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emmagrant01Title: A Cure for Boredom (3/8)
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock, John/others
Rating: NC-17
Chapter Summary: This entire situation was definitely fucked up, but there was something comforting about knowing exactly where he stood with Sherlock. It made John feel secure.
Length: 10,500 words (this part, 28,800 overall)
Contains: [Highlight to view] OMG!het, casual sex, voyeurism, mild D/s, wanking, blow jobs, very light bondage -- basically there's a lot of porn in multiple variations
Beta and Britpick: The ever insightful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
freckles42
Spoilers: Set sometime during series 2, pre-Reichenbach. Tiny spoilers for the first two episodes.
Notes: Yes,6 7 parts now, according to my newly restructured outline. My plan is to post chapters weekly until it's done. :-)
Start at the beginning: On LJ | On AO3 | On my website | On Skyehawke
Alternate link for this part: AO3
*****
"Define sex."
Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"
"If you mean the first time I had sexual intercourse, that's a different story from the first time I had an orgasm with someone else. Or the first time I gave someone else an orgasm. Or--"
"The first one. Intercourse."
"All right, but it's the least interesting of the lot." John paused to sip his coffee. "I was seventeen and it was with the girl I was seeing at the time. It was her first time as well, so it was fantastically awkward and neither of us enjoyed it very much."
"You were spectacularly boring as a teenager, weren't you?"
"Completely. You'd have hated me."
He wasn't going to leave it there. He couldn't possibly resist. John took another sip of coffee and waited. Three… two…one…
"The first time you had an orgasm with another person: was it before or after that?"
John smiled and balanced the mug on his knee. "Before. I was still in school, actually. I went to a party and there were some girls there from another school. We all paired off and found dark corners to get off in, and the girl I was with -- God, I can still see her face but I've no idea what her name was. I think I had a hand up her shirt, so I thought I was doing all right, but then she unbuttoned my jeans and stuck her hand down my pants and started wanking me. I think I lasted all of a minute."
"What happened after that?"
"We carried on snogging. I had a hand in her knickers, but I didn't know what I was doing, so eventually she put a stop to it."
"Did you think of that as sex at the time?"
John pressed his lips together and considered. "I don't know. It was a long time ago and everything about sex was confusing and weird. It was more like checking sex acts off a list: Squeezed tits, check. Fingered a girl, check. Got hand job, check. Got blow job, check. But I suppose it's true that intercourse was the big one on the list."
He glanced over to see Sherlock staring up at the ceiling, his fingertips pressed together in what John called his "thinking pose." The wheels were definitely turning. He waited.
"First time you gave someone else an orgasm."
"Sadly, it was much later. My third girlfriend took pity on me and taught me how to perform oral sex properly on a woman. Apparently my failures up to that point had been due to--" He made air-quotes with his fingers. "--treating a cunt like a cock."
Even from this distance he could see Sherlock's consternation. "So up until then you hadn't been able to satisfy a partner?"
"Well… I was never quite sure before that, but after, it was painfully clear I'd been shit in bed." Talking about his teenaged sexual ineptness was really quite depressing. "Sorry to have disappointed you."
"Oh no, it's quite all right. My expectations weren't terribly high."
John sighed. "Yes, after the last few days I suppose they weren't." He stood and took the empty mug to the kitchen.
"What have the last few days got to do with it?"
"Nothing. I'm going out for the afternoon. When should I be back?"
"Whenever you like."
John pulled on his jacket. "I meant, what time are we leaving?"
"For what?"
Jesus. "The club."
"We aren't going tonight."
John froze halfway through pulling his arm through a sleeve, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. Had what happened last night been too much for Sherlock? Had John somehow crossed a line and Sherlock wasn't interested anymore? Or had this obsession run its course and just like that, just as John was really starting to enjoy it, they were done? "But… why not?"
"It's Monday." The tone implied that should answer John's question completely.
John blinked. "And… there's no sex on Mondays?"
"The club is only open Thursday through Sunday."
"Ah. All right then." That sudden rise of anxiety quelled, but it was now replaced by a realization of how disappointed he would have been if this were actually over. There was something to mull over on his walk.
A few nights off might be a good thing, though. He'd be well rested for Thursday, at any rate.
*****
"John, is that you, dear? Are you all right?"
John winced and pushed himself to standing. "Yes, I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, thanks. It's just a bit dark and I tripped over this -- who the hell moved this table?"
"Sherlock was doing something down here earlier, I think. He seems to have perked up a bit. Is there a case?"
John smiled weakly. "Of sorts. Some experiments, anyway."
She made a face. "Oh, he hasn't got anything too beastly up there, I hope. I don't know how you live with him sometimes."
"I wonder myself."
"But we love him anyway." She gave him a knowing look and shook her head. "Oh, there's my kettle. I do love chamomile before bed. Put some ice on that leg now, and get some sleep."
"Yes, of course. Thank you. Good night." As soon as she disappeared around the corner, his face contorted in pain. Fuck, but that had hurt. He was going to have a nasty bruise on his shin in the morning.
He limped up the stairs and opened the door to the flat. To his utter non-surprise, Sherlock was embedded in the sofa, his face eerily lit by the glow of his laptop. As usual, Sherlock didn't acknowledge his entrance. John shed his coat, hung it by the door, and crossed to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. He rubbed at his bruised shin, which made it feel slightly better. Sherlock still didn't look up.
John waited three full minutes before giving in and speaking first. "How's the data analysis going?"
"Did you bring it?"
"Bring what?"
"I asked you to look for a copy of QX while you were out."
"You do realize that when I'm not here, I can't actually hear you?"
Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on the laptop screen, though there was now a bit of tension in his voice. "I texted you."
John fumbled for the phone in his pocket; sure enough, there were three texts from Sherlock. "Sorry, I never heard it ding. What's QX, anyway?"
"Just something for research. It can wait until morning." His fingers flew over the keys for a solid minute.
John sighed and leaned back into the cushions. No response. He sighed again, more dramatically this time. "I had a fairly miserable night out, in case you were wondering."
"I wasn't." Sherlock turned his head and gave him an odd look. "Oh, is this where I'm supposed to ask you to tell me about it?"
"Yes, that's the expected response to a friend saying they've had a miserable evening."
Sherlock turned back to the laptop. "Fine. What happened?" There was nothing remotely approaching interest in his tone.
"Well, if you must know, I spent the better part of three hours in two different pubs chatting up half a dozen women, and every single one of them rejected me."
Sherlock frowned and paused his typing, turning to look at John again. "You went out with the intention of meeting someone?"
"Yes, and I failed spectacularly."
"Why?"
