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“John.”
Silence. A small snore. Just beyond the tiny bedroom where John slept, the cottage was dark, even the fairy lights switched off for the night. Somewhere out in the main room, a log from the dying fire popped. The cottage—unspeakably old and creaking even when left alone—was still. All inhabitants were in bed, having long since dropped off to sleep.
All inhabitants save for one, that is.
“John.”
“Mmm?” John fidgeted slightly in the bed, not fully awake. He nestled into his pillow, determined to remain not fully awake for the foreseeable future.
Sherlock slipped under the covers just behind him. The mattress dipped at the shift in weight, sliding John closer to Sherlock as he settled in. The bed in Mummy and Father Holmes’ guest room seemed to be older than everyone in the house combined and let out an angry screech at the movement. Sherlock shifted onto his side, fitting himself into the curve of John’s body, and the grind of metal on metal echoed through the room. The headboard, not to be outdone by the mattress, clattered against the wall. This was the cacophony that occurred anytime one of them got into, out of, or shifted in the slightest against the bed, and John doubted he would grow used to it anytime soon.
“Decided to come to bed, then?” John asked. His voice was heavy with sleep. His eyes remained closed.
“I missed you,” Sherlock said. He tucked his knees behind John’s, his chest pressed to John’s back. The mattress creaked. “Your insistence on sleep is proving once again to be a barrier for our quality time.”
“You just saw me,” John said, choking back a yawn. “One hour ago.”
“You’ve been asleep for three hours, John,” Sherlock said.
“Okay. You just saw me three hours ago, then,” John said.
Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s chest. “I’m bored,” he said.
“There it is,” John said. It had been approximately two days since Sherlock had a case. Despite the fact that the case he just solved involved a triple murder and no more than two attempts on the both of their lives, it was about time for Sherlock to slip into a bored strop. As luck would have it, they were at the elder Holmes’ family cottage for the holidays—at the insistence of Mummy Holmes and the begrudging acquiescence of Sherlock and Mycroft—which hindered Sherlock’s usual destructive bored habits quite a bit and relegated him to simply pouting and complaining. John dealt with enough of that from Rosie and was rather finished with the lot of it.
“Any chance you’ll let me sleep through this?” John asked.
“I hate Christmas,” Sherlock said.
“I’ll take that as a no,” John said. He pawed at the pillow beneath his head, trying to plump the flattened feathers into something more comfortable without opening his eyes. The bed groaned beneath him.
“Why we insist upon huddling together at the arse-end of the year simply to delude ourselves into believing that the appropriation of a pagan holiday into the birthday of an infant deity means that for a singular day humankind is kind and giving instead of a bunch of self-serving morons,” Sherlock said, “is utterly beyond me.”
“Yeah,” John said. “Pretty sure that’s what Tiny Tim said about it too.”
“It’s a ridiculous excuse for a holiday,” Sherlock said. “Why do we even waste our time in celebrating it?”
“Because it makes your mum happy?” John asked. “Something like that?”
Sherlock grumbled. “And you were wearing that hateful Christmas jumper all day.”
“It’s festive,” John said.
“It’s hideous,” Sherlock said. “I plan to burn it in the fire.”
“You can burn anything you like of mine,” John said, “if you let me sleep.”
Sherlock burrowed closer to John. His nose was frigid as it brushed against the nape of John’s neck. “I suppose you’d be opposed to us heading back to London tonight.”
“You mean waking Rosie at half-two on Christmas morning, piling her into a car, and sneaking out of your parents house in the dark of the night, as if we committed some sort of crime?” John asked. “Yes. I’d be opposed to that.”
Sherlock pulled John closer. The whole of Sherlock’s body was chilled. He reminded John a bit of the ice baths that were once used to lower high fevers. “It’ll be warmer at Baker Street,” Sherlock said. “This cottage is freezing.”
“It’s an old house,” John said. “Drafty. Also,” John shifted backwards, wriggling against Sherlock, gathering evidence, “are you wearing any clothes?”
“Why would I wear clothes?” Sherlock asked.
“Dunno,” John said. “Warmth?”
