Work Text:
“Really?” John asks. “Never? A closet full of disguises, but no roleplaying?” It’s surprising in the way it always is when Sherlock still errs on the side of vanilla. Nothing astonishing, simply curious that the man who thinks of everything hasn’t thought of this.
“Does it help you to repeat everything I say?” Sherlock counters from the bed. “It’s annoying either way.”
Still surveying the contents of Sherlock’s closet, John unbuttons his shirt.
“John, come here.”
“That’s the plan.” John grins at him over his shoulder and snatches the thrown pillow out of the air.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and flops down against the duvet. “That was terrible. A juvenile cliché of innuendo.”
John throws the pillow back at him and Sherlock lets it bounce off his head. “You say the sweetest things.” He shrugs off his shirt and shucks his vest, dropping both onto the floor.
“Positive reinforcement only where it’s called for, John.” In a lovely display of skin, he rolls onto his stomach to peer at John. “Why the sudden interest? The disguises are for the work. You know that.”
He glances back at the closet before shutting the door. “No real reason. Just curious.” He comes to bed, toeing off his shoes. Sherlock’s eyes light up and John gets as far as unzipping his fly before Sherlock tugs him down. There the conversation ends.
For about three minutes, mind. That might just be a record for Sherlock’s foreplay endurance.
“But why are you curious?”
“Later,” John promises. He immediately switches tactics, scraping his teeth across Sherlock’s shoulder, rolling his hips as Sherlock bucks against him. There, that, come on. Keep going.
“I don’t see why-”
John snogs him. He waits until Sherlock has stopped talking against his mouth before attempting tongue, because that’s not the kind of mistake to make a third time. Then he snogs and kisses and gropes and caresses and, honestly, hopes Sherlock will stay on target for once.
Sherlock rolling him onto his back is a good sign, a brilliant sign, and when the snogging stops, it’s for Sherlock to move farther down his body. John’s pants join his trousers on the floor. John props himself up on his elbows, the better to see, and, Christ, is that worth seeing. That mouth. Fuck. Such a lovely mouth.
When Sherlock’s cheeks hollow, John fights to keep his eyes open. His head wants to fall back. His hips long to press up. Light brushes of fingertips stroke his thighs, set him squirming, and Sherlock pulls off with an abrupt pop.
“I don’t see the appeal,” Sherlock informs him.
John gapes at him, too solidly slapped across the face for a response.
“No, not your cock,” Sherlock dismisses with a kiss to his thigh. “The appeal there is obvious.”
“You... You mean the roleplaying?”
“Yes, of course the roleplaying.”
John sits up properly, the strain on his shoulders and elbows too great without the blowjob to distract him. He does not sigh. He does not shout. He does not refer to the Blowjob Rule because “don’t stop unless it’s really important” doesn’t work for a man with Sherlock’s standards. Experiments are important. Passing thoughts are important. Googling the specific name of the sex position they are currently in is important.
And they are, John knows they’re important to a mind like Sherlock’s that grabs and cannot let go. John fights down the yelling and the frustration and the increasingly pathetic desire to not have to compete for Sherlock’s attention in bed and says, “Some people like it for the variety.”
“But that’s not what you had in mind,” Sherlock says. He crawls up over John to straddle his lap. To be fair, he does reach for John’s prick rather than his own, but the motions of his hand are absentminded, automatic. His eyes are curious, tone conversational, and when John returns the intimate favour, he finds Sherlock’s erection is already flagging.
“I thought you might like having something else to think about during sex,” John admits.
Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re already annoyed. John, you hate the distractions.”
“I mean something that wouldn’t be a distraction. More to think about, but, you know. On topic.”
“No,” Sherlock says. “No, I can focus. Tuesday night, I focused.” A hard, pressing kiss.
John gives in, is glad to give in. The irony isn’t lost on him when he pulls back to say, “You can always focus after a case.”
“I can focus whenever I like,” Sherlock insists. He proves it for roughly five minutes. Then, his lips buzzing against John’s shoulder: “Is it that much of a problem?”
“Slow sex is nice,” John says. It isn’t an answer and they both know it. “Fast, mm, fast is good. But slow is nice.”
“We used to do slow,” Sherlock realizes. His hand on John stalls, then resumes. “I can do slow. It’s been proven.” His other arm around John’s shoulders, behind his neck, and at the scratch of fingernails, John’s head tilts back, involuntary. Licking there, soft biting at his jaw, and everything is suddenly much too quick. In the aftermath of his orgasm, John fails to care. Sloppy kisses, a murmured invitation, and John finally watches Sherlock fall apart, feels him under his hands and on his tongue.
