oh my gosh i apologize that it took so long (also that it’s a wip-) but I hope you enjoy!
TheWolves were not only disgusting, dirty creatures, they were also abysmallyidiotic.
“Don’tyou say that to us too?” Molly asked uncertainly, her head tilted as sheglanced at him, watched him watch them.
“Yourpoint?” he muttered.
IfMolly had said anything after that, he hadn’t heard it. He hated to fall intothe clichés of their century long feud, but there was something about the waythose mutts prowled that stunk of misplaced superiority, and if there wasanything he hated more than attending galas in his brother’s place, it wassomeone thinking themselves better than he.
Thewolves were only passing by the city, on their journey to the deserts ofAhastier. Having gone through his brother’s files well before the gathering, heknew exactly what it was that they were after.
Personally,Sherlock was surprised his brother hadn’t showed his face - Mycroft pridedhimself in his ability to keep the world in line with his wishes. That thewolves would become near infallible should they find cure to their afflictionto silver could be… troublesome, and should be well within Mycroft’s concern.
Hiseyes, having swept over the room disinterestedly, caught on the blond wolfhumming in the corner of the room, in his arms a grinning human with bright eyes.
Humansgenerally didn’t care to be out and about with werewolves, or vampires, orgargoyles, or sirens, or anything that wasn’t of their own kind. They wereclose-minded that way, and the only exception he had met had been Donovan, whoonly hated him for undermining her, instead of his lack of humanity.
Nothingwas sacred in a hall filled with Vampires and Werewolves, and the thrillinglaugh torn from the human’s throat made something in him shift. Curiosity,perhaps.
Atany rate, it would take up his time.
Molly,who had been his attendant for nearly a decade, startled when he strode throughthe crowd, hurrying to follow. He took a glass from a near empty tray, makingsure to have some of the thinned blood spread across his lips.
Thewhole point of this endeavour was to entertain himself, after all.
Closerup, he saw the worn travelling cape the human had clasped around his neck, thedusty boots in a hall as grand as this, and allowed a faint sense of surpriseto flood him. He had come with the Wolves. A human had come with the wolves ontheir little classified mission, or perhaps he hadn’t known what he’d sign upfor.
However,watching the way the human’s hand was curled around the wolf’s shoulders,watching how they murmured amicably to each other, it was highly unlikely thathe hadn’t been told.
Thewolf, nearly a head taller than the human, stilled imperceptibly at hisapproach, his gentle smile fading as his green eyes flickered towards him.
Hefelt his lips stretch in a smile, just as the music reached a crescendo.
“MayI have this dance?” he asked smoothly, offering a hand to the human with a headcocked.
Thehuman, with an assemble just on the side of formal, all weapons – for Sherlockwouldn’t make the mistake of assuming him without, a human among wolves –hidden properly, politely, turnedtowards him, ocean eyes widening to the sight of his bloodstained smile. Therewasn’t as much of a struggle as he had hoped, as the man’s heartbeat calmed ina way that was most certainly practiced, dipping his head in a cordial nod ashe pulled away from the Wolf. He had a handsome face, if somewhat plain, linedwith age and worn with time. His cheeks were flushed, just slightly, a productbrought on by his dancing.
Thewolf backed away, but Sherlock could feel him hovering.
“Partner?”he asked in a rumble, slipping his arm around the human’s waist, tugging himtowards him firmly. Their fingers entwined easily.
Thehuman allowed him his manhandling, a small oofshocked out of him when their chests bumped. “Nothing like that.” He saidcarefully, his voice a pleasant tenor as he tried to shift away, his fingerstwitching against his shoulder. His head tipped to keep their gazes locked,barely pausing on his lips. “It wouldn’t be proper if I was… romanticallyentangled with my C.O.”
“He’snot your Alpha.” He hummed, turning his head away to catch Molly’s worriedgaze.
Hesmirked.
Tensionshad always been high between them and the wolves – a word out of place and theycould be looking at a war. He believed his brother to have taken special careto warn his attendant of watching over him tonight.
“Whatmakes you think I have one?” The human countered, both eyebrows raised. Therewas a small plastic smile playing at the edges of his lips, as he movedmechanically from left to right.
“Evenif I hadn’t seen the crest sewn into the inside of your cloak,” he said softly,bent to murmur into the human’s ear, relishing in the sudden uptick of hisheart, the sudden pounding of his blood just a finger beneath him. “Wolves areterritorial creatures, slow to trust outsiders. You are no mere soldier – youare human. You must hold quite a standing to have been allowed on thisridiculous trek, and yet,” he gently spun the human, watching him trail afterhim uncertainly. “You don’t know how to dance. A family member then, or afamily friend, to have volunteered you. No matter which way you look at it,none of these Wolves would have trusted you unless you were part of a pack.” Hetipped his head to the side, drawing the human’s wide, disbelieving eyes dartingto the numerous Wolves watching them, whether discreetly or not.
“Andas you can see,” he murmured, surprise flitting through him to see a half smilecurl the human’s lips. A real one,this time. “They are remarkably fond of you.”
“Theycould have just known me for a really long time.” The human argued, sounding atouch breathless; he pulled away slightly to look at properly the man. His eyesnarrowed slightly, to think that he had accidentally lost himself to the whitenoise of human blood, losing sight of the man himself. He hadn’t in a long time. The human’s eyes were astormy colour, and the flush of his cheeks had spread. Sherlock had the sudden,unfamiliar urge to follow it with his tongue.
“Ifthey did, you would have been accepted into the pack at some point.” Hereminded, his fingers spreading on the man’s waist, stroking once with his palmto invoke an involuntary shudder. “A pack has an Alpha.” He continued lowly,his teeth aching. “Logic.” He finished, hearing a low growl definitely meantfor his ears.
“Not mind reading?” the human asked, staringup at him with wide eyes.
Sherlockrolled his eyes heavenward, just about to snap out a sharp reprimand at thesurfacing of an old rumour, his patience diminishing, when he saw the grin thehuman tried to hide, ducking his head from his sight, and he suddenly felt at aloss as to what to do, with such a magnificent creature in his arms.
“Thatwas brilliant.” The human said, as if assuring a companion – an enjoyable companion.
Hehadn’t felt this wrong-footed since Irene.
“Wasit?” he asked softly; the rumble of his voice caused the human’s to pupils todilate, to his satisfaction and delight. He’d always known his features tocause heads to turn, but his tongue and dripping disdain usually warded themoff, usually had them watching from afar instead of coming too close.
Thishuman, however. This human withcoarse fingers curled warmly around his cold skin, his smile sincere andbreath-taking, and Sherlock might want to keep him forever.
Theyhad drawn the eyes of nearly everyone in the hall.
“MayI have this dance?” another voice said, accented and gruff. There was anunderlying current of amusement in his voice.
Thehuman seemed to tear his eyes away from him as reluctantly as he did, turningto face a wolf as tall as he, one he had spotted lounging by the candle-littables chatting up a forest nymph. There was a jagged scar running along hisjaw, one he certainly flaunted. He had ahead of windswept bronze locks, and a hand held towards the human, his headcocked to the side.
Sherlockdidn’t even have to look to know they were conversing without him – the human’sheartbeat stuttering with indignation and shame.
Theman finally dipped his head in a nod, reaching out to let the Wolf cradle oneof his hands.
Blueirises flickered to him; he saw his own eyes burning red reflected in them. Hiseyes had never glowed without hisconsent – he blinked, pulling his glamour over himself carefully once more.
Sorry if this is a weird question or it's been answered elsewhere, but I was wondering if you know if ceywoozle has left fandom completely? I saw that their tumblr had been deleted and they stopped updating AO3 so I assume yes. I just wanted to double check though. Thx for your time.
ceywoozle has left the Sherlock fandom, it's true, and they are currently inactive on tumblr too. rip cey, they were a shining star *crying emoji*~cookie-eat-me
The boy is scarcelyolder than twenty, which still isn’t as young as the sort of boys Victorusually salivates over. He’s small in stature, easy to manhandle.
And manhandle Victor does.
The boy doesn’t protest - Sherlock privately thinks he rather likes it, given his dark, hooded eyes and bobbing Adam’s apple. There are faint tracesof glitter and gold high on the boy’s flushed cheeks, and his lips glisten withliquor. A neglectful parent, Sherlock reads in the sputtering of fire lightingthe boy’s glowing face, when an older woman turns him away. Eager to please,Sherlock reads in the curve of his back.
A medical student.
Victor drags hisknuckles over the boy’s cheeks. “Don’t bother with her, luv, you’ll have enoughfun with us.”
The boy turns his headjust slightly to brush the edge of his mouth against Victor’s fingers, and thesweet smile that overcomes his soft lips makes him look drastically guileless.
If Sherlock isn’t acomplete idiot.
The young man’seyebrows furrow. His eyes have flecks of blue in them. A sardonic expressioncrosses his youthful features for just a brief moment. Only a fool woulddismiss the indistinct curl of his fists- a fighter.
The game is much moreboring with this new plaything in his sights.
What’s he doing withVictor when he has a test to study for? He arches and exhales in time to theolder man’s lusting caresses, like a wild thing playing at being a kitten, butmaybe Sherlock is the only one looking at his face, and so the only one whosees the lie.
The miniscule ticks ofthe boy’s brow, the flattening of his lips, the suppressed eye roll givenVictor’s lousy cheat.
Well into the game,their eyes lock. The boy becomes surprised, the act forgotten, taken aback tobe under his gaze, but it’s a split second falter, before he smiles, slow and sultry.
Cheeky.
Eager.
Sherlock has beensubject to many such smoldering gazes during his friendship with Victor. Barsand clubs and parties to things he doesn’t care about. The boy is small enoughthat even Sherlock, with molly weakening his limbs, will be able to move himaround however he wishes. He is smart, despite his fool act.
A bark of laughter,and the arm – Victor’s arm – around the boy’s bared waist, tightens.
“Sherlock,”
As Victor pulls theboy flush against him, the boy presses gentle, fluttering kisses to the arch ofhis neck, quiet noises slipping past his parted lips. His eyes, wide and darkand blue under bright lights, watches Sherlock, like it’s a game.
He pulls his gaze away,to meet Victor’s triumphant eyes. “You want a shot at this, mate?” the older manbounces the boy on his lap, turning his head to mouth at his cherubic cheeks.
Victor’s seconds?
“Play the game.” Hebites out acidly.
The pout that curvesVictor’s chapped lips makes the boy giggle. An honest to god giggle, the sound of bells in a placesuch as this. “Tell you what.” Victor’s broad palms are high on the youngerman’s thighs, where the shorts he’s wearing does nothing to hide the tent inthem. He must be simmering with want by now, a low flame periodically tendedto, smothered with lapses in between.
Teased as much as heis a tease.
“You win this roundand I’ll throw darling John in.” Victor smiles with his teeth, nips at theboy’s ears. “That alright with you, sweet?”
John smiles beatifically, murmurs something that makes Victor, sharp-eyedand smart-mouthed, groan in what Sherlock can only label overt sexual frustration. The man is dramatic,has amped up the boy’s appeal with his possessive touching. Half the men aroundthe table, even with playthings of their own warming them, eye Victor’s boywith desire.
A few have already sampled the merchandise, under Victor’swatchful eye.
What a ridiculouslyordinary name the boy has, almost so ordinary it makes distaste curveSherlock’s thinned lips.
Almost.
“The darling littlething wants to be a soldier,” Victor professes in a conspirational whisper,leaning forward with John in tow, his cards pressed against his chest. “I’llbet he takes orders very well, eh?”
John doesn’t seembothered by the lewd cheers of men more than a decade older than he is, butthen again, Sherlock hadn’t suspected he would be. Sherlock suspects him to begrowing impatient.
Games are so much morefun when the prize is something he actually wants.
BONUSTM : original plot for Chikan, courtesy of tacos-for-tacos, who, though not an author, agreed to help write the prompt with me.
He cycles around n on the way buys milk. He hears whistle and the callings of the cats. He walked in. sees newspaper of ‘dead’ detective. He is sad but OK, However people is lookin’, so He went to get milk. “Boi that milk is the ex to the pire” says the counter dude “Cum with me 2 da back” says counter man. Another boi press gun on He’s back and He knows that He is in trouble. He dus army trick and point gun at boi behind He. Everyone in the not so super marker points gun at He. He follows to back for fresh ‘milk’. “Wuts ur name?!!?!??!?” says He. The men around him took his coatings off. “SEBBY IS YO DADDY” Sebastian the crab watches. They do the do. Police sirens. “Thanks for the show He” They bounce. John walks out like a boss but also limping and also with his milk. Mycroft looks at john and deducing things. He sees police and ambulance“what r these guys doing here”. Mikey opens door silently. John gets in. He is sent to hospital. The End.
Warning: Unprotected Sex, Infidelity, Post Season 3
“How’s… the baby?”
Sherlock invites himin with the same glass smile he’s so used to seeing; absent joy, and it isn’tthe boundless cheer so many clients are targets of. At the depths of his mind,he thinks that it would’ve been a larger insult than the one that seems to himas if Sherlock can’t be bothered to convince him, and is reluctant to share.
He feels the evergrowing distance between them in the moment Sherlock turns away, and his chestseizes. Keeping his fingers from pressing against his eyes, he follows.
He’s tired.
Mary is, for lack of abetter word, a wonderful mother. She knows the role, in and out- and Johnwonders, had she been a mother before? Or had it just been another mission,assignment, something beyond his reach, something he will never understandbecause he’d thrown her past away, burned it and thought he’d be able to livewith it.
He’d thought-
I wanted to see Sherlock, a pitiful voice cries at the back of hismind.
Sherlock offers him teaover the kitchen table, gently steaming liquid in a delicate china cup, becausehe’s taken all his mugs back and there’s no proof at all that he’s lived here.Why does he bother, he thinks behind his own bland smile, why is he sodesperate, when Sherlock’s made it clear with his stiff words – I don’t want you here.
Too nice to send himaway.
The question, how’s the baby, makes him curl hisfingers tight around the handle of his tea cup. Always, the baby.
Never Rosamund, never her name.
He drains the cup carefully.The answer is always the same, anyway. Always fine. Always good. Alwaysperfectly healthy-
He sets it down. “Good.”He replies, as he is supposed to.
What a bad idea, hecan’t help think bitterly into his cup, to come down here.
A dead silence seepsunder the cracks, buzzing- there’s a buzzing-
“I want you to behappy, John.”
Sherlock’s voice ismatter of fact. Loud in the stillness of the flat, yet it arrests hisattention, the same way it had a thousand years ago, in a classroom at StBarts. A thousand years ago, laying out the grizzly details of a murder. Thefirst time, he realizes, head lifting quickly; the first time since the return, in which Sherlock isn’t treatinghim like glass.
