|Compromising Positions | Into the Black | Contact|
Exception to the Rule INotes: Thanks to emungere for wrangling my missing commas.
John closes the front door and sighs quietly as he trudges up the stairs, shrugging off his jacket. He glances at his watch – half eight, approximately an hour after he left – and sighs again. Pathetic.
Sherlock is in his shirtsleeves, sprawled out on the couch, plucking listlessly at the strings of his violin. ‘Great, it’s going to be one of those nights’, John thinks to himself as he flings his coat over the back of his chair.
“You’re back early,” Sherlock says blandly.
“And you get at me for stating the blatantly obvious?” And shit, John really didn’t want to give Sherlock anything to work with and then he goes and does it anyway by sounding peevish.
“And in a mood, too,” comes the reply.
John just barely stops himself from going ‘argh’. “Yes! Yes, I’m in a mood and it’s your bloody fault!”
That gets Sherlock’s interest, and, for the first time since John returned, Sherlock looks at him. “My fault? As a medical doctor, I’m sure you know that you are responsible for your own moods, John.”
Something in John snaps and he can’t stop the words from pouring out of him. “It’s your bloody fault, because you’re all I bloody talk about! It’s Sherlock this and Sherlock that and women notice these things. And she is right – it’s true. I’m obsessed. It’s all I fucking do. Think about you! And I’m not, I’ve never been, not even once in uni, but then there’s you. And you’re brilliant and you’re beautiful and all I want to do is touch you. But you don’t and I shouldn’t and…” John’s breath is heaving and he knows he’s bright red from embarrassment and all he wants to do right now is run away, but while he was ranting Sherlock had unfolded himself from the couch, stepped onto and over the table, and is now standing face to face with him and all he can do is stand there, staring, words frozen in his throat, waiting for the inevitable, crushing words that will come out of Sherlock’s mouth.
And they don’t come. Sherlock reaches down and takes John’s hand and presses it against his chest, leans in, and says gently, “It’s fine, John. It’s all fine.” There’s a soft smile on his face and before John can even really react to hearing his own words parroted back at him, Sherlock’s other hand is coming up to tilt his face so that Sherlock can kiss him.
John makes a needy noise in the back of his throat and his fingers clench in Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock’s hand slides behind his neck and the kiss deepens, mouths open, and their tongues brush once, twice, and then John pulls away with a gasp.
“I thought you were married to your work,” John says shakily, trying desperately to get his bearings but completely unable to with Sherlock’s long fingers stroking slowly up and down the back of his neck, sending shivers all through him. “Can I expect a knock on the door and a blackened eye for taking liberties?”
“I’ve made an exception for you,” Sherlock replies, his voice even deeper that usual. It sends a frisson of desire up John’s spine and down to his groin. Sherlock lets him go and takes half a step back and starts to unbutton his shirt, eyes on John. He’s about to open the second button when he pauses and inquires, “Would you like to help?”
John doesn’t have to be asked twice. He fumbles slightly, his fingers shaking with nerves, and John asks himself when he became fifteen again, before moving on to the next button. He works his way down slowly, exposing the pure, snow white of Sherlock’s chest, tugging the shirttails out of Sherlock’s trousers, opening the final button. He pauses briefly, admiring the contrast of Sherlock’s pale skin against the deep aubergine of his shirt. He slides his hands up and down the planes and contours of Sherlock’s body – all hard lean muscle, not an ounce of extra flesh on him, and John would call him a bastard but he’s too distracted by the quiet gasp that comes from Sherlock when his fingers brush gently across a nipple. John leans in and kisses the small nub of flesh, flicks it lightly with his tongue until it sharpens to a hard peak under it, then sucks gently. Sherlock’s body jolts against his and John hears a quiet, strangled moan.
Sherlock pulls John’s head away from his chest and kisses him hard. This time there’s no gentleness, no consideration for John’s confusion – it’s an all out assault on his mouth and John loves it. They press closer and closer together, John’s hand tangled in the soft curls of Sherlock’s hair, parting only to gasp for air. John’s getting a crick in his neck and feels a brief flash of irritation.
“You know, there is a way to remove the annoyances of our height differential,” Sherlock states, a bit out of breath.
“I’m not standing on a stool, Sherlock,” John replies.
Sherlock grins. “Oh, I have a much more comfortable solution.” He takes John by the hand and leads him to his bedroom. John’s never been in Sherlock’s room; he’s always been somewhat afraid of what he might find. And now that he’s in it, he’s not sure Sherlock’s been in it much, either. Although there are piles of clutter here and there, it’s much tidier than John expected and the bed is actually clear of anything but slightly rumpled bedding.
