|Compromising Positions | Into the Black | Contact|
Exception to the Rule IINotes: Thanks to emungere for wrangling my missing commas.
In addition to not eating and not sleeping while working a case, Sherlock also does not have sex. This does not come as a surprise to John, not really, but he hadn’t anticipated exactly how difficult it was going to be to endure it. Being around Sherlock being brilliant and amazing while working a case has always been intoxicating, but now that John’s finally allowed himself to acknowledge and act on his attraction to Sherlock, it’s also incredibly sexually arousing. He finds himself at a bit of a disadvantage and vaguely horrified at hanging around crime scenes half hard all the time. And no amount of wanking seems to help alleviate the problem. All it does is make Sherlock incredibly smug every time John has to excuse himself.
So, when the current case that they’re working on finally breaks – FINALLY – after three weeks, John is quite honestly gagging for it. Sherlock is prancing around the flat gloating over his own brilliance when John grabs him by arm and practically drags him into his room. Much to his shock, Sherlock doesn’t say a word at this complete reversal. Until now, John’s let Sherlock decide when and where, content to let Sherlock set the pace of their relationship, not wanting to mess things up by being too…human and making too many demands. And it’s been great, fantastic, in fact. Sherlock’s sex drive is a bit on the low side for the average male of his age, though John suspects that’s more from years of suppressing the urge than anything else, but he doesn’t want to push it too far. For someone so intensely selfish, Sherlock’s fairly giving in bed and has learned to play John’s body like his violin.
John doesn’t let go of Sherlock and pushes him onto the bed, following him down, sprawling across him. He kisses him desperately and Sherlock responds just as desperately, curling his long fingers around John’s face and pulling him deeper into the kiss. It’s all a bit of a blur after that as they pull and tug and tear at each others’ clothes to get to skin. John is rougher than he’s ever dared to be with Sherlock, grabbing and pulling him closer, fingers digging into spare flesh, kisses turning into nips and then bites. And Sherlock writhes and gasps under him, his moans getting louder and deeper and shakier, and in a split second, John realizes he should have known that Sherlock would like it a bit rough. He’s more than happy to oblige.
John licks a stripe up Sherlock’s chest and neck, settling on a small area just below Sherlock’s left ear that he’s noticed makes Sherlock shudder. John gives the area a long, slow lick, just before giving it a sharp nip. Sherlock gasps, and his whole body jerks. John smiles and starts to lavish attention on it – licking, kissing, biting, sucking on the skin – while his hand travels south to Sherlock’s cock.
Sherlock moans his name and curls his hand around John’s head, holding it in place. John’s been strangely reluctant to leave marks on Sherlock, not entirely sure they would be welcome, but he figures Sherlock’s just given him the green light, so he sucks firmly on the pale skin under his lips and strokes Sherlock hard and fast, keeping up the pace as Sherlock writhes sinuously under him. Sherlock’s breath catches suddenly and he comes in hard spurts all over himself and John’s hand. Sherlock pulls John’s face up and kisses him fiercely, biting at John’s lower lip.
“I need you to fuck me,” Sherlock growls against his mouth.
John forgets how to breathe and he just stares at Sherlock. While he’s gaping like a fish, Sherlock gets a tube of lubricant out of the bedside table and slaps it into John’s hand.
“Now, John,” Sherlock orders.
John finds his breath, his mind, and his voice all at once and replies, “Sherlock, we haven’t… I…” Okay, maybe not his mind, because he can’t seem to say anything coherent.
“It’s not that different from anything you’ve done before and I know you’ve been on the internet, John,” Sherlock states before settling himself back on the bed, legs spread. He prods John with his toe in a clear ‘get on with it’ way. John doesn’t need any further invitation and he settles himself between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock is right, it’s not like this is completely foreign ground for him – as a doctor, he has performed innumerable prostate exams. And John realizes that for once, he’s at an advantage. Grinning slightly, John unerringly finds Sherlock’s prostate and rubs his finger against it slowly. His grin gets wider when Sherlock sucks in a shaky breath. He teases a few more soft gasps out of Sherlock, until Sherlock growls his name impatiently. John adds a second finger and begins to stretch him gently.
After a few moments, Sherlock says, “Enough.”
“Sherlock, that’s barely two fingers,” John replies, frowning.
“I know. I want to feel it, John. I want to feel your cock in me all week,” Sherlock says in a low, devastating voice.
“Oh, Christ, Sherlock,” John says weakly. His whole body shudders with desire. “Condom?” he asks.
“Don’t need them. I’m clean, I promise. And I’ve seen your medical records, so just get on with it, John. I want you in me, now,” Sherlock demands, arching up against John’s erection.