Sherlock meets hiseyes – whatever seems to be painted on him, what open expression Sherlock findswhen he sees him… it makes Sherlock grin so brilliantly he’s breathless.
His response-
Hide.
Emotion between them,it chafes in a way it hadn’t before. He drowns his response in the last of histea.
“And it seemed,”Sherlock says slowly, a thousand different thoughts in the shadow of his voice.When John lifts his head, heart loud in his ears, Sherlock has his head tiltedtowards the cup in his hands. He’s so bright under the kitchen light, Johnthinks suddenly with a realization in his throat, the shadows of his newwrinkles coming together to form a puzzled eyebrow furrow.
He’s different, better-
And John.
John is the same.
Half listening toSherlock – “Every time I visited you,” –he reaches forward to fill his cup. His throat is parched.
Quietly, Sherlock murmurs, “All I saw was your unhappiness.”
John inhales his teathe wrong way, nearly chokes on it when struck with the feeling of his pulseagainst his skin. Unhappiness. The word, spoken so seriously, sits wrong withhim. He isn’t unhappy. He thinks –unhappy is such a strong word, why doesSherlock think-
“I’m always happy tosee you, Sherlock.” He says, sotto voiced.
The words are stilted,and he flushes.
Sherlock’s lips curveinto a – well, fond, John thinks uncertainly, fond – smile. He looks years younger when he smiles, when he really smiles, without the foot printsof a ghost lurking behind his eyes. It reminds John of Harry, not Sherlock- Sherlock doesn’t remind him of Harry, butshe had described someone before. Ina way that had been so beautiful, in a way that had drawn a character soexquisite it brought tears to her eyes and John-
Had laughed.
But Sherlock, thesight of his happiness, so unexpected, coaxes a laugh out of himself; soft,trilling, a sudden burst of life between them.
He jerks back, stunnedat the noise.
It’s a short silence.
Sherlock’s deep laughshatters the wall they’ve built, and John has the ridiculous thought that he’dlike to sink into the waves, go under, where it’s just Sherlock with him. Leaveeverything, oh god it’s ridiculous.
But he wants both of their laughter again.
Sherlock shoves hisown cup of tea away from him in an accidental wave of his arm.
It goes over thetable, never to be seen again.
In his eardrums, he hearsthe sharp bumps of his laugh, their laugh; tries again, to sink into it. “Missthis,” he breathes out in the space left behind, watching Sherlock’s curls shakewith his shoulders. A forgotten feeling holding his heart hostage.
“Miss you.” Someone else with his voice says.
“And I,” comes thetemulant whisper somewhere above him, “Miss you next to me.”
His heart swells tentimes its size when Sherlock lifts his head, awed, in all honesty, thatSherlock can be so brilliant even when he isn’t doing anything. Bright eyes anda large grin; he can see his teeth. “Imiss hearing you,” Sherlock continues with a voice gone soft, something gentleon the curve of his lips, something urgent in the lines around his eyes. “Imiss seeing traces of you in 221B, in the couch, the kitchen- your mug, John,”
Sherlock’s eyes widenas he swivels – too quickly, John finds, a hand pressed hard over his own mouth – towards the upper cupboard, his headtipped back. The lines his profile makes is etched into John’s pupil, the verylobes of his brain and he thinks, Christ,he’ll never forget again.
Doesn’t blink for a while,unwilling to have it go.
“The mug you got,”Sherlock is saying, when John turns to watch the clear cut line of his jaw movewith his words. It’s in a too loud voice, drums pleasantly against the confinesof his skull. “From the army, John.”
He follows Sherlock’sgaze, before, abruptly, finding himself bursting into another peal of giggles.
That’s wrong.
His cheeks hurt, god, butit’s Sherlock’s fault. He looks ridiculouswhen he’s-
“Wrong.” John announces, and with great pride.
Before he confrontsSherlock’s affronted look, he pulls himself to his feet. The world rushes togreet him in dancing lights, forcing his feet to stop, leaving him breathlessand gaping. His palm is cold where he grasps the table, but the rest of himseems so warm, energy with nowhere to go.
Sherlock makes aderisive sound.
Laughs some more,probably at John.
The table is not so large,so it only takes a few steps before he sinks against the table with his backagainst it. With Sherlock, a furnacebeside him, where their arms are branded to each other. He leans forward topoint at the second- is it? Is it second or the third?
“Mug,” he breathes,“Was there, you bloody idiot.”
Sherlock chortles, therumble of his voice low and just this side of loud, behind him. Puffs of breath tickle the back of his ear, andhe has to bite down on his bottom lip, stop the grin that’s already making hischeeks ache. A pale hand engulfs his, curling around his fingers gently, andSherlock, a line of warmth against him, moves his finger to the side, says,“What the hell are you pointing at?”
He whirls around inindignation, oh Christ how dumb isSherlock?
And the edges of hislips brushes against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock pulls back,startled.
And he-
His left hand comesup, nails catching on the skin of his lips, where he swears he can still feel Sherlock’s- lips, on his own. His headtips downwards, as if he’ll be able to see the imprint of Sherlock’s lips onhis skin, the calloused pads of his fingers.
He thinks he hadsomething to say, something he’d wanted to say. He had been going to say-
Fingers curve underhis chin, and Sherlock kisses him.
He kisses Sherlock.
Someone kisses someoneand no one stops.
Sherlock pushes pasthis lips to take his air away, a force reminiscent to a whirlwind, devastating,demanding- Sherlock kisses like he’s starving,and John finds, treading his fingers through damp curls, he is starvingwith him. It tastes like smoke between them, sparks to fire, steals his breath withthe same ferocity Sherlock has for everything.
It burns, where long fingers curl aroundhim- Christ, Sherlock’s hands will be thedeath of him.
Breathe.
His chest will expandno more, until he simply has to, has tobreathe- he makes a small, reluctant noise, curling his tongue aroundSherlock’s in quiet warning, but drawing back, when Sherlock has his handsaround the globes of his arse- when he suddenly squeezes-
A whimper bubbles fromhis throat.
However unwilling, he has to break away. Exhaling in a loud,hurried breath, he hears as though underwater, a giggle following his exhalemere seconds later, through his parted lips, as he tilts his head back.
Sherlock presses a smileinto the arch of his neck.
Pressing against him,engulfing him, John has a brief moment to savour the warmth, safetylove. He’s been so cold, he thinkshe remembers distantly, so cold for so long and he hadn’t known it, but now. He throws his arms around Sherlock’sneck – maybe, maybe he’ll be able to stay warm this way, with Sherlock.
Out of the corner ofhis eyes, he catches sight of Sherlock’s soft smile, his slick lips, gleamingunder the brilliant lights. He hasn’t- ever seen that smile before, has he?
Balance leaves him ina sudden, when his feet is on the ground one moment, and next-
It might have been himwho had gasped, most likely, through the grin that had spread on his lips. Herecognizes, dimly that it’s the largest he’s ever smiled in- god, has it been years? Sherlock had, in one deft move, hauled him up onto thetable.
‘Course, it’s Sherlock, he thinks, dazzled.
Sherlock’s eyes areblue today, a thin ring of sapphire around his pupils, blown wide. The edges ofhis eyes are crinkled, laugh lines around his cheeks that John yearns to trace,with his tongue or his fingers, it doesn’t matter.
It’s always you.
He tries to smotherthe huff of laughter against Sherlock’s adam’s apple, presses a kiss againsthis skin. Partially succeeds.
His belt slidesthrough their loops with a speed he’s never seen before, but then again,Sherlock is ridiculously strong, and fast. His skin is too tight, and his trousersare pressing against him so uncomfortably, he needs to get out of them.
Unbuckling Sherlock’sbelt with trembling fingers, he thinks the ground might be shaking-
I love you.
His lips are dry whenhe finally curls his palm around the front of Sherlock’s boxers.
Sherlock’s voicegrounds him, a long, wounded sound, husky in his ears. Heat burns its waythrough to the bottom of his gut, in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
He casts his gazearound, sure there had been something he had been supposed to look for. Leaningback with his attention on the other side of the kitchen table, he has topause, just for a mo, when he hears a peal of laughter behind him, and someone– Sherlock, of course – pulls himback.
Pulls him back tooquickly, there is a quiet force behind Sherlock’s limber, powerful arms, thatmakes him shiver.
“Don’t bother,”Sherlock’s voice is pitched impossibly low and rough, a bright blue bottle inhis hands. His forehead is damp with perspiration. “I’ve got it.”
He beams – I love you – straining upward to sealhis lips over Sherlock’s, giggling escaping him despite his best efforts, whenSherlock has to bend slightly anyway. He is ridiculouslytall, and so large. They swalloweach other’s laughter, take and keep and remember.
He scrapes his teethover his bottom lip with just the slightestforce, before he draws away, dizzy and breathless.
“Come on then.”
The bottle looks heavyin Sherlock’s hold, full.
He breathes throughhis nose, salivating, as Sherlock dribbles lube on his fingers. Those fingers, it’s tortured him soimmensely before, dreams that had seemed so much like nightmares instead. Hesquirms at the mere wonder that they, so long and delicate and precise god-
He can’t have leantback quicker, hiking his feet onto the table with hurried whispers leaving hisdried lips. He wants, wants Sherlock inhim.
Sherlock’s left handcurls around his ankle, just above the fabric of his socks, as if in comfort.
Two fingers press intohim at once, cold and wet, and he’s shocked into amusement once again, themoment shattered. He bites back the quiet moan that threatens his breathylaugh, head thudding back against the table edge as the ring of muscle loosenseasily, allows Sherlock to widen the gap of his finger, slip in another one-
“Sherlock!”
A hand covers thefront of his button up, presses him down. “Gorgeous.”he hears Sherlock croak as warmth gathers between them, more a mumble than acoherent word.
“’M ready, Sherlock,”he rasps, feeling their pulse thrum together where he wraps his hand aroundSherlock’s wrist, hears Sherlock’s hoarse, affirming groan. Fingers, next time- he wants a cock in his arse-Sherlock’s- “Ready, now.”
Sherlock’s chestexpands with his sharp inhale.
His fingers, gone fromJohn’s arse, curl around his hips instead, and it feels like a claim already.When he feels the weight ofSherlock’s cock against the cheeks of his arse, something quivers in his chest.His face is hot, eyes screwed shut as the rest of him is held just as taut-
He hears his ownbreath, punched out of him, as Sherlock pushes in altogether, can barely hearSherlock’s agonized gasping.
The cry scrapes pasthis throat like a prayer, and his back arches off the table.
His hands, in asudden, desperate scramble for leverage, finds its dulled edges, and graspsonto it with as much force as he’s able. He feels as if he’ll shake apartotherwise, Sherlock so deep in him, thick and warm.
Damp palms cover hisknuckles.
“Sherl-” his lips part; Sherlock jerks back, the tip of his cock catching againstthe muscle of his hole, before he slams into him.
The rest of his wordsend in a scream.
He’d thought- like an idiot, that he had been on fire justthen. A heat he can’t understand, can’t control. Above him, a monarch Johnis destined to serve, Sherlock pulls out as far as he can without leaving theheat of his hole, but far enough that each push-
His veins have turnedinto wires and blood into sparks.
“Christ, Sherlock!”
Biting down on hisbottom lip, he keens, with tears of euphoria stinging the ends of his eyes, atthe edges of his vision. The noises thick in the air, he doesn’t know- is it his or Sherlock’s? His feet,slipping off the table, kicking out, dig into Sherlock’s back, pulls him inwith each punishing push, the only thing that keeps him afloat.
“I love- god, I love you,” is groaned into theweary skin of his cheek, wet teeth and tongue moving to the arch of his neck.
The moan that tearsout of him shakes the heavens, as brutal, as commanding as each of Sherlock’srapid thrusts. “Nhgh, Sherlock, Ilove you, love you.” He rasps, turning his head to press wet kisses againstSherlock’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, the line of his cheekbones.
“Wanna come, fuck, Sherlock-” he cries, making to shake the hold onhis hands, body straining for release.
Sherlock’s handstighten powerfully around his, and he’s boneless against Sherlock, can’t get out, can’t cum- His cock squirts astream of pre-cum over his thighs, tip smearing against Sherlock’s button down-the only way he’s allowed.
He screams in torment,fucking himself desperately on Sherlock’s cock.
The timber ofSherlock’s voice shakes, trembles, breaks off completely as his pace increases,he tells him- “You’ll come- you’ll comewhen I come, John,”
“Come,” he tries tosay, eyes rolling at the back of his head, “Ohgoddd- come in me- in me-”
Sherlock comes.
Spills into him, a sudden burst of heat filling his hole, too much-
A wordless moanescapes his unprotesting lips; his tongue, out and panting like a dog, leaves spit dribbling down the sideof his jaw, collecting in a pool beneath him. “Le- lemme come, Sherlock-” he slurs, hips lifting to rub himself overSherlock’s thighs weakly, “Please letme come-”
There’s somethingmissing, something odd in the brightness of Sherlock’s eyes, as he leans overhim, and the light above them outlines his silhouette, makes him glow.
Sherlock’s voice isshattered, wrecked beyond belief, the rumble of a god watered down into a merewhisper - “Come like this, John.”
Need washes over himin a tidal wave, but Sherlock is unmoving.
Whimpering, he rocksinto what Sherlock’s given him in mindless pursuit, eyes half-lidded and dazed wherehe pushes down, where his cock brushes against Sherlock. Some part of his waist,or his thighs. Some part of him that’s firm and hot and there.
Faster- fasterfasterfaster-
“Want,” he pants into Sherlock’s parted lips, “Sherlock-”
Sherlock shifts, allof a sudden, and he grinds down hard onhis thigh-
His vision shutters, ashock of ecstasy tearing him apart to the very bottom of his feet. Heat escapeshim to paint Sherlock’s ruined clothes with white, wet dripping down his legs. Hearches off the table, and Sherlock seals their lips together.
His heart pounds – he feelsit in both his ears and his head.
It’s the pulse that keeps himalive.
He remembers yearning for its survival in Afghanistan, remembers protecting others’ as a surgeon- he remembers so manyfriends who’s lost theirs. Eyes clenching shut, he lets Sherlock bite down onhis lips, take what’s left of his breath. His hands turn to entwine withSherlock’s, feels their pulse, together. Heremembers Sherlock’s death, its absence, and his return.
Warning: Non-Con, Public Sex, Gang-Bang, Sexual Harassment, Unprotected Sex, (Slight) Blood, Gunplay, Crying
Milk’s out again.