“I’ve found that horizontal positioning eliminates the problems associated with height differences. However, that shall have to wait, as I have been struck with an overwhelming urge to suck your cock,” Sherlock says while dropping gracefully to his knees before John. He watches dumbfounded as Sherlock’s dexterous fingers make quick work of his belt and flies. Sherlock glances up briefly before taking hold of his trousers and underwear and pushing them down his thighs in one quick motion.
Sherlock makes a happy ‘hmming’ sound at the back of his throat before running his fingers lightly up and down John’s erection. Much to his own embarrassment, John gasps. He feels like he’s been hard for hours, and if he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit that he’s been hard since the first brush of Sherlock’s lips against his. Sherlock grips him more tightly, and then he licks a long, slow stripe up his cock and John can’t stop the loud moan that rises up out of his throat. Sherlock’s tongue slides up and down the length of him, flicking around the edge of his foreskin, up and around the tip before pressing tightly against the slit. He sucks lightly and John lets out yet another ridiculously loud moan. And in the next instant, his brain short circuits as Sherlock slides his mouth down and down and impossibly further down, until John realizes he’s being deep throated for the first time in his life and he can’t stop himself from tangling his hands in Sherlock’s hair. He tries desperately not to move, but he can’t stop the tremors in his legs as he stops himself from thrusting into the deep, wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth any more than he can stop the quiet whimpers coming from his throat as Sherlock expertly sucks him off. He pushes down the flair of jealousy that jolts through him at the thought that no one becomes a world-class cocksucker on their own. He shouldn’t be bothered by the thought that there have been others, of course there have been others, but it does.
And then Sherlock’s hands curl around his hips, steadying him, guiding him, allowing him slow, shallow thrusts into the divine bliss of Sherlock’s mouth and all thoughts of jealousy evaporate from John’s mind. Sherlock works his cock over and over, and John is trembling, gasping, and moaning and he feels his orgasm building and building and he tries to signal Sherlock, who merely grips harder, pulls John deep into his throat and swallows. John comes so hard he sees stars and a tiny portion of his brain is just conscious enough to hope to hell that Mrs. Hudson is out for the evening because he’s sure she would have heard him shouting the walls down and he really would rather she didn’t turn up right this minute. His legs have turned to jelly and he really wants to sit down, but Sherlock is busy licking his way up John’s body as he unbuttons his shirt.
Sherlock’s got an almost unbearably smug look on his face as he plants a hand on the middle of John’s chest and pushes him back onto the bed. John’s legs are still wobbly and his trousers and pants are still twisted around his ankles, so instead of sitting, he falls back in a graceless heap, barely catching himself on his elbows.
He looks up at Sherlock, who is a debauched wreck – his hair is a mess, his perfectly tailored shirt is hanging off of one shoulder and his lips are red and wet and swollen and John really wishes he were fifteen again because he’s never wanted to be hard again so much in his life. Sherlock smiles like he knows what John is thinking, and to be honest, knowing Sherlock, he probably does, and then with catlike grace he crawls up John’s legs and sits on him. Sherlock doesn’t say a word, just unbuttons his trousers and pulls out his cock and slowly starts to stroke himself.
Sherlock’s hips move in slow, sensuous circles as he strokes himself, and John watches, fascinated. Watches as those lovely, long fingers work up and down, move over the head to gather more pre-come, sliding down and up in a steady rhythm. John looks up into Sherlock’s face and sees how blown his eyes are, how pink his cheeks have become and his breath catches at the beauty of it all. Sherlock’s hand speeds up, and his breathing gets shallower and hitches every now and again. John’s hand twitches. He wants to touch. He is, in fact, rather desperate to touch, but outside of medical situations, the only cock he’s ever touched is his own, and he’s hesitant, more hesitant than he should be, considering where his cock’s been the last half hour. Slowly, he reaches out and touches the back of Sherlock’s hand. When his fingers make contact, Sherlock moans loudly, his hips stutter, and suddenly John’s stomach and chest is getting covered with spurt after spurt of thick, warm, come. Sherlock’s hand twists under his and he curves John’s fingers around his cock, using it to stroke out the last few moments of his orgasm.
Sherlock flops down next to him and says, “I think there are some tissues in the drawer.” John finds them and they remove the rest of their clothes, clean themselves up, and get under the covers. John tosses the tissues somewhere in the direction of the doorway – he’ll get them later, he’s too boneless to get up at the moment. Sherlock leans over him and kisses him hard on the mouth.
“Don’t be upset if I’m not here when you wake up. It’s no reflection on you,” Sherlock says, stretching briefly before curling himself around John like a contented cat. John wraps his arm around Sherlock and drifts off to sleep, at peace with the exception he’s made.