"That's exactly the question, yes. I had four straight nights of spectacular sex arranged by you, but on my own I can't get a woman to let me buy her a drink." He shook his head.
"Three nights, not four. And I meant, why did you want to meet someone?"
"Because I'm horny, Sherlock. I got off four nights in a row and now I've apparently been conditioned to need it on a daily basis."
"We only went to the club three nights." Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. "Are you counting the night we…" He waved a hand between them.
John felt his face flush; thank God it was dark. He had indeed been counting that night. "Three nights, of course. Last night seemed like two nights, I suppose. My point is, none of it has helped me a bit. I'm still just as hopeless with women as before, only now I know exactly what I'm missing."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the spreadsheet. "It's only three more days until the club is open again. You couldn't wait that long?"
John groaned and closed his eyes. "I only wanted to find someone who'd suck my dick. After the sex club, I didn't think it'd be that difficult."
"Want me to do it for you?"
John froze; a sliver of something like electricity shot down his spine. "What?"
"If you're that desperate, I will. Three more days of you moping around the flat will completely destroy my concentration."
Breathe. John inhaled, exhaled again, and forced himself to turn his head and look at Sherlock. He was scrolling quickly through a discussion board now, so fast John doubted he could actually be reading. "I don't… I… Are you sure?"
"It's not as if it would be a hardship. I'm at an impasse with my analysis anyway and could use a bit more data." He turned to look at John then, his face completely blank.
John could only stare at him. His mind helpfully supplied an image of Sherlock shifting onto his knees on the floor, pressing John's thighs apart, reaching to unfasten his trousers. Oh God. He was already hard. "This is insane, Sherlock."
"It's no different than what we’ve done the last few nights. Certainly the women in a bar are less of a sure thing, but the gay boyfriend routine seems to work well enough. I'm sure I can talk someone into giving you a blow job. Give me two minutes to finish this up and I'll change clothes." He stopped and narrowed his eyes at John. "What?"
John blinked, finally realizing they were having two completely different conversations. He was filled with a sudden urge to laugh, and he wasn't sure whether it was from relief or something else altogether. He looked up at the ceiling. Fucking hell. He drew a shaky breath.
"You know, I'm knackered. I think I'll take a shower and go to bed. Thanks, though."
Sherlock shrugged. "I'll be up for a while if you change your mind."
John stood and walked to the bathroom as casually as he could manage with an erection. He closed the door and turned around to press his forehead against the cool wood. This was not good. On so many fucking levels.
He started the water and stripped off his clothes, trying to think of anything except what his alcohol-fueled libido was encouraging. When it grew hot enough he stepped under the spray and stood still, letting the water sluice over his skin. The sensation was glorious and did nothing to abate his arousal. He sighed and let one hand slide across his chest, down his belly, down the where his cock stood straight out, and he gave it a slow stroke.
He tried to think about Abby and Clara, who'd sucked him together that first night, and then the Britney Spears lookalike who'd fucked his mouth with her tongue and ground against him until they both came. He thought about the woman in red who'd nearly talked him into coming -- oh, no, bad idea, no no no.
Annie, then. Annie's sweet face, the way she kissed him, the way it felt to be inside her. Ryan's hand moving on him, Ryan's cock pressed against his in Annie's hand.
He stroked faster, searching for something that would light that fire in his balls, that would be the spark he needed to get this done. He just needed this release and then his mind would be clear and he could go to bed and not think any more. He thought about Ryan's fingers, imagined the hand on him wasn't his own, remembered sitting on that sofa being kissed and brought to orgasm while two other people were watching. He'd never thought he'd be one for exhibitionism, but--
Sherlock's face flooded his mind now, the look on his face after John had come that last time. He'd never been affected by any of it, not until that moment.
Want me to do it for you?
For just a minute John had thought Sherlock actually wanted him, and he was unbearably turned on by the idea. God, just the idea of Sherlock on his knees, of John's cock in that mouth that could be so hard and so clever, of John's hands tangled in that insane hair of his, fucking his mouth, rough, hard, shit.
He caught his breath. Well, there was the spark.
It was just a fantasy. No need to feel guilty about it. Sherlock would never know. John let the fantasy spin, let it go where it wanted. His hand flew in short jerks at the head of his cock, the taut foreskin moving with his fingers, his mouth open, his forehead nestled in the crook of his elbow now, arm pressed against the cool tile, warm water sheeting down his back, and it was Sherlock's mouth around his cock, his tongue pressing there right there oh god.
He groaned into his arm, louder than he'd intended. It was intense, but it was over far too quickly. He closed his eyes. There had been almost no satisfaction in that orgasm: he felt completely empty and unbearably alone. His breathing eased after a few more seconds and he pushed off the wall. He lifted his face to the spray. The water pounded down and he held his breath as long as he could.
He was so, so fucked.
*****
By Thursday morning, John was crawling out of his skin. He hadn't let himself wank since the night in the shower for fear that he'd end up fantasizing about Sherlock again. He'd awakened with sticky sheets that morning anyway, with a vague memory of a dream involving sex with a stunning variety of people, with Sherlock in the middle of it all, dispassionately observing.
God, that particular facial expression was going to induce erections in him for years to come. Crime scenes were going to be horrifically awkward.
Sherlock was, predictably, on the sofa when John came down to make coffee. "Sleep well?"
John was probably imagining the innuendo is his tone, but he shot Sherlock a dirty look to be on the safe side. Several minutes later he sat in a chair opposite the sofa, mug in hand. "Please tell me you slept last night."
"Of course not. I--"
"Just a vessel, I know."
"True, but not the point. I decided to reanalyze the data from a different perspective."
"What perspective?"
"Was Sunday night your first sexual experience with a man?"
John blinked at him. "Was there supposed to be a segue there?"
Sherlock's expression was one of mild annoyance. "There was. Do keep up, John."
John sighed and took a sip of coffee. "No."
Sherlock looked directly at him for the first time all morning, undisguised shock on his face. "No?"
John smirked. "Didn't see that one coming, did you?"
Sherlock's expression became one of raw interest. "I must admit I didn't."
John grinned and drank more coffee. Drawing this out was going to be a pleasure.
"Well?" Sherlock said at last.
"Oh, right. You'll want details." It was more than a bit frightening that John felt completely at ease now about providing them. He crossed one leg over the other and settled more comfortably into the chair. "It was in the army. I was stationed for several months in a fairly remote location, a medic with the infantry. I went out with them on patrols quite a bit, mostly because that's where I'd be needed if something went wrong."
"Did things go wrong?"