A small noise ofresignation leaves his thinned lips.
Tallying up what heneeds, John pulls his watch around his wrist with deft fingers. Being somewherearound 12, his breath leaves him in a slow, thoughtful exhale, when he realizesthat if he hurries, he’ll be able to catch Mary as she’s leaving for her shift.She’s taken the afternoon ones this week, as a sort of favor.
He’s taken a day offtoday, too tired for anything but Mary. These days, she seems to be the onlygleam of life in his. She brightens him – he’s desperate to see her before sheleaves.
Eyes catching on thedark edges of his bedside table, he hesitates.
It seems… a lifetime ago, when Mycroft Holmes hadtold him to pick a side.
A breath.
Darting back aroundhis single bed, he pulls the drawer open without any more thought. The weightof his Sig is cold in his palm.
He tucks it into thepocket of his coat, trying to stop himself from thinking of the last time he’sheld it.
Pulling the front dooropen, he casts his eyes around the simple flat for one last check. He’ll beback a little after 1 to meet Mary at her door – he won’t be out long. He’llneed to hurry back to shove his bottles into the refrigerator.
Unwilling to dawdlelonger, he heads out, and the hurry in which he trudges down the stairs causesit to creak loudly beneath the soles of his shoes; the neighbors might whine.
Out the door, hefurrows his eyebrows, creases formed across his forehead trying to see pass therays on light that seem to only attack his eyes. He feels the blazing staresfrom across the street, prickling the back of his head – whoever they are, theymake him feel like the Sig in pocket isn’t there out of paranoia. Which, hesupposes with grim humour, would be something Ella would love to pick apart.
Escalating paranoia.
Why do you think you feel that way, John?
He snatches his bikefrom its lock, relieved to be out of the suffocating block as he cycles to thecorner store at the end of the street. He knows there aren’t many around thearea at this time of the morning – they have their own jobs, their ownschedules to follow on a weekday. Family.
Except.
Except the prickling still won’t disappear. The constantweight slowing him down and stopping him from stepping on the next paddle. Hemakes a sharp turn around the corner, too caught up in the labyrinth of histhoughts; the tires screech as vertigo crashes upon him.
Panting and out ofbreath, his foot hits the pavement. The bicycle stands are bare, he sees whenhe lifts his head, and he’d thought no one around to notice him, a nondescriptcivilian on their way to the grocery store. No one notices much of him thesedays. A quick in and out of the store and he’ll be on his way.
A sharp whistlepierces the air, unfamiliar, easy to ignore. The sort of provocative whistlingdesperate men proposes towards nice girls who drive by. There are peoplemilling, however little.
John gathers himself,and walks his bike towards the stand.
Bent over, he loopsthe chain across the stand. He could always leave it without its lock, but he’slow on funds as it is. Losing hisbike, it is, truthfully, notsomething he can afford.
Laughter.
The lock clicks-
Someone smacks him on the arse.
He sucks in a rapid,involuntary breath. The force is warm, hot,leaves a sting that travels all the way up to his cheeks, and heats hisears. He turns around with his fingers half dipped into the pocket of his coat,his heart loud and thick in his throat, and yet the man has already passed him.
A man- not a boy.
“’Scuse you?” he bites out, indignance and fury all at once;he treads forward a step, with half a mind to reach out, grab the wanderingman, in slacks and clean button down.
Who disappears aroundthe corner without so much as a by your leave.
Swallowing down theloud retort he has waiting on his tongue, he glances around.
No one sees him.
Mary waits, a quietvoice at the back of his mind murmurs. He bites down on his cheek, and turns onhis heels, striding towards the little convenience store. The door opens with aloud, electronic thrilling, with only three other patrons who glance towardshim disinterestedly.
With lowered gaze, hemakes immediately for the diary section.
The day has onlybegun, and he’s already considering an appointment with Ella.
Going out always reminds him, how tattered apart at theseams he really is, how he sees shadows at every corner, how he can’t let go ofwhat’s already past. Makes him afraid, because if he can’t handle the past, howis he supposed to handle a future? He knows, though, that Ella will force himto rethink his thoughts, make him second guess, isolate him before she fixes him.
Without much consciousthought, he picks two of the same carton of milk and checks the expirationdate.
Doable.
Out of the corner ofhis eyes, another man ambles down the aisle, humming under his breath. He is doesn’thave a grocery basket hanging on his arm, and for some reason, that sticks withJohn as the man approaches.
Unthinkingly, he movesswiftly out of the way, eyes darting down to peer at his watch. His feet bringshim to the cashier.
The cashier-
Who isn’t Lachlan, orJulian, and is instead the man with the bloody slacks and button down. The man who had smackedhis arse. The man now perusing some sort of racy magazine issue behind thecounter with amusement painted across his sculpted lips. He just oozes bastard-
John inhalescarefully, warm energy pooling into his fists.
He oozes danger.
The man rubs a thumbover his stubble, turning to tuck the issue back into its very own place on theshelf. “You’re slow,” he murmurs in a low, throaty tone, making a show ofpeering at him with sea foam eyes. “Dr. Watson.”
No one sees him.
So-
It has to be S- Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s enemies, even now. Johnpivots his body around, one step at a time with dry, unamused huffs of laughterfrom his throat, when he meets the dark stares of lumbering men behind him. Theoutside world, is so still, so silent, when faced with solid shadows, shadowsthat he hasn’t made up-
His eyes returnquickly to the man behind the counter.
“I don’t want anytrouble.”
Trepidation crawl upthe knobs of his spine, as a slow, serene smile spreads across the man’s lipslike honey. Unlike his men – has to behis men, thugs – who chuckle hoarsely, waiting on his command, he is statuestill, leans back in his seat, and John’s attention is brought to his hands.The skin of his knuckles are paler in comparison to the darker tan of the restof him, split and healed and split again.
“This isn’t trouble.” theman says lightly, in that same moment, he dips his head in a nod, looking atsomewhere over John’s shoulder.
Someone behind himshoves him forward with a jeer, the force of what seems like a blow sending himcareening against the counter, knocking over stacks of sweets and gum. Somethingcrashes to the ground, a thousand cigarette packs follow. The sharp throb ofwood and plastic striking the bones of his hips, forces a low, airy cry pasthis lips.
The cold press ofsteel clasps tightly around his wrists.
He sucks in a startledbreath, drowned by the pounding in his ears. Over the counter, he cranes hisneck upward, panting long, open-mouthed breaths.
The man humsthoughtfully, even sitting lax in the crooked stool normally reserved to thecashier, he’s above John, the barest gleam of sharp teeth in his smile. “Thisis retribution,” the man says in an undertone, while rough fingers hook intothe waistline of his trousers, raucous disembodied laughter enclose him- fuck-
Agitation and dreadmoves him, for a moment, he forgets; tightlygrasping onto the counter edges, he gains a split second leverage he just, doesn’t wait to use- kicks out-
Somebody cries out,another pair of hands are ripped away.
But it’s a short, fruitless victory, they remind him, when a second later, a large,warm hand strikes him in full strength on his arse, drawing a low, agonized moanout of his parted lips. The ache spreads, a larger, and longer, pain than the one this morning.
Warms his thighs andthe bottom of his spine, goes everywhere-
Oh Christ; his entire body is pushed forward, his handcuffs jingle against metal- he’s trapped, he thinks, with too much in his head and not enough inhis lungs-
“Look a’ the cunt,” athroaty voice sounds behind him, and fingers thread into his hair, pulls-
Aggressive hands curlaround his hips, already tender and bruised, and too late, fuck, too late, they wrench his trousers to his feet. A quick,stricken breath draws something else out of him, something small and quiet and pained-
The barrel of a gunkisses his cheek.
“No, no-” the gun smears the rest of hiswords, nudging against his lips slowly, gently, and he breathes oil and powder.
“Be a good soldierboy.” the man says in a conspiratorial murmur, inches away, soft lips curvedinto a sharp smile, his scarred finger on the trigger. He sees himself behindthe man’s half-lidded irises, wide-eyed and gasping.
He hadn’t known he’d been gasping.
The windows, the door, his briefs are on the ground.
Big hands slap hisarse cheeks in turn, a chorus of arousal thick laughter echoing in the quietshop, as rough hands squeeze warm skin. A guttural moan pushes out of his lips-it hurts. It’s everything but quietwhere he stays, chaos. Sweet, honeyedcroons pushes their way into his thoughts, makes a home in his mind’s eye. Hisheart threatens to choke him as he pants against the surface of the counter,marble warmed by his body, damp palms sliding down his arms.
“You know you want it,cock whore.”
The man’s smile issickly, sharp nails digging into his jaw, lifting his head to the point where,he simply can’t keep his lips pressed shut, can’t keep himself from crying outin a groan.
The gun scrapes thetop of his mouth, presses at the back of his throat. He gasps around it withfluttering lungs, something cold, wet, pressed into his the crack of his arse,leering loud. He can’t breathe throughhis nose, not anymore-
“It’s enough.” Hot breath promises in his ear, teethclamping down briefly in a punishing nip. Echoing laughter. “You’ll take it oryou won’t.”
No.
He cranes his neckback, desperate, to shake off the flitting shadows behind him, but the man,tutting disapprovingly, presses the barrel down on his tongue. No, no no- Wordless noises out of his throat, he hears something like a whine, he hearspleads, begs, before he hears the scream.
It tears out of histhroat, jagged and bloodied.
“Finally some noise,” someone laughs.
Someone’s voice- his own voice, trails off into faintrasping. It’s wet, thick at the back of his throat, secondary to it, too big, too soon, oh god, thefeeling of being forced him apart. It scrapes against his walls, fills andpushes- Hands clench around his hips,pulls him back. He can’t see, hisvision blurred and body strung taut; he’son a string and he can’t get down.
In a distance, hehears a low, quiet voice, warmth at his left ear; “You’re a natural.”
Pulls him back again,and again and again and- He breathesthough his mouth, his inhale, exhale, punched out of him in heavy thrusts. Something in his mouth, won’t let himbreathe.
Gentle fingers curvearound his chin, scraping over pink, crescent indents. It’s wet, his chin, it’swet, his face.
His throat twinges inprotest.
The man with the seafoam eyes smile, pupils blown wide and dark, says something.
Fingers press into hisarse hole, beside the thick, hot cock stretching him wide open, pulls apart asif looking for space. There is no space, hewants to scream, but the noises out of him aren’t words, and the words in his ears-
“You’ve made a mess ofyourself, cunt.” Quiet, gentle.
He gasps, drying spitpooling on the counter, swallowing wet spilling from his gaping mouth,swallowing air he can’t get enough of. Past his fading vision, he remembers thehead of dark hair, flawless skin- he remembers the man with the gun, and hisjaw aches.
Hands knead his arseroughly, peels him open.
Unwilling, a raw moanshudders past his heavy tongue, tasting iron and copper, as another cock shovesits way into his arse. The cheer that follows worms into his hazy thoughts, ringsshrill above his own rough breathing-
Sobbing-
His own- his own voice.
A palm, hot like abrand, presses low against his belly, pushes and kneads, until- he cries out in muffled anguish, feels the protrudingoutline of a cock against his walls. Pushes into him harder, somethingwarm dribbling down his legs.
Be over- let it be over, he meets the dark eyes of the man through afilm of burning tears, how they never seem to stop, god, his chest stuttering with each hitching puff of breath.
Everything’s gone cold from inside out.
He lets the gun holdhim up, slack, as he’s moved, hearing his own grunts best of all, aboveeveryone else’s. The gun is his centre, the gun keeps him afloat; if he screamsinto the gun, if he whimpers and whines, only he will hear.
In comparison tohimself, to the men deep inside him, theman is louder. The man with the dark hair, who pushes back and he chokesagain, and he gags again and he hopes hepulls the trigger-
Someone- both of them- all three, he doesn’t know- shudders,and comes in him, fills him to the brim, and his increasingly shatteredthoughts disappear completely. Something splatters against the filthy tiles inthick, wet globs.
There aren’t any morehands on him, no one to hold him up, and John collapses.
The weight on histongue bumps against his teeth before pulling away gently. He lets out a low,keening noise, eyes closing, as he sucks in his shaky inhale, exhales.
Done.
He’s done, he’s done-
“Good boy, John.” The manpresses a quick, bruising kiss to his lips, ownshis breath again, and his eyes fly open, petrified he’ll leave with it. “Whatdo good boys say?” he murmurs as he pulls away, still too close, nose to nose-
There is the crashingwaves of the ocean in his ears, water seeping into the holes of his head-drowns him.
The man hums.
“Say, thank you, Mr. Moran.”
He tastes copper onhis lips, something is bleeding. The man’s lips are smeared with his blood, andhis eyes are dark. John had thought it had been green, or blue, but it’s a darkpupil, eclipsed by a ring of silver. Hungry, all-encompassing.
John listens in silence, his ears twitching as the sound of crackling ice pervades the room. He sighs, relaxing back into his restraints as the soft shuffling of footsteps grows louder and louder.
They’ve been at this for days. How many to be exact? John honestly doesn’t remember.
All he remembers is flashes of heat, warmth, pleasure, euphoria… but beyond that-
“Mmmmm John.”
John turns his head instinctively at the sound, his neck curving as the rest of his body pulls and tugs against the restraints that have him affixed to the bed.
What does Sherlock have in store for him this time?
“You’ve been so good for me… so good to me,” Sherlock murmurs, reaching a hand down to John’s chin, tilting it upwards with his index finger.
“Do you want more John?” he croons, dragging a palm down his back and John’s breath hitches.
He tries to force out a nod, shaking his head in a daze as Sherlock chuckles, moving to sit on the bed along with a tray of… something.
“Well then, open wide,” Sherlock smiles and John responds accordingly, his lips widening as Sherlock slips something in. It’s cold and hard, a nice, long cylindrical shape with a huge circumference and… oh
Bitter.
“I’ve been planning this for ages,” Sherlock grins, wiping the sweat of John’s brow who shudders, suddenly hit with the realisation that Sherlock has basically just presented him with a popsicle of his frozen come.
“You’re going to be so full John,” Sherlock continues, stuffing the popsicle further into John’s mouth, “Just wait till you see what I’m about to do to you.”
“But for now… SUCK.”
John whines in response, his eyes glazing over as he obeys Sherlock’s command, tongue lapping fitfully at the popsicle of come. It stings, the popsicle cold to the touch and his tongue and mouth is slowly going numb but he can still taste the bitter tang of Sherlock’s ejaculate, still feel a bit of the melting come dribbling off of the stand and onto his chin, painting the base of his face in a sticky mess.
