Synopsis: John & Sherlock go undercover at a gay bar
Written for Kyna
There may be smut… Okay… There IS smut!
Complete: 2/8
The cab ride to the hotel was filled with an awkward silence, an unusual experience for the detective and his blogger. The silence stretching between them was usually enjoyable, cozy, even intimate. It seemed both men were slightly less than clear of mind.
When they arrived at their night’s accommodations, Sherlock ushered John out of the car. The warmth of Sherlock’s hand permeating the fabric of John’s shirt set him further on edge. What’s an erection between friends, right? John was mortified.
Sherlock’s long arm was draped across John’s shoulders, pulling him close, when they approached the front desk. “What are you doing?” John whispered.
“Deep cover.”
A shiver ran down the doctor’s spine, but he took the opportunity to lean his head gently against Sherlock’s shoulder. Key in hand, they headed for their room. When the door swung open, John’s mouth fell open.
“Sh-sherlock,” John stuttered. “There’s only one bed.”
“I said deep cover, John. We’re grown men. It’s fine. Don’t be such a child.”
Irrational attraction to my best friend? Check. Erection in public? Check. Sleeping in the same bed? Why the hell not! John sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah, no… It’s fine. It’s all fine.”
“I know it is.”
John took a seat on the edge of the bed… thebed, singular… and watched as Sherlock marched off toward the loo to change. He stared longingly at the closed door, tempting him with what was on the other side, and felt himself stiffen again. No, this is not happening. I’m not gay, not even for him. He quickly stood to change before his flat mate returned, hoping to avoid Sherlock catching him in a semi-erect state.
John was already in bed, well covered, when Sherlock returned in his requisite pyjama pants and a grey tee not entirely dissimilar to the one he’d been wearing all night. “Right side of the bed. Interesting.”
“Oh, should I… I mean, did you…”
“No. It’s just interesting.”
“How so?”
“It doesn’t matter, but it does explain a lot.”
“But, wait… I…”
“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock flopped on to the bed, switched the light off, and closed his eyes with impressive speed.
John heard a gentle clink from Sherlock’s chest as he pulled the covers up over himself. “What was that?”
Sherlock abruptly turned away from John without so much as a word, but his actions said enough. He had heard the question, and he didn’t want to talk about it. Dammit. What aren’t you telling me? He hated it when Sherlock kept secrets. It always led to something dangerous or stupid, often both at the same time. Trying to ignore the nagging in the back of his mind telling him to press his new bedmate for answers, he closed his eyes and hoped sleep would soon overtake him.
John had no idea how long he’d been asleep when he was coaxed back to consciousness by the warm hand massaging his cock. Wait… I’m already half hard. What the hell? Who’s… SHERLOCK? He peeked out through lidded eyes just in time to see a mass of light auburn locks closing in on him, just before his lips were caught between Sherlock’s. His fingers tangled in the detective’s curls, lips, tongues, and teeth engaged in a delicate ballet… nipping here, sucking there.
The perfect Cupid ’s bow traced a path along John’s jaw, and then… The fuck?… suddenly, the unmistakable heat of breath, the slip-slide of saliva on a pulsing tongue against his cock made it twitch fully to life. Those lips… Those perfect lips, from which genius regularly and effortless slipped, were wrapped tightly around his erection and had never been so beautiful. John had always admired them as he watched Sherlock’s brilliance unfold, but he was learning to appreciate them in an entirely different way. Seeing them, feeling them as they moved along the shaft of his cock… the copper mop bobbing away at his groin and then wide, translucent eyes staring up into his. This isn’t riiii— He moaned instead of finishing his thought. Fuck it. Who cares? This feels amazing.
