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John sat posed in the leather armchair in our hotel room, resting his brow on his forefinger, staring at me, daring me to look away.
I shifted in my seat across from him, settling further down onto the plush divan, and smirked. He stared back with the stoic expression he always used—to ill effect—at poker. A gust of wind rattled the glass in the panes, and it was loud in the silence of the room.
Time passed.
I’d long since deduced anything of value from John’s appearance. I had spent the entire evening at Mycroft’s ridiculous event sidetracked and staring, sneaking looks as I interrogated one of the American professors on the curriculum in her forensics program. John held forth on the rules of cricket to a circle of baseball fans, captivating them with his charm. It was always entertaining to see him at the centre of a web, spinning tales, drawing people in with that endearingly-mobile face and gesticulating with his lovely hands. It made something in my chest tighten to witness the spectacle; he deserved to be admired.
It had taken a not-insignificant amount of restraint to avoid mauling him in one of the handicap stalls at several points during the night. It was touch-and-go at one particular moment during dinner; a drop of wine splashed during the dessert course and landed on the slim, dexterous, beautifully-tapered index finger of his left hand, and I’d had to dig my fingernails into my thigh to keep from grabbing his hand and sucking the finger into my mouth. But in the end I managed it, I’m proud to say. Against the odds, I controlled myself all evening so Mycroft had no choice but to dismiss the rest of my obligations for the long weekend. It was necessary; we’d already purchased tickets to a spy museum on Sunday (for me) and some ridiculous play on Monday (for John), and having to evade Mycroft for two more days would be incredibly tiresome. My brother never did know when to give up.
But I really didn’t want to think about Mycroft. Not when I’d dressed to impress John, all crisp open collar and swept back hair, flashing him my suprasternal notch, and John was sitting in front of me looking absolutely edible. I raked my eyes down John's front, taking in the brocaded jacket and the accordioned pocket square and the starched collar of his button down. He'd stolen my pomade after our shower and had managed through some extraordinary feat not to muss his hair throughout the entire evening, so he looked…slick. Together. In control. It was exactly the sort of sight that drove me absolutely mad.
“Shall I start, then?”
I dragged my eyes up from the way one of John’s thighs crossed the other. “Yes.” I settled back into the sofa. “Begin any time you like.”
John cocked an eyebrow, a smile playing about his lips. “I already have.”
Interesting. Something fizzled in my blood, and I couldn’t help but mirror his expression. Whether it was a game or not, my hormones always went a little haywire when John looked at me like that.
And John knew it.
I loved that he knew it. I loved how it made me feel. I reveled in the tension.
He folded his hands neatly in his lap and looked at me with a steady, controlled expression—my blue-eyed soldier prepared to wait for eternity. I looked back and didn't move a muscle. Internally, however, I felt my guts draw bow-tight in anticipation of the main event, felt an electric crackle down my spine as I stared into John’s eyes. This game was always oddly thrilling for such a simple thing. I suppose that was why it appealed as it had, for months upon months. I suppose that was why I hadn’t yet pulled away. I sat back and firmed my resolve not to respond.
Outside, a group of teenagers ran down the hall past our room, a ragged gabble of half-grown children chiding and screeching and shoving. It brought me back to myself for a moment, and I was amused by how easily John had captured my attention to the exclusion of all else.
At long last there was motion. John lifted his hand in a single elegant movement and plucked the pocket square from his jacket. He shook it out in one brisk snap, then began to fold it very precisely against the top of his thigh. He did not break our locked gaze, even when he gently laid the square on the table at his elbow. When he finished, he leaned back and crossed his arms.
Head high, I still did not move.
John licked his lips, then shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor. I raised an eyebrow at the sloppiness. A light of humour sparked in John’s eyes. “It’s going to rumple,” I said.
“Let it.” He toed off his shoes and leaned forward to pull off his striped silk socks, then he took one bare foot in both hands. He groaned, manipulating the bones in his foot almost up to his ankle and digging his thumbs into the arch. “Mmmm. This feels so nice. We stood around for ages.” Then he let out a low moan.