"More often than I care to remember." John smiled tightly. "But to the point, there was another medic stationed there and we spent a lot of time together. One night we were drinking, just blowing off steam, and he told me he was gay. I told him about my sister, you know, trying to make it clear I wasn't prejudiced. But after that he flirted with me when no one else was looking. For some reason people often make that assumption about me." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who responded with a noncommittal shrug.
John took a deep breath. "Anyway, there was a day that was bloody horrible. A platoon was ambushed and three men were killed. Matt -- that was his name -- was with them, and they commed me to let me know what to expect when they brought the injured back. Matt climbed off that chopper covered in blood, and for a minute I thought the worst, but it wasn't his own. It hit me then how close of friends we'd become, though, and that was something I had learned not to let happen because… Well, because." He looked up to make certain Sherlock was still with him. This amount of silence generally meant Sherlock had long since tuned him out, but he was staring at John with a look of fascination, and it encouraged John to continue.
"We were up half the night patching guys up and making arrangements for the dead, and the whole thing was completely horrible. It was one of the worst days I'd had at that point. We had a tiny office off the clinic, and by oh-two-hundred we were sitting on the floor -- nowhere else to sit -- and sharing a bottle of horrid whiskey we kept stashed in there for shit days. We didn't talk; we just sat there. I'd had far too much to drink, and I looked at him and he looked at me… and then he kissed me. I was so wrecked I kissed him back." He paused and stared into the depths of the coffee mug. "There's something about being that close to death that makes you want to feel alive, any way you can. So we sat there on the floor of the office and snogged like teenagers. I was filthy and covered in blood so was he, and neither of us cared."
"Did anything else happen?"
"We ended up wanking each other. And it was completely bloody awkward after. Neither of us knew what to say. He was on duty so he stayed and I went back to my bunk, and that was it. The next day two of the injured guys were evac'd out to a proper hospital and I went with them. It was a few weeks before I made it back and by then Matt had been rotated out. I never saw him again. I never even emailed him or anything after that night, and… I still regret it."
Sherlock's expression was incredibly endearing -- it was as if he were trying very hard to look sympathetic and wasn't sure quite how to do it. "Did you ever try to find him later, after you got home?"
"Hell, no."
"Why not?"
John pressed his lips together and inhaled. "He could be dead. If he is, I don't want to know. No reason to add to an already long list of regrets." Sherlock's brows knitted together at that, whether from surprise or confusion was unclear. Time to change the subject. "Hungry? Thought I might make a scramble, assuming we've got eggs." He stood up and crossed to the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.
*****
The moment the cab stopped, John practically leapt out. He was ready, so fucking ready to get in there and get started and get his mind off of the insane things that had been running through it for the last few days. He envied Sherlock's ability to be so dispassionate, to completely separate himself from the physicality of his body and its needs. John was seriously considering taking up meditation or yoga or something to help him channel it all. Another several days like the last few and he'd be a basket case.
Sherlock was three paces behind him the entire walk to the club. John stopped at the door and bobbed on the balls of his feet impatiently; he could swear Sherlock was walking slowly on purpose. It made John want to punch him.
Once inside, John was practically giddy. He didn't even bother heading towards the bar, walking instead in the direction of the door down to the private rooms. He'd almost reached it when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm, clenching the bicep. He turned to grin at him and was met with a stony expression. He swallowed.
"What?"
Sherlock pulled him close and spoke into his ear. "Calm down. I'll get you a drink."
"I don't need a drink," John replied, twisting his head to look up at him. "I'm ready to go."
The grip on his arm tightened to the point of pain. "I'll be the judge of when you're ready."
"But--"
"No more talking." There was something in his tone that made John's entire body go still. "I need you relaxed and open to the experience, not wound up like a spring. I go to great lengths to arrange these encounters and I won't have you fucking it all up."
Sherlock rarely swore, and only when he was dead serious. John fixed his gaze at a spot on the floor, uncertain how to respond. The grip on his arm eased and Sherlock pulled him closer; it would have looked like an embrace to anyone watching them.
"Do as you're told and I'll make certain you enjoy it. Step out of line and we're done here." Lips brushed against John's ear and he shivered. "Do you understand?"
John nodded, still unable to make eye contact. He felt a bit like a child who'd been scolded for laughing in church, and it ought to have made him angry. After all, this was Sherlock; even people who liked him wanted to punch him on a regular basis. But somehow he didn't feel angry at all. He felt an odd sort of relief to let it all go, to know that Sherlock was going to take care of it. Was going to take care of him.
God, this was even more fucked up than he'd realized.
"Good. Now, a drink." Sherlock steered him toward the bar and ordered a pint of beer for him, along with a glass of what looked like brandy for himself. John wanted to ask him why he'd decided to drink tonight, but he didn't.
The moment John finished his beer, Sherlock downed the rest of his brandy and nodded his head toward the door at the back. John followed him through and down the long stairway. He let his mind wander as he walked, something he hadn't been able to do for days; he arrived at the door marked "2" without quite remembering walking there. He stared blankly at the door until Sherlock opened it and led him through with a hand on his arm. It was a room they hadn't been in before, smaller than the others with a small sofa. The décor was a variation on the club's theme of red and black, colors he was likely going to associate with sex for the rest of his life. He stood in the middle of the room and watched as Sherlock stripped off his coat and scarf and hung them on a hook by the door.
Sherlock held out a hand and John pulled his own coat off and handed it to him. They stood there in silence for what seemed like several minutes, and John marveled at how pleasant it was. He hadn't felt this calm in days. Was this what yoga did? He wasn't sure how to replicate the feeling without the place and the circumstances, but he was willing to try.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked at last. He put his hands on John's shoulders and stared at his face. "Your eyes are dilated."
John managed a smile.
"You can answer me."
"I'm fine, fantastic. Don't worry."
"Safeword?"
"Cinnamon. I remember."
Sherlock stared at him with narrowed eyes, then cupped John's cheek in his hand. John stared back at him, marveling at how green his eyes were. Sherlock had the most amazing eyes. One day John ought to tell him that.
There was a knock at the door. Sherlock turned away to answer it and John felt a pleasant flutter in his belly. He was ready for this, so very ready.
Their guest was a woman with long dark hair and soulful eyes framed by angular glasses. She was petite and dressed casually compared to their previous guests. John wondered if Thursdays were just like that here.
"I'm Becca," she said, not taking her eyes off John.
"I'm Sherlock and this is John. Thanks for meeting us." He turned to look at John as well. "What do you think?"
She tilted her head and gave John an appraising look. "I like him. What did you have in mind?"
Sherlock smiled. "Blow job. I'll help."
John's eyes flicked away from Becca's face to Sherlock's at that. Part of the act or something else altogether? Fucking with John's mind, perhaps. Ah, whatever. At the moment, he didn't actually mind.
