Inspired by a ficlet from @mazarin221b and conversation with @bakerstmel, I offer my submission to the (Bumping) Ugly Duvet Challenge. Shamefully I have made mine nearly 4K which is a record for me. It’s the shortest fic i have ever written.
“And this is your room, Sherlock,” Mrs. Watson opens the door to reveal a small bedroom adorned with ruffles and rainbows.
Sherlock sets his jaw and does not even blink. “Splendid.”
John side-glances the detective with surprise. He knows that insults and bellows of disgust are bouncing off the walls of Sherlock’s mind palace.
“I’ve preserved Harriet’s room perfectly,” Mrs. Watson beams from the threshold.
“Quite a tribute.” Sherlock nods tightly.
Mrs. Watson pats Sherlock’s arm affectionately. “I’ll let you settle in. I’m so glad you’re spending Christmas with us.”
Mrs. Watson shuffles down the hall to descend the stairs and attend to her pies.
“You don’t have to stay in here. You can take my room,” John offers.
Sherlock takes one step back to fully appreciate the grandeur of the bedroom - from the plush azure rug, frilled bedspread littered with bright rainbows, and arched canopy with even more rainbows. A young Harriet Watson once had lain in this small twin bed to sleep under an avalanche of crescent colours.
“I would have never envisioned this,” Sherlock murmurs.
“Harry blamed all these rainbows for making her a lesbian,” John cracks.
“I’m surprised she didn’t go blind. It’s so bright.” Sherlock squints against the colours.
John nods his head down the hall. “Come on, my room is that way and a bit less garish.”
John’s room is entirely in shades of navy blue and grey. In between two bronze rugby statues lay a red ribbon adorned with a pewter medal. On one wall, a football player is in mid kick with sweat glistening on his arms and legs, while above the bed a buxom, scantily clad woman straddles the sand as waves break behind her.
When Sherlock glances back to John, he finds his doctor blushing.
“Two things I obsessed over - Elle McPherson and David Beckham.” John shrugs lightly.
“Which was your favourite?”
John rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Depended on the day. Come on, mum’s got supper on.”
Both Sherlock and John had felt the boundaries of their relationship shift in recent weeks. Nothing dangerous had precipitated to draw them closer, just two people slowly awakening to their attraction and importance to each other. Lingering glances and touches had fueled warmth blossoming across cheeks. Many times, Sherlock had opened his mouth to address it once and for all. Just to lay his heart on the table and get it out in the open. But the moment would always disappear, along with his courage.
John had never expected Sherlock to accept his casual invitation to spend Christmas with Mrs. Watson and her new paramour. He nearly fell over when Sherlock had looked up casually from his paper and agreed to go. Now John is watching him inspect and privately deduce his childhood.
After supper, Mrs. Watson pulls out the photo album, and John’s cheeks turn a deep magenta. John observes his mum pouring over pages and pages of his youth with a rapt Sherlock Holmes. Those iridescent aqua eyes smile honestly as Mrs. Watson tells a tale for each page. The laugh that escapes from those sinful lips is hearty and open. As a flush creeps up from the open vee of Sherlock’s shirt and spreads to his cheek, John’s navy sweater somehow becomes incredibly stuffy.
Mrs. Watson pours everyone a healthy glass of sherry as they lounge in the cozy sitting room. Maybe it’s the wine or the way the twinkling Christmas lights are reflected in John’s light hair, but Sherlock crosses his legs and hums with contentment. If this is what the common folk call domestic bliss, he approves. He even delights as Mrs. Watson’s paramour (was his name Barry?) and John exchange stories from the service.
“Good night, boys,” Mrs. Watson calls up the stairs. “Happy Christmas!”
“Happy Christmas, Mum.” John pauses at the top of the stairs.
“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Watson.” Sherlock nods.
John’s mum slips down the hall leaving Sherlock and John to shuffle their feet and avoid direct contact.
“Well, good night. I hope Elle isn’t too distracting.” John offers a shy grin.