“Wonderful,” Sherlock chuckles, pushing the hair on John’s forehead back, watching as John hollows out his cheeks and sucks. “Now for the second part.”
John closes his eyes, still sucking as he feels a weight settle at the foot of the bed, listening as the crackle of ice resounds across the room.
He feels the butt plug in his arse being extracted, his hole suddenly feeling ten times empty than what it had been before. John keens in answer, begging Sherlock to put something- anything back in there and… oh
It’s cold.
And large.
There’s something, far larger than the butt plug, nudging at his entrance… and John has an idea of what that is.
He moans as the smooth tip slips past his sphincter, his muscles fluttering around the intrusion as he takes deep breaths, willing his muscles to relax as the popsicle slips all the way in.
Sherlock has his hand on his stomach throughout all of this, his guiding hand grounding him throughout the whole thing and John swears that he can feel himself distending around Sherlock’s fingers.
“You all right?” Sherlock hums, waiting till John nods before he drags the popsicle out slowly before shoving it roughly back in.
John gives a muffled cry in answer, his lips still full of the first popsicle which still seems to have a long way to go before it melts completely.
“So full,” Sherlock chuckles darkly, beginning to piston the popsicle in and out of John’s ass, “So full just for me.”
John shudders as Sherlock picks up the pace, his movements getting rougher till he begins to purposefully seek out John’s prostrate, hitting it dead on once, twice… thrice.
“Fff sherl-” John groans as he comes, his hips bucking down into the bedsheet as Sherlock steadies him, holding onto his hip with a vice-like grip.
Sherlock waits till John has composed himself before shoving what remains of the popsicle all the way back in, sealing his entrance and John groans at the relief.
“I used a plug as a base,” Sherlock smiles, stalking over to John’s front and giving him a sly smile, watching as his lover continues to suck obediently on the popsicle enclosed between his lips. “It’ll keep everything inside.”
“When it melts, your ass will be flooded with my come, filled to the brim with it, so much so that the plug in itself will be struggling to keep it inside.”
“I have more popsicles you know,” Sherlock continues, almost nonchalantly, “We can do this as many times as you want… well until they all run out of course. How do you like the sound of that?”
John’s eyelids droop as he nods, still high on the endorphins from his orgasm as he continues to suck on the popsicle between his lips, come dripping slowly down his throat.
As many times as Sherlock wants sounds like a good idea.
i know this isn’t what a vocaloid is but it’s the best i can do.
also, this thing is hella long so i have to put it under a read-more. if you’re having trouble viewing it because tumblr’s a jerk, you can also read it on ao3.
______________________
“You'realone,” his doctor tells him, and he doesn't know what he'ssupposed to say.
Iknow. So what? I'm not lonely.
He'snot.
“Youdon't know how to be alone,” she clarifies after a moment ofsilence. “Find yourself, John. It'll help.”
Thatstatement, coming from the subject of his despair, is singularlyunhelpful. He debates on whether or not to say something but in theend he can't really be bothered so he just looks at her, waits forsomething else to come that might, against all expectations, prove tobe somewhat useful.
“Talkto yourself,” she tries, and he waits, endlessly patient. “Get arecorder, or a diary. A blog. Talk to yourself. See what John Watsonhas to say.”
She'stalking about him as though he's not in the room, a third person whoisn't here and it's disconcerting. He bites his tongue, waiting totaste the copper of blood before releasing it again, just to makesure he really is here. But the image of his doctor doesn't waver.She is solid and so, apparently, is he.
Shedraws breath to speak again and he waits, wondering who she's goingto talk to this time, himself, or the phantom of himself, the thirdpresence in this already overcrowded room.
“Time'sup,” she says.
* * * * *
He goes to the market. Not out ofany particular desire but because it's on his way and he recalls aleatherworker there with journals bound in calfs hide as soft asbutter. He'd gotten one for Harry, years ago, the cover stamped withher initials amidst the scrollwork along the edge.
She'd been less than enthused withthe gift, but he remembers it, remembers the feel of the leather softagainst his calloused fingers, and he wanders now, slippingunhurriedly between the crowds of people, wondering if he can find itagain.
But there is no sign of it andeventually he lets himself get ejected from the mass of humanity,coming to rest at the end of a dim aisle where only a single tablestands, cluttered with scrap metal and machinery. Someone standsbehind it, safety glasses lowered over eyes shadowed by a heavy brow,narrow lips pursed in a concentrated streak of bright red as broadfingers tamper with the insides of a small box the colour of bronze.
They look up, and it's only thenthat John realises he is staring.
“Looking for something?” theyask.
“There was a leatherworker here,”John says.
The vendor shrugs, snapping thesmall door shut on the inside of the box and putting it down amongthe clutter on the table. “Not here. I'm here.”
“Yeah,” John says, but hedoesn't leave and the vendor is still watching him, small eyesbright.
“What you looking for?”
“A journal. She had somejournals. They were nice.”
The vendor looks down at the tablein front of them. “No journals here.”
“No,” John says. “Ta anyway.”Except he's still not leaving and after a second the vendor plungestheir hand into the mess of gears to their right and comes up with aniron-black cube.
“Aha!” they grin, “Wonderedwhere that got to,” then holds it out to where John is stillwatching, fascinated and a little afraid. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Like journal,” they say. “Youtalk to it, it talk back.”
“Like a recorder?”
“Sure. Twenty quid.”
John takes it. It's much lighterthan he expected, each side the length of his hand. It's dull andblack and feels cool to the touch and if it weren't so light he wouldhave expected to feel the rough heaviness of iron, but instead it'ssmooth and flawless, the only interruption of its surface a smallgrate on one side. He tries to peer into it but all he sees is theglint of gears.
“How does it work?” he asks.
“You talk to it,” the vendorsays.
“Do I need to push something? Abutton?”
“No buttons. Just talk. Thirtyquid.”
“You said twenty.”
They shrug. “Inflation. Youtaking too long.”
John snorts. He should put it down,walk away. He thinks of soft leather and cool blank pages and healmost does. Except there is a pulse of heat against his palm and helooks down to see something flash between the bars of the grate andslowly, through the cool blank surface of its shell, he can feel thegrind of gears starting to turn.
“Too late,” the vendor says.“It yours now. Forty quid.”
“I only have fifteen.”
“That's what I say. Fifteen.”And they hold out their hand.
* * * * *
There is a glow to it that isimperceptible until it's night time and John's turned off the light.Sitting in the dark of the bedsit, the curtains drawn against theglow of the street, he is fully dressed, only his shoes kicked offbeside the door.
He stares at the thing, pulsatinggently across the room. The whir of gears has quieted to a faint humthat he can only hear when he concentrates. It sits on his desk, thelight it emits a faint blue. It's subtle, but it's unmistakeable.
Talk to it, hethinks. That's what you're supposed to do.
“Um. Hello,” John says, and thesilence that falls is deafening.
After several seconds of nothinghappening, he tries again.
“My name is John Watson. Hi. I'msupposed to talk to you. Tell you...things. So. Hello. I'mthirty-six, was in Afghanistan, got shot. Parents not around. Haven'theard from my sister in about a year. Don't know where she is rightnow. I'm sure she's fine. Um...” he trails off, stares at the box.Realises he's run out of things to say.
Across the room, the box ispulsating still, the only change is that the quiet humming has grownfaintly more audible. It sounds expectant.
“I don't have anything else tosay,” John tells it. “Sorry. I'm not very interesting. You wereprobably happier at the market.”
He's talking to the box.
With a sigh, he shuffles down tillhe's lying on the bed. Turning his back to the cube, he closes hiseyes and tries to sleep.
* * * * *
“Hello.”
John blinks. It's still dark, onlythe faintest line of light from the street lamp slipping in past theedge of the curtain. He doesn't remember falling asleep but he musthave done because suddenly he is waking up.
Why is he waking up?
“Not very polite. I say hello andyou just lay there. Or are you stupid? God, you're stupid aren'tyou?” and there's a sigh.
I should be worried, Johnthinks. But instead he just sits up.
Across the room, sitting on hisdesk, there is a man. He's tall and angular and above all naked andhe's pulsating with a faint blue light.
“Perfect,” John says. “I'mhallucinating.”
The man looks at him with disgust.“Do I look like a hallucination?”
John feels a spark of annoyance.“Yes,” he says, and adds somewhat testily, “You're naked andyou're glowing.”
The man looks down at himself andsuddenly he's clothed. “I can't help the light,” he says. “You'lljust have to deal with it.”
“Right,” John says, and laysback down.
There is an indignant silence.
“What are you doing?” the mandemands.
“Dealing with it,” Johnanswers.
There is a snort and then a flareof blue and then nothing. John thinks about looking but ultimatelydecides against it.
He doesn't realise he's slept againuntil suddenly it's morning and he sits up in bed, trying to rememberhis dream. It's not difficult, the details are startlingly clear. Helooks at the cube on his desk. It is humming quietly and pulsatinggently and John knows he's imagining it, but for some reason it feelsas though it's sulking.
* * * * *
He goes for a walk because there'snothing else he has to do. He enjoys the satisfaction of the rubberend squeezing against the pavement and he puts more weight on it thanhe probably should just to feel it give underneath him. He getscoffee from the cart in the park, the last of his money till the endof the week, but he tries not to think about it too hard. It's onlytwo more days. It occurs to him that he should have spent it onsomething to eat, but he can't remember the last time he was hungryso he ignores it.
“It's not real. Your injury. Youdon't need the cane.”
The voice comes from beside him andJohn looks over. Keeping pace, long gangling limbs in a straightblack suit, the man looks a little bit like a spider. His hair isdark and wildly curled, and John watches it for several seconds justto see if it moves with the brisk wind coming up from the east. Itdoes.
“I'm hallucinating again,” Johnsays.
The man looks at him, irritated.His eyes are the same blue as the pulsating glow he demonstrated lastnight.
“Don't be an idiot.”
“Okay,” John says, and veersaway.
After a few seconds, the mancatches up. “What was that for?” he snarls.
“I was hoping you would go away.”
“Then you shouldn't have bloodywoke me up.”
“You mean the cube?”
The man gives him a look.“Obviously.”
“Well I wouldn't have if I'd beengiven a choice.”
“How comforting. Bit late forthat now. Do you know I was minutes away from discovering a newelement when you started pawing at me?”
“Look, it wasn't intentional. Isthere any way I can put you back?”
The man bristles. “Why? Am I notgood enough for you?”
“I thought you didn't want to behere.”
“Then you should have thought ofthat before.”
John stops. The man continues forseveral steps before turning, impatience written on his angularfeatures and it strikes John that they're not quite normal, as thoughsomeone with only a theoretical knowledge of the human face hadassembled it. It wasn't unattractive per se, merely vaguely alien,the bones too sharp and the angles just a little bit off. Even theeyes, that familiar blue, are just a touch too sharply angled andtheir irises weirdly light, as if the glow—imperceptible now in thesheer light of day—has settled into a steady burn behind theirlenses.
“What are you?” John asks.
The man draws himself up. “I'm avocaloid.”
John frowns. “I have no idea whatthat is.”
“That's because you're an idiot.”
“Are you actually here? I meanare you real?”
The man—no, not man—vocaloidglares at him. “Of course I'mreal.” He reaches out a hand and smacks the arm of a passing woman.The coffee she's carrying goes flying and John narrowly missesgetting hit with it.
“What the fuck?” she demands,glaring at the vocaloid.
The vocaloid ignores her. “See?”he says to John, smug self-satisfaction on his angular face, and Johnis still staring at him when the woman hits the vocaloid across thehead with her bag. For a brief second, the image of the vocaloidflickers, and then it reappears. The woman, already stalking away,hasn't noticed, but John can see the brief buzz of static around theedges where he had been hit.
“I see,” John says and helpshim back to his feet. “You're blurry,” he says.
The vocaloid, rubbing at the backof his skull, glares after the woman but turns back to John at thosewords. “It'll pass,” he says. “Now, where can we get tea?”
“At the bedsit,” John says. “Idon't have any money left.”
“You don't have tea at thebedsit.”
“No, but there's water. That'shalfway to tea.”
The vocaloid looks at him. “I'mnot sure I can be corporeal under these circumstances,” he says,and blinks out of existence.
* * * * *
John doesn't return to the bedsituntil after three, and when he does, the vocaloid is laying with hisback on John's bed, his legs straight up in the air against the wall.His eyes are closed and John wonders if vocaloids sleep.
“No,” the vocaloid says. “Wedon't. We just sort of disappear for a while.”
John pauses. He isn't sure how hefeels about a mind-reading entity sharing his space.
“I don't read minds,” thevocaloid says. “You're just incredibly obvious.” He shuffleshimself around till he's sitting up, cross-legged in the centre ofthe bed. “I brought tea,” he says. “And food.” He gestures tothe desk with his chin and John glances over.
There is tea, half a dozen apples,a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and a package of beef jerky.
“All the food groups,” Johnsays and goes to his desk where he opens his laptop.
“Well?” the vocaloid demands.
“Well what?”
“Aren't you going to eat?”
“Not hungry. Go ahead if youlike. By the way, how do vocaloids make money?”
The vocaloid looks at him like he'sstupid. “The same way you make anything else.”
John turns around and looks at him.“Did you forge it?”
“Don't be ridiculous. I made it.That's a completely different thing.”
“Fake notes?”
“No, no. A credit card. Mucheasier to do.”
“Where exactly is the creditcoming from?”
“From the credit companies, ofcourse. Don't worry, they won't notice.”
John squeezes his eyes shut andsighs. “I'm going to have to get a job.”
“What for?”
“To make money.”
“I just told you, I made money.You're fine. So, when are we going to move?”
“Move?”
“We can't stay here. It's tiny.And dark. And dirty. Also I don't like it.”
“It's all I can afford.”
The vocaloid looks at him. “Ican't tell if you're stupid on purpose or by accident.”
John turns back to his laptop.“Fine. Let me know when you figure it out would you.”
The vocaloid snorts. When Johnlooks over next he's gone.
* * * * *
John doesn't see the vocaloid againuntil the next day. He is leaving Regent's Park, enjoying the pressof the pavement against the soft rubber tip of his cane, whensuddenly spider-long limbs and an alien face appear beside him.
“Doesn't that attract attention?”John asks. He glances around to illustrate his point, but there's noone looking at them at all.
“People only see what they wantto see,” the vocaloid says. “Come on, I've found our new place.”
“I can't afford to live here.”
The vocaloid ignores him and forsome reason John finds himself following along anyway.
They walk for five minutes beforethey stop at a door. It's black with brass numbers and the vocaloidknocks. In spite of the fact that John had seen first hand evidenceof the vocaloid's corporealness, he's still surprised at how solid itsounds. However, after several minutes of no answer, John begins towonder again if this is all in his imagination. After all, if he canhallucinate a naked glowing man, why not a woman with a coffee cup?