She gave him an odd look. "I'm quite good at it, you know."
Sherlock's gaze turned to John now. "I'm sure you are, but he'll like it better this way." John flushed. He had no idea what Sherlock was thinking. And of course, his own thoughts may as well have been inked on his forehead.
"I see. That could be hot." Becca walked toward John and ran a hand over his chest. "I think you should sit, darling."
"Trousers off first," Sherlock said.
"Mmm, quite right. Shall I help with that?" She unfastened his trousers while Sherlock rummaged in the supply drawer. A minute later John was naked from the waist down and sitting on the sofa with Becca kneeling on the floor between his thighs.
His cock had been hard for what seemed like an hour now. She gave it a few strokes with one hand and John hissed. Oh, this was going to be bloody amazing.
Sherlock handed her a condom packet and she sighed. "It's never as much fun this way."
"Perhaps, but I'm the only one who gets to have him without one."
Those words would have driven John round the bend an hour ago, but now they just floated through his mind, oddly disconnected.
"He's not allowed to touch, by the way."
She gave John a sardonic look. "Yes, your email made that quite clear."
John smiled and clasped his arms behind his head. He loved it when they pushed back. If John wasn't allowed to do it, he could at least enjoy watching others make Sherlock squirm.
"Go ahead," Sherlock said. "Start slow." He was standing closer than usual, John realized.
Becca rolled the condom on and then licked up the underside of his cock, pausing to linger at the head. She swirled her tongue around the tip, teasing him with flicks that weren't quite enough. He watched, biting down on his lower lip. It went on and on, sheer torture. He clenched his hands in his own hair.
"Now take it in your mouth."
No longer content to merely observe, then? This was going to be interesting.
He exhaled at the sensation of her mouth around the head of his cock and groaned when she kept going, taking the entire shaft in to the base. He knew he didn't have a huge penis -- he was average at best -- but that was still something rare in a blow job. He closed his eyes and sank into the feeling, his world rapidly narrowing to her mouth and his cock.
"Oh, you are talented," he heard Sherlock say. "Do that again."
Yes, please.
She pulled up, working her tongue as she moved, almost coming off the head at the top, and then worked her way back down again. Her tongue was amazing; even through a thin layer of latex he could feel every movement. This wasn't going to take long.
"Back off, he's too close," Sherlock said, and John made a noise of frustration. He was impressed that Sherlock could read him so easily -- but of course, that was what Sherlock did, wasn't it?
Becca's hand wrapped around the base of the shaft and squeezed gently as she resumed her torturous licking.
"Good, a bit more."
She pressed the flat of her tongue against the underside of the glans and massaged. John exhaled shakily. He wanted to open his eyes, but he was frankly terrified to see the look on Sherlock's face.
"Suck him again, just the head." The clinical tone was creeping back in, as if Sherlock just couldn't help himself. He was testing ideas, John knew, trying to refine his understanding of what John liked. Of course Sherlock wouldn't do something as mundane as to simply ask John.
Warm lips closed around the head of his cock again and, combined with that tongue still working small circles in just the right spot, severely limited his ability to think. His hands fell to the sofa; he caught himself from tangling them in her hair just in time.
"He's going to come. Let him."
It was as if his body was obeying a command: he felt the stirrings of his orgasm, the building of pressure and the tightening of his balls, and then she took him in so deeply that he was practically coming down her throat. His hips arched off the sofa as it rolled over him and she pushed him back down again, digging her fingernails into his hips to the point of pain.
Oh, but it was a good pain.
She pulled off when he stopped pulsing, and sat back on her heels. He squinted at her and scrubbed a hand over his face.
"That was perfect," Sherlock told her. John risked a glance at him, but it was pointless. He was completely in character.
"That was more fun than I expected," she replied with a grin. "God, he's so responsive. I hate it when they just sit there and stare at me, but when they're like this I want to suck them all day long."
John whimpered. That could be arranged, he wanted to tell her. He tuned out of the discussion after that, and started when he heard the door close. He opened his eyes.
"You have thirty-five minutes until the next one," Sherlock said. "Will that be enough?"
John pushed himself upright and pulled the condom off. He nodded.
"Good. I'm going upstairs for a few minutes." He was completely clinical, utterly unaffected. He'd just talked a woman through giving John an amazing blow job, and he wasn't even flushed.
Once the door closed behind him, John fumbled for his pants and pulled them back on, then his trousers. He curled up on the sofa, tucking his bare feet beneath him. Yes, it was definitely fucked up, but there was something comforting about knowing exactly where he stood with Sherlock. It made him feel secure.
He closed his eyes.
*****
Continue to part 3B
Author: Emma Grant
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock, John/others
Rating: NC-17
Chapter Summary: This entire situation was definitely fucked up, but there was something comforting about knowing exactly where he stood with Sherlock. It made John feel secure.
Length: 10,500 words (this part, 28,800 overall)
Contains: [Highlight to view] OMG!het, casual sex, voyeurism, mild D/s, wanking, blow jobs, very light bondage -- basically there's a lot of porn in multiple variations
Beta and Britpick: The ever insightful
freckles42Spoilers: Set sometime during series 2, pre-Reichenbach. Tiny spoilers for the first two episodes.
Notes: Yes,
Start at the beginning: On LJ | On AO3 | On my website | On Skyehawke
Alternate link for this part: AO3
*****
"Define sex."
Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"
"If you mean the first time I had sexual intercourse, that's a different story from the first time I had an orgasm with someone else. Or the first time I gave someone else an orgasm. Or--"
"The first one. Intercourse."
"All right, but it's the least interesting of the lot." John paused to sip his coffee. "I was seventeen and it was with the girl I was seeing at the time. It was her first time as well, so it was fantastically awkward and neither of us enjoyed it very much."
"You were spectacularly boring as a teenager, weren't you?"
"Completely. You'd have hated me."
He wasn't going to leave it there. He couldn't possibly resist. John took another sip of coffee and waited. Three… two…one…
"The first time you had an orgasm with another person: was it before or after that?"
John smiled and balanced the mug on his knee. "Before. I was still in school, actually. I went to a party and there were some girls there from another school. We all paired off and found dark corners to get off in, and the girl I was with -- God, I can still see her face but I've no idea what her name was. I think I had a hand up her shirt, so I thought I was doing all right, but then she unbuttoned my jeans and stuck her hand down my pants and started wanking me. I think I lasted all of a minute."
"What happened after that?"
"We carried on snogging. I had a hand in her knickers, but I didn't know what I was doing, so eventually she put a stop to it."
"Did you think of that as sex at the time?"