Sherlock collapses beside him, curls around him, and John pulls away only long enough to spit into the bin. That done, Sherlock tugs him down. John pulls the duvet over them.
“That was fast, wasn’t it?” Sherlock asks. He shifts his head on John’s chest, cheek rubbing against scar tissue.
Careful not to pull, John tangles his fingers in damp curls. He tries to move them where they won’t make semi-numb skin tingle. “Fast is good. Fast works.”
“You wanted slow.”
“This is slow.”
“This is afterglow.”
“Well, it rhymes, so it nearly counts,” John replies.
Sherlock snorts against John’s skin.
“Tickles,” John tells him.
“I’m bad at sex,” Sherlock whinges. “When did this happen? This didn’t always happen.”
John rubs his back a little. “That’s the honeymoon period gone, then.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow. John can feel it, this tiny brush against his skin. “How is a honeymoon period three years?” Sherlock asks.
“I’m not sure there’s a specific time limit,” John says.
“Sexual prowess shouldn’t have an expiration date.”
“No, but deciding that erogenous zones are ‘obvious’ and ‘cheating’ doesn’t help.”
Sherlock huffs and tucks his cold feet under John’s. “We agreed that didn’t matter.”
“Sherlock, I’m about to be very blunt. Are you ready?”
Sherlock nods, keeping his cheek off of John’s scar. His arm tightens about John’s waist as he settles.
“You’re getting distracted,” John tells him. “I’m not saying you’re bored. God knows I can tell the difference. But I’m not holding your attention the way I used to.”
“This is attention!” Sherlock protests, releasing John’s hip to gesture between their bodies. “This, here. I’m present, I’m cuddling, and I’m not yelling at you. Much.”
“I said attention, not affection.” He watches the top of Sherlock’s head for some sort of response. “Let’s be honest here: the challenge has gone out of it.”
“Oh, because pulling you into bed has ever been ‘challenging’.”
John swats him. “No, because you find blowjobs boring.” That’s a direct quote, as ridiculous as it is.
Sherlock lifts his head to frown at him, the expression all in his eyebrows. “How is that related?”
“Hear me out,” John says. “They were good at the start, right? And then you decided you didn’t want me giving head anymore, because it left you with nothing to do.”
“But I have something to do,” Sherlock insists, shifting, straddling. More out of habit than lust, John cups his lovely bum, and Sherlock gazes down at him with the exact expression of “please believe me so we can curtail this necessary conversation” that John has learned to ignore at all costs. Sherlock sets his hands on either side of John’s head, and, Christ, that body is unfair.
“Do you have enough to do?” John asks.
Sherlock blinks.
John waits.
“John,” Sherlock replies in the most patient of his condescending voices, “you do realize you’re finite.”
“Most people are, yeah,” he agrees, but it only gets him glared at.
“So if there is ‘not enough’ and you accept that you are finite, what exactly are you proposing?”
Oh.
“Not that,” John says. “The only way I’d let someone else into our bed would be if we weren’t in it. And then we’d have to change the sheets after because you know how much that bothers me, and it’d be awkward all around.”
Sherlock stares down at him before the long, pale pillars of his arms collapse, and John finds himself in the middle of a snog better than the actual sex they just had.
“This,” John tries to tell him, tugging Sherlock tight against him. They roll over together in a motion of unscripted coordination. They’re soft and spent and oversensitive, and they strain against each other perfectly, pulling against lethargy. “God, this.”
“If we can hold this thought for half an hour,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear.
“Oh, fuck.” A second round. John can’t remember the last time there was a second round. They’re lucky enough if Sherlock doesn’t wander off during round one. John doesn’t trust this to last past five minutes, let alone thirty. “What thought? Sherlock, details.”
“Ear,” Sherlock prompts, and John complies, sucking and tugging with lips and teeth, ready for a good, long monologue. “Yes, that. More with the tongue, more- yes. John.
“Can you imagine if, oh, if there were?” Sherlock asks. “Someone in our bed. A fan posing as a client. No, stop tensing, listen: we’re out, but Mrs. Hudson lets them in to wait in the sitting room. They move to the bed. They’re after you, not me. When we come home, I notice and you don’t.”
John hums his curiosity against Sherlock’s throat.