“You’re warm,” Sherlock said. He slipped his other arm underneath John’s waist, tugging him closer. The bed creaked as he did so, the headboard rattling. “Why would I wear clothes when I’ve got you here?”
“Right,” John said. “What was I thinking? You’ll go to sleep now?”
“I texted Lestrade,” Sherlock said.
John sighed. That would be another no, then. “At half-two on Christmas?”
“He said there have been some stranglings,” Sherlock said.
“And what did he say about you texting him at half-two on Christmas?”
“Nothing initially,” Sherlock said. “Quite frustrating. He’s much more responsive when he’s not on holiday. I had to text him over a dozen times before he even answered.” Sherlock sighed against John’s neck. “Lestrade knows a surprising breadth of profanity.”
“Yeah,” John said. His eyes remained defiantly closed. “That sounds about right.”
Sherlock tightened his arm around John, jostling him lightly. “Stranglings, John.”
“Mmm.”
“Stranglings,” Sherlock repeated. He jostled John harder. The bed shook. The headboard clattered against the wall. The springs in the mattress made a dying sound.
“There’ll still be stranglings after Christmas,” John said. “That’s the good thing about stranglings. Always there.”
Sherlock made a grumpy noise. He released his hold on John ever so slightly, but kept his arms around John’s chest. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“I’m nothing if not reliable,” John said. He rubbed at Sherlock’s forearm. “Now that we’ve got that settled, will you let me go back to sleep?”
Sherlock bit at John’s neck. His voice dropped, a deep grumble. “Why would you want to go back to sleep?”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes, John?” Sherlock mouthed at the piece of skin he just bit. His lips were warm.
John gasped lightly at the sensation. “Sherlock,” he whispered, “Mycroft is in the room just to the left of us.”
“So he is,” Sherlock said. His mouth moved over the nape of John’s neck.
“And your parents are in the room just to the right.”
“Indeed.”
Gooseflesh was starting to rise on John’s skin. His cock gave a twitch despite himself. “These walls are paper thin,” he said.
“Paper thin,” Sherlock repeated. His breath was hot on the back of John’s neck. His skin was growing warm against John’s.
“We are on the loudest mattress on the planet,” John said.
“We certainly seem to be,” Sherlock said, his nose nuzzling against John’s hair.
“We’ll scandalize your entire family,” John said.
“Hardly,” Sherlock said. He licked a stripe along the side of John’s neck.
“It’ll make for an awkward Christmas morning,” John said. His voice hitched as Sherlock’s tongue darted behind his ear. He refused to open his eyes.
“Christmas morning is always awkward,” Sherlock said. “At least this year it’ll be awkward for good reason.”
A little moan escaped John’s mouth as Sherlock’s tongue ran along his earlobe. “Sherlock,” he said, noting the way his voice already sounded a little rough, breathy. “Rosie will be pounding on our door at an ungodly hour, excited for presents. Your mother has plans for a Christmas lunch that, for a reason no one can properly articulate, is taking place in the morning. You and Mycroft—I’m sure—will bicker through the entirety of the day. For my own sanity, I would like to get at least a few hours of sleep before the whole of it begins.”
Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble in John’s ear. “We haven’t shagged in ages,” he said.
John opened his eyes. He turned slightly, craning his neck to try to get a good look at Sherlock. The bed creaked at the movement. “We shagged just last week,” he said. “Just before the last case.”
Sherlock took the opportunity to mouth at John’s cheek. “That was ages ago,” he said.
“It was five days ago,” John said. “If that.”
Sherlock’s mouth moved back towards John’s ear. His hands began drifting across John’s chest. “It was a good shag,” he said.
“God,” John said, remembering. “Yes. Yes it was.” It was a good shag, one of the ones where John might have blacked out at some point, coming to limp and sticky with a tingling in his extremities and a Sherlock draped on top of him, immobile.
“I nearly brought you to orgasm without once touching your cock,” Sherlock said, sucking at John’s earlobe. “Just me inside you.”
“Yes,” John said, his voice stuttering nearly imperceptibly. “Yes you did.”