“You may need a sleep mask to dim the brightness of that room.” Sherlock gestures to the rainbow happiness just beyond the threshold.
“Maybe I’ll just use a pillow. No snooping around for your present either. I have it well hidden,” John says.
Sherlock’s lips twitch in an almost smirk. “It’s somewhere under the rainbow mattress.”
John huffs in frustration. “How did you know?” He looks at Sherlock closely. “And did you just make a pop reference?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What kind of childhood do you think I had that I would not know Wizard of Oz?”
With a laugh, John shakes his head. “You never fail to amaze me. Do you know what your gift is?”
“Well,” Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back. “I know it’s an old book. Most likely a first edition and possibly signed by the author.”
Sherlock raises his hand. “I could deduce what book, but why ruin the surprise?”
The warmth of the smile resting on Sherlock’s lips goes directly to John’s cock.
“Good.” He clears his throat. “Then…” John looks all around Sherlock, afraid to look into his eyes directly. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock. I’m glad you’re here.” He extends an awkward hand.
“So am I, John. Good night.” Sherlock’s fingers wrap around John’s hand and give him a small squeeze before letting go.
Just as John finally drifts to the outer edge of consciousness, he hears the bedroom door creak. It’s probably his mum’s tabby. The bloody fat thing likes to try to jump on top of the canopy. He blinks against the streetlights that stream through the window and across his pillow. His mum’s bloody neighbours leave their blinking Christmas display on all night. The thin curtains in Harry’s room barely mute the garish display.
The door creaks again. This time he grabs a stuffed unicorn to toss at the cat. Rolling over with his arm raised, he sees Sherlock framed by the door.
“You’re going to assault me with a stuffed magical creature?” Sherlock whispers.
“I thought you were the cat.” John drops the unicorn on the floor. “Is something wrong?”
Sherlock hesitates a moment before stepping through the threshold. “It occurred to me that I should give your Christmas present to you.”
John props himself up on his elbows and squints at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock on the white dresser across the room. "And you needed to do this at two in the morning?“
“Yes, carried by wine and Christmas spirit, yes. Now.” Sherlock’s voice is strong, yet a layer of uncertainty lurks underneath.
He has John’s attention now. The streetlights illuminate the heaving of Sherlock’s bare chest. He pulls himself up to sit upright. His eyes take in the stunning figure of Sherlock padding over barefoot in only pyjama bottoms to stand beside the bed.
“What is it, Sherlock? You’re scaring me a bit,” John says.
Blinking rapidly as if he’s just come out a trance, Sherlock takes a step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise the time.”
John reaches out to grab his arm. “You’ve come all this way…”
“Really just down the hall. Barely more than a few yards…” Sherlock is losing nerve and his buzz. What had seemed like a grand idea while staring at the footballer on John’s wall has become a mess. This is why he doesn’t do relationships or anything intimate.
“Sherlock, why are you here?” John asks gently.
“Right, to give you my Christmas present.” Sherlock nods and searches for the courage he had possessed ten minutes ago.
John’s mouth waters as the neighbor’s blinking Christmas display paints Sherlock’s pale torso in red and green. He’s seen Sherlock in various stages of undress. The man has absolutely no sense of boundaries or modesty. But in this moment, he seems unsure and timid. Sherlock’s fingers worry at his pyjamas. He takes a deep breath.
“I have never been so bold with another person. My experience with intimacy is limited to nothing, really. I can only give you what I’ve never given anyone before, and that is myself.” Sherlock straightens himself before John’s gaze. Even in the dark, he’s certain that his heart pounds hard enough to been seen. While he knows that is physiologically impossible, he feels as exposed as as a lab animal during a dissection.
“Sherlock,” John whispers. He cannot form words that could ever convey how much his chest wants to burst open.
Biting his lower lip, Sherlock’s nerve begins to crumble as the silence stretches beyond thirty seconds. “I might have misjudged the situation. I apologise for waking you. I can leave first thing in the morning to avoid…”
John kneels on the bed and reaches for Sherlock’s arm. “Don’t you dare leave. You crazy, amazing man. Come here.”