John pressed his lips together and considered. "I don't know. It was a long time ago and everything about sex was confusing and weird. It was more like checking sex acts off a list: Squeezed tits, check. Fingered a girl, check. Got hand job, check. Got blow job, check. But I suppose it's true that intercourse was the big one on the list."
He glanced over to see Sherlock staring up at the ceiling, his fingertips pressed together in what John called his "thinking pose." The wheels were definitely turning. He waited.
"First time you gave someone else an orgasm."
"Sadly, it was much later. My third girlfriend took pity on me and taught me how to perform oral sex properly on a woman. Apparently my failures up to that point had been due to--" He made air-quotes with his fingers. "--treating a cunt like a cock."
Even from this distance he could see Sherlock's consternation. "So up until then you hadn't been able to satisfy a partner?"
"Well… I was never quite sure before that, but after, it was painfully clear I'd been shit in bed." Talking about his teenaged sexual ineptness was really quite depressing. "Sorry to have disappointed you."
"Oh no, it's quite all right. My expectations weren't terribly high."
John sighed. "Yes, after the last few days I suppose they weren't." He stood and took the empty mug to the kitchen.
"What have the last few days got to do with it?"
"Nothing. I'm going out for the afternoon. When should I be back?"
"Whenever you like."
John pulled on his jacket. "I meant, what time are we leaving?"
"For what?"
Jesus. "The club."
"We aren't going tonight."
John froze halfway through pulling his arm through a sleeve, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. Had what happened last night been too much for Sherlock? Had John somehow crossed a line and Sherlock wasn't interested anymore? Or had this obsession run its course and just like that, just as John was really starting to enjoy it, they were done? "But… why not?"
"It's Monday." The tone implied that should answer John's question completely.
John blinked. "And… there's no sex on Mondays?"
"The club is only open Thursday through Sunday."
"Ah. All right then." That sudden rise of anxiety quelled, but it was now replaced by a realization of how disappointed he would have been if this were actually over. There was something to mull over on his walk.
A few nights off might be a good thing, though. He'd be well rested for Thursday, at any rate.
*****
"John, is that you, dear? Are you all right?"
John winced and pushed himself to standing. "Yes, I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, thanks. It's just a bit dark and I tripped over this -- who the hell moved this table?"
"Sherlock was doing something down here earlier, I think. He seems to have perked up a bit. Is there a case?"
John smiled weakly. "Of sorts. Some experiments, anyway."
She made a face. "Oh, he hasn't got anything too beastly up there, I hope. I don't know how you live with him sometimes."
"I wonder myself."
"But we love him anyway." She gave him a knowing look and shook her head. "Oh, there's my kettle. I do love chamomile before bed. Put some ice on that leg now, and get some sleep."
"Yes, of course. Thank you. Good night." As soon as she disappeared around the corner, his face contorted in pain. Fuck, but that had hurt. He was going to have a nasty bruise on his shin in the morning.
He limped up the stairs and opened the door to the flat. To his utter non-surprise, Sherlock was embedded in the sofa, his face eerily lit by the glow of his laptop. As usual, Sherlock didn't acknowledge his entrance. John shed his coat, hung it by the door, and crossed to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. He rubbed at his bruised shin, which made it feel slightly better. Sherlock still didn't look up.
John waited three full minutes before giving in and speaking first. "How's the data analysis going?"
"Did you bring it?"
"Bring what?"
"I asked you to look for a copy of QX while you were out."
"You do realize that when I'm not here, I can't actually hear you?"
Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on the laptop screen, though there was now a bit of tension in his voice. "I texted you."
John fumbled for the phone in his pocket; sure enough, there were three texts from Sherlock. "Sorry, I never heard it ding. What's QX, anyway?"
"Just something for research. It can wait until morning." His fingers flew over the keys for a solid minute.
John sighed and leaned back into the cushions. No response. He sighed again, more dramatically this time. "I had a fairly miserable night out, in case you were wondering."
"I wasn't." Sherlock turned his head and gave him an odd look. "Oh, is this where I'm supposed to ask you to tell me about it?"
"Yes, that's the expected response to a friend saying they've had a miserable evening."
Sherlock turned back to the laptop. "Fine. What happened?" There was nothing remotely approaching interest in his tone.
"Well, if you must know, I spent the better part of three hours in two different pubs chatting up half a dozen women, and every single one of them rejected me."
Sherlock frowned and paused his typing, turning to look at John again. "You went out with the intention of meeting someone?"
"Yes, and I failed spectacularly."
"Why?"
"That's exactly the question, yes. I had four straight nights of spectacular sex arranged by you, but on my own I can't get a woman to let me buy her a drink." He shook his head.
"Three nights, not four. And I meant, why did you want to meet someone?"
"Because I'm horny, Sherlock. I got off four nights in a row and now I've apparently been conditioned to need it on a daily basis."
"We only went to the club three nights." Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. "Are you counting the night we…" He waved a hand between them.
John felt his face flush; thank God it was dark. He had indeed been counting that night. "Three nights, of course. Last night seemed like two nights, I suppose. My point is, none of it has helped me a bit. I'm still just as hopeless with women as before, only now I know exactly what I'm missing."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the spreadsheet. "It's only three more days until the club is open again. You couldn't wait that long?"
John groaned and closed his eyes. "I only wanted to find someone who'd suck my dick. After the sex club, I didn't think it'd be that difficult."
"Want me to do it for you?"
John froze; a sliver of something like electricity shot down his spine. "What?"
"If you're that desperate, I will. Three more days of you moping around the flat will completely destroy my concentration."
Breathe. John inhaled, exhaled again, and forced himself to turn his head and look at Sherlock. He was scrolling quickly through a discussion board now, so fast John doubted he could actually be reading. "I don't… I… Are you sure?"
"It's not as if it would be a hardship. I'm at an impasse with my analysis anyway and could use a bit more data." He turned to look at John then, his face completely blank.
John could only stare at him. His mind helpfully supplied an image of Sherlock shifting onto his knees on the floor, pressing John's thighs apart, reaching to unfasten his trousers. Oh God. He was already hard. "This is insane, Sherlock."
"It's no different than what we’ve done the last few nights. Certainly the women in a bar are less of a sure thing, but the gay boyfriend routine seems to work well enough. I'm sure I can talk someone into giving you a blow job. Give me two minutes to finish this up and I'll change clothes." He stopped and narrowed his eyes at John. "What?"
John blinked, finally realizing they were having two completely different conversations. He was filled with a sudden urge to laugh, and he wasn't sure whether it was from relief or something else altogether. He looked up at the ceiling. Fucking hell. He drew a shaky breath.
