides.
“Uh -- no, that’s -- that’s okay, thanks,” John says, blinking rapidly.
“You don’t like pain.”
“Never a big fan, no,” John says tightly, “and even if I was … having my shoulder blade blown out through the front of my chest would probably satisfy me for a while.”
Sherlock’s eyelids move minutely.
“Do you want -- ”
“No, I don’t -- I just -- no,” John says, and now Sherlock’s slightly frowning in puzzlement.
John slips his free hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and leans in, resting his stomach and chest against Sherlock’s, bringing their faces just inches apart.
“Just … shut up, okay?” John says softly.
And Sherlock nods, not tight-mouthed and showy, but his lips slightly parted and his brows slightly folded. John pushes his chin forwards, and covers Sherlock’s mouth with his own. For an instant they’re just there, motionless, and then John starts to move a bit, rocking his hips, working the pressure of Sherlock’s cock in his body. Sherlock exhales very softly, a flicker of warmth against John’s face. John strokes himself slowly, his cock firming again, most of the way to hard now. Sherlock’s tongue lifts, touches John’s, and dips into John’s mouth.
John’s spine slithers, his hips circle and press. Sherlock’s breathing shifts, grows shallower, less steady. His fingers brush John’s jaw, his shoulders, his arms.
John finds a rhythm, slow but certain. Sherlock’s mouth opens wider; his tongue in John’s mouth starts to mimic the smooth slide of his cock in and out of his body. Sherlock’s body starts to move, just a slight rock and return to counter John’s movement. John pulls back a little, just enough to look at Sherlock.
Sherlock’s eyes are smoky dark, pale irises deeply dilated, and his gaze flickers -- not the taut angular flicks that John thinks of as Sherlock processing, but rather the disordered faintly dismayed search that means Sherlock is confused, that the pieces don’t fit together to make a proper pattern. John leans farther back and grinds down harder, and Sherlock closes his eyes.
“God … ” Sherlock breathes.
John tugs his own lower lip between his teeth and bites hard. Pleasure uncoils from his guts, serpent-slides up his spine, winds around his chest until his breath squeezes and his heartbeat stutters. Sherlock’s fingers bite into the flesh of John’s arms.
“Oh God,” Sherlock says, his eyes shuttering open again.
He drops his head back against the wall, rolls his skull from side to side. John grinds, circles. Sherlock snarls, lifts his hips with enough power to make John smack his hand from Sherlock’s neck to the flat of the wall, steadying himself as he’s raised off his heels. Instead of kneeling down again, he braces himself like that, half lifted off Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock draws his knees up some more, putting his feet flat, and starts to rock his hips upwards … sweet, percussive thrusts make John’s guts flutter.
“Harder,” John growls.
Sherlock jerks his chin up as if he’s been hit, breath sobbing out from his open mouth, and does it … begins thrusting up ruthlessly, quickly, sweat springing on his breastbone and upper lip and temples. John’s body rocks under the impacts, his outstretched arm flexing and straightening to keep him steady, his other hand on his cock pumping as hard and fast as Sherlock’s cock in his behind.
“God John -- ”
“Jesus I think I can come again,” John groans, because yes there is the distinct spangle of something promising happening low down near the root of his cock.
Sherlock’s head arches back hard, throat pulled tight and teeth bared.
“Yes … come on,” he says.
John squirms, writhes, struggles for more sensation even as Sherlock stabs up into him.
“Jesus fuck,” John gasps, sharp-focus points of pleasure coalescing in agonizing slow-motion. “Are you okay? Are you going to last?”
Sherlock grinds the back of his head against the wall, up and down, side to side, yes no I don’t know …
John gives up on wanking his orgasm out, just squeezes his foreskin around his glans and concentrates on working himself on Sherlock’s cock, a dirty quick rub that crowds sensation along his nerves and makes the muscles of his thighs scream in protest. He tips into certainty, the crazy calm second before orgasm when his body is frantic but his brain just stops and stares.
Sherlock tears one hand from John’s arm and slaps his palm over his own open mouth, crushes his eyes shut. John arches, comes, a slow shuddering orgasm that’s blurry for want of fluid to pump, his body gripping and flexing around Sherlock’s cock. Then the spasms fall apart, lost in the steady roll of heat and exhaustion. Sherlock makes a big brazen sound behind his hand, the noise vibrating through John’s body like an aftershock. John sways, realizes he’s come adrift from Sherlock.
“Jesus -- Jesus,” John gasps, trying to cram some air down into his chest past the pounding of his heart.
Sherlock rips his hand from his face and roars, a gut-deep cry of anger and frustration. John gapes, steadies himself with one hand on the bed.
“Sherlock -- ?”
“I can’t come,” Sherlock snaps. “I thought you coming on me would -- I got close but I can’t.”
He kicks in fury, jabbing his heel into the tumble of bedclothes at the end of the bed.