It was unimpressive, and smacked of a rather base sort of theatrics. It was disappointing. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, John.”
“Fuck you, this feels fantastic. I don’t often have to stand for so long at a stretch anymore.” John continued to massage his foot. His eyes fell closed and he added, an irresistible rasp coming into his voice, “I intend to enjoy myself, deal or not.” I listened to John’s respiration increase and was concerned to find a sympathetic pleasure in my own nervous system, an echo of the times John had used his medical training and strong, nimble hands while massaging me in the quiet hours before dawn, back when we’d first started this…thing we’d fallen into. In spite of my resolve to stay cool and unaffected, the warmth of the memory was recent enough to speed my pulse. In the back of my mind I felt his hands kneading into my rhomboids, his fingers in my intercostals, his elbow sliding in streaky movement up my erectors, pushing all the tension out of my mid-back…
John let down his foot with a weary sigh. Then he tilted a slant, mischievous look at me and finally, finally did for himself what I’d been itching to do to him all night long: he dragged his fingertips up the placket of his shirt to that high, starched, collar—hotter than hell when buttoned up tight, a denial and a tease all at once—and slipped the top button through its hole, then the next one down, one by one until his shirt was open to the waist. John untucked the tails from his trousers and sat back, looking expectantly at me, so I raised an eyebrow and gave John my most haughty, supercilious expression. With a tiny smirk John slid his hand into his parted shirtfront and smoothed his hand down his chest, pulling at the front of his vest to reveal sparse golden chest hair. John’s head fell to the side and the cord of his sternomastoid was brought into relief in the light of the side lamp. My heart skipped. The sight was painfully gorgeous, and I fought down an overwhelming desire to swallow and shift and clench my jaw. I mustn’t betray a reaction. Not ever. I held my head high.
“Okay?” John asked lightly.
With a silent but deep breath I shoved myself from my seat and sauntered with exaggerated casualness to the sink outside the en-suite. “Just fine, John.” I floated a hand at him while I turned on the tap. “Feel free to continue.”
“Oh, I can wait.” John was clearly trying not to smile. Obvious. I filled up a disposable cup with water and wandered back to the divan with a lazy roll of my hips to advertise how physically unaffected I was by the striptease. I do enjoy proving a point. And I wanted to prove it while I still could. I already felt myself on edge, creeping inexorably toward that liminal space between unaffected and deeply aroused.
As I settled back down and took a sip of my water, John hummed and settled further into his chair, making it abundantly clear that he, however, was not so unaffected. He slowly skimmed his palms past the tantalising bulge at his groin and down the top of his thighs, then drew them back up along the inner seam of his trousers. The sight pulsed hot through my veins. I covered the flare of my nostrils by lounging sideways against the divan and stretching my legs out along it. John pushed the flat of his hand up his stomach, up the centre of his sternum, and stroked the front of his throat, intensity hot in his eyes. He blazed at me, and waited. I couldn’t move a muscle, afraid to spill over into a loss of control.
A door slammed in the hallway. Desire burned and sped my blood. I swallowed drily, the cup only partway to my lips.
John reached over his shoulder to grab his collar and pull both shirts over his head, the sleeves stripped inside-out by the motion and flashing seams as they dropped to the carpet. I schooled my features into a blank mask; John was watching me, daring me to react, and the temptation to accede was raw. I wanted to touch. I wanted to taste. Something in my stomach clenched, hard. At last after half a minute of frozen contemplation John’s chest rose and fell, then with a groan he skimmed his hands all over his chest, his arms, his belly, and pinched his nipple, letting his head hit the back of the chair as his eyelids slid closed.
Over on the sofa, mesmerised, I took the opportunity of John’s closed eyes to gulp at my cup of water and set it down on the side table. I folded both trembling hands in my lap to still them.