"You know, I'm knackered. I think I'll take a shower and go to bed. Thanks, though."
Sherlock shrugged. "I'll be up for a while if you change your mind."
John stood and walked to the bathroom as casually as he could manage with an erection. He closed the door and turned around to press his forehead against the cool wood. This was not good. On so many fucking levels.
He started the water and stripped off his clothes, trying to think of anything except what his alcohol-fueled libido was encouraging. When it grew hot enough he stepped under the spray and stood still, letting the water sluice over his skin. The sensation was glorious and did nothing to abate his arousal. He sighed and let one hand slide across his chest, down his belly, down the where his cock stood straight out, and he gave it a slow stroke.
He tried to think about Abby and Clara, who'd sucked him together that first night, and then the Britney Spears lookalike who'd fucked his mouth with her tongue and ground against him until they both came. He thought about the woman in red who'd nearly talked him into coming -- oh, no, bad idea, no no no.
Annie, then. Annie's sweet face, the way she kissed him, the way it felt to be inside her. Ryan's hand moving on him, Ryan's cock pressed against his in Annie's hand.
He stroked faster, searching for something that would light that fire in his balls, that would be the spark he needed to get this done. He just needed this release and then his mind would be clear and he could go to bed and not think any more. He thought about Ryan's fingers, imagined the hand on him wasn't his own, remembered sitting on that sofa being kissed and brought to orgasm while two other people were watching. He'd never thought he'd be one for exhibitionism, but--
Sherlock's face flooded his mind now, the look on his face after John had come that last time. He'd never been affected by any of it, not until that moment.
Want me to do it for you?
For just a minute John had thought Sherlock actually wanted him, and he was unbearably turned on by the idea. God, just the idea of Sherlock on his knees, of John's cock in that mouth that could be so hard and so clever, of John's hands tangled in that insane hair of his, fucking his mouth, rough, hard, shit.
He caught his breath. Well, there was the spark.
It was just a fantasy. No need to feel guilty about it. Sherlock would never know. John let the fantasy spin, let it go where it wanted. His hand flew in short jerks at the head of his cock, the taut foreskin moving with his fingers, his mouth open, his forehead nestled in the crook of his elbow now, arm pressed against the cool tile, warm water sheeting down his back, and it was Sherlock's mouth around his cock, his tongue pressing there right there oh god.
He groaned into his arm, louder than he'd intended. It was intense, but it was over far too quickly. He closed his eyes. There had been almost no satisfaction in that orgasm: he felt completely empty and unbearably alone. His breathing eased after a few more seconds and he pushed off the wall. He lifted his face to the spray. The water pounded down and he held his breath as long as he could.
He was so, so fucked.
*****
By Thursday morning, John was crawling out of his skin. He hadn't let himself wank since the night in the shower for fear that he'd end up fantasizing about Sherlock again. He'd awakened with sticky sheets that morning anyway, with a vague memory of a dream involving sex with a stunning variety of people, with Sherlock in the middle of it all, dispassionately observing.
God, that particular facial expression was going to induce erections in him for years to come. Crime scenes were going to be horrifically awkward.
Sherlock was, predictably, on the sofa when John came down to make coffee. "Sleep well?"
John was probably imagining the innuendo is his tone, but he shot Sherlock a dirty look to be on the safe side. Several minutes later he sat in a chair opposite the sofa, mug in hand. "Please tell me you slept last night."
"Of course not. I--"
"Just a vessel, I know."
"True, but not the point. I decided to reanalyze the data from a different perspective."
"What perspective?"
"Was Sunday night your first sexual experience with a man?"
John blinked at him. "Was there supposed to be a segue there?"
Sherlock's expression was one of mild annoyance. "There was. Do keep up, John."
John sighed and took a sip of coffee. "No."
Sherlock looked directly at him for the first time all morning, undisguised shock on his face. "No?"
John smirked. "Didn't see that one coming, did you?"
Sherlock's expression became one of raw interest. "I must admit I didn't."
John grinned and drank more coffee. Drawing this out was going to be a pleasure.
"Well?" Sherlock said at last.
"Oh, right. You'll want details." It was more than a bit frightening that John felt completely at ease now about providing them. He crossed one leg over the other and settled more comfortably into the chair. "It was in the army. I was stationed for several months in a fairly remote location, a medic with the infantry. I went out with them on patrols quite a bit, mostly because that's where I'd be needed if something went wrong."
"Did things go wrong?"
"More often than I care to remember." John smiled tightly. "But to the point, there was another medic stationed there and we spent a lot of time together. One night we were drinking, just blowing off steam, and he told me he was gay. I told him about my sister, you know, trying to make it clear I wasn't prejudiced. But after that he flirted with me when no one else was looking. For some reason people often make that assumption about me." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who responded with a noncommittal shrug.
John took a deep breath. "Anyway, there was a day that was bloody horrible. A platoon was ambushed and three men were killed. Matt -- that was his name -- was with them, and they commed me to let me know what to expect when they brought the injured back. Matt climbed off that chopper covered in blood, and for a minute I thought the worst, but it wasn't his own. It hit me then how close of friends we'd become, though, and that was something I had learned not to let happen because… Well, because." He looked up to make certain Sherlock was still with him. This amount of silence generally meant Sherlock had long since tuned him out, but he was staring at John with a look of fascination, and it encouraged John to continue.
"We were up half the night patching guys up and making arrangements for the dead, and the whole thing was completely horrible. It was one of the worst days I'd had at that point. We had a tiny office off the clinic, and by oh-two-hundred we were sitting on the floor -- nowhere else to sit -- and sharing a bottle of horrid whiskey we kept stashed in there for shit days. We didn't talk; we just sat there. I'd had far too much to drink, and I looked at him and he looked at me… and then he kissed me. I was so wrecked I kissed him back." He paused and stared into the depths of the coffee mug. "There's something about being that close to death that makes you want to feel alive, any way you can. So we sat there on the floor of the office and snogged like teenagers. I was filthy and covered in blood so was he, and neither of us cared."
"Did anything else happen?"
"We ended up wanking each other. And it was completely bloody awkward after. Neither of us knew what to say. He was on duty so he stayed and I went back to my bunk, and that was it. The next day two of the injured guys were evac'd out to a proper hospital and I went with them. It was a few weeks before I made it back and by then Matt had been rotated out. I never saw him again. I never even emailed him or anything after that night, and… I still regret it."
Sherlock's expression was incredibly endearing -- it was as if he were trying very hard to look sympathetic and wasn't sure quite how to do it. "Did you ever try to find him later, after you got home?"
"Hell, no."
"Why not?"