“How do I notice? Hm? How do I know it’s you they want? Honestly, John, I am an expert in the signs. Shall I list them for you?” And Sherlock does, he lists them, a clinical recitation undercut by sharp bites of irritation and deepening tones of arousal. He describes behaviours of men, women, and everyone in between until it sounds as if there’s an entire city of people John could have been shagging if he’d had half a mind to. His hands roam over John’s back, scratching up, stroking down, grabbing his bum with a squeeze.
“Back to the matter of your fan in our bed,” Sherlock continues. “I could kick them out immediately. Simple enough to do, but hardly a deterrent for future incidents.”
“Oh God.” John snickers against his skin, the curve of his neck. “Deterrent?”
“Mm. Get the lube.”
“What?”
“Get the lube and finger me.”
John doesn’t need to be told a third time. A quick scramble to the bedside table and back, and John slides slick fingers around Sherlock’s hole, laughing as Sherlock jerks away and yells at him for the chill.
“Should I stop, then?”
“John, you haven’t started! Hurry up!”
“Make up your mind,” John teases.
Sherlock grabs his hand and makes his position clear. They both curse. It’s been too long since they’ve done this. Somewhere along the line, it all devolved to casual wanking.
“Four months,” Sherlock gasps. “Seven days.”
“How many hours?” He begins to press inward.
Sherlock’s mouth opens farther, his cheeks flushed.
“How many hours, Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s hands adjust beneath his own knees, nearly letting go. “Uh...” So tight. “It’s, it’s almost ten o’clock, so... uh... Nine! Nine and a half. On your lunch break, we- Oh, c’mon, more.”
“How would you deter the fan?” John asks, easing in up to the first knuckle, easing nearly back out.
The answering grin is sharp and wild, a flash of white beneath red cheeks and dark curls.
John laughs in reply. He shifts to take a calf over his shoulder, stroking the thigh that settles against his chest. “Tell me.”
“Yes, I’d tell you to fuck me.”
“Christ.”
Low and deep, Sherlock chuckles. Above John’s hand, Sherlock’s cock has taken a decided interest in the proceedings, and as Sherlock squirms down onto his finger, that cock gives a mouth-watering twitch.
John groans and presses his mouth to the side of Sherlock’s knee. He can’t stop looking. Sherlock starts to rock his hips, letting his cock fall side to side, tapping against smooth skin. Teasing bastard.
“And, oh,” Sherlock resumes abruptly. “We’d move to the hall. From the sitting room. But I’d stop you in the hall. We wouldn’t have gone far enough yet for you to continue after, ah, after throwing out a voyeur.”
Second knuckle now, the point where Sherlock’s body remembers the intrusion is welcome. John watches his finger disappear, watches Sherlock’s cock stand and bounce and beckon.
“I’d stop you and- God, John, your face. Yes, all right, I’d ask you to suck me.”
This is the moment when John’s refractory period officially ends.
Sherlock yelps, actually yelps as John’s mouth closes around him. His hands leap to John’s hair and, for once, do not start cataloguing the shape of his head. The urge to lick and kiss and nuzzle is at once ridiculous and irresistible. Too long since the last time, much too long. The weight on his tongue is blissful, so hot and firm and lovely.
Possibly, Sherlock tries to speak. Possibly, he gives up. Regardless, the low, almost breathless sounds of his moans spur John on faster. Both of those legs over his shoulder now, both, God, lovely. He drops his head to flick his tongue just above his fingers, the taste of the lube doing little to dilute Sherlock’s natural flavour. Sherlock gasps and bears down, and John can’t be sure if he’s just said “Go to three” or “Get in me” and errs on the side of fingering. He pulls off to ask, letting a string of precum stretch between his mouth and Sherlock’s cock.
“John...” Sherlock whinges.
“Get in you, okay, yeah. Okay.” He has to rise up, has to rearrange his limbs and Sherlock’s absurdly long ones, and he drags Sherlock onto his lap. Legs parted, upper body sprawling, his hair a mess across the pillow his head is just barely on: John forgets how to look away.
Taking himself in hand is long overdue. Not quite painful, still a relief, and he rubs the head over Sherlock’s entrance, up and down, up and down until Sherlock shouts at him and tries to hump his way down. Sherlock misses drastically and they both swear, John’s “fuck” to his “damn”.
A second try, a new alignment, and there. There.
Slow.
Stop.
Breathe.
John tells himself to, but he still forgets. He goes a bit lightheaded.
“After,” Sherlock gasps. “No, not after.”
“What?”
