Synopsis: John & Sherlock go undercover at a gay bar

Written for Kyna

MOSTLY smut… and more coming

Complete: 7/8 (it just keeps going… I’m so sorry)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 8

Sherlock chuckled. “That’s a dangerous question, John. I could fill a book with my answer.”

“For starters then?”

“The first matter of business is to achieve a proper stretch. I would take no joy in causing you injury or more pain than absolutely necessary. Now, if this is your first ti—”

“Of course it’s my first time.” There was a note of offense in the doctor’s tone.

“I’m honoured.” Sherlock seemed sincere.

John found the sincerity somewhat disconcerting. Is he actually becoming a person? Or is he just practicing again? He waited.

“Just lie back.” Sherlock crawled his way up from the foot of the bed, like a predator cornering his prey. The dog tags hung, swinging, around his neck, and he looked utterly ravenous.

What have I gotten myself into? John liked to tell himself he was worried, but it wasn’t true. Still, he kept lying.

Sherlock’s hand dragged slowly, torturously upwards from John’s calf. He pressed long, lingering kisses just below the doctor’s navel, around his groin, and eventually to his thighs. The hard edge of the detective’s teeth nipped and bit at the sensitive skin of John’s inner-thigh as he almost effortlessly plunged two fingers deep inside John once more.

John sucked in a harsh breath. When did he lube up again? I didn’t even hear the— “Fuuuuuuck.” A gentle swipe across John’s prostate pulled him directly out of his thoughts and erased the question from his memory.

Sherlock stilled. “Are you okay? That sounded pained.”

An emphatic nod was the most John could muster. At first, the pressure was just as intense as before, almost unbearable, but it soon receded and he craved more. “Just do it,” he whimpered.

“John, I don’t want to hurt y—”

“Do it,” John commanded. “Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, his prick dripping at the sound of John’s demand. He ripped the condom packet open with his teeth and quickly rolled it down his erection, popped the cap off the lube, slicked it down the condom, and re-capped the bottle, all one-handed. He used his other hand to continue working John, never missing a beat.

John was impressed… and nervous. He didn’t have to feign concern anymore, but what was he really worried about? He told himself he feared it would hurt. More lies. He feared how desperately he wanted Sherlock to possess him. He had spent so long convincing himself he was straight, yet he found himself sprawled naked with his best friend’s fingers up his arse and anxiously awaiting those fingers to be replaced by… well… “Nnnnnnnnnng…”

If what John felt before was categorized as pressure, the new sensation had to be something more akin to critical mass. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, his teeth clenched, and his fingernails dug deep into Sherlock’s biceps. Low grunts escaped John’s throat as the detective methodically worked his way into the tight opening. Perhaps Sherlock was too smart, or perhaps they knew each other too well, but communication was high while nearly no words were spoken. John had taken to squeezing Sherlock’s arm when he needed a moment, and he would loosen his grip when he could take more. Pressure, pain, burning… It was all there, but none of it mattered. When John opened his eyes, Sherlock’s gaze was set intensely upon him. He was obviously scrutinizing John’s every movement, every slight muscle twitch, voluntary or otherwise, and he was doing it well.

It no longer mattered if it was Sherlock’s first time or his millionth. It didn’t matter if John was going to have to rethink everything about how he identified his sexuality. It was even inconsequential that John was fairly certain he was in love with his best friend. The only thing still leaving the Army doctor unsettled was how much care and concern he could read on Sherlock’s face.

Once he was fully enveloped, Sherlock stilled and ran a hand through John’s dusty blonde locks, absolutely wringing with sweat. He pulled his hand back and, one at a time, sucked each of his fingers into his mouth. The look on his face was something like euphoria.

“Ugh, I’m sweaty.”

“You’re beautiful.” He sounded like he was thinking out loud rather than making a conscious statement. “And there is no part of you I don’t wish to consume.”

Creepy. But hot. John’s dog tags hung mere inches from his own chin, and he used them to drag Sherlock down into a kiss. His cock was trapped between their bodies, and the gentle friction began to bring it back to life. “Are you just going to sit there? Or are you going to fuck me?” he growled quietly into Sherlock’s open mouth, before allowing his tongue to fill the cavernous void.

Sherlock hummed against John’s kiss and laboriously gave his first real thrust. He eased partially out again, and John bit at Sherlock’s lower lip as he slammed back in. He smiled with satisfaction at the detective’s almost inaudible whimper.

John’s tongue traced the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “I said FUCK ME,” he breathed into it, his voice barely a whisper yet undeniably forceful.

Each successive stroke came with a bit more force and confidence, John constantly spurring Sherlock on with the occasionally hissed “harder” or “faster.” Just when they’d finally reached a reasonable cadence, Sherlock stopped. He looked like he had something he wanted to say, but his expression was filled with uncertainty.