Just as John was relenting to pure, unadulterated pleasure, he found his face buried in the sheets, his fists balled around handfuls of the fabric. He couldn’t see what was happening, but the warm, humid breath that had just been on his cock was now blanketing the small of his back. The tip of a… Tongue? Is that a tongue? Do I hope it’s a tongue? Oh, God!… trailed down his lower spine and paused near his arse. Every muscle in his body clenched in wait for what would happen next, but the tension drained away as the he felt the unmistakable sensation of what was definitely a wide, wet tongue gently lapping at his sensitive opening. It swirled in tight, concentric circles before quickly darting in and out a few times. John shuddered. His faculties were retreating at an alarming pace, his prick rock-hard and dripping with pre-cum, and Sherlock’s face buried squarely in his arse. Thoughts escaped him, and his knees threatened to collapse beneath him. ahh… tongue… jesus… fuck…
Fingers? Two long, elegant fingers wriggled inside John, pressing at a bundle of nerves he never even knew he had… or never knew how they could make him feel. As a doctor, he knew his prostate existed, but he had never considered the absolute joy of having his flat mate’s fingers thoroughly working it over. His cock throbbed for release, but his arm was pinned behind his back in punishment for reaching to pull himself off. fuck His body cried out for release, the words spilling over and escaping his throat. “Oh, God, please.”
It was the sound of John’s own voice that woke him, panting, shaking, sweating, to find himself neatly wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms, their legs tangled together beneath the covers. The detective stared helplessly… scared?
“You were dreaming.” He didn’t loosen his grip in the slightest.
“Yeah, I suppose I was. Sorry if I woke you.” John tried not to think about the subject matter of the dream, but having Sherlock wound around him in such a way made it almost impossible. Worse yet, he was disappointed to have woken up. Disappointed? Jesus, what’s wrong with me?
“The war?”
“What?”
“Your dream. You were shaking, calling out. Was it about the war?”
It wasn’t. It was about you, your tongue, your fingers, your… “Yes. It was about the war.”
“I tried to wake you, but… I didn’t know what to do.” Sherlock had never looked so lost, desperate, caring before.
“I’m fine. It’s all fine,” John said, reassuring his obviously shaken flat mate. “I think I’d like a shower though. Cleansing the body to cleanse the mind, if you will.”
“Of course.” He didn’t move.
“Sherlock?” John wriggled a little in his death grip.
“Oh!” The detective released him immediately. “By all means.”
John swung his legs over the side of the bed, horrified to find his erection still very much in tact but happy to see he’d resisted coming all over himself. He stood and trotted toward the loo, anxious to feel the warm water pour over his skin. He needed those memories washed away, swirling down the drain. Swirling. A chill ran the length of his spine. That word will never register the same way again.
As the water fell and warmed, steam began to billow from the shower, beckoning John inside. He stepped under the stream and closed his eyes. His hands slicked his hair back and rested on his neck. Warm. Wet. Neck. Fingers. Every touch, every sensation still reminded him of Sherlock… or Andy… or whoever that beautiful man in his bed was. Beautiful? Fuck. Why did it feel like he was seeing him for the first time?
His hands trailed down his torso and stopped near his groin. What if I think about him? His cock still ached for relief. Should I even bother trying not to think of him? He stroked, his pupils blown with desire and his mind filled with nothing but Sherlock. It wouldn’t take long at this rate.
The water trickling down his back taunted him with false memories of the glorious tongue. That alone was nearly enough to finish him off, with or without the help of his hand. Still, he thrust repeatedly into his circled fist, suppressing the groans threatening to abscond from his lips, each one dripping with Sherlock’s name. As he came across the cool, ceramic tile, he bit his lip so hard it nearly bled just to avoid screaming that name. John couldn’t be sure what those circumstances and that particular orgasm said about him, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. There’s something to be said for a good orgasm, regardless of the situation. He quickly dressed and tip-toed back toward the bed so as to avoid waking his flat mate once again.
As John emerged from the loo, Sherlock, decidedly not asleep, turned to look at him. “Feeling better?”
“Much,” he said, climbing back into bed.
“Good. Shall I continue holding, pre-emptively? Or…?”
“Perhaps not.” John didn’t need a new erection when he’d only just taken care of the last one. “Thanks, though.”
“Yes, fine. Goodnight, then.”
“G’night, Sherlock.” He sighed as his eyelids fell shut once again and he prayed for… something mundane, please? Even the war… At least he was used to those dreams. They were a terror he was comfortable with, a terror he knew and understood. Lusting after Sherlock was far more unsettling. He didn’t give it much thought, though. Disturbed or not, he was utterly spent, and sleep quickly overtook him once again.
(to be continued)