“I could try again tonight,” Sherlock said. “I’ve given it some thought and I believe I can accomplish the feat.” He pressed himself closer, and John could feel Sherlock’s cock rapidly hardening against the small of his back. John could barely believe how quickly the sensation turned him on. He was nearly fully erect at this point, his cock pushing against the fabric of his pyjamas.
“I’ll bet you could,” John said. He forced himself to turn his head away from Sherlock. Sherlock caught John’s earlobe in his teeth.
“I’ll bet I could in under five minutes,” Sherlock said.
John shifted, adjusting himself in his pyjamas. The mattress complained loudly. “Not in this bed, you’re not,” John said.
“You would have to be very, very still,” Sherlock said against John’s ear. His hands moved along John’s chest. The edge of Sherlock’s thumb flicked across John’s nipple. “And very, very quiet.”
“I’m not capable of either of those things,” John said, a bit more breathlessly than he’d like, “and you know it.”
Sherlock pinched at John’s nipple through the fabric of his vest, rolling the skin between his fingers until it hardened. “You would have to try,” he said. “You would have to be in complete control of yourself.” His other hand started slipping down John’s chest, down his stomach.
John wriggled underneath Sherlock’s hands and the bed let out a groan. Sherlock pressed his hand against John’s stomach, stilling him.
“You’ll have to try harder than that,” Sherlock whispered.
“Or,” John said, ignoring how much he’d like for Sherlock’s hand to continue moving down his body, “we could act like adults and go to sleep.”
John could feel Sherlock smile against the nape of his neck. “What I’d like to do to you is very adult in nature,” Sherlock said.
“What you’d like to do,” John said, “would best be saved for when we’re back at Baker Street. Alone. With a quiet bed and a door that locks.”
Sherlock’s hand slipped underneath John’s vest. His fingertips trailed over the skin of his stomach, tracing the line of hair that ran from his navel to the waistband of his trousers. “Are you saying that you don’t want my hands on you, John?” Sherlock asked. His voice dipped so low that the vibrations alone were making John shiver. “You don’t want my hands on your cock, my fingers inside you? Are you saying that you don’t want me to fuck you, to turn you over on this mattress and bury myself inside you until you’re screaming from it?”
John took several deep breaths before he could trust himself to respond. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I’m saying.”
Sherlock’s middle finger dipped just below John’s waistband. “You’d be much more convincing,” Sherlock said, “if you weren’t so aroused at the moment.”
“Who says I’m aroused?” John asked, doing his best to sound bored. It didn’t come out quite right.
“Everything about you does,” Sherlock said. He slid his hands over John’s chest. “Your body temperature has increased slightly since I’ve come to bed.” He licked at John’s neck. “Your skin is starting to taste salty from your sweat.” He placed a palm over the center of John’s chest. “Your heartbeat has increased significantly, as has your breathing rate.” He lifted a hand higher on John’s chest, over his collarbone. “You have a slight flush to your skin.” He nuzzled against John’s neck. “I wish I could see it. You look so lovely when you’re aroused.”
John was certainly aware of the accuracy of Sherlock’s list. He was warm and sweaty. His heart was pounding. Breathing was a bit tricky at the moment. Still… “None of that means—” he started.
“And of course,” Sherlock said, “there’s the rather more obvious sign.” At that, he slid a hand into John’s pyjama trousers, palming John’s erection in a careful hand.
John cried out at the touch, his body twitching, thrusting against Sherlock’s palm involuntarily. The bed creaked loudly beneath him.
Sherlock’s hand stilled. “Very discourteous, John,” he said. “Do you want to wake the whole house?”
John did his best to calm his breathing. “You aren’t playing fair,” he said.
“This isn’t a game,” Sherlock said. He ran just the tips of his fingers along John’s shaft, the lightest of touches.