John pulls Sherlock into his arms. Sliding one hand into those impossible curls, he tilts Sherlock’s face to his.
“I want this more than you could ever possibly imagine.”
Under a canopy of thirty two rainbows, bright polka dots and endless ruffles, John’s lips meet Sherlock with a soft press and a pause to make certain that this not just a dream. It is Sherlock that surges forward to crush his mouth to John’s. He searches for the other man’s tongue as it it held the secret to life and death.
“Hmm,” Sherlock mumbles while exploring all sides of John’s mouth. He finds he doesn’t care about the wine and sleep stale breath.
The sensation of John’s hand tightening in his hair shoots straight to between his legs. He realises he needs to do something with his hands. They wrestle with the hem of John’s vest, hungry to touch skin.
“Slow down…” John murmurs.
With ragged breath, Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s. “I don’t want to take it slow. I’ve waited so bloody long. I want it all. I want to give it all,” he glances up, “in this ridiculous bed. I want every inch of you memorised on this blessed holiday.”
“Jesus,” John mutters before plunging his tongue between those delicious lips and pulling Sherlock against his body. An electric shock shoots through his body when a very prominent erection presses into his hip.
Of course their first evening together would be fevered passion in his sister’s twin bed. Nothing about their relationship has ever followed any kind of convention. John couldn’t be happier for that - even the awkward start and stop dance they’ve done for years.
Reluctantly, John pulls back to look at Sherlock’s swollen mouth. Christ, it is so obscene that he could come from staring at it too long.
“Stop pulling away,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles roughly.
“I’m trying to slow us down. This isn’t just tonight, right? You want this to be… permanent?” John asks.
Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Of course. I’m not the one for one night stands…”
“Hey, a man has needs. And when he can’t get them from his seemingly uninterested but gorgeous as hell flatmate, he has to get by.” John kisses the frown from Sherlock’s face. “I want it all too. No need to rush.”
The hunger in Sherlock’s eyes tosses John off kilter. He’s certain that no matter what words of experience he’s to offer, Sherlock will still swallow him whole.
The lithe detective climbs onto the bed and pins John, staring ravenously. “I know we can wait, but I have waited for years to feel this alive and to want to give another person everything. I crave connection.”
Sherlock’s voice is incredibly husky and drips with sin. John takes a deep breath so he can offer one final pause before he dives into Sherlock’s alabaster skin.
“You’ve never done this, have you? You want…"John searches for the right words.
Slinking over John’s body, long fingers slip under a sweat dampened shirt. “I want penetration, to feel the blood thrum through you. Let me belong to you.”
Any reservations John had harboured fly out through the lacy rainbow curtains. He sheds his shirt and pulls Sherlock on top of him in a messy crush of mouths, teeth and skin. Pornographic sighs and moans fill the tiny room. John pitches his hips to grind against Sherlock.
“Do that again,” Sherlock moans.
John adjusts so that their pajama clad erections are lined up then thrusts upward. His hands plant on the firm globes of Sherlock’s arse and slowly moves against him. The high pitched groan that escapes from Sherlock is surprising and endearing.
“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbles in embarrassment.
“No, you sound and feel amazing.” John nips at Sherlock’s long neck.
“Christ.” Sherlock props up on one arm and pushes his pyjamas to his knees with his free hand. “Please let me feel you.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice before John is kicking his shorts and pants over the side of the bed to join Sherlock’s plaid bottoms on the plush blue rug .
Slowly, Sherlock lowers himself between John’s thighs. He feels the heat from John’s skin radiate and with the first press of skin on skin contact, he gasps.
“You feel amazing.” John runs his hands across Sherlock’s shoulders, then down his back to grip his arse.
“Why did we take so long to do this?” Sherlock’s lips move against John’s shoulder.
“I didn’t think you wanted this. Your body is just transport. You barely feed it, so I didn’t think giving it pleasure was important.” John shrugs lightly.
