|Compromising Positions | Into the Black | Contact|
DomesticityNotes:Big thanks to emungere for the beta (as always) and to CagedWriter61's "In the Body" for the inspiration. I will be somewhat cryptic here and say: I looked it up, it's possible.
Their latest case has been particularly grueling, and although John has managed a few short naps here and there, he’s pretty sure that Sherlock hasn’t slept in over three days. When they return to the flat, Sherlock crashes hard, barely making it into his usual pajama bottoms and t-shirt before flopping gracelessly across most of the bed and falling into a deep sleep.
John putters around the flat for a while, tidying things up and winding down a bit – he can never go straight to bed after a case – he’s too full of adrenaline to sleep. Eventually, the rush wears off and the exhaustion pours in, and John crawls into the small space that Sherlock left him and promptly falls asleep, only to wake exactly five and a half hours later.
Mutely cursing his internal clock, John yawns and stretches, and then looks over at Sherlock, who is still dead to the world, still in the same position he fell asleep in. John smiles fondly at him and then he sits up and makes himself comfortable, propping his pillow up behind his back. He picks up the latest copy of BMJ off the nightstand and starts to read. After a few moments, Sherlock shifts, curling his arm around John’s legs and resting his head against John’s hip. John flips the journal in half so that he can hold it in one hand while he strokes the other through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock sighs peacefully in his sleep and curls closer to John. He turns the page and keeps reading. About an hour later, Sherlock’s breathing changes.
“Morning,” John says, looking down at Sherlock, who has just opened his eyes.
“I think you’ll find it is afternoon,” Sherlock replies.
John glances at the clock on the nightstand, and sees that Sherlock’s right – it’s just barely past noon. He shakes his head in wonder. He has no idea how Sherlock could have known; the only clue that John could think of was possibly a change in light, but the day is overcast and the light level in the room hasn’t changed since he woke up. In the meantime, Sherlock has managed to worm himself between John’s legs and under his arm, shifting around until his head rests back against John’s chest.
“Comfortable?” John asks, looking down at Sherlock.
“Very,” Sherlock replies. He tilts his head up slightly, in a silent request, and John gives him a quick kiss. Sherlock steals John’s journal and flips to an article on forensic medicine.
“I was reading that,” John says.
“And now we’re reading this,” Sherlock says and passes the journal back to John to hold. John shakes his head in quiet, but resigned, exasperation and turns his eyes to the new article.
After about half an hour, John decides he’s done enough reading for the day. Very carefully, so as not to alert Sherlock to the movement, John runs the tip of one finger slowly along the shell of Sherlock’s ear. When that gets him a soft, shuddery breath, John slides his finger ever so slowly down the side of Sherlock’s neck.
“John,” Sherlock murmurs. “I’m trying to read the article, and you are being very distracting.”
“Bored,” John says, grinning, even though Sherlock can’t see it from where he’s resting.
Sherlock huffs and presses back against John’s growing erection. “Perhaps a bit of something else, too.”
“Perhaps,” John replies, his fingers drifting lower, across Sherlock’s collarbone. “But don’t mind me, keep reading.” John’s voice is pure innocence.
Sherlock sighs and turns back to the article. John’s fingers continue on their path, moving slowly down Sherlock’s arm. He strokes lightly over the soft skin on the inside of Sherlock’s elbow and wrist, smiling at the full body shudder it elicits.
One of the greatest misconceptions most people have about Sherlock – outside of believing him when he calls himself a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise – is that he has an aversion to being touched. John doesn’t blame people for being misled – everything about Sherlock says ‘Don’t touch’ – from the perfect drape of his immaculate designer suits, to the cold, disdainful eyes, to the sharp, pointed words he wields like knives. But John knows better. John’s not only seen behind the armour, he’s removed it, one piece at a time. And he has learned that Sherlock Holmes, does, in fact, quite enjoy being touched, and John loves to take full advantage.
He follows the path of his fingers with his mouth – running the tip of his tongue down the shell of Sherlock’s ear, nipping gently on the lobe before trailing butterfly kisses down his long neck. John then slowly draws Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth so that he can leave a long, slow sucking kiss on the inside of his wrist.
Sherlock arches into every touch, his breath catching in his throat, and by the time John finishes the kiss with a lingering swipe of his tongue, Sherlock makes an indescribable sound – a cross between arousal and annoyance – and tosses the journal away before turning in John’s arms to grab him by the face and pull him into a deep kiss. John returns it, but gentles it until they’re exchanging softer, slower kisses that feed their desire for each other even more. He sucks gently on Sherlock’s bottom lip until Sherlock whines and grinds against him.