He's about to turn around to find aphone so he can call his doctor when the door opens and an old womanstands there. She has a vapid-looking face, but her eyes areoff-settlingly intelligent, and when she puts out her hand to shakehis, he gives it to her without a thought.
“John Watson?” she asks.“Sherlock here told me about you. Come see for yourself. I know youprobably want to make sure for yourself that it'll suit.” And withthose words she turns around and leads the way inside.
John, still reeling under the factthat the vocaloid seems to have named itself Sherlock, can onlyfollow wordlessly.
The flat is on the first floor andit's large. There's a kitchen and a sitting room and a bedroom. Theyare all separate rooms and John hates that the vocaloid has dangledthis in front of him because the thought of going back to the bedsitnow makes him want to vomit, or possibly laugh, or possibly both.
“This is perfect,” John sayswhen both the old woman and the vocaloid look at him. “But I can'tafford it.”
“Nonsense,” the woman says.“Didn't Sherlock explain? In any case, he's chosen you now so it'stoo late. You can move in immediately.”
“Sorry, chosen me?”Helooks at the vocaloid who is most definitely sulking now.
“Of course, dear. Do you think hejust comes out for anybody?”
“No, of course not, that would besilly,” John says somewhat facetiously, but the old lady just beamsat him.
“I knew you'd understand. Myname's Mrs Hudson, dear, and I'll just called you John. Or do youprefer 'doctor'?”
“Er. Just John is fine.”
“Delightful. I'll see aboutgetting some tea, you just make yourself comfortable,” and withthat she bustles from the room.
John looks at the vocaloid as soonas the door closes behind her. He looks sheepish.
“Sherlock?” John sayssceptically.
“It adds character,” thevocaloid says.
“I can't call you that.”
“Why not?”
“It's not even a name.”
“Of course it is. It's oldEnglish. It means bright hair.”
“Your hair is black.”
“It could have been blonde.”
“But it's not.”
“But it could have been.”
John glares at him. “That doesn'tmake any sense.”
“Don't blame me, you're the onewho made this.” He gestures somewhat disparagingly at his lankyblack-encased body and his wild hair. “If you prefer blondes youshould have done something about it. Now it's too late.”
“I don't prefer blondes,” Johnsays.
“Yes, well, obviously. I preferblondes. Do I get a choice, though? No, I don't. So you're notallowed to complain.”
“I'm blonde,” John sayssomewhat stupidly and the vocaloid—no, Sherlock—looksat him like he's an idiot.
“Oh, well spotted, DoctorWatson,” he snaps and flounces out of the room.
John is left on his own, staringaround at what is apparently his new home. It's cavernous, absolutelyenormous in its emptiness, and he wonders how on earth he's going tomanage to fill it. He has no furniture. He has nothing except asuitcase of clothes and a handful of battered books, read to ribbons.
“What am I doing here?” he saysout loud, and because he doesn't have an answer he leaves.
* * * * *
“Moving day!”
John blinks his eyes open todaylight. He doesn't remember falling asleep. He doesn't evenremember going to bed. But Sherlock the vocaloid is sitting on theedge of his mattress and shaking him awake. He is naked again butdoesn't seem to realise it.
John considers mentioning it thenchanges his mind.
“I can't move,” he saysinstead. “I have nothing to move.”
“I already took care of that,”Sherlock says. “I made more money. The furniture arrived at nine.”
“Nine? What time is it?”
“Eleven. Hurry up, John!” Andwith a blink of his eyes he's wearing clothes again, a pinstripesuit, long and perfectly fitted to his gangly frame. Except it's notall that gangly. There are definitely muscles that John spotted whenSherlock had spun around, for a brief intriguing moment his backsidemere inches from John's fascinated face.
John shakes his head clear of thosethoughts and kicks off his blankets. He's undressed beneath the linenand for a moment he's startled into stillness. He doesn't rememberundressing. He doesn't remember the last time he'd bothered toundress before falling into bed, sheer exhaustion forcing him down.And he doesn't remember the last time he'd slept so late. He wondersif he's getting sick.
“Don't be stupid,” Sherlocksays, appearing suddenly with an apple in his mouth. He takes a biteand shoves the rest into John's half-open mouth. “Let's go, I don'twant to have to stay here any longer than I have to.”
* * * * *
There is furniture.
The hallway is packed with it. Thestairs are clogged. The flat is crowded. There are crates of dishesand glassware, even more of laboratory equipment. Stacks of bed linenand blankets, which quickly disappear with Mrs Hudson to be washed.There are boxes of books: medical texts and crime history andautobiographies of murderers and serial killers and poisoners andeven several boxes of mystery novels in which John recognises his owntaste. He starts to pull them out but Sherlock is there, dragging himto his feet and herding him along.
It takes all day to get everythinginto its proper room and only then does John allow himself tocollapse in the hideous red chair that had been set out in thesitting room. There is furniture, but it's mismatched and utterlyeclectic and John wonders why on earth he likes it so much. Hebounces in the chair a few times, enjoying the way it's already begunto settle itself around him and realises with some surprise that he'shungry.
“I was thinking,” Sherlocksays, dropping into the black leather chair across from him,“Italian.”
“I'm not hungry,” John says outof sheer habit.
Sherlock scoffs. “I orderedalready. Should be here in five minutes.”
Sherlock glares at him but beforehe can say anything the door rings and he's leaping out of his chairagain and disappearing downstairs. A minute later he's back and thesmell of tomato sauce and garlic is heavensent in the air around him.John doesn't care that he's rude, just that he's bringing lasagne.
“This is brilliant,” he saysand Sherlock smiles at him. Actually smiles and John feels somethingin the general region of his chest suddenly contract leaving himmomentarily unable to breathe. Maybe he really is getting sick.
Sherlock hands him a carton and afork. “Eat,” he says. “Mrs Hudson made cake.”
* * * * *
It's only the next evening thatJohn realises they have a problem.
“There's only one bedroom.”
Sherlock, engaged in sorting thebooks into alphabetical order, doesn't even look at him.
“There was only one bedroom lastnight too.”
“But you didn't sleep.”
“So what's the problem.”
“Well, don't you need somewhereto rest? You know...disappear? Whatever it is you do?”
“Don't be stupid, John. We don'tneed another bedroom.”
Mrs Hudson walks in at that moment.“There's another bedroom if you'll be needing two,” she saysputting the tea tray down on the kitchen table.
Sherlock throws his hands in theair. “We don't need two!” he exclaims and vanishes in a dramaticflare of blue light.
John looks at Mrs Hudson to seewhat she makes of her vanishing tenant, but she merely rolls her eyesand pours out the tea. “He was always such a child,” she sayswith a sigh of affectionate despair.
“Mrs Hudson,” John says as shehands him his cup. “How exactly do you know Sherlock?”
“Know him?” She laughs, afriendly tinkling sound. “I made him, of course. Didn't Sherlocktell you? Honestly, that man,” and shaking her head she leavesagain.
John is pouring out a second cup oftea when Sherlock reappears at his elbow.
“Is that for me?”
John hands it to him. “So,” hesays. “Who is Mrs Hudson?”
Sherlock fiddles with his cup andmakes a show of grimacing at the taste. “No sugar?”
John hands it to him. Watches as hespoons it in and stirs, knocking the spoon against the side of thecup far more than is necessary.
“Well?” he asks as soon asSherlock puts the cup to his mouth and Sherlock rolls his eyes,putting it down.
“Well what?”
“Who is she?”
“Our landlady. Honestly, John, Ithought that was obvious.”
“No. Who is she to you,Sherlock?”
“My landlady. Is this important?”
“Is she your mother?”
Sherlock snorts. “Don't beridiculous.”
“She said she made you.”
“Yes, well, that's different. Iwas already raised when she made me.”
“Already raised?”
“Yes. Well. Sort of. She put thebits together but I sorted them out.”
John is silent for a moment, tryingto process this.
“Are you the only one?” heasks. “Are there other black boxes out there with vocaloidsinside?”
Sherlock slumps down into his chairand huffs. “Them.” hesays disgustedly, then glances suspiciously at John. “Why?” hedemands. “You can't just put me back and choose someone else, youknow. They probably wouldn't even like you anyway.”
John sighs. “I don't want to putyou back. I'm just curious.”
Sherlock stares at him for a secondlonger then, impossibly, slides even lower into his chair. “Thereare a few. But I'm the smartest. Mostly. Except for one. But he'sfat. You wouldn't like him. And he wouldn't have gotten all thesebooks for you. He thinks novels are for idiots.”
“Oh.”
“They are, of course. But Iwouldn't say it.”
Weirdly, John's chest gives anotherlurch. He puts a hand to it, almost unconsciously. Sherlock looks athim, his blue eyes sharp.
“What is it?” he demands.
John just shakes his head.“Nothing. Ta for the books.”
* * * * *
“John. John!”
John blinks his eyes open. It'sdark and warm and he's cocooned in soft blankets that smell likefabric softener and he's naked.
“John.”
There's a pale shape hanging overhim and it's throbbing with a faint blue light.
“Sherlock. What time is it?”
“What does it matter? It's threeo'clock. Move over.”
“What?”
There's no answer except for handssuddenly shoving him over to one side and he lets them, closing hiseyes and breathing as Sherlock starts arranging him on the far sideof his enormous new bed. They finish to their satisfaction and Johnfeels the mattress dip behind him as Sherlock lays down.
There is a moment of silence. Then:“What now?” Sherlock asks.
John doesn't say anything in thefaint hope that maybe if he stays quiet Sherlock will just go away.
“John. John! Whyare you ignoring me?”
“Sleep,” he manages.
“Oh. How?”
“Close your eyes and shut up.”
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Are the blankets necessary?”
“If you're cold.”
“Oh.” There's another pause andthen the hands are back and John is being unwound from his cocoon andhe really should protest this so he grabs feebly at the edges of thedisappearing blanket.
“Wanker,” he mumbles andSherlock freezes.
“That's rude,” he says.
“You're stealing my blankets.”
“Well you're hogging them. That'salso rude. I wonder if Mrs Hudson knows. She can yell at you nexttime instead of me.”
“God I hate you.”
“No you don't. Here.” Theblanket descends over John once again and he clutches at it, pullingit over him.
Sherlock comes with it. Cold skinpresses up against John's and he yelps and pulls away.
“We need to buy another blanket,”John says.
“No we don't. You just need tolearn how to share.”
John mumbles something wordless.The next time Sherlock comes near, he's warmer and John doesn'tprotest because he's already asleep.
* * * * *
They buy another blanket. Sherlocksulks the entire way home, but when John makes a show of making upboth blankets side by side on the bed, he starts to settle down.
“I like to cocoon,” John says.“You're just going to have to live with that.”
He makes Sherlock tea and helps himalphabetise books for the rest of the afternoon and by the timeevening comes and John is yawning and stretching and making signstowards the bedroom, Sherlock is pliant and pleased.
When John comes out of the bedroom,Sherlock is already ensconced.
Both blankets are on top of him.
“Sherlock.”
“I'm asleep.”
“No you're not.”
“Well I'm not now. Why do youhave to be so loud?”
“Sherlock. That's my blanket.”
“I'm cold.”
“Too bad.”
“John.”
“No, Sherlock.”
“John.”
“Stop it.”
“Please?”
John looks down at the vocaloid,buried beneath two blankets on the suspiciously large bed. His heartflops over. He doesn't even know why he tries to fight it any more.
He sighs and climbs onto themattress. Immediately he is encompassed by two blankets, an arm, anda leg. A chin nuzzles at the top of his head and John sighs inresignation.
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he says.
“Goodnight, John. Mrs Hudson saysI should say 'sleep well.'”
“Okay.”
“Sleep well, John.”
Incredibly, he does.
* * * * *
He wakes up sweating in a tangle ofblankets and limbs that aren't his own. He has to pee but there's aweight on him and when he tries to shift it it just makes a groaningnoise and settles more firmly in place.
“Sherlock. Loo.”
Sherlock moans and the steel holdaround John's person seems to tighten.
“I'll come back.”
Another moan, but this time thelimbs loosen and John is able to slip out. He pulls on a jumper and aloose pair of joggers, shivering as the cold material touches hisskin. He pads to the toilet and does what he needs to before going tothe kitchen to make tea.
The kettle is boiling when a pairof arms suddenly appear from behind him and clamp themselves aroundhis waist.
“You said you were coming back,”Sherlock grumbles. He buries his face downwards into John's neck andJohn scrunches his shoulders up as a cold nose finds the warm placeunder his collar.
“Tea,” John says.
“Yes please,” Sherlock says andretreats to the sofa where he sprawls himself across it. He's nakedagain and John goes to him, throwing a blanket across his form.
“You don't like it when I'mnaked,” Sherlock says and there's a question in his tone that Johnisn't sure he wants to answer.
“Sugar?” he asks instead andwhen Sherlock nods he turns back to the kitchen.
He makes the tea but he'sdistracted and when he brings the two cups into the sitting room hecan't remember which one has the sugar in it.
Sherlock looks at him, amused. “Theleft one is yours,” he says and John scowls at him but passes himthe right cup.
Sherlock takes it, still lyingdown, and puts it on the floor.
“It's going to get cold,” Johnwarns.
Sherlock rolls his eyes but he sitsup. There is the sticky sound of bare skin again leather and theblanket sags to his waist and Sherlock pushes it aside with animpatient gesture. He bends over and picks up his tea and Johnwatches, fascinated, as his spine unfolds in a series of vertebrae,all the way to the bottom where the curve of the buttocks vanishesbeneath the lower back.
And then Sherlock is rising againand John watches as the spine accordions back into place, the curveof the buttocks disappearing to be replaced by shoulders, a flushedface, a narrow chest that isn't objectively attractive in itself butwhich John suddenly wants to touch, if only to see if it's as smoothand cool as it appears. Sherlock is hairless until his belly button,where the faint trail of dark hair begins, dipping down between thelong narrow thighs. Everything about Sherlock is long and narrow itseems.
Almost everything.
“John? Are you okay?”
John realises he's stoppedbreathing.
“Yes,” he says, but only thehiss of the ess comes out. Even to his own ears he sounds like apunctured tire. “Yes,” he tries again and is pleased when itworks. “I have to go,” he says, and turns around and walks away.
He gets to the bedroom withoutSherlock saying a word, and when John reaches it he softly shuts thedoor behind him leans back against it as if somehow that will keepSherlock's presence on the other side of it.