John’s eyes slid shut and his head rolled on the pillow as Sherlock’s fingers explored. His fingertips danced along the head of John’s cock, tracing his coronal ridge and sweeping against his frenulum. The touch was light, so light it seemed as if only Sherlock’s fingerprints were moving along John’s cock, down his shaft and lower, swirling and circling along his bollocks. John’s breath stuttered. He was so hard at the moment it felt as if his cock were pulsing. Sherlock was hard too—John could feel Sherlock’s erection pressing just over the cleft of his arse, hot and leaking against him.
“Do you want to go back to sleep, John?” Sherlock asked.
John swallowed. Sherlock’s fingers were moving back up his shaft, the single pad of his middle finger tracing along the vein that ran the length of his cock. John shook his head.
“Do you want me to keep touching you?” Sherlock asked.
John nodded.
“Good,” Sherlock whispered, and he wrapped his fingers around John’s cock, giving him a slow, soft stroke.
John moaned and shifted backwards, grinding his arse against Sherlock’s erection. The bed creaked, a sharp sound of metal on metal.
Sherlock caught John’s hip in his hand, stilling him with firm fingers. “That’s exactly the sort of thing you can’t do,” Sherlock whispered. His hand was back on John’s cock an instant later, stroking and twisting at a maddeningly slow pace, as if Sherlock had all the time in the world to explore him.
John felt his hips twitch, barely within his control. He twisted his head to the side, burying his face into the pillow as he groaned.
Sherlock shushed him, punctuating the sound with a swirl of his thumb over the head of John’s cock. John tried to breathe through the pillow. Sherlock knew how to make him come like this, with just his hand; Sherlock knew exactly what touches would make John’s body tremble and his eyes roll back in his head. Sherlock was using those touches now—every last one of them, the bastard—but too slow, too soft to ever make John come. John whimpered into the pillow.
“I want my fingers in you.” Sherlock’s words were more breath than sound, and John shook as the vibrations danced across his ear. He nodded emphatically, his face still pressed against the pillow. The bed squeaked, softly but noticeably.
Sherlock clamped a hand around John’s bollocks and John gasped. “You have to be quiet, John,” Sherlock said. “And still. We don’t want to wake the rest of the house, now do we?”
“You’re an arse,” John whispered, but his voice was thick and needy.
He could practically hear Sherlock grin behind him. “I know,” he said, giving John’s bollocks another squeeze. His hand slipped away and he was a gust of silent movement behind John, reaching for something John couldn’t see. John heard the familiar click of a small cap.
“God,” John whispered, an involuntary sound.
Sherlock tugged at John’s pyjama trousers and John scrambled as best he could to pull the rest of his clothes off. The bed creaked and clattered and John cursed. His trousers were still dangling off one ankle when he felt slick fingers at his arse and froze, gasping.
“Leg up,” Sherlock said, his voice soft but commanding.
John complied, tucking his leg towards his chest as smoothly and quietly as possible. The mattress squeaked all the same.
Sherlock ran a finger in light circles around John’s hole. “Can you be quiet?” he asked.
John nodded. It was a lie. He didn’t care.
Sherlock’s finger pressed forward slightly, enough for John to feel it but not enough to breach him. “Can you be still?” Sherlock asked.
John whimpered. He nodded. He was already shaking.
“I don’t believe you,” Sherlock whispered, and sunk his finger inside.
It was just the tip of his finger, barely past the first knuckle, but John made a sound like all the oxygen in his body was sucked out. Sherlock’s free hand snaked up from underneath him and clamped over John’s mouth.
“Shhhh,” Sherlock said, and slid his finger further inside.
John gasped against Sherlock’s hand, the sharp inhale pulling his palm flush against John’s mouth.
“You have to be quiet, John,” Sherlock whispered. His finger slipped deeper inside of John. John whimpered.
At this point, John was relaxed and ready to take him, needing to take him, but Sherlock was moving at an agonizing pace, filling John up millimeter by millimeter. John’s breaths were coming in heavy puffs against Sherlock’s hand, humid and desperate. When Sherlock was finally, finally, all the way inside, his palm flush against John’s arse, he lifted his hand from John’s mouth.
“Can you be quiet?” he asked. His finger was pulsing inside of John, so softly John couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his own body vibrating against Sherlock.