“Until you, it never was. My body never craved those things until you arrived. Now it is all I can think about. My mind palace has turned into one of those videos you try to delete from your browser.” Sherlock moves his hips against John. The coarse hairs of John’s pelvis tickle and excite Sherlock’s sensitive head.
“God, Sherlock.” John thrusts up against Sherlock’s abdomen. He removes his hands from that perfect arse to run them through the soft curls, before bringing their lips together again.
The sensation of John’s hot and damp skin pulling and sliding over his is too much. Breaking away to catch his breath, Sherlock blinks to get get himself under control. “Hold on. I am very aroused presently, and my scrotum is tightening…I don’t want to ejaculate too soon.”
The words come out in a rush causing John to chuckle lightly. “Okay, but I’d bet you’d recover soon. Though, I think you coming would push me over the edge and I’m not a young man anymore.”
There is something about John’s wet fringe clinging to his face that makes Sherlock shirk off self control and devour his mouth again. He moves one hand between them to touch John’s cock, hard and hot against his palm.
Wrapping his fingers around the flushed member, he peers at John’s head thrown back in ecstasy. “Is this good?”
“Oh very good, too good. All the good,” John gasps.
With his hand still wrapped around John, Sherlock grinds his hips against him. His own cock brushes against his knuckles and his hands and hips move in time.
The wooden frame rattles as they thrust and move together. The canopy frame sways, causing the ruffled fabric to flutter and metal to squeak. Too suddenly, Sherlock stills and props himself up.
“This absurd bed is making too much noise. Your mother has to know exactly what is occurring in here,” Sherlock pants. “Maybe we should…”
John pushes the damp curls from Sherlock’s eyes. “Do you want to stop?”
“God no,” Sherlock moans.
“Then Sherlock, I swear if you don’t get inside me, I will die. I have been ready for this for so long. I want it all - the madness and mayhem. I want troubles and complications. I want bad morning breath to kiss me, and I want to take you on every surface of Baker Street when we get home. But please, do not stop. I want everything tonight. Now.” John pushes up for a bruising kiss that scrapes Sherlock’s top lip with his teeth. That unleashes a positively feral growl from the back of Sherlock’s throat that John feels all the way to his balls.
“John, I’ve never done that…to anyone. I wouldn’t know what to do.” Sherlock’s hips cant against John slowly.
A small smile plays at the corners of John’s lips. “Perfect, my sister says she lost her virginity under these silly rainbows. I’ve never had anal sex, or at least not like this. No one has ever been inside me, and Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I want it to be you - only you.”
Sherlock attacks his mouth again. He could live on the tip of John’s tongue - christ the things that muscle could do. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It won’t hurt for long, not when it’s you.” John presses her forehead to Sherlock’s. “Don’t make me beg, Holmes.”
It’s Sherlock’s turn to grin. “If you do, I most certainly won’t last.” His face falls serious a moment later. “But your mother…”
“Sleeps like the dead. How do you think Harry got a terrible reputation at school? She shagged half the girls in her class in this bed,” John says.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “On these sheets?”
“The very ones I’m about to shag you rotten on. Now switch positions with me.” John commands.
Sherlock throws his head back against the baby powder scented pillow to focus on the rainbows overhead - and not coming too soon. As John’s body surrounds his cock, it takes everything he has to not thrust up into the welcoming heat. Nothing, not even cocaine, has ever felt this good. He could watch his cock disappear into John every night for as long as they both lived.
“Okay?” Sherlock’s voice trembles.
John opens his eyes to reveal nothing but lustful longing. “I can’t wait until you know what it feels like to have your lover fill you completely.”
Lover. John has called Sherlock his lover. No signed first edition will ever be better than those words.
“Can I move? Are you hurting?”
John plants his knees on either side of Sherlock. “Let me move first.”
With a slight roll of his hips, John sees rainbows explode behind his eyelids. In this position, Sherlock hits exactly the right spot. Tentatively, he moves again and again until he hears a muffled moan below him. When he opens his eyes, Sherlock’s face is contorted in pain, or pleasure - John can’t be certain.