But it's too late. Two blankets areheaped on a too large bed, two pillows bearing the marks of twodifferent heads. John wonders if this was intentional and thenrealises that of course it was. Weirdly, he finds that he doesn'tmind.
“Are you okay?”
John nearly has a heart attack.Sherlock is leaning against the door beside him, watching himclosely.
“Sherlock!” John snaps. “Usethe bloody door, can't you?”
“Should I knock, as well?”Sherlock sneers.
“Yes, you bloody well should!”
Sherlock glares at him andvanishes.
Half a second later there is aknock at the door behind John.
“Who is it?” John calls.
There is the low mutter of a cursefrom the hall. “Sherlock bloody Holmes.”
John opens the door. “Holmes?”he says. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Sherlock snaps,“Seriously. Sherlock Holmes. And I don't care if you don't likeit.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Oh for god's sake.” AndSherlock Holmes the vocaloid kisses him.
For several minutes John just letsit happen. When it finally stops and he is able to breathe again hesays, “I didn't know vocaloids could do that.”
Sherlock snorts. “Don't be anidiot, John. Why else would I be here?”
“I don't know. You shouldprobably show me.”
The look Sherlock gives him is oneof faint disgust. “Don't flirt, you're terrible at it.”
“Wanker,” John says, and thistime he kisses Sherlock, and even though they've already done this itstill comes as a shock when Sherlock lets it happen.
The next time they step away Johnhas given up on breathing. He has also given up on thinking andhaving his heart continue inside his chest because he's sure it's notsupposed to be beating this hard. He gasps against Sherlock's chestand lets long arms slide around him.
“Can I?” Sherlock asks, andJohn isn't entirely sure he knows what Sherlock is asking but sincehe hasn't yet had any success in stopping the vocaloid from doingexactly what he wants he doesn't imagine he'll start succeeding now.He nods, forehead rubbing against bare skin, and when Sherlock pullsaway he makes a sound of protest. This wasn't what he was expecting.He thinks maybe he's clinging but he's too embarrassed about it toask.
“Stop that,” Sherlock says andfirmly pulls away, only to start to remove John from his clothes.This is better, John thinks, and lets himself be guided away fromthem, to the too big bed that had been the point all along.
“It's been a long time,” Johnsays.
“I know that,” Sherlock says.“Lay down.”
John does, because why not. He'snever going to win this. When Sherlock slides onto the mattressbeside him John doesn't try to pull away. And when the limbs start tocircle, pulling him in, dragging him under, he lets them take him.They are long and warm and strong, and when Sherlock kisses Johnagain, John doesn't even try to remember to breathe. Not until lateranyway. Much later, when he is spent and pliant and Sherlock is abovehim and inside him and he is glowing, blue and bright, his eyesalmost too light to look at, and Sherlock, pushing further, pushingdeeper, says “Breathe, John,” and John remembers to inhale.
* * * * *
He wakes up in the dark. There isonly a faint glow in the room and it takes John several seconds forhim to realise that it's coming from Sherlock, buried halfway beneaththe blankets behind him. There is an arm around him and a leg and heis tired and sore but he has to go to the loo.
The arm tightens as soon as hetries to move.
“No,” Sherlock says.
“I'll be right back.”
“You said that before and youmade tea instead.”
“It's too late for tea.”
There's a silence as Sherlockruminates on this. “Okay,” he finally says and the various limbsare removed.
He goes to the loo where he doeswhat he needs to do. Afterwards, passing the sink, he glances up andsees his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He stops. Stares athimself. Can't remember the last time he's looked himself in the eye.
It's a weird feeling, like meetinga stranger somewhere familiar.
But then he smiles, grinning athimself, and he thinks maybe it's okay. He wouldn't mind meetinghimself.
“John!” Sherlock calls,petulant and half-asleep, and with a last glance, a last grin, Johnflicks the light off and follows the glow of the vocaloid back tobed.
It's easy to see. Inhis face, distorted and oblong, something smudged and unfinished,some builder's half-finished project, unloved and forgotten. In hishair, wild and unruly, too long and too short, something belonging toa child, a parody of innocence, asking for trust and abusing it. Inhis hands, too large, too bony, made for tearing and strength, foroverwhelming and suffocating and control. His body, angular andgraceful, sharp edges that tear like a knife, splitting the spacearound him into ribbons.
It's easy to see. Inhis eyes, cold and hungry. It's easy to see when he looks at himself.
There is a flush tohis animal face, new, and he catalogues it with the rest. Anotherabuse of trust, this one, lending him frailty that he doesn't feel.He watches it, tendrils of blood beneath his skin, like finger marksdragged down his neck and chest, fading to pink beneath his ribsbefore disappearing into the deeper bowels of his belly.
He stares at himself.Watching. The familiarity of his deformities removing fear. Hewonders what it would be like to look upon himself for the firsttime, to observe the monstrous workings of limb and sinew andexpression like a nightmare bearing down upon one. He's almostenvious of them, all the people he hasn't met. He wonders what itwould be like to encounter himself, how he would acquit himselfagainst him. Would he be afraid? Would he run away?
Stupid, of course.Monsters don't fear others of their kind.
“Sherlock?”
He starts, lookingover his shoulder in the reflection of the mirror.
“John.” Tousledand pale, except for the high spots of colour on each cheek. Heblinks in the brightness of the bathroom light and his eyes scrunchclosed and Sherlock is entranced, the two of them together in themirror, side by side in their reflection, the monster and itscaptive, and he is reminded of how careful he has to be to make sureJohn doesn't figure it out, that John never realises what he reallyis.
He leans over andflips off the light.
“Did I wake you up?”he asks, and in the sudden darkness there is nothing to warn him ofthe two arms that come to slide around his waist, the human body,fevered from sleep, pressing up against his own.
John doesn't answer,simply mumbles a sigh into the skin of his back, and Sherlock feelsthe intensity of it like a bruise. He has these marks all over him bynow, the small patches of humanity that John has pressed into himwith his breath and his fingers and his words. The area theyencompass enlarges every day until Sherlock knows, one day, he willlook in the mirror and he will no longer see the monster he was butthe human that John has created from it.
“Come on,”Sherlock says, and turns around, taking John's pliant body in hisarms, leading him through the dark to the lighter shadow of the bed.John's protest is less than a sigh, given off in half-sleep. AsSherlock presses them together, John's back held tightly to him, histhighs spread around Sherlock's insistent pressure, he knows that inthe morning John will remember this as more than half a dream, wakingup hard and ready, his mind not alert enough yet to wonder why hisbody is still open until Sherlock is once again inside him. And thenhe will laugh, a soft breath of sound carried on the sighs of hispleasure, and he will twist his head around and demand a kiss andSherlock will give it to him, sliding his tongue as deep as it willgo, lapping at the humanity inside as well as out.
One day, John willfind out. He will look at Sherlock and see that the monster is gonewithout ever having known it was there at all, but by then it will betoo late.
The day was humid and cold with a chilling wind that sliced through clothes and pierced into bones. Snow had fallen the night before leaving London in a mess. The streets might well have looked pretty with all that pristine white snow but that was before the traffic started. Currently the pavement was covered in brownish grey slush.
The horses trotting through the snowy London streets were also leaving brownish little gifts of their own, piles of steaming, stinking mess which Sherlock Holmes narrowly avoided stepping in.
“Holmes,” John hissed. “Watch out, would you?”
Sherlock paused to take care in his step with absolutely no gratitude to John at all.
So that’s how it was, then. John was going to be soundly ignored because of an argument that Sherlock would be stewing over for probably days because he was just that melodramatic. And ridiculous.
Neatly sidestepping the horse-present himself, John hopped into the hansom cab, noticing again how absolutely bollocks-freezing it was. The chill was not in the least shut out by the cab roof either, wrapping its icy arms around John and squeezing. He was wearing his warmest winter clothing with his thermals beneath but it all did nothing, the cold seeped into him as if he were naked as a babe.
Shivering, John rubbed his hands together and breathed warm breath on his gloved hands.
“You could share that, you know,” John said, eyeing up the thick, warm blanket Sherlock had pulled over him, right up to his chin. “It’s plenty big enough for us both.” Which was why they'd brought the blanket with them in the first bloody place. To share. In the cab. Because of the cold.
“Yet I am in more need of it,” Sherlock said. He pulled the blanket up higher, refusing to even look at John.
John sighed, frustration slicing into his patience. Sherlock had overreacted over nothing and John was not going to spend the whole cab ride back to Baker Street freezing his bollocks off because of it.
“I told you, it was nothing.” John said, teeth chattering.
Sherlock ignored him, instead taking the time to tell the cab driver where they were headed to. Then they were on the move, the horse and cab making its way through the messy throng of London traffic on the icy roads.
“That’s not what it looked like,” Sherlock said after a moment, burrowing his face into the blanket. “I am the most observant man--”
“Yes, lovely, but you’re wrong, Holmes,” John said, looking at the blanket again. He squeezed his hands together in his lap. “He and I never ... Never, Holmes.” John tried to impress the truth upon Sherlock through his tone because he couldn’t actually say what he needed to out in the open like this.
Probably exactly why Sherlock had refused to hear him out earlier when they had been left alone in the house after their client had left. He meant for John to sit there and spend the whole cab ride back home in misery.
Well bollocks to that.
John snatched a corner of the blanket for himself before Sherlock could do anything about it, yanking it over his lap.
Sherlock, predictably, glowered at him and tugged his side of his blanket closer, sitting on it.
“You're behaving like a child,” John gritted his teeth, though the warm blanket over his lap was already helping to ease the freeze. He pulled on it again, attempting to pull it up to his chin to cosy down.
Sherlock didn't dignify that with an answer. He just buried his nose beneath the blanket, though he did let up a little, allowing John to gather more of the blanket for himself.
“Thank you,” John said tartly.
Sherlock just sniffed and stared out into the London streets with its grey sky and hundreds of people out and about. It was loud enough outside to at least attempt a quiet conversation between them. John didn't want to fill their home with a loud argument.
Sliding closer, John settled beside Sherlock thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. With his breath puffing white in front his face, John leaned in close.
“Nothing ever happened. He arrived to see you and you were out. We simply connected over a shared military past.”
Sherlock scoffed, sitting up straighter and turning his head to look at John from down his long, sharp nose.
“His face said something all together different when I watched him talking with you.” Sherlock said, mouth turned into a sour frown. “He wants more than a brothers-in-arms bond with you.”
John sighed in frustration, rolling his eyes. Damn but his mustache was starting to form ice from the combination of his warm breath and the cold air.
“Even if he did – which he does not – that doesn't mean I would hold that feeling for him. Holmes, you know… You know it's only you.”
“Do I?” Sherlock said, somehow managing to sound lofty and annoyed all at once. “I was gone for a few hours and I arrive home to him practically in your lap,” he all but hissed into John's ear. “He was making eyes at you and I was still across the room! You weren't stopping him.”
John had to cling to the blanket to avoid reaching out to throttle Sherlock's neck. “He was not – Dear God, Holmes, what kind of man must you take me for? That I would do those things with a man of my mere acquaintance?”
Sherlock levelled a long look at John from over the edge of the blanket. “You did with me.”
“I. Yes. Well.”
Heat bloomed in John's cheeks turning them pink and his whole body followed, warming at the memory of their first meeting, at how within hours of meeting each other he had been sitting astride Sherlock's lap with his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. And it hadn't stopped there. He'd been lifted up and carried into Sherlock's bedroom and placed on the bed and before long John had been on all fours, gasping quietly into the pillow as he was filled with the length and girth of his new lover.
It had been instant with them. An instant desire, attraction, love. John loved him. He loved him. His Holmes. His Sherlock. He would never betray that with some other man. Especially not with one who was embroiled in a case that was proving to be far more complicated than first assumed (missing diamond jewellery) and instead was turning into blackmail, scandal and possibly murder.
The heated flush from his memories and the surge of love in his chest caused John to reach out to touch Sherlock beneath the blanket, squeezing his thigh, imploring with his eyes what he could not say aloud in public in a cab.
It took a moment, but the frost in Sherlock's light blue eyes melted, revealing the warmth and affection in them that John was so familiar with.
“Please.” John said. He begged for what he did not know. Forgiveness? He had no need of it, he'd done nothing wrong. For love? He had it. Maybe he just needed to ask it for Sherlock's sake more than his own.
“My dear,” Sherlock said as softly as a breeze, the puff of his warm breath ghosting over John's face as he lowered the blanket to his neck. “I am… I was...”
“Wrong.” John said.
“Mistaken.”
“Wrong, yes.”
“I admit I am… possessive of you.” Sherlock said. “You are …”
John heard everything Sherlock was saying without saying in the soft silence that descended on them. The whole world around them seemed fuzzy and unimportant compared to the warmth in Sherlock's eyes that was telling John exactly how important, valued and loved he was.
John's chest expanded with a rush of deep affection and in response John slid his hand up Sherlock's thigh, brushing his smallest finger against the soft bulge there.
Sherlock matched him, reaching across their laps with his large, finely boned hand to cup not John's thigh but the soft place between his legs, pumping his hand in soft motions.
With the blanket covering them and pulled right up to their eyes, no one could see, no one could know what was happening beneath it. Not even the puffs of their laboured breathing could be seen. They kept their eyes forward as much as possible, save for the exquisite moments when their gazes were drawn together by a force greater than themselves; the heat and desire that they communicated through eyes alone sent John's cock thickening and growing in the confines of his clothing. He longed for Sherlock to unbutton his trousers and slip his hand inside, even if he would encounter John's thermals. It would just be one step closer to feeling Sherlock's touch on his bare skin and John shivered with the need for it.
Sherlock was no better, already gently rocking his hips in time with how John was squeezing and rubbing his hand along the hard bulge in his trousers. It was always so heady to feel Sherlock's arousal, proof of Sherlock's desire for him. The feel of it warm and hard beneath his hand made it difficult to not throw the blanket off and straddle Sherlock's lap. John was certainly feeling warm enough now to toss the blanket away and some part of him felt bold enough to do it, bold enough to tell the world to go hang while he openly kissed his lover on the lips.
He didn't do any such thing of course, but the mere thought of it had him pushing his hips into Sherlock's hand and grunting very softly into the chilly air.
“Are we close?” John breathed.
Sherlock's lips curved into a smirk, the flash of his bared teeth sending a surge of new arousal into John's body.
“Very close, I'd say,” Sherlock whispered. He grabbed onto John's hand and ground it against his cock, eyes fluttering closed. “John--”
The use of his first name, whispered with pleasure, destroyed John's self-control. His cock pulsed hot from beneath Sherlock's hand, surging with orgasm, draining his balls into a wet, sticky mess inside his clothes.