“Whoa, it’s okay,” John says.
“In what possible sense is it okay?” Sherlock snarls.
“I just -- it’s -- I’m sure it’s fixable,” John says, hand smoothing the air above Sherlock’s body.
Sherlock twists his head, as if his gaze is a blade buried in John’s brain. John’s not sure it isn’t.
“Okay just -- I take it you haven’t had an orgasm recently?” John says, bumping down to sit on the bed next to Sherlock’s legs.
“I don’t have sex, and I don’t masturbate,” Sherlock says narrowly.
John can’t quite stop himself from rolling his eyes.
“Well if you can’t be bothered to use the thing in an appropriate -- ”
“John.”
“Sorry … sorry. Well … do you come in your sleep?” John asks, amused to hear himself using his doctor-voice when he’s sitting naked on sheets wet with his own semen.
“Not anymore.”
John wrinkles his nose a bit.
“I doubt anything’s broken, just rusted,” he sighs, “but it’s going to take an act of God to knock this thing loose.”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth flexes minutely.
“Got any amyl nitrite?” he asks.
“Not on me, no,” John says. “I didn’t think it was going to be that kind of weekend.”
He climbs over Sherlock’s shins, rolls off the bed and refuses to accept insubordination from his legs.
“Where are you going?” Sherlock scowls.
“I’ll be back, just don’t touch – anything,” John says, waving his hand in a gesture that includes the entire room.
When John comes back after spending two minutes in the bathroom and two minutes in the kitchen, Sherlock’s lying on the bed in an attitude of innocent repose.
“Whatever you found out, keep to yourself, I don’t want to hear it,” John says.
“Oh … alright. What did you bring me?” Sherlock says sulkily.
“A wet cloth and some four hundred migs per mil caffeine solution,” John says, handing Sherlock the hastily emptied and repurposed bottle of nasal saline he keeps for head colds.
“You take caffeine pills?” Sherlock beams.
“I have a day job and I live with an insomniac violinist; of course I take caffeine pills. Two good snorts each side, and for God’s sake go easy on the nicotine patches for the next few hours or you’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
Sherlock does as he’s told, taking two mighty snorts of John’s brew up each nostril, before handing the bottle back to John.
“Now what?” Sherlock asks.
“Now you clean up and wait for the shakes to start.”
Sherlock takes the wrung out hand-towel John gives him and wipes himself, stomach to groin, shifting his weight to wipe between his legs too. He’s still hard, and his cock flexes and bobs a bit as he moves the towel on his skin. He flicks the towel into fresh folds and hands it back to John.
“It’s starting,” John says, touching the back of Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock’s fingers are trembling slightly. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
“That’s quick.”
“That’s slow,” John says. “Someone without your history of stimulant abuse wouldn’t have been able to get the bottle into the other nostril they’d have been shaking so badly.”
In the time it takes John to say that, Sherlock starts to shake in earnest, big hectic tremors that make the sweat-wet tips of his hair tremble against his forehead. He puts the heel of his hand against his breastbone and grins breathlessly. John tosses the bedcovers around until he finds the tube of lubricant, and gestures at Sherlock to move over on the bed. Sherlock obliges.
“Okay,” John says seriously. “Your job is to suck me, and try not to come.”
“Reverse psychology,” Sherlock says dubiously.
“Perversity. You’re incapable of following instructions.”
“Hmm … and you think sucking your cock is going to turn me on so much I’ll come from it?” Sherlock says, stretching out on his side, head in hand.
“I think sucking my cock will keep you quiet.”
Sherlock wrinkles one side of his nose in disdain, a gesture so childish that it makes John smile through his pseudo-professional demeanor. John lies down, arranging himself in the opposite orientation from Sherlock.
“Roll a little, I don’t want to you to have to support your weight but I need you to be … ”
John shapes Sherlock’s position with his hands, torso turned almost onto his side, uppermost thigh drawn up to expose the cleft of his behind. Sherlock has to round his spine to make the distance from groin to head work with John’s shorter frame. John braces himself on his elbow while he flips the tube cap and slicks his fingers.
“Okay, here we go.”
John settles his weight more securely, giving his right arm room to move. He tucks two fingertips into Sherlock’s anus. Sherlock makes a throaty little sound, and turns his face to John’s groin. The first soft touch of his mouth on John’s cock is almost too much to bear, sensation razoring on already raw nerves. Then the contact firms and it’s okay, though John’s body is about as interested as if Sherlock were mouthing his kneecap. Sherlock’s jaw is trembling, and there’s a delicate quiver of teeth against John’s flesh that he’s truly sorry to be in no condition to properly appreciate.
John pushes his fingers a little deeper. The caffeine’s doing its job: there’s not much resistance, just a silky billowing softness that makes John’s fingertips almost hurt it’s so exquisite. John curls his fingers, presses gently. Sherlock tries to arch into the touch, then curls around it instead, his body easing in place despite all the shaking.