“Do you want to move?” John pants.
His eyes pop open. “Can I? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m feeling many things and none of them is pain. God, take me….do what you feel.” His finger traces a hard nipple eliciting a hiss from Sherlock’s lips.
Strong fingers grab John’s hips, and slowly Sherlock thrusts up into him. The stretch burns, but when Sherlock brushes his prostate, everything is bliss. He moves against the rhythm slowly at first, then matching Sherlock’s increasing speed.
“Oh God, John,” Sherlock moans loudly.
The headboard crashes against the garish yellow wall every time their bodies meet. The room is filled with the scent of the cucumber melon perfumed lotion liberally used for lubrication.
Sherlock isn’t certain how much longer he can last. Just watching John writhe above him with his neck and chest mottled with bites and nips caused by his own mouth is enough to bring on his orgasm. John slides back and forth on Sherlock so hard they could very well break the bed.
“I’m so close,” John chokes out. “Touch me.”
Sherlock looks at John’s red cock bobbing with every thrust. He’s not sure what inspires him, but Sherlock licks his right hand, then wraps it firmly around him.
A seductive smile curls on John’s lips. “You gorgeous bastard. Tell me you’re close.”
“Can’t last much longer with you fucking me like a first class porn star.” The fingers of his left hand dig into John’s hip.
“You dirty, amazing man,” John rumbles as he comes all over Sherlock’s chest and stomach.
The sound of Sherlock swearing pushes him over the other side of a mind blowing orgasm.
He still sees his lover fighting against his own orgasm. Licking his own fingers, he swipes the sticky fluid from Sherlock’s chest and pops it between those kiss reddened lips. Sherlock’s tongue curls around John’s thick fingers as he moans and give one, two more thrusts. His face and neck turn bright red as he comes so hard the stars explode around John’s head.
“Oh sweet mercy, John!” He huffs. His hips make small circles as his orgasm slowly abates, leaving him boneless.
John replaces his fingers with his eager tongue. Their fevered post orgasm kiss cools to a languid tangle of lips and whispered praises.
“You were fan-fucking-tastic,” John murmurs.
“Are first times usually this good?” Sherlock’s fingertips caress John’s sweat covered back.
John huffs out a laugh against Sherlock’s skin. “No. No first time is like that ever. We have done the impossible and everyone else should just give up.”
The rainbow duvet is a total loss. John is certain he won’t have to explain it to his mother. After a quick wash up with warm flannels, he is now tucked in his clean bed with a sleepy Sherlock curled around him.
“Will she be mad?” Sherlock asks as he floats somewhere between sleep and euphoria.
“Mum, not really. Harry will be when she gets the picture I texted her.” John smirks into damp dark curls.
Sherlock chuckles. “You dirty boy.”
“She’ll appreciate the fact her duvet popped many a cherry. Maybe less thrilled that not one but two cocks were on her bed. Something she would have never imagined or allowed.”
“We can fondly call it the rainbow connection. The lovers, the dreamers and loss of virginity. Jim Henson would weep.” Sherlock moves closer to John’s side.
“Sherlock Holmes, did you just quote the Muppets? That’s two pop culture references in a day.” John looks down at the mop of curls.
Sherlock peers up. “What kind of monstrous childhood do you think I had?”
“Not one that involved musicals and children’s programs on telly. Or I would have thought you’d have deleted it long ago.”
“Oh I did. I also have the ability to recall something if it’s essential information. Tonight called for those kinds of memories.” Sherlock places a gentle kiss on John’s scar.
“You know, I’ve never had sex with a man in MY bed,” John offers cheekily.
“I believe I’m technically still a virgin….in regards to some sexual activities.” Sherlock reaches up to purr in his ear.
“I have much to show you…tomorrow night. Mum will be up before dawn and we’ll be up soon after.” John yawns.
“Should I move back to Harry’s room?”
John wraps his arms around Sherlock tightly. “Don’t you dare. Unless you’d rather sleep alone.”