John nodded. He dug his fingers into the blankets.
“Good,” Sherlock said, and started moving his finger. He withdrew it slowly, so slowly John swore he could feel each skin cell of Sherlock’s as it passed through him. When he pushed back inside after what felt like a millennia, John gasped and squeezed at the blankets, fighting every instinct to move, to thrust himself back against Sherlock, impaling himself on Sherlock’s fingers over and over and over again.
“More,” John breathed. “Faster.”
Sherlock mouthed at his shoulder blade. John could feel Sherlock shake his head against his skin. “Slowly tonight,” Sherlock said. “Slowly and silently.”
“Christ,” John gasped.
And Sherlock meant it—he moved slowly, agonizingly slowly. Each stroke of his finger seemed to take a year and he was barely brushing against John’s prostate, giving only sparks of pleasure that would never set anything ablaze. John twitched and whimpered against Sherlock, needing more, warring against movement, wanting to come so badly but knowing it was nowhere near his immediate future. He tried to whisper out another plea but found himself a bit at odds with language. When Sherlock’s finger slipped almost all the way out of him and was immediately joined by a second, John nearly howled.
Sherlock clamped a hand back over John’s mouth. “I thought you said you’d be quiet,” Sherlock said. His fingers were frozen inside of John and John very much needed them to start moving. John nodded against Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock released his mouth, his hand dropping to John’s chest. He played with John’s nipple, fingers tracing lazily over the hard nub, his breath in John’s ear.
“I’ve wanted you all day,” Sherlock whispered. His fingers were still moving slowly, too slowly, but they were twisting now, driving John mad.
John made a sound that wasn’t quite language. He scratched at the sheets.
“Even wearing that horrible Christmas jumper,” Sherlock said. “All I wanted to do was rip it off you. I could have folded you in half and fucked you right under that god-forsaken tree in the sitting room.” He bit at John’s ear. “I still might.”
John wasn’t getting in enough air. He felt dizzy. “So,” he panted, not even sure he was speaking the correct words, “you find that jumper attractive now?”
“No,” Sherlock said. “That jumper is a crime against sighted individuals. I find you attractive.” He twisted his fingers again and grazed against John’s prostate with a bit more—but still decidedly not enough—fervor. “Do you know what you do to me, John Watson?” he whispered.
John could do little more than whimper at the moment. His brain was currently offline, frying underneath the agonizing slowness of Sherlock’s fingers in him.
“Do you know what you make me want to do to you?” Sherlock asked. He brushed against John’s prostate again, a swirling, twisting motion that John couldn’t comprehend for the life of him, and John made a sound he had never heard himself make before. “I would fuck you in a pile of snow covered in pine needles,” Sherlock whispered. His lips moved against the shell of John’s ear and John was certain it would be the thing that ended him. “I would fuck you in that antique shower, rusted water pouring over us. I would fuck you on the disgusting kitchen floor, rub discarded flour from the pie crusts on your chest and lick it off.” Sherlock pushed his fingers inside of John, finally with the kind of force that John needed. “Don’t misunderstand me,” Sherlock growled. “All that bloody jumper is doing is standing in the way of me taking you apart.”
John was drenched in sweat. The whole of his body felt on fire, throbbing, needing. His fists had white-knuckled grips on the blankets and he was shaking, shaking so hard from the effort of keeping still that he was sure the mattress would start creaking under him soon.
“What about on an antique bed at your parents’ house at half-two in the morning?” John panted, his face pressed against the pillow. “Would you fuck me there?”
“Mmmm,” Sherlock murmured. “I didn’t think you wanted me to fuck you there, John.”
Sherlock’s fingers were back to their hellishly slow pace inside him and John had officially reached his breaking point. “You know damn well I do, Sherlock,” he hissed. “And if you don’t get your cock in me this instant we are going to have a row.”
Sherlock ran his thumb along the stretched ridge of John’s arsehole. “So impatient,” he said.
“Sherlock,” John snapped.