I watched as John rolled his nipple between forefinger and thumb, and with his other hand began to stroke the inside of his thigh. After a moment he began to roll his hips in his chair, back and forth, back and forth, rocking, and the pallid light of the desk lamp threw into sharp relief the bulge ruining the smooth line of his white trousers. There wasn’t a hint of self-consciousness in his movements; he had clearly thrown himself full-tilt into the challenge and the sight of it was intense, beautiful, something glorious that I could feel echoing through my entire circulatory system. My pulse throbbed in his fingertips. My lips tingled. My heart slammed itself against my ribs with a horribly self-destructive attempt to break free. He was absolutely fucking gorgeous, and I wanted him so badly it was painful.
My whole body ached. Never mind unaffected, by this point my groin nearly hurt I was so hard. I craved friction. I desperately needed the ache to ease. My hand twitched with the urge to press hard against my groin, but I managed to control myself at the last moment. I sat there and watched John thoroughly enjoy the pleasure of his hands on his body. When he threw back his head and moaned, it became too much. Damning the consequences, I gave in and pressed my palm against my groin. The sound of my breath involuntarily catching in my throat was loud in the room.
John’s eyes snapped open and he pinned me with his gaze. With my heart pounding in my throat, I lifted my hand off myself and reluctantly laid it on top of my thigh. Quashing a smile, John unfastened the hook in the waistband of his trousers, then the zip, and without breaking eye contact half-stood and pushed everything down to his ankles, pants and all. He kicked himself free and settled himself down into the chair, jutting up from his lap, beautifully-nude and staring.
My breath huffed out though I sat still, spine frozen. It took an act of conscious effort to pull in my next breath; I couldn’t help but appreciate John's form, appreciate how well put-together he was, how made for compactness and efficiency and power. It was too late for me; I was gone. I was always going to appreciate John. The thought caused something soft to unfurl in my chest.
John picked up the silk pocket square from the side table, and I sat up. John, on the other hand, slid down so his legs stretched indolently out in front of him. Then he shook out the square with one neat movement, and began to trail the ends of the cloth over his skin.
He dragged it up his abdomen and down to the crease of his thigh, making his cock twitch. Then he slid it down his arm and up his thigh. His cock twitched again, thickening. John dangled the ends of the cloth between his legs and dragged it over his balls and across his cock, and at once he was fully hard and staring fiercely at me.
I let out a massive breath through my nose.
I watched John slowly stroke the fingertips of his off hand up the underside and back down, then again, a lazy movement that I had felt innumerable times. My groin stirred in response. The curl of those tapered fingers was familiar, the drag of those knuckles, the way John was lazily brushing the side of his thumb up and down the frenulum: I licked my lips, then let the lower one ease out from between my teeth to ground me with a scraping sensation. I gave John a dark look.
In response, John's eyes flared, and he fisted the silk over his cock and pulled. Immediately his head fell back and he moaned. He did it again, rolling his hips into it. My control was faltering. I kneaded my toes into the upholstery, then blew out another breath and forcibly calmed myself. I leaned back against the sofa, letting the arm dig into my lower back with a comforting pain as I continued to watch John pleasure himself with that thrice-damned bit of silk.
Without warning John pushed up, and he canted sideways to throw his leg over the arm of the chair, displaying himself even more broadly to the room. He was flushed pink, a ruddy stripe down his chest and spreading up his thighs, but between his legs was dark. He trailed the ends of his pocket square over his cock from this position, and when his cock jerked he moaned loudly into the room. I pressed my lips together and fisted my hand against my leg. John wrapped himself in the silk and ran it up and down his cock over and over again, hand curled lightly, and he began to grunt, breath quickening, biting down until the muscle in his jaw flexed.
When John's toes began to tense reflexively and he started to arch his hips into his hand, I was overwhelmed by the thrumming in my veins and driven mad with the urge to come. I snapped. Restraint broken, I undid my flies, eased out my cock, and sighed in relief as I pulled one firm stroke from root to tip. My eyelids fluttered. I could not believe how good it felt—not simply because of the skin-to-skin contact, but to give in to John. I pulled at my cock again. He had me. He had me. He could always have me. The moan that tore from my throat was thready and broken.