John pressed his lips together and inhaled. "He could be dead. If he is, I don't want to know. No reason to add to an already long list of regrets." Sherlock's brows knitted together at that, whether from surprise or confusion was unclear. Time to change the subject. "Hungry? Thought I might make a scramble, assuming we've got eggs." He stood up and crossed to the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.
*****
The moment the cab stopped, John practically leapt out. He was ready, so fucking ready to get in there and get started and get his mind off of the insane things that had been running through it for the last few days. He envied Sherlock's ability to be so dispassionate, to completely separate himself from the physicality of his body and its needs. John was seriously considering taking up meditation or yoga or something to help him channel it all. Another several days like the last few and he'd be a basket case.
Sherlock was three paces behind him the entire walk to the club. John stopped at the door and bobbed on the balls of his feet impatiently; he could swear Sherlock was walking slowly on purpose. It made John want to punch him.
Once inside, John was practically giddy. He didn't even bother heading towards the bar, walking instead in the direction of the door down to the private rooms. He'd almost reached it when he felt Sherlock's hand on his arm, clenching the bicep. He turned to grin at him and was met with a stony expression. He swallowed.
"What?"
Sherlock pulled him close and spoke into his ear. "Calm down. I'll get you a drink."
"I don't need a drink," John replied, twisting his head to look up at him. "I'm ready to go."
The grip on his arm tightened to the point of pain. "I'll be the judge of when you're ready."
"But--"
"No more talking." There was something in his tone that made John's entire body go still. "I need you relaxed and open to the experience, not wound up like a spring. I go to great lengths to arrange these encounters and I won't have you fucking it all up."
Sherlock rarely swore, and only when he was dead serious. John fixed his gaze at a spot on the floor, uncertain how to respond. The grip on his arm eased and Sherlock pulled him closer; it would have looked like an embrace to anyone watching them.
"Do as you're told and I'll make certain you enjoy it. Step out of line and we're done here." Lips brushed against John's ear and he shivered. "Do you understand?"
John nodded, still unable to make eye contact. He felt a bit like a child who'd been scolded for laughing in church, and it ought to have made him angry. After all, this was Sherlock; even people who liked him wanted to punch him on a regular basis. But somehow he didn't feel angry at all. He felt an odd sort of relief to let it all go, to know that Sherlock was going to take care of it. Was going to take care of him.
God, this was even more fucked up than he'd realized.
"Good. Now, a drink." Sherlock steered him toward the bar and ordered a pint of beer for him, along with a glass of what looked like brandy for himself. John wanted to ask him why he'd decided to drink tonight, but he didn't.
The moment John finished his beer, Sherlock downed the rest of his brandy and nodded his head toward the door at the back. John followed him through and down the long stairway. He let his mind wander as he walked, something he hadn't been able to do for days; he arrived at the door marked "2" without quite remembering walking there. He stared blankly at the door until Sherlock opened it and led him through with a hand on his arm. It was a room they hadn't been in before, smaller than the others with a small sofa. The décor was a variation on the club's theme of red and black, colors he was likely going to associate with sex for the rest of his life. He stood in the middle of the room and watched as Sherlock stripped off his coat and scarf and hung them on a hook by the door.
Sherlock held out a hand and John pulled his own coat off and handed it to him. They stood there in silence for what seemed like several minutes, and John marveled at how pleasant it was. He hadn't felt this calm in days. Was this what yoga did? He wasn't sure how to replicate the feeling without the place and the circumstances, but he was willing to try.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked at last. He put his hands on John's shoulders and stared at his face. "Your eyes are dilated."
John managed a smile.
"You can answer me."
"I'm fine, fantastic. Don't worry."
"Safeword?"
"Cinnamon. I remember."
Sherlock stared at him with narrowed eyes, then cupped John's cheek in his hand. John stared back at him, marveling at how green his eyes were. Sherlock had the most amazing eyes. One day John ought to tell him that.
There was a knock at the door. Sherlock turned away to answer it and John felt a pleasant flutter in his belly. He was ready for this, so very ready.
Their guest was a woman with long dark hair and soulful eyes framed by angular glasses. She was petite and dressed casually compared to their previous guests. John wondered if Thursdays were just like that here.
"I'm Becca," she said, not taking her eyes off John.
"I'm Sherlock and this is John. Thanks for meeting us." He turned to look at John as well. "What do you think?"
She tilted her head and gave John an appraising look. "I like him. What did you have in mind?"
Sherlock smiled. "Blow job. I'll help."
John's eyes flicked away from Becca's face to Sherlock's at that. Part of the act or something else altogether? Fucking with John's mind, perhaps. Ah, whatever. At the moment, he didn't actually mind.
She gave him an odd look. "I'm quite good at it, you know."
Sherlock's gaze turned to John now. "I'm sure you are, but he'll like it better this way." John flushed. He had no idea what Sherlock was thinking. And of course, his own thoughts may as well have been inked on his forehead.
"I see. That could be hot." Becca walked toward John and ran a hand over his chest. "I think you should sit, darling."
"Trousers off first," Sherlock said.
"Mmm, quite right. Shall I help with that?" She unfastened his trousers while Sherlock rummaged in the supply drawer. A minute later John was naked from the waist down and sitting on the sofa with Becca kneeling on the floor between his thighs.
His cock had been hard for what seemed like an hour now. She gave it a few strokes with one hand and John hissed. Oh, this was going to be bloody amazing.
Sherlock handed her a condom packet and she sighed. "It's never as much fun this way."
"Perhaps, but I'm the only one who gets to have him without one."
Those words would have driven John round the bend an hour ago, but now they just floated through his mind, oddly disconnected.
"He's not allowed to touch, by the way."
She gave John a sardonic look. "Yes, your email made that quite clear."
John smiled and clasped his arms behind his head. He loved it when they pushed back. If John wasn't allowed to do it, he could at least enjoy watching others make Sherlock squirm.
"Go ahead," Sherlock said. "Start slow." He was standing closer than usual, John realized.
Becca rolled the condom on and then licked up the underside of his cock, pausing to linger at the head. She swirled her tongue around the tip, teasing him with flicks that weren't quite enough. He watched, biting down on his lower lip. It went on and on, sheer torture. He clenched his hands in his own hair.
"Now take it in your mouth."
No longer content to merely observe, then? This was going to be interesting.
He exhaled at the sensation of her mouth around the head of his cock and groaned when she kept going, taking the entire shaft in to the base. He knew he didn't have a huge penis -- he was average at best -- but that was still something rare in a blow job. He closed his eyes and sank into the feeling, his world rapidly narrowing to her mouth and his cock.
"Oh, you are talented," he heard Sherlock say. "Do that again."