Then Sherlock’s fingers were gone from him and John made a whimpering noise at their absence that was unbecoming of a grown man. Each of John’s breaths was a harsh gasp and his hips were twitching back, seeking Sherlock. He heard the click of the cap again, the wet sounds of slick-on-skin, and then Sherlock’s cock was pressed against his entrance and John could have wept from it.
Sherlock moved the head of his cock around the rim of John’s hole, teasing. “You’ll keep quiet?” he asked.
“Christ, Sherlock,” John gasped. “Now.”
And it was slow again, so slow John thought for certain he would implode from it. Yet that first stretch as the head of Sherlock’s cock eased inside him was so sweet John nearly forgot how to breathe, sucking in air in tight gasps without ever exhaling. Sherlock slid inside, easing into him, filling him up inch by agonizing inch and it was so perfect, so infuriating, so wonderful and not enough, not enough by far. John reached back for Sherlock with a blind hand, trying to grab at his hips, pull him inside faster, harder. Sherlock caught John’s wrist and tugged it around his chest, interlacing their fingers and holding him tight, holding him still.
“Be patient, John,” Sherlock whispered. He pulsed forward and pulled back just a hair and he wasn’t even fully inside yet. John could have bit him. John seriously considered biting him. He bit the pillow instead.
It was only when Sherlock was fully inside, his hips flush against John’s arse, arms wrapped tight around John’s chest, pulling John as close as he could, that John could feel Sherlock’s heart hammering, knocking against John’s back. Sherlock’s breathing was unsteady and his arms were shaking slightly and he pressed the softest of kisses to John’s neck and John loved him so much it was like a physical pain.
“God,” John gasped, “Sherlock.”
“I know,” Sherlock said. He didn’t move, not for a moment. He stayed just like that, fully seated inside of John, their bodies pressed together, gasped breaths so loud they might wake the household from that alone. When Sherlock started to move, it was the slightest thing, a faint pulse, his hips barely rolling forward against John. it was so good and it was nowhere near enough.
John arched his back, pushing himself against Sherlock’s cock, trying to move, trying to move faster, harder. Sherlock’s hand was on John’s hip in an instant, gripping at him, stilling him.
“No,” Sherlock said. He was immobile inside of John, filling him without fucking him and John was certain he would go mad from it.
“Sherlock,” John whined, wriggling against Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock held him tight.
“No,” Sherlock repeated. He waited, waited for John to stop moving and even a few moments after that, before he started moving again.
Christ, it was torture, the creeping, unhurried grind of Sherlock’s cock inside him. John swore he could feel every bit of Sherlock, every curve and vein of Sherlock’s cock as he eased out and back in at a glacial pace. Sherlock tucked his head behind John’s and his breaths were rhythmic and hot on John’s neck and John could have torn him to pieces. He needed this, needed more, needed so much more. He was so hard he was aching and his body was on fire and he needed to come so badly and Sherlock seemed perfectly willing to hold John on his cock without moving until next Christmas and John absolutely, categorically, could not take it anymore.
“God, Sherlock. Hard,” John moaned in a voice he didn’t recognize. “I need you to fuck me hard.”
“John…” It wasn’t clear if the word was meant to be an argument or an endearment. Sherlock’s own voice sounded foreign at the moment, but that could have been the ringing in John’s ears.
“Please,” John gasped, moving his hips back on Sherlock’s cock. “Now. Fuck me hard. Sherlock, please.”
Sherlock groaned and shuddered against John. His cock made tiny, pulsing movements inside of John, but it still wasn’t what he needed, wasn’t anywhere close to what he needed.
“Sherlock,” John whimpered, and if one word, one sound, could epitomize the act of begging—knees to the ground, head bowed, praying hands clenched to fists, begging—it was that one word. John ought to have been ashamed, pleading for a fucking like some cheap slag, but at the moment it was the only thing John could imagine wanting for the rest of his life.
“Please,” John said, and then he was on his stomach, the press of Sherlock’s body heavy against him for no more than a moment before Sherlock was tugging him up, moving him onto his hands and knees, gripping his hips with iron fingers, and plunging his cock into John with enough force to nearly send him sprawling forward against the mattress.