John works his fingers in a small circle. Sherlock’s cock flexes, back to rock hard. Sherlock’s hands slide on the backs of John’s thighs.
John dips his head, takes Sherlock’s cock in his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers trace the cleft of John’s behind. John starts to suck, short hard jerks of pressure concentrated on the top couple of inches of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock sucks John deeper, tongue lavishing around the slack flesh, and his fingers probe inwards between John’s buttocks.
John knows moment to moment if he’s getting it right by the way Sherlock tenses, limbs locking so tightly that the caffeine-induced shaking is stifled for seconds at a time. He knows he’s getting it really right by the way Sherlock’s body drops back into quivering relaxation, as Sherlock remembers he’s supposed to try not to come. Sherlock’s bare heel digs into the mattress, slides, seeks for purchase again.
Sherlock’s fingers push into John’s body, the sensation hardly more than a low hum on John’s nerves. They’re sweating – or Sherlock’s sweating, at least – their stomachs and chests slipping wetly together as Sherlock tries to thrust, tries not to thrust. His fingers flex and curl inside John, enough sensation to make John’s breath sound low in his throat. John switches to a little side to side jiggle of his fingers inside Sherlock.
Sherlock takes his mouth off John’s cock, kisses open-mouthed and breathless across John’s hip.
“Oh God,” Sherlock husks. “God that’s utterly incredible.”
His hips move, small suppressed pushes that John rides easily with his mouth while maintaining the quick, maddening tug tug tug of suction. Sherlock grinds his forehead against John’s thigh.
“I – God I can’t.”
John would tell him that he can, and will, if John’s mouth weren’t so vitally occupied. John can feel Sherlock spinning tighter inside, even as he’s struggling to relax, and Sherlock’s balls have firmed and pulled up against his groin. Sherlock’s fingers in John’s anus, Sherlock’s breath on John’s leg, and the tremors of Sherlock’s stomach against John’s chest are all pulsing the same rhythm, the one John’s mouth is working on Sherlock’s cock.
Sherlock twists, hips and spine and shoulders and neck, his cheek sliding on John’s hip and his thighs spreading wide. John has to roll slightly onto his stomach to stay with him.
“I’m going to die,” Sherlock says clearly, conversationally. “I’m going to -- ”
John feels the first flicker of a rhythmic contraction under his fingers.
“Oh my God,” Sherlock says, his voice softening, falling into the softest breath of sound.
John keeps going, ignoring the cramp in his fingers and the dull roar of discomfort in his stretched left shoulder. Sherlock makes a soft breathy sound, and then something sharper, and then he’s heaving his head and shoulders up off the bed, grimacing, his fingers rigid inside John’s body. His cock pulses in John’s mouth, each contraction clear and strong and widely spaced – one, two, the ghost of three, and gone. Sherlock’s semen is sparse, rank with the taste of amines. John swallows as quickly as he can.
John pulls back a bit, frees his fingers, twists his hips to free Sherlock’s. Sherlock rolls aside, the long bony line of his back towards John and his face buried in the pillows. He’s shaking, terrible rattling tremors that start in his shoulders and travel down to his bare feet, and each breath catches and cracks into sound. John wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Sherlock? Are you okay?”
The sound coming out of Sherlock gets louder, muffled by the pillows but sounding through his ribs. John takes hold of him by the shoulder. Sherlock unfolds onto his back, arms falling out to the sides, fingers unfurling. He’s laughing open-mouthed, breathless, eyes like stars.
“God John that was – oh God my heart - ” Sherlock gasps, pushing his palm against his chest as if trying to hold his frantic heartbeat inside by force.
“How was it?” John laughs.
“God it was rubbish it was absolutely the most useless orgasm I’ve ever had,” Sherlock crows, his body arching upwards with the excess of his exaltation. “Thank you.”
John lets himself fall forwards onto Sherlock, chest against Sherlock’s hip, and laughs until he’s aching for air. Sherlock’s laughter fades into isolated huffs of amusement against a background of constant shaking.
“It’ll get easier, and better,” John says. “Just don’t – wait another thirteen years before you try again, okay?”
Sherlock kicks, rolls, one arm coming over John’s side as Sherlock sits up, so that Sherlock’s looming over him. John pulls his chin back a little, gaze flickering from Sherlock’s eyes to his lips. Sherlock narrows his eyes, shards of dilated black glittering under his lashes. He touches John, trembling fingertips mapping the curve of John’s cheekbone inwards to the bridge of his nose.
“It’s up to you how long I wait,” Sherlock says, voice like darkness. “Are you done with me for tonight?”
John hisses his breath in through his teeth; somewhere very far back in his head he thinks about its being one in the morning, and his having to be in clinic in seven hours. He winces, already regretting the state he’s going to be in by Monday afternoon.
“No,” he says. “Not done, not yet.”