He opened his eyes to see Sherlock staring at him with a gaze gone dark. The heat of that look being levelled at him had John pushing the blanket down to his shoulders so he could breathe. His body was still rolling with the unexpected orgasm, ears ringing, sweat prickling on the back of his neck.
“I meant,” Sherlock said very softly. “We were very close to home.”
John huffed through his nose, removing Sherlock's hand from his groin. “Yes, thank you,” he said, finally becoming aware of the outside again. 221 was just feet away.
The blanket was collected beneath John's arms to be washed as Sherlock paid the cab driver when they came to a stop. They hopped from the cab one after the other, both of them making sure their heavy winter coats were covering up the state they were in.
Mrs Hudson let John inside the flat with a quiet bit of fussing about how cold and pink he looked.
“We'll need hot water for a wash,” Sherlock said as he breezed inside, shutting the door behind him. “And something to eat, please.”
Once safely ensconced inside their flat, John was soundly pushed up against the nearest wall and kissed, burning away every last bit of the outside chill.
“Let's get you cleaned up and fed so I can take you bed,” Sherlock whispered. “And claim what's mine.”
John breathed hard against Sherlock's lips. “But the case--”
“Can wait. When Mr Thompson comes round in the morning, I want him to see you looking dazed with passion. I want him to smell me on you when he comes too close. I want to look him in the eye while I ask you if it's a bit difficult for you to sit.”
John groaned softly, arms wrapping around Sherlock's neck to pull him down for a hard and biting kiss, inviting Sherlock's leg between his own. He was still a sticky mess, his clothes definitely stained, but he didn't care at all right then.
Mrs Hudson's footsteps on the stairs pulled them apart quickly. Though they knew she knew of their … affections, neither of them had any desire at all for her to see it in progress.
They separated to sit in their chairs by the fireplace when she let herself in with a tray of tea and cold sandwiches. “Hot water in a minute,” she said.
“Take your time,” Sherlock smiled, an unlit pipe in his hand. “We're quite busy with this case, actually.”
She looked them over for a long moment. “I'll come back later then.”
When she left with the door closed behind her, John sagged in his chair. He was torn between desire for Sherlock and the sudden hunger in his stomach. The smell of hot tea was tempting.
Sherlock got up quickly and stood before him, unbuttoning his well-fitted jacket. “It'll keep,” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the table while his eyes locked onto John's face. “If we're going to bother Mrs Hudson for all that hot bath water, we might as well get as dirty as possible.”
--
Later, beneath the heat of Sherlock's body as they rocked together by the light of candles did John confess into Sherlock's ear his love.
“Thompson means nothing to me, Sherlock. It's just you. Only ever you.”
Sherlock's back was damp with sweat. John caressed his hands down along it, feeling the muscles move and tense.
“Thompson's name shall never again be mentioned in this bed, John,” Sherlock said gruffly. “And never when I am inside you.” He punctuated that with a hard, snapping thrust that rocked the bed.
“Yes, never,” John agreed breathlessly, tangling a hand into Sherlock's hair, encouraging it to further come out of the harsh slicked-back hair style.The more John messed with it, the more it would loosen into its natural state of soft curls. He knew that Sherlock would wear his hair how he pleased, but John always wished he'd let it be natural and curly, although there was a particular pleasure to knowing that only he ever got to see Sherlock like that.
“Come back to me,” Sherlock said softly, kissing John's cheeks. “You're thinking. That's my job, isn't it?”
“Thinking about how desperately I love you,” John moaned softly. “Make love to me, Sherlock,”
“I am, I will,” Sherlock sighed, hips rolling and gyrating as he pumped into John's body. “Always, my dear, my John.”
They kissed until they shared breath and moaned in tandem as their orgasms approached, Sherlock first, having been so keyed up beforehand without release. As soon as he had regained his senses, he shimmied down John's beautiful, sweat-slicked body and wrapped his lips around the hard, jutting cock between John's legs.
It took only a few moments of the heat and suction of Sherlock's mouth before John was coming, looking down at Sherlock, staring at those plush lips stretched around his cock.
Sherlock made a sloppy mess of it, letting John's come dribble from his lips down the shaft so he could make a show of licking John's cock clean, holding the softening member in his hand and slurping at it.
“Good God, man,” John sighed and shivered, smoothing back Sherlock's curls. “Everything you do is so…”
“Excellent? Extraordinary?” Sherlock crawled back up John's body, leaning down for a long lingering kiss in which John could taste himself on Sherlock's tongue.
“Yes, those,” John said when they parted for air. “And more. And mine.”
“Yours,” Sherlock agreed, brushing his nose against John's. “As you are completely and incontrovertibly mine.”
His fingers crept between their bodies, slipping beneath John's balls, pushing and pressing along the tender skin there until he reached John's sore, slick little hole.
John moaned quietly, squirming on the sheets with the warmth of Sherlock's come dripping out and the motion of those long fingers inside him.
“Mine.” Sherlock murmured again. His fingers inside John's body were filling the room with obscene little noises.
Shivering with pleasure, John nodded his head, gazing up into Sherlock's face half hidden in shadow from the candlelight.
And then John's stomach growled.
“Er.” he said.
Sherlock kissed a smile to John's lips. “Food first. Clean after. Then we'll go to bed, but not to sleep. As soon as he-who-I-shall-not-name walks into this flat, he will know where he stands. And it is not beside you.”
John knew he was going to have that sentiment more or less rammed into him all night.
He belonged to Sherlock, and that was precisely and exactly how he wanted it.
John whined from the back of his throat. “Christ, just…”
Sherlock pressed the head of his cock against John’s hole, feeling the resistance of it as he pushed inside, the muscles squeezing around him.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John sucked in a sharp, trembling breath. “Stop, stop. It’s too big.”
Sherlock took a deep breath and wrenched his self control back from the single-minded need to be buried to the root inside John. He stopped moving, gripping the base of his cock between thumb and finger and waited.
“Just give me a sec,” John said, hanging his head, forehead pressing to the pillow beneath. He widened his knees, gyrating his hips, trying to adjust to the girth of Sherlock’s cock. “How far are you? How much inside?”
“Just the head,” Sherlock said with far more calm than he felt. “John, I…”
“Just a second,” John mumbled, squeezing his eyes closed. The pressure of being stretched open, the fullness he felt already, and Sherlock wasn’t even halfway. “More lube.”
Sherlock quickly squirted from the bottle, pouring cool lube all around John’s hole with his cock still inside. He circled his finger around the stretched rim, shivering in pleasure at how red it looked swallowing his cock like that.
The rim massage of Sherlock’s finger and the extra lube helped, easing the painful pressure into something else, something not quite pleasure yet on the verge of it.
“Okay,” John breathed with a thick swallow around his dry tongue. “More,”
Sherlock groaned under his breath, a soft noise that caught in his teeth as he pushed forward. His cock slipped in with far more ease but the resistance was still there, the tightness of John’s fluttering little hole still massaging around his cock. “Just a little more,” Sherlock said with a breathy sigh, watching with something like euphoria as his cock disappeared into John’s body. “Just a bit more,”
Shivery heat tightened John’s nipples as little goosebumps prickled across his skin. He felt too full already, too widely stretched, and yet Sherlock wasn’t stopping, he was still going.
“God, John, look at you taking me like this,” Sherlock marveled at it, at how that sweet little hole was swallowing his cock up. A low moan rumbled from deep in his chest as he finally bottomed out, his cock fully sheathed inside John’s body.
It was pure driven instinct to pull back and start thrusting; he curbed the need by raking the pads of his fingers down John’s back, admiring his taut muscles, the way his bones felt, the fine sheen of sweat across his skin.
Curling around smaller John’s body, loving how perfectly they fit together, Sherlock kissed the back of John’s neck and nosed into his hair. “Please, John,”
John groaned in a mewling kind of way, a lit fuse inside his body as Sherlock’s chest pressed against him, changing the angle of his hips, his cock sliding just so and pushing up against the place inside him that made his legs quake. “Move, Jesus, Sherlock, move,” he panted.
With a noise of pure pleasure, Sherlock started to move his hips in smooth, thrusting motions. It didn’t take long for power to build, the urge to go faster and harder too great to resist. He pushed down on John with his body with each powerful thrust until John’s knees slid out from under him, pushing him flat on his front. Sherlock covered John’s body with his, sliding his arms beneath John’s chest to gain leverage as he fucked into John’s hole with snapping, hard thrusts. His whole cock was pushed inside John, his balls slapping against John’s skin as he moved, the slick little noises of fucking filling the room.
John turned his head the side, panting as he moaned in a staccato to match Sherlock’s thrusts. His cock was rubbing between his body and the soft bed sheets, teasing him with the promise of release but never quite getting there. It was glorious, sweet torture.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” John begged and panted and clawed at the pillow. He was completely covered by Sherlock’s body, completely at Sherlock’s mercy, unable to move except to squirm and wiggle.
“Hold on,” Sherlock breathed, stopping the movement of his hips. “Roll with me,” he said, lifting off of John only enough so that John could move with Sherlock as he rolled them onto their sides, spooning up behind John tightly, his cock slipping out.
Lifting John’s leg up, Sherlock kissed the shell of John’s ear and said, “Put me back inside you,”
With a trembling sigh, John reached between his legs, grasping for Sherlock’s slick, hard cock and took it in his hand, guiding it back to his hole where he pushed the tip in and bore down, groaning in a desperate, breathy way as he felt the hot stretch all over again.
“Touch yourself, wank your cock for me,” Sherlock said, sliding his hand up the back of John’s thigh. He pushed over the curve of John’s sweet little arse and then slid his hand up to grip at the soft bit of fat John had at his hips. Using it as leverage, Sherlock held onto John’s body and fucked into him, listening as John wanked himself.
“Come on, love,” Sherlock breathed, the excitement in his body increasing with every moan that fell from John’s lips.
With a wiggle of his hips, John bore down on Sherlock’s cock, taking it into himself deep and hot. It didn’t take long to feel that familiar ache in his balls, that shivery tension behind his navel. With a soft, low cry John came into his hand, spilling come over his fingers and onto the sheets, Sherlock’s name on his lips.
Watching and listening to John come sent Sherlock over the edge. The way John’s body was squeezing and pulsing around his cock was an exquisite kind of torture, pulling pleasure from him in pumps of soft sticky come that filled John’s little hole.
“God, John, so good,” Sherlock panted, hips stuttering to a stop as the last of his orgasm drained from him.
It took a while to get themselves detached and cleaned up and they ended up taking a joint trip to the loo. After a shared shower where they soaped each other and kissed in between each slide of soapy hands on smooth, soft skin, they collapsed in bed together.
Without a word, John pulled Sherlock around him, huddling his body against Sherlock’s. A shivery pleasant tingle ran through him as the position echoed what they’d been doing just a short while ago.
Lacing their fingers together on John’s stomach, Sherlock nuzzled the back of John’s neck, marveling yet again at how perfect they fit together. The solid weight and muscle of John pressed up against him was the deepest comfort Sherlock could have ever hoped for.
Butterflies. John's stomach was rolling with them, a hyped up mixture of adrenaline and pure sexual desire surging in his blood.
Eight officers were crowded into Lestrade's office, dressed in their uniforms, staring at John as he and Sherlock crowded into the room.
John swallowed around the tension in his throat, staring back at the men who were eyeing him up like a piece of meat.
“Officers,” Sherlock greeted. “As promised, here's your reward. There are no rules, he's yours to use as you like.”
John glanced over to Sherlock and caught his eye briefly – the dark, heated look in his eyes sent John's blood surging.
The group of officers moved into action, undressing themselves quickly, piling their uniforms off into a corner of the room. John caught a glimpse of Lestrade's desk — it was completely cleared off and empty, the perfect size and height for John to rest on if he wanted.
John started to undress himself while he watched the eight men reveal their naked bodies; some had hairy chests and arms some didn't but they all had happy trails and all of them were sporting erections that were already growing to full hardness. The smell in the room changed nearly instantly to something that reminded John of the barracks – the smell of men in close quarters with their sweat and musk and arousal.
A gentle nudge at his shoulder prompted John to focus back on what was happening. Sherlock slid his hand down John's nude back and gave him a gentle push towards the centre of the room where the men were waiting.
–
John didn't know these men or what their names even were. He knew nothing about them at all except that they all wanted him. He didn't look into their faces or eyes, he looked at their cocks as they all vied for a place near his mouth, pushing against his cheeks, his forehead, tapping across his nose, each waiting for their turn inside John's mouth.
He took turns sucking them all while wanking two cocks in his hands at all times, moving his mouth from man to man like a cocksucking assembly line. All of John's senses were overwhelmed with the maleness around him, the sheer heat of their bodies crowded around him and their hands all pushing and pulling at him, demanding his attention on their cock.
His knees were getting raw from the hard floor by the time they hauled him up by the underarms, guiding John to the desk. One of them crowded out the others, grabbing John and holding him close, rubbing their bodies together, swooping down for a kiss that was less about lips and more about licking into John's mouth.
He was grabbed by the hips and lifted up and carried around to the desk, where he was laid down on it, shivering as the cool desk met his back. The officer who had laid him down was replaced by another one, who was eager to split John's knees apart as wide as he could to knuckle down John's taint.
John squirmed on the desk, whining softly at the pleasure, arching into all the hands that were groping him. There were so many of them, each of them rubbing and groping and pinching and grabbing. His soft inner thighs were grabbed and squeezed while the hand was rubbing along his taint kept pushing further back until they were pressing dry and hot against John's hole.
“Jesus, yes,” John breathed, torn between elevating his hips up or arching into the two separate hands that were teasing his nipples. “Fuck me,” he begged.
There was a round of appreciative growling and cheering at that and then John was being manhandled about like a toy, pushed along the desk until his head was hanging off the edge and a cock was pushing at his lips.
The distinct smell of a man's hard cock dribbling with pre-come floated into John's nose as the largest cock of them forced itself between John's lips, the spongey head hitting the roof of his mouth as he pushed inside.
A second later the officer between his legs was spreading lube all across his arsehole and fingering him open.
John could hardly breathe for the excitement of it, trying to suck a cock upside down and being fingered open at the same time, meanwhile there were hands touching him everywhere, even his feet. The hot sensations of them rubbing their cocks on any inch of John's skin they could get at was achingly exquisite – one of them was pushing the ridge of his cockhead against the scar on John's shoulder.
“Get that little hole ready for me,” the officer with the large cock growled. He pushed the tip back against John's lips, slipping inside when John opened his mouth. The sizable girth stretched his lips wide again as he struggled to relax his jaw. The man pushed in deeper, pressing to the roof of John's mouth and then further back to John's throat. John gagged around it, coughing and spluttering. “Yeah, god, that's it,” the officer groaned, shoving in deeper, his cock going into John's throat. “Take it all down there, sweet thing.”