John yelped, grabbing at the headboard with both hands as Sherlock pounded into him, each thrust reverberating through his body and nearly breaking him apart—brain spinning, heart crashing, breathing all wrong, not getting enough air, still not getting enough Sherlock. John braced himself against the bed and drove his hips back against Sherlock, meeting each stroke with a shuddering crash.
The room was alive with sound. The mattress was screaming, antique springs giving out the last of their lives to squeak and growl beneath John’s knees, each movement louder than the one before. The headboard slammed into the wall, rattling beneath John’s hands, little flecks of plaster and dust taking to the air. And then there was John, howling and cursing and shouting disjointed commands—yes and god and Sherlock and harder—as if sound didn’t exist in their world. Sherlock was gasping and grunting behind him, a layer of sweat making the whole of his body shimmer, the slap of his hips against John’s arse nearly drowning out the mattress. Nearly.
Sherlock knocked John’s hands off the headboard and shoved him down onto the mattress, his face half-buried in a discarded pillow. He planted a hand between John’s shoulder blades, keeping his chest pressed to the mattress while his other hand had John’s hips raised. Sherlock lifted himself onto a knee and drove downwards into John, changing his angle so that his cock pounded against John’s prostate with each stroke. John wailed into the mattress.
John had long since lost control and it was glorious. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop the sounds or words or cries that escaped from his lips. All he could do was writhe against Sherlock’s cock as Sherlock fucked him into the god-forsaken mattress harder, harder, harder. His hands grabbed at nothing. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were open. His cock was harder than anything and leaking, a string of precome dribbling down onto the sheets. He knew the second he touched himself he would come but he wasn’t ready yet. Sherlock had taken his time and gone too slow for too long and now John was on his cock, hard and fast, and it was good, it was good, it was so good.
Then Sherlock grabbed at John’s hair and tugged his head back and his cock drove deeper inside than John thought possible and John knew that he couldn’t last much longer, whether he touched himself or not. Pressure was building, barreling towards release, roiling and glorious. The whole of John’s body was sparking now and it wouldn’t be long before everything was ablaze.
John tried to say Sherlock’s name—tried with all his might—but could barely get past the first syllable before he was coming, his body shaking and swelling and twitching against Sherlock, his cock erupting, shooting streams of come onto the mattress and his stomach and his chest and an utterly unnecessary hand. John screamed and howled and buried his face into the mattress and the springs screamed right back. Then Sherlock cried out—a word that might have been John’s name—and John felt Sherlock’s cock swell inside him and he pumped and pulsed, filling John with liquid heat, sliding in the slick of his own come until John was gasping and wordless.
Sherlock fell forward onto John, pushing the both of them down on the mattress. The bed groaned once more and fell silent, the only sounds in the room Sherlock’s panted breaths and John’s fractured whimpers. John’s toes were tingling. He felt as if he lost partial brain functioning. He wasn’t particularly sure where he was anymore. Sherlock slipped his arms underneath John’s chest and hugged him tight.
“That,” John said, only partially sure he was speaking English, “was amazing.”
Sherlock kissed along John’s neck, his ear, his cheek. “Of course it was,” he said.
Sherlock lifted himself off John, his softening cock slowly slipping away. John moaned at the sensation, the feel of Sherlock’s come trickling out of him. He rolled himself onto his back with great effort, his torso a mess of smeared semen and sweat. Sherlock knelt over him, grinning.
“What?” John asked, his eyes barely open.
“You look like a gift after it’s been unwrapped,” Sherlock said. “Crumpled, torn into, ripped to pieces. Evidence of hands.” Sherlock ran his fingers down John’s chest, leaving little trails in the slick mess on his skin. “A long-desired object, lovingly used to its capacity.”
John grinned, his lips barely managing the effort. “You’re calling me a gift, then?”
Sherlock ran his hands along John’s sides, his hips. He looked down at John with reverence. “What else would you be?”
John reached a limp hand out for Sherlock. “Kiss me,” he said.
Sherlock lowered himself over John’s body, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “With pleasure,” he said. The bed creaked beneath him.