“You’re going to be the absolute death of me,” John replies shakily and slicks himself up quickly. He curls his hands around Sherlock’s thighs. “You will tell me if it hurts, do you understand?” John asks in his sternest voice.
“Yes, yes, just get on with it.” And then Sherlock uses the greatest weapon in his arsenal against John, and says, “Please.” And John has no other option but to comply. He presses in slowly, so slowly, stopping often not just for Sherlock’s sake, but for his own as Sherlock’s body clamps tightly down on his throbbing cock as he breaches him. Slowly but surely, panting and shaking with desire, John is finally fully inside Sherlock. He stops and takes a deep breath and tries desperately not to come.
Sherlock grins wickedly at him and then rocks his hips firmly. John takes the hint and starts to move. Sherlock moans, clutches at John’s arms and demands, “Harder, John.”
John complies. Sherlock arches up and grabs John by the face and gives him a bruising kiss and then begins to whisper filth in his ear. “Harder, John, faster, fuck me, fuck me, more, yes….” It goes on and on. The harder, deeper, faster he fucks Sherlock, the more Sherlock begs and pleads for more and John is helpless against the soft, silky, sex-soaked purr of Sherlock’s voice. It’s something that Sherlock figured out early on and he uses it relentlessly against him in bed.
John’s fingers are a vice around Sherlock’s thighs and he knows he’s leaving bruises but he just can’t bring himself to care, encouraged by Sherlock’s words and broken moans. John pounds into Sherlock over and over and over again, his own orgasm building and building until his hips start to stutter and he can’t keep the rhythm up any longer. His whole body seizes and he comes with Sherlock’s name on his lips. John goes completely limp and collapses onto Sherlock, gasping for air, trying to control his limbs enough to roll off him, but Sherlock just wraps his arms around John and holds him close. He feels a soft kiss on the top of his head and he stays where he is, catching his breath. Sherlock runs his fingers languidly up and down John’s spine and makes a soft sound of contentment.
John’s not entirely sure how much time passes as he lies in Sherlock’s arms, fading into a light doze listening to Sherlock’s steady heartbeat, but the next thing he’s fully aware of is Sherlock’s phone vibrating on the bedside table. Sherlock picks it up and looks at the screen.
“It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock says gleefully. “He’s got another case for us already. Isn’t that fantastic?”
John groans against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock slaps his ass. “Up!” John manages to roll off him before being thrown off. Sherlock bounds out of bed and then gasps, “Oh,” and makes a truly hysterical face of discomfort.
John really does try not to laugh, but he can’t help it. If looks could kill, the one that Sherlock throws his way would have left scorch marks on the wall. “This is an…inconvenience.” Sherlock pauses, frowns briefly, and then shrugs and bends down to get his clothes a little less gracefully than usual. “Come, John, a case calls.”
John groans again, loudly, just to ensure that Sherlock knows he’s getting up under protest. “Fine. But we’re taking a shower. I’m not going to a crime scene reeking of sex.”
Sherlock sighs dramatically. “I don’t know why we need to bother. Even Anderson could tell what we’ve been up to, considering the love bite and the obvious limp you’ve left me with. Combine that with the ridiculously satisfied look you’ve got on your face, and there is only one conclusion. We might as well just go as we are.”
“Sherlock,” John starts sternly, but Sherlock cuts him off with a hand wave.
“Fine, fine. You win, we’ll take the shower.”
Forty minutes later, they arrive at the crime scene. Lestrade is pacing impatiently outside of the yellow police tape when he spots them.
“You’re late. I expected you twenty minutes ago.”
“John insisted on cleanliness,” Sherlock replies, walking past Lestrade, lifting the tape so that he and John can pass through. John risks a glance at Lestrade, whose eyes are glued to the massive mark on Sherlock’s neck. John clears his throat, and Lestrade tears his eyes away and leads them to the body.
Anderson glances up from his clipboard, does a double take, stares, and then his face twists in disgust. Sally, catching Anderson’s facial gymnastics, looks over at them and her eyes widen in shock. Her gaze flicks between the two of them several times before her expression settles back into one of slightly sour professionalism, but John can see how her cheeks have gone pink.
Sherlock starts to fold down in his usual quick, cat-like way to examine the body, but he comes up short with a slight gasp and a frown, before continuing down at a slower pace. When he’s fully crouched, he looks over his shoulder at John, gives him an impish grin, and then turns his attention back to the body.
John’s torn between smugness and dying of embarrassment as several sets of eyes flick towards him and then quickly away, but smugness wins when Lestrade elbows him in the side and calls him a lucky bastard.