“What it is? What’s wrong?” John asked, concerned something had gone awry.

“I… I want you to dominate me, John.”

The doctor’s eyes went wide, as equal parts of bewilderment and intrigue flooded his mind. “How?” It was the only syllable he could manage.

Sherlock’s lips curled into a devilish grin as he gathered John into his arms before rolling onto his back, his cock still firmly planted between John’s arse cheeks. “This is a fine start.”

John sat straddling Sherlock, towering over him. “You want me in control then?” he asked.

“Yes, John, that’s what I jus—”

“RHETORICAL!”

The glint in Sherlock’s eyes was a clear indication he now understood the game they were playing, and his mouth immediately snapped shut. He winced at his injury as he pulled the dog tags from around his own neck and reached to place them on John.

Panic quickly spread across John’s face as the clean, white gauze on his flat mate’s shoulder soaked through with the deep red of fresh blood. As he started to dismount in favour of medical care over sexual pleasure, he saw Sherlock open his mouth again to protest. “I’m changing your bandages, end of. And, if you argue… I swear to Christ, I’ll never bring you off.”

“Yes. Fine,” Sherlock replied quietly.

“What was that?” John was already off the bed and on his way to the loo for new supplies. “I can’t hear you.”

“I’ve already said yes, John. What more do you want?”

“Are you giving me attitude, soldier?” the Army doctor barked.

“Sir… Yes, sir…” he breathed through a grin. “Are you going to punish me?”

The very sound of the syllables rolling off of Sherlock’s tongue was enough to knock a solid twenty minutes off of John’s refractory period, which is to say he almost came again immediately. He carried several objects back into the room and laid them just out of Sherlock’s view. The one item he carried to the bed was the scarf he’d been wearing earlier that night.

“John, no. That’s an exquisite piece of cloth, and it was expensive.”

“It’s a good thing it isn’t for your wound then, isn’t it?”

John delighted at the look of confusion on his lover’s face as he tied the blue silk around Sherlock’s eyes to obscure his vision, an excited gasp his only response. Once the blindfold was in place, he moved back to the chest to retrieve the item he had covertly pulled from in inner breast pocket of Sherlock’s jacket. The subtle clink of metal against the wooden bedpost obviously pricked the detective’s ears, but he still jumped when the cold steel snapped around his wrist. “That ought to keep you from overusing your injured arm again.”

There were only traces of mild concern on Sherlock’s face, and he didn’t utter a peep, which left John satisfied with his choices. He intended to employ a rather unconventional sort of bedside manner, as well as catering to the kinks Sherlock was suddenly displaying proudly. Still, he treaded carefully. Trust issues ran deep in the Holmes family, and their friendship… Is that still what I’m calling this?… may never recover if he were to break that trust.

John gently peeled back the tape from the gauze and took in the damage. It was nothing too severe, which was lucky. He couldn’t very well keep their sex game rolling if Sherlock was in some sort of mortal danger. He’d merely jarred the wound in such a way that caused some temporary bleeding. He reclaimed his position, again straddling his injured friend, and lightly kissed along his jawline and the curve of his neck as he dabbed the gash clean. He’d learned how absolutely juvenile Sherlock was about injuries, so he bit at the man’s neck as he soothed salve over the injury with his thumb. If he was going to have to hear Sherlock whine, he much preferred the one elicited from the bite than the one he would have otherwise still received. Once the new bandage was in place, he taped it on and checked to make sure the cuff on Sherlock’s wrist was secure. Certain that it was, he went to return the medical supplies to the loo, leaving Sherlock to wonder where he might have gone. He returned to find the detective exactly as he’d left him, save for the fact his free hand had wandered down to his erection and was gently pumping it.

“No!” John smacked at Sherlock’s wrist. He spoke sternly. “You can touch only when I say you can touch. Did I say you could touch?”

“No, sir,” Sherlock whimpered, his body going tense.

John’s feather-light touch trailed down Sherlock’s abdomen and swirled in the still-dark curls encircling his cock. One fingertip dragged its way from his perineum, across his scrotum, and up the underside of his prick. After another now-familiar faint click, a new palm of lube coated the latex sheath and he swung his leg back over Sherlock’s narrow waist. Jesus, what if I fuck this up? What if one of us ends up hurt? He glanced at the pristine bandage on Sherlock’s shoulder. Hurt worse.  He corrected himself. Still, he wouldn’t let on. He can probably smell the fear on me at this point. Nerves be damned, Sherlock had saved his life. If he wanted to be dominated, then dominated he would be.

(to be continued… I know… you hate me… I’m sorry)