At that, an irritated knocking—five raps, loud and sharp and sudden—vibrated the wall just behind them. Someone disgruntled cleared their throat with purpose.
“Shit,” John breathed. “That’d be your parents.”
Sherlock’s mobile buzzed. Sherlock flopped to the side, reaching for the mobile where it lay on the nightstand with a blind, floundering hand.
“And that’d be—“ John started.
“If you and Doctor Watson are quite finished,” Sherlock read, the glow of the mobile shining off the sheen of sweat on his face, “some of us would very much like to sleep tonight.”
John covered his face with his hands. “Shit,” he said.
“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock shouted.
“Shhh,” John hissed, smacking at Sherlock’s arm with the back of his hand.
“Off to sleep, the lot of you,” shouted an elderly female voice just past the wall.
John covered his face with a pillow and attempted to smother himself.
“Yes, mummy,” Sherlock called, tossing his mobile back on the nightstand. He tugged at a corner of the sheet and began to clean the both of them off.
“The whole house?” John said through the pillow. “We woke the whole house, then?”
“I believe Rosie is still asleep,” Sherlock said. He rubbed at John’s stomach with the sheet.
John removed the pillow from his face. “Just so you know,” he said, “we are getting up early tomorrow and burning these sheets in the fireplace. Before your mum can even think about coming in here to change the bedding.”
Sherlock collapsed at John’s side, draping an arm over his stomach. “Oh, I doubt she’ll be coming anywhere near this bedding during our stay here.”
John groaned and covered his eyes with a hand. He could feel Sherlock shaking against him. He uncovered his eyes, looked down at Sherlock. “You’re giggling,” he said. “Your entire family just heard you buggering me half to death in their guest room. And you’re giggling.”
Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck. He carried on laughing, sharp puffs of air tickling at John’s skin. It was infectious; John had to fight against the smile creeping over his face.
“I have no idea what to say to your mum tomorrow,” John said.
“I suggest talking about the weather,” Sherlock said.
“And I certainly won’t be able to look Mycroft in the eye.”
“Best not to anyway,” Sherlock said. “Lessens the risk of being turned to stone.”
John laughed. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, running his hands over the slick of his back, rapidly growing cool in the chill of the room. Sherlock shifted onto John, resting his head on John’s chest and grinning up at him.
“You’re a bastard,” John said. The comment was somewhat undercut by the fact that he was still laughing.
“A bastard,” Sherlock agreed.
“You’re a complete and utter arsehole,” John said.
“Complete,” Sherlock said. “Utter.”
John tightened his arms around Sherlock. “And I love you.”
Sherlock pushed himself off of John, hovering over him with his hands planted on either side of John’s head. “And I love you,” he said.
John pulled Sherlock down on top of him, their mouths sinking together. The kiss was wet, open, and slow—gloriously slow. For the moment, John didn’t mind slow. John wound his arms around Sherlock’s back and Sherlock settled onto him, slotting himself between John’s legs.
The bed creaked loudly.
“GO TO SLEEP.” Multiple voices this time, seeming to come from all directions. Not a one of them sounded pleased.
John groaned and covered his face with his hands and Sherlock collapsed on top of him, dissolving into giggles once more. His shaking body was causing the mattress to give out tiny squeaks, and John wondered if they were moments away from Sherlock’s parents bursting into the room with some sort of weapon.
“I don’t suppose,” John said, “your offer to head back to Baker Street still stands?”
Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow, gazing down at John with an amused expression. “Of course we can’t leave, John,” he grinned. “It’s Christmas.” He flopped down next to John, manhandling him back over on his side. “Now budge over,” he said. “I’m sleepy.”
John allowed himself to be moved, pulling the slightly-sullied blankets back over them as Sherlock nestled against his back, tucking himself into the curves and angles of John’s body. Sherlock brought his arms around John’s chest and sighed against John’s neck. John could hear Sherlock’s breaths grow slow, relaxed. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s, giving his hand a squeeze.
“Happy Christmas, John,” Sherlock murmured against John’s hair.
“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” John said.