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Sex with Sherlock Holmes was a surprise. Not due to any particular kinks on the part of the detective, but if John had ever thought of himself in the context of gay sex, it would have been as a top, and yet, from the first, John had rolled over for Sherlock, spreading his legs and begging.
Sherlock took John apart, every time, and it was so good, so hot and dirty and gorgeous, that John couldn’t resist sucking Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth, simulating what his body craved, as soon as they crossed the threshold of 221B. He crowded Sherlock against the door, grinding his cock against Sherlock’s thigh, until Sherlock groaned and dug his fingers into John’s arse.
“Upstairs,” he growled, abruptly pushing John away.
Stumbling, a bit, John panted and stroked himself, palm tight against the front of his denims. He felt like a slut, like earning the moniker Three Continents Watson had only been training for this. He stared at Sherlock, walking slowly backward, to the stairs. His nipples were tight and hard, aching in sympathy with his cock, his twitching arsehole.
Sherlock stalked him, his eyes like liquid mercury. John loved that look, predatory and feral. He turned and hurried up the stairs, unlocking their flat as Sherlock leapt after him.
They pushed and pulled at each other, shedding their clothes and shoes in an obscene trail across the flat. Sherlock pulled a small tube from somewhere, and bit the top off. He smeared the contents across the long fingers of his right hand, and pushed John against the wall, John’s pants and trousers still tangled around his calves.
It didn’t matter. John rocked his hips, hungrily, face mashed to the faded wallpaper. Sherlock unceremoniously thrust two slick fingers into his arse, humming with sensuous triumph. “Is this what you want, Doctor?” He twisted his hand, cause John to twitch, hips stuttering.
“God, yes, more, do it.” John was whinging, begging, and the sound of his own voice made him hotter, hungrier. “Fuck me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock groaned, and twisted another long finger into John’s body. “Such a slut. I bet it took the whole of the Royal Fusiliers to keep this arse happy, hmmm? Is that how you got your nickname, John, spreading your legs for Queen and Country? Did they take turns rogering you in the shower, fucking your mouth? Did you beg for it, like you beg me?”
The words, so wrong, so deep, twisted something hot and burning in John’s gut. Images slammed through his brain, things that had never happened, but now seemed the height of eroticism. He could feel his arse spasming around Sherlock’s fingers, as Sherlock pulled them out, and he keened, hungrily, shamelessly, at the brief sensation of emptiness until Sherlock pressed his cock into John.
Slow, so slowly that it was a terrible tease. Sherlock gripped his hips, hard enough to bruise, as John fruitlessly tried to shove back on the intrusion. He scrabbled at the wall, nails gouging the wallpaper, as Sherlock stroked in and out, an interminable drag, tortuous. He could hear himself begging, “harder, faster, Sherlock, please, please, I need it.”
“Sing for me, John. I need to hear you sing,” Sherlock commanded, and John helplessly obeyed, his voice rising like an alarum. Sherlock responded by jerking them away from the wall, to the floor, shoving his cock back into John’s arse fast and hard, and pounding, pounding, so good, so right.
John was drooling on the rug, wailing, shoving his hips back as hard as he could. He never wanted it to end, Sherlock’s hips beating against his buttocks, their thighs slapping together. He could feel his orgasm gathering, his own cock rock hard, yet untouched. It was like white fire in his veins and he clamped down hard as he came, trembling all over, as Sherlock kept rocking, relentless.
They stayed locked together as John slowly collapsed onto the floor. Somehow, Sherlock managed to get one of John’s legs free, so that he could spread his thighs wider. John felt boneless and debauched, lying spread open on the rug, as Sherlock fucked and fucked, helping himself to John’s body. His hips were like a metronome, and John whimpered at the deliciousness of being used. He knew that Sherlock could fuck indefinitely, licking and sucking and biting at John’s shoulders, holding him down.
Sherlock let go of one of John’s forearms, to apply more lube, easing an incipient burn that John hadn’t quite registered. The renewed slickness made him sigh, and fold up one knee, to open himself even more to Sherlock. Sherlock paused a second, growling, and whispered, “such a slut, John. Who could know that under those jumpers lurks the heart of a trollop? Next time we’re at the Yard, you’ll suck me off in the men’s. Mmm, yes, that would be nice, wouldn’t it, John? You, on your knees, sucking my knob like a lolly. Maybe we’ll make it a tradition, get you all hard and desperate and gagging for it.”
He was moving faster, spurred on by his own fantasy, weaving a path to orgasm. John could only sigh as Sherlock released deep within him, shuddering through his climax, before collapsing onto the doctor’s back.
“Oi, wanker, off! I can’t breathe.” Weakly, John elbowed Sherlock, but the other man promptly rolled off, gasping for air. John dragged himself to his knees, shaking his left leg free, and wobbled to his feet. He propped himself against the wall, for a moment, feeling achy and languorous, then smiled down at Sherlock, who was naked but for his socks. “Will you live?”
Sherlock’s lashes fluttered, and one hand twitched, but he stayed silent, inhaling huge gulps of oxygen. John nodded, and tottered into the lav to clean himself up, humming contentedly. Really, sex with Sherlock had turned out to be a lovely surprise.
~finis~