Then John stopped moving, and stared. I froze. I stared back. The clock ticked on. And with a puff of breath, John's hand moved again, and then did mine, and neither of us pulled our gaze from the other as we worked ourselves steadily, faster and faster, until we both gasped for air and fought to keep our eyes open. We were pinned together by our gaze, vision blurring, pleasure binding us near-physically. Though across the room, we were caught in a shared act. The intimacy warmed deep in my groin. He was beautiful, and incredible, and I couldn’t breathe.
John's breath hitched, his eyes closed, and he came with a growl. He thrust his hips into the air over and over, tension shaking his frame as he shot into the silk, slicking it and pulling out spasm after spasm. The cloth slid easily over his skin and I watched, eyes wide. When John sunk back into the chair I shoved my other hand between my legs to roll my testicles as I jerked myself tighter and tighter. In only a few moments I ploughed head-on into a shattering orgasm that coated stripes across my hand and soiled my trousers. I groaned loudly enough the ridiculous students probably heard me in the hallway. Hormones flooded my system with a liquid pleasure, warm like cinnamon oil. My mind was blissfully silent.
I slumped back against the arm of the sofa, gasping for air. I heard movement from John’s quarter and cracked one eye open to see him crawling on his hands and knees across the carpet and towards the sofa. I smirked at him, slinking in my direction like an animal, but the smirk vanished when John didn't stop at the edge of the settee. Instead he pulled himself up in one smooth movement and dragged his tongue over the black wool of my trousers. He made broad swipes over the damp patches, leaving them soaking wet. I huffed a breath. John looked through his eyelashes at me, and it might have looked coquettish if John didn't then start cleaning semen off my hand with his mouth, sucking on my fingers and grazing the skin with his teeth. He finished by laying a soft kiss on the pad of my thumb as if blessing it.
We gazed at each other. The expression on his face tightened my chest; he was looking into my eyes as if he would have been happy never to stop. It was so unabashedly fond, and it tugged at me to lean down and softly press my mouth to his. Instead I just sat there, staring with a tenderness I somehow felt with every cell in my body.
He blinked, and the spell was broken. “I won," he murmured.
"Perhaps," I replied.
"I did," John said, and his eyes darted to my cock where it lay five inches from his cheek, exhausted.
"That depends on what your definition of winning is."
"The bet, Sherlock. I won the bet."
"There was no bet, John."
"For christ's— There was, Sherlock. You said that you weren't going to—" John started to push himself upright with indignation, stopped, and peered at me. "You're winding me up."
I stifled a smirk. “Yes."
"I won."
"Perhaps."
"I _won, Sherlock. You can't deny—"
"I said, it depends on your definition."
John frowned. "The wager was whether you'd give in and have to make yourself come."
"Yes," I said slowly and clearly, because John was acting like an utter moron. "And now you get to drag me to that ridiculous Beatles circus show."
"Sooo…" John looked at me warily. "How does the definition enter into it?"
I smirked and explained. “That was an intensely pleasurable orgasm, John. It doesn't make me particularly feel as if I've lost, even if I do have to sit through some nonsense for a couple of hours on Monday. And now I have something very nice to think about instead. I can just sit back and remember the image of you wanking yourself into oblivion while you're paying attention to… people flying about on stage."
John appeared to be trying very hard not to look amused. He was failing completely. I wanted to kiss him again. Instead, stopped by a pulse of panic, I spoke. “You never said I had to pay attention, John."
"No, I didn't. I'll know to be more specific next time." A smile quirked the corner of his mouth.
"Don't bother. I'll only change the rules," I said, and gave John my most mischievous smile. John rose up and kissed me, then pushed to his feet. Pleased, I added, “Your tongue is no replacement for proper cleaning, John. In fact…" I raised an eyebrow. "I think you made it worse. It would be most appreciated if you would pay to have these trousers laundered."
"Don't push your luck," John said good-naturedly over his shoulder, and reached for the en-suite door. Then he stopped and glanced at me for a brief moment. When our eyes met, something seemed to kick in the vicinity of my chest. A smile played about the corners of his mouth before he blinked and looked away, then John disappeared into the en-suite, shutting the door behind him.