Yes, please.
She pulled up, working her tongue as she moved, almost coming off the head at the top, and then worked her way back down again. Her tongue was amazing; even through a thin layer of latex he could feel every movement. This wasn't going to take long.
"Back off, he's too close," Sherlock said, and John made a noise of frustration. He was impressed that Sherlock could read him so easily -- but of course, that was what Sherlock did, wasn't it?
Becca's hand wrapped around the base of the shaft and squeezed gently as she resumed her torturous licking.
"Good, a bit more."
She pressed the flat of her tongue against the underside of the glans and massaged. John exhaled shakily. He wanted to open his eyes, but he was frankly terrified to see the look on Sherlock's face.
"Suck him again, just the head." The clinical tone was creeping back in, as if Sherlock just couldn't help himself. He was testing ideas, John knew, trying to refine his understanding of what John liked. Of course Sherlock wouldn't do something as mundane as to simply ask John.
Warm lips closed around the head of his cock again and, combined with that tongue still working small circles in just the right spot, severely limited his ability to think. His hands fell to the sofa; he caught himself from tangling them in her hair just in time.
"He's going to come. Let him."
It was as if his body was obeying a command: he felt the stirrings of his orgasm, the building of pressure and the tightening of his balls, and then she took him in so deeply that he was practically coming down her throat. His hips arched off the sofa as it rolled over him and she pushed him back down again, digging her fingernails into his hips to the point of pain.
Oh, but it was a good pain.
She pulled off when he stopped pulsing, and sat back on her heels. He squinted at her and scrubbed a hand over his face.
"That was perfect," Sherlock told her. John risked a glance at him, but it was pointless. He was completely in character.
"That was more fun than I expected," she replied with a grin. "God, he's so responsive. I hate it when they just sit there and stare at me, but when they're like this I want to suck them all day long."
John whimpered. That could be arranged, he wanted to tell her. He tuned out of the discussion after that, and started when he heard the door close. He opened his eyes.
"You have thirty-five minutes until the next one," Sherlock said. "Will that be enough?"
John pushed himself upright and pulled the condom off. He nodded.
"Good. I'm going upstairs for a few minutes." He was completely clinical, utterly unaffected. He'd just talked a woman through giving John an amazing blow job, and he wasn't even flushed.
Once the door closed behind him, John fumbled for his pants and pulled them back on, then his trousers. He curled up on the sofa, tucking his bare feet beneath him. Yes, it was definitely fucked up, but there was something comforting about knowing exactly where he stood with Sherlock. It made him feel secure.
He closed his eyes.
*****
Continue to part 3B
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 03:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 05:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 03:24 pm (UTC)Later, fic. You and me.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 05:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 08:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 09:07 pm (UTC)No, it wasn't clear.
I thought he was casually offering fellatio if John could wait a couple of minutes and was asking which bedroom or what.
Now I see he meant he would procure someone in a bar. But I think my fuzzy-headedness eagerness produced a misreading. What I thought the "gay boyfriend routine" had to do with anything is a mystery. I just wanted...well.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 09:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 09:34 pm (UTC)***
"It's no different than what we’ve done the last few nights. Certainly the women in a bar are less of a sure thing, but the gay boyfriend routine seems to work well enough. I'm sure I can talk someone into giving you a blow job. Give me two minutes to finish this up and I'll change clothes." He stopped at narrowed his eyes at John. "What?"
John blinked, finally realizing they were having two completely different conversations. He was filled with a sudden urge to laugh, and he wasn't sure whether it was from relief or something else altogether. He looked up at the ceiling. Fucking hell. He drew a shaky breath.
***
no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 09:48 pm (UTC)*perking up* Me! Me! John wouldn't even have to buy me a drink!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 09:52 pm (UTC)Me! Me! John wouldn't even have to buy me a drink!
I know, right? :-D
no subject
Date: 2012-02-23 08:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 07:53 pm (UTC)this!!)))
sorry, can't talk now - gotta read on to the next part!!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-22 10:58 pm (UTC)John grasping Sherlock's hands while getting blown was incredibly hot. Also Sherlock's possessiveness, which has nothing at all to do with their little charade and everything to do with Sherlock being head-over-heels and too much of a genius to realise he could fall pray to something so basic and so human.
In summary: \o/
no subject
Date: 2012-02-23 01:19 am (UTC)I'm glad the hands thing is working for people because that was a scene that was insanely hot in my head and I really wanted it to read that way. After writing it and re-reading and re-working it half a dozen times, it's honestly hard to tell if it's working, so getting this kind of feedback on it s fantastic! :-)
Thanks so much for reading and commenting!
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Date: 2012-02-23 05:31 am (UTC)And yeah, the hands thing worked. Especially the nails digging into John's skin. It's those little details that make it. Ngh.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-23 03:29 am (UTC)Fortunately, or unfortunately, I heard about this update while checking tumblr at work. So I spent my lunch hour curled up in the corner of our breakroom blushing and giggling inappropriately to myself.
Possessive!Sherlock is hitting all of my buttons.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-23 05:03 am (UTC)Thanks, as always! :-)
no subject
Date: 2012-02-23 07:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-28 04:41 am (UTC)Thanks, sweetie. I appreciate the comments!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-24 04:11 am (UTC)There are no words.
no subject
Date: 2012-02-28 04:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-03 12:43 am (UTC)The whole "do you want me to do it for you" thing was just so Sherlock and ridiculously hot. And John? Your characterization of him is so endearing and enjoyable.
I think I am getting really addicted to reading a very in-control Sherlock getting slowly unraveled. I also really enjoyed the backstory about sexual experience.
The cheeking made me happy too! This fic is such a good example of condoms being hot. There is something irresistible about reading Sherlock order someone to use a condom while they have sex with John.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-24 06:34 pm (UTC)I'm pretty sure
no subject
Date: 2012-05-24 09:33 pm (UTC)So are you in this fandom?
no subject
Date: 2012-05-24 10:47 pm (UTC)Also, I severely disagree with your initial assessment of this being a PWP. It's a plot about porn, but plot all the same. I acutally read it a bit out of order and got through the first chapter, then somehow started reading all of the out takes from Sherlock's POV (which are brilliant, mind you), and then went back and read the rest of the original when I realized that I'd been reading Sherlock's POV on scenes I hadn't actually read yet. Also, you had Sherlock's reactions to realizing and trying to express how much his desires to hurt or own John scared the shit out of him down PERFECT. That overwhelming terror/desire is spot on. I really appreciate it when authors remember that Tops need some TLC, too.
Just overall brilliant. I'm so glad I finally found myself in a place where I could enjoy this.