“In the hall,” Sherlock explains. He flicks his eyes in the correct direction rather than gesture, his hands too tight on John’s arms to lift. “Before I come. We’d stop. Come in here. You’d see the fan, and, ah.”
“I’d go ballistic,” John finishes for him. “Think they wanted you.”
Sherlock grins and grins, chest fluttering with tiny, rapid breaths. “You’d throw them out. Shout. Captain Watson voice.”
John holds those knees apart, stroking thighs, encouraging the stretch. “You want Captain Watson voice?”
“Mm.” Sherlock squirms a little, just enough to make John’s eyes start to cross. “You can move now.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Sherlock’s arms wrap about his neck, tugging him down as John tries to ease back. He has to fight against the resistance, has to struggle to fuck him properly. He has to keep his eyes open, has to watch Sherlock’s face. Will it be the well-shagged haze or yet more distraction? When was the last time he had Sherlock incoherent?
No time like the present.
“In our bed, Sherlock,” John rages. “The bloody cheek.” Braced on one arm and stroking Sherlock’s leg with the other, he slows their pace to the point of shaking. Slow, not soft. He presses hard and stays there, pushing and pushing until Sherlock’s head is properly back on his pillow. “We’re locking that door when we’re out, Sherlock. We – are – locking – it.” Words and thrusts together, Sherlock’s groans in counterpoint. He makes a grab at Sherlock’s spit-slicked cock, but there’s a leg in the way, the angle poor. “Sorry. That’ll be on you.”
Making no move to touch himself, Sherlock rolls his head side to side. “Come first. Suck me after.”
Kissing him requires bending the man in half, but Sherlock cooperates flawlessly. It’s sloppy and hard and Sherlock rakes short fingernails across John’s back until John loses control of his hips. He comes with a vague sense of having just pulled something and he absolutely does not care.
“Fuck,” Sherlock gasps. “John, John, fuck!” His hand knocks against John’s stomach, now desperately fisting himself. John has no idea when he started. He’s sure Sherlock wasn’t doing that a moment ago.
“I thought--”
“Can’t wait!” The building squeeze and there it is, there he is, look at his face, look at those eyes. Wide and green-blue, at once glazed and impossibly open.
John bites his lip hard as Sherlock shakes around him. When Sherlock falls still and boneless, John pulls out, hissing softly. Christ, that’s a mess. And the tissue box is all the way over there. Sod it. They’re changing the sheets anyway. He collapses down next to Sherlock, keeping one hand on that damp chest as it rises and falls.
“When you came,” Sherlock explains after a quiet not-quite-cuddle, “it surprised me.”
“Hm?”
“Your ejaculate. The sensation was unexpected.” He curls his hand around John’s nape. “I’m not sure why it should have been.”
John hums.
“I can still feel it,” Sherlock adds. “Unless you’re about to wake up and lick it out, I need a shower.”
“Tired.”
“Shower, it is.”
John grins a bit, loose-limbed and smug. “We had good sex. We can still do that.”
“Yes, John,” Sherlock replies mock-dutifully and kisses him behind the ear. He pulls away as if to stand, leaving his hand on John’s shoulder, before returning closer. “I’m not bored. Three years, two months, eighteen days. The solution is clearly to craft an additional layer to the sexual encounter.”
“Roleplay,” John confirms.
A pause, a puff of breath, and another light kiss below the ear. “If you insist.” He stands and swats John on the bum on his way to the loo. “You won’t mind changing the sheets, will you? Excellent.”
John flips the two-fingered salute over his shoulder. They both laugh. John stays there for a bit, listening to the spray of the shower and letting go of a concern he hadn’t before let himself contemplate. Why the laughter reassures him the most, he’s not immediately sure, but he soon susses it out: for the important things, they don’t stand a chance at falling out of practice.
He lies there for a moment longer still, too tired to do otherwise, then gets up, uses a few tissues, and strips the bed. The shower tempts and God knows he needs one, but doing the wash gives him time to think. As does making the bed. By the time he knocks on the door to the loo, he’s grinning, and not simply from the naughtiness of naked chores.
“Sherlock?” he calls. “I’ve had a few ideas.”
The shower turns off immediately. “Oh?”
“Oh yes.”
“Come in and tell me while you shower.”
Half the night later, after showers and laundry and glass or two of water, they giggle themselves silly. They sigh and cuddle. Sherlock’s voice slips into a murmur as their eyes droop shut, his words soft and steady as John drifts slowly, gently away into dreams of whispered promises.