John whined, trying to breathe through his nose, but the need to cough and expel what was choking him made him squirm and hit his hands on the table.
The man pulled out, his cock coated thickly in spit. John coughed and spluttered, squeezing his eyes shut against the natural welling of tears.
The fingers scissoring inside his hole pulled out and were replaced immediately by a cock, pushing inside in one thrust.
John groaned, eyes fluttering open as he looked up at the man standing in front of him. He was stroking his thick cock, looking down at John being fucked. “What's your favourite past-time?” he asked with a wide grin.
“This,” John moaned, dropping open his jaw again.
“Little slut,” The officer said, pushing his cock back inside John's mouth. This time John was prepared for it and focused on controlling his gag reflex and keeping steady breath as the cock pushed deeper than even before, slipping down into John's throat. John could feel the man's balls brush over his forehead and nose as he nearly bottomed out.
“Hold my cock in your throat,” the man moaned, one of his hands cupping the curve of John's chin while he used his other hand to brace himself on John's chest, squeezing at John's breast. “Just hold me in there, you filthy boy,”
“Don't hog him, come on, Johnson,” another voice said.
And then John was gasping for air again, throat squeezing as the cock slipped out. The officer, Johnson, slapped John's cheek a few times with his flat palm and then moved away, replaced immediately by another cock, one of the more average sized ones, allowing John to relax his jaw a bit. He sucked as best he could while both his hands were grabbed and placed around two cocks on either side of him just like before, only now he was not only sucking cock but he was doing it while being fucked.
The man inside him sped up his thrusts, grabbing John's thighs and slamming into him, grunting and groaning.
“Ohh, Ricky's gonna come already, lads!” someone said to a chorus of rowdy cheers. “Go on and come inside that tight little arse.”
Officer Ricky fucked John in a pace too brutal to allow for cocksucking; the officer fucking his mouth pulled out and settled for slapping his cock against John's forehead and nose while Ricky slammed into John one last time, a series of groans filling John's ears as he filled John's arse with his come.
John whined, letting go of the cocks in his hands to reach down between his legs as Ricky pulled out, catching the dribbles of come in his hand as it slid out.
“Clean your fingers off, you dirty boy,” they called to him.
John brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, the tangy taste of Ricky sliding down his throat.
—
Over in the corner, Sherlock stood against the wall, coat pulled closed, and looked to Lestrade who was next to him.
“Interested yet?”
“Christ, Sherlock, are you sure? This is…”
“Mm, yes, it is,” Sherlock agreed. It was exceedingly hard to not take himself out and slide into John's body.
“I just mean… I've never…” Lestrade trailed off, squirming uncomfortably where he stood. “I can't believe I'm seeing him like this.”
“Don't get used to it. I only share when he really needs it. I'd have to kill you otherwise.” Sherlock said with his best sociopath smile.
“All right, calm down, Sherlock. I get it.” Lestrade said. He looked over at John again on the desk – his desk — with a man beneath him, a man behind him, and men all around him.
John was moaning as quietly as he could manage, which wasn't very quiet at all, as he dipped his back low and garbled a string of cuss words.
“Is he… Is he being…?”
“I believe the term is double penetration.” Sherlock said with a calmness he did not feel. God, he wanted to be in there feeling another man's cock pressed up against his while they both stretched open John's little pink hole.
Lestrade looked ready to explode.
Sherlock adjusted himself through his coat. “Just go already,” he growled.
–
John fluttered open his eyes, the cock inside his mouth slipping out with a slurp. The men around him seemed to be making room, stepping aside.
“Try him out, Sir."
John watched Lestrade approach, sans trousers, cock jutting out from the opening in his underwear. It was big, though not as big as Officer Johnson's, and flushed deep pink at the beautiful, bulbous head. John could already imagine how it'd feel inside his arse.
Lestrade was looking at John with a mixture of lust and trepidation as he came to a stop in front of John's face, the tip of his cock so close to John's lips he could feel the heat of it. The smell of Lestrade's musk and pre-come prompted John to open his mouth, tongue hanging out in invitation.
“Jesus, God,” Lestrade groaned, pushing his cock against John's tongue and slipping it between his lips.
John lurched forward, the two men inside him starting to fuck him in snapping thrusts, forcing John to rock forward. He whined, slurping messily around Lestrade's cock while he shook and shivered, his hole stretched impossibly wide. Everywhere around John was heat— heat from men, so many men, all of them wanting a piece of him. His arsehole felt like it was on fire with two hot cocks sliding together inside his body, stretching him wide.
John swallowed down Lestrade's cock with a lust-driven passion, letting himself be used and fucked into a rhythm of rocking back onto the cocks and then forward into Lestrade's until John's cock, trapped between his belly and the man beneath him, began to throb with approaching orgasm. He whined in agony, trying to stop the intense pleasure, gripping the edge of Lestrade's desk with knuckles gone white.
“Easy now, John,”
Sherlock's voice pierced through the thick haze of pleasure inside John.
He was still sucking Lestrade's cock, but Sherlock was standing close, reaching out to place his palm, flat and heavy, on John’s head.
“Don't come yet.” Sherlock spoke calmly and clearly, only a faint tremble in his voice that John was sure only he alone could recognise having heard it intimately close many, many times. Sherlock was holding himself back too.
Using the sound of Sherlock's voice, John grounded himself back down from the wild heights of the orgasmic-bliss he'd been carried up to. Even as he was continually fucked and Lestrade pushed his cock into John's mouth deeper, John was able to curb his orgasm. The tight pain his balls felt welcome and pleasing, especially as he knew that when he did finally get to come it would be beyond exquisite.
“Good boy,” Sherlock murmured, stroking through John's hair just as the men fucking him grunted together and filled John's hole with come, one after the other.
—
John could feel the previous three loads of come inside him squish and slide around the two new cocks that were pushing inside. He wondered how he looked from behind, if his arsehole looked as sloppy and stretched as it felt.
Lestrade groaned into John's ear, gripping John's hips as he fucked inside him. “You really like this, don't you?” Lestrade sounded awed, if not completely mind-blown.
“Christ, yes,” John groaned, gyrating his hips, feeling the length of those two cocks pushing deep inside. “Fuck me,” he moaned, wishing he could spend his whole life like this, suspended in a state of perpetual sexual arousal so deep and raw that nothing could ever fill it, nothing could ever fill him completely, always open and aching for more, more, more.
He was aware he was moaning too loudly, but he couldn't stop himself, couldn't help the noises falling from his lips. Every time he opened his eyes, he sought out Sherlock, who moved around the room periodically, watching with a hawk-like stare. When their gazes met, the fire in John's body ignited anew. He had no idea how incredibly hot it would be to be fucked by a group of men while Sherlock watched.
“Someone shut him up!” one of the officers said. “If someone walks in here—”
“No one will,” Sherlock said firmly. “But shut him up anyway.”
John caught Sherlock's gaze just before it was blocked by one of the men stepping in front of John and shoving his cock between John's lips, abruptly replacing John's moans and needy mewling with muffled gurgles, slurps and wet sucking sounds.
Lestrade pulled his cock out from John's arse with a slick squelch and moved back around to John's front, pushing his cockhead near John's face. John popped his mouth off the one he was sucking and went to Lestrade, sucking on him and tasting come from the previous men who had already come inside him.
Another cock pushed inside him just as the man he'd been sucking off before grabbed John's head and forced him off Lestrade; hot, sticky come was immediately dripping onto John's cheek as the man groaned with his pleasure. John whimpered, taking the still-pulsing cock into his mouth to suck out the rest of the release and drink it down.
“What a little cumslut,” one of them said from behind John, sounding awfully pleased. “He's fucking perfect, my god.”
John mewled, letting the softening cock slip from between his lips with a dribbling trail of spit and come.
“More,” John demanded in a thick, hoarse voice. “More, give it,” he whined, suckling back onto Lestrade's twitching, bobbing cock. He took it down to the root, not caring about choking and gagging, just needing more.
“Shit, oh my god,” Lestrade moaned, hands coming around to grip John's head on either side as he began to thrust, fucking into John's throat. “I'm gonna—”
John wanted someone to tell Lestrade he didn't need to announce he was coming, but as his mouth was full, he simply fluttered open his eyes and looked up into Lestrade's face, holding his gaze, and immediately John's mouth filled with a bloom of sticky hot come.
Lestrade's cock slipped from John's mouth with a little slurp, shiny with spit and come and John looked up at him again, keeping the eye contact as Lestrade gripped his slowly softening cock and stroked it. John knew he must look like a mess with the come on his face, but Lestrade couldn't seem to look away.
Sherlock stepped into John's line of vision again, his eyes dark and heavily lidded, tightly controlled in his every movement like a cat on the prowl, gazing at John with all the single-minded focus and attention he would give to a crime scene. It made John shiver, his balls tightening again as pleasure rolled down his spine and pooled hot in his stomach. He could come from that look alone, the way it made him feel like he was being dissected, like Sherlock could see everything that John was (a dirty little slut) and he liked it.
“More,” John demanded, heat sparking on his skin while the man below him shifted, fucking up into John with a hard and snapping rhythm. “Christ, yes, oh god,” John whined with pleasure, listening to the officer below him moan with increasing pitch and frequency, thrusts snapping, until John was filled inside with another warm burst of come.
That made six. Six loads of come. Six men pleasuring themselves in his arse. His mouth. On his face.
The officer below let his softening cock slip out and with it his come running down from John's squeezing, fluttering hole to coat warm and sticky on his balls.
With shaking legs, John slowly moved off the officer below him, smiling down at his warm, pleased face.
“Merrick, I'm Merrick.” the man said.
“Watson,” John replied with a small smile.
His thighs hurt. They were shaking and trembling in protest as John tried to close them. His knees felt like hell from both the desk and the floor and the gravel from earlier that day.
And there were still two officers standing there, stroking their hard cocks. John gazed at the sight of their lean bodies, muscled and sweaty, and he was overcome with a single-minded desire to taste their come.
He dropped down to his sore knees in front of them, reaching to take their cocks into each hand to stroke and suck and beg for their come.
The rest of the men cheered on their buddies with calls for them to come on John's sweet, slutty face.
“He's a perfect cumdump,” one of them said, “Takes every last drop, doesn't he?”
“I wish I had him at home.”
“I'd never leave home again if I had this slut in my bed.”
John squirmed, his cock aching hard and leaking, swaying in the air as he sucked down one of the cocks, making sure to choke and gag on it just the way he knew drove men crazy.
“Suck my dick, oh god, oh fuck yes,” the man said, grabbing John's head and holding it still while he began to thrust his thick cock into John's mouth. “Sweet little thing,” he grunted.
John mewled and whimpered, drool running down his chin while the officer's pre-come with its salty bitter taste slid into his throat.
“Come on, Stu, come on him! He's gagging for it!”
A chorus of humiliating laughter filled the room. John's cock twitched and leaked in response.
“Bloody hell, you gorgeous slut of a boy,” Officer Stu grunted, pulling his cock out from between John's lips just as it began to spurt come, some of it landing on John's tongue and most of it painting streaks across John's face, pooling on his cheek bone.
John had his eyes shut, completely lost in the moment. The pleasure of being used to catch come, of having his arse and his face full of it was far too good. He needed so badly to touch himself. He reached each down to palm at his cock, so caught up in it he missed the last of the officers stepping up behind him until his head was forcefully grabbed and tilted back in time for a splash of come to land thickly on his forehead.
The room erupted in cheers and claps, the officers all congratulating each other, while John sat there on his knees covered and filled with come. It was all he could taste and smell and feel. He squeezed his hard cock while rocking his hips up, dribbles of come still sliding from his hole.
–
John sat in the cab, squirming every other minute. Sherlock hadn't let him use the toilet so he was still leaking semen from his arsehole. There was a thick towel beneath him because there was no way his jeans were going to keep it all in.
At least he'd been able to wash off his face and hands and upper body. He'd brushed his teeth a few times as well to get rid of most of the taste of all that come. As amazing as it was when it was happening, it got a bit much when it was all over.
Sherlock curled his hand around John's upper thigh. “Almost home.” he said.
John couldn't wait. Home. He could strip down to nothing and stay that way for the rest of the day, spending it all in bed with Sherlock. Would Sherlock use a plug to keep John full? Would he spend the rest of the afternoon fucking him? Would he fill John's arse or mouth with his come? John couldn't decide what he wanted more, except to say that he wanted both his mouth and arse full with Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock could clone himself and –
“John? John, are you listening?”
John snapped to attention, looking over at Sherlock.
“Er-” he said, squirming again. “Not really.”
“I asked if you were hungry at all.”
John snorted. “Not right now.”
Sherlock smiled slowly. “I didn't ask if you were hungry for food.”
John breathed in sharply. “Yes.” he said immediately. His cock, still hard and trapped in his jeans, pulsed hot against the zip.
“Good. It's still early yet.” Sherlock said breezily as though he hadn't just implied that he would be coming in John's mouth soon as they got home.
“You lads mind if I take a shortcut?” the cab driver asked suddenly.
John darted his eyes to Sherlock, heart slamming in his chest.
“Not in the least.” Sherlock answered mildly. “Do you mind, John?”
John breathed rapidly, looking between the cab driver and Sherlock. Was it a coincidence? Just some silly coincidence that this cab driver, a completely different man from before, was asking nearly the same thing as the first one?
Sherlock clicked his tongue. “You know, I forgot to bring cash with me.” he said, a slow smile unfurling on his lips.
They stood side by side, staring down together at the horror on the warehouse floor.
“That’s...” Sherlock says, a slightly nauseated look on his pale face.
“Bloody hell,” John says.
The corpse makes no response. Behind them, the sound of the scene of crime team working to secure the area is overly loud.
“Incredibly,” Lestrade says, coming up behind John, “this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this.”
“That’s....” Sherlock says.
“Bloody hell,” John says.
“Shagged to death,” Lestrade says, and grimaces. “Just your classic gangbang gone a bit overboard. Weak heart, probably.”
“Christ,” John says.
Lestrade shakes his head sadly and walks away.
Sherlock and John leave. There isn’t anything for them to do here. Death by Shagging, while an interesting way to die, doesn’t offer much in the way of mental stimulation.
“Still,” John says as they’re in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. “Quite the way to die.”
Sherlock looks over at him sharply. “Are you—I mean. Would you want—”
“No!” John says, startled. “God, no. The only cock I want up my arse is yours, ta.”
Sherlock nods, a look of relief on his face. “Good.”
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