John slides his hands slowly up under Sherlock’s t-shirt, his fingers just barely touching him, making Sherlock squirm and huff in frustration at the too-light touch as his skin breaks out in gooseflesh. John’s laugh is quietly wicked, and he retraces his path with a firmer touch, thumbs brushing against the now stiff peaks of Sherlock’s nipples, savouring the low, rumbling moan that is drawn from Sherlock’s mouth and into his as they continue to kiss. John catches the edge of the shirt with his fingers and he tugs it up Sherlock’s body, their kiss broken only so John can pull the shirt over Sherlock’s head. It lands somewhere in the no man’s land of the bedroom floor, followed soon after by John’s.
John slips his hand under the waistband of Sherlock’s pajamas and runs his fingers around the head of Sherlock’s cock – hard and wet with pre-come. Sherlock rocks his hips upwards, pushing his erection deeper into John’s hand.
“Yes,” Sherlock gasps, the soft sibilant hissing out against John’s lips as Sherlock kisses him again, more fiercely than before. John pushes Sherlock’s pajama bottoms down and away from his cock and begins to stroke him off, taking his time, making it last, enjoying the silky-hot-hard feel of Sherlock’s cock in his hand.
Sherlock gasps out, “Stop.” Without a pause to think about it, John stops moving his hand. Sherlock goes very still for a moment, and then shudders and moans his way through an orgasm –without ejaculating.
“Again, John,” Sherlock demands, curling his hands around John’s head as he kisses him desperately. They’ve only done this a few times, but after he’d read about it, Sherlock was bound and determined to figure out how to have multiple orgasms, and damned if the insane man hadn’t done it.
John resumes stroking – long and hard, up and down the full length of Sherlock’s cock, until Sherlock tenses very slightly, then John stops. Sherlock moans loudly as his body jerks through a second dry orgasm. John’s cock twitches in response, the inside of his boxers wet with pre-come as he responds to the sounds Sherlock is making.
“Once more and then finish me,” Sherlock gasps. John complies, this time rubbing his fingers against the head of Sherlock’s cock in a rhythmic motion that brings him to his third climax quickly. Without letting Sherlock completely recover, John begins to stroke Sherlock hard and fast, with the intent of bringing him off as fast as possible now.
Sherlock’s kisses get increasingly frantic as his final orgasm begins to crest. He rests his forehead against John’s and breathes erratically in quiet little gasps of pleasure as his hips roll into John’s strokes.
“John,” Sherlock moans, his fingers tightening in John’s hair as he finally allows himself to break, spurting stripe after stripe of hot come across John’s hand and chest. Sherlock goes boneless in his arms as he shivers and twitches through the aftershocks. John snags a t-shirt off the floor and cleans them up as best as he can.
“That was marvellous,” Sherlock sighs happily after a few minutes, and then slithers down John’s body. He pulls John’s cock out through the slit in his boxers, and smirks up at him. “Oh, John, look how wet you are.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t come in my pants like a teenager after that display,” John replies.
“Ah, a goal for next time,” Sherlock says, right before he slides his perfect, hot mouth over the head of John’s cock. All it takes is a swipe of his tongue across the slit and John is coming down his throat. Sherlock rests his head against John’s thigh and John cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.
“I don’t suppose that counts as a meal?” Sherlock asks, just before his stomach growls loud enough for John to hear.
“I think that’s all the answer you need, Sherlock,” John replies.
“Well, then, you’re going to have to go fetch me some food, as I am quite certain my legs won’t currently function,” Sherlock says in return.
John laughs. “For once, I believe you. Get up here and give me a kiss, and then I’ll go grab us some breakfast.”
Sherlock tilts his head upwards a few centimetres. John sighs and leans down and gives him a quick kiss. “You are so lucky I love you.”
Sherlock smiles fondly and replies, “Yes, I am,” before cupping John’s cheek in his hand and giving him a lingering kiss.
“You know... that....” Sherlock looks distinctly uncomfortable.
John grins. “Hush, love, you’ll strain something. I know, Sherlock.”
Sherlock smiles gently and then flops back on the bed and makes a shooing motion with his hand as his stomach growls again, even louder this time.
Chuckling, John grabs the nearest robe – Sherlock’s blue silk – shrugs into it and makes his way down to the kitchen.