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221a is quiet when he walks in the door, which is more than a little worrying given that Sherlock was nowhere to be found in 221b. At this point, John knows him well enough to be pretty confident he hasn’t gone far - especially if all the abandoned and concerningly flammable experiments in his room are anything to go by. Ergo, Mariana seems like a reasonable next step to try and shed some light.
He hears quiet murmuring from the office - only Mariana’s voice, but that’s better than nothing. Knocking gently on the door, he waits for her to invite him in before he pushes inside and finds her sitting at her desk.
“Oh, John!” She greets, her smile wide. She looks beautiful, no more so than usual, but something about her in the moment makes him feel a little giddy. God, he’s a lucky bastard.
“Hi.” He says in return, thankful that he doesn’t stammer. “You look well. Are you well? You look—.”
“Well?” She stops him, thankfully, before he can get too much in a loop of nonsense talk. Her breath hitches a little, and he notices that while she has one hand on her mouse, the other in her lap, hidden under the desk. “Yes, John, I’m very well.”
These are clues he should put together, but in his defence, she is beautiful.
He eventually remembers that he came here for something other than to stare at her, taking another few steps closer to the desk.
“Have you seen Sherlock? Only I wanted to ask him something about the last case and he’s not in his room. Hoped he might be resting, actually, but…” He trails off, watching her smile grow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’ve seen Sherlock, yes.” She says, like she’s got a secret. “And he’s resting… in a manner of speaking.”
John watches her eyebrow raise as he tries to work out why she’s acting like she’s got some big secret. There’s an anticipation on her face. A colour to her cheeks. She looks like she does when…
He swallows, walking slowly around the desk. She doesn’t stop him, leans back in her chair even, and that’s when he sees that her skirt is hitched up around her hips and—.
“Ah.”
She laughs her beautiful laugh and threads her fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Found him, did you?”
There’s a peace on Sherlock’s face that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Eyes closed, forehead free of any tension. His nose and mouth are buried up against Mariana’s cunt, and John can imagine the right state his chin and throat must be in, based on how wet she normally gets when they…
“Uh.”
“I think you’ve broken him.” Mariana mock-whispers to Sherlock, his quiet moan in response drawing a reedy sigh from her.
“How, uh… how long…?”
“Most of the morning.” She says. “With a few breaks to stretch his jaw.”
“Right.” John murmurs, eyes stuck on how easily Sherlock fits there, between her legs, on his knees. “And… uh, why?”
Her nails scratch down over the back of his head, his eyes blinking open for a moment before he melts again, her fingers rubbing over the base of his skull. “It quiets his mind.”
John forces himself to remember to breathe, wandering around the desk and fetching one of the chairs they use when clients come. He drags it around and collapses down, considering crossing his legs to try and hide where he’s getting stupidly aroused by this display.
“When did it…” He tries, his mouth full of a stupid amount of saliva all of sudden. “When did it start?”
Mariana makes a quiet sound of consideration, resting her hands back on her thighs and looking down at Sherlock with such adoration that it almost makes him feel like he’s in the way of something. Then, she reaches over and takes his hand, guiding it to rest on Sherlock’s head.
“We sort of stumbled upon it, didn’t we Sherlock?”
The other man nods, pulling back a little and taking a slow, measured breath in. He looks better than John’s seen him in days, frantic as he’s been with the desire to push through his exhaustion. He’s not as peaky as he was before, some life in his cheeks and brightness in his eyes.
“We did.” He murmurs, his voice thick in a way that makes John shiver. “I assume you have no need for us to explain the general idea?”
“No, no.” John says “I’m…”
Thinking about you doing the same for me.
“Fine with it. Obviously.”
Sherlock’s lips quirk, and then he’s melting forward - tongue-first, John notices - and sighing in undeniable pleasure as his nose nudges Mariana’s clit and she makes a delightfully chirping sort of sound, her hips jumping forward into him.
“You’re sensitive.” He says, his hand shifting to curve over her thigh.
“Yes, well you try being eaten out for hours before you judge me.”
John laughs, squeezing the trembling muscle in her leg. “It’s not like I have the equipment to… y’know.”
Sherlock’s eyes blink open, fixing on John. He resettles himself for a moment before saying. “Oh John.”
There are times when Mariana laughs and it’s like the sun has come out, her joy a balm to whatever’s wrong in the world. And there are times when she’s clearly laughing at him, with Sherlock. This is one of those times.
“Do you want to tell him, or shall I?”
#
It is not the most ridiculous way he’s ended up on his back.
Sherlock walks into the room wiping at his chin with a towel, his shirt abandoned somewhere (likely in a pile on the bathroom floor). He looks better than he has in weeks, smugly confident again instead of distracted and drifting.
And now all of his attention is on John.
Which is fine.
Mariana purrs from behind him, unashamed of her admiration of the pair of them. Her hands spread over John’s heaving chest, nail scratching over one of his nipples as he rests his head back against her chest.
“You know, I don’t think I ever actually agreed to this.”
“Mm, yes, the way your heart rate and arousal clearly spiked in quick succession after my, I thought, rather dry description of the act of rimming was absolutely not an indication of interest.”
“I thought we were all about consent here.”
Mariana chuckles warmly, right in his ear, the gust of her exhales tickling over his skin. Sherlock drops the towel off to one side and kneels on the edge of the bed, then starts the slow crawl up it, which really isn’t that far but to John seems like it’s happening in slow motion.
He hovers over John, steadfastly not touching, and brings their faces close enough that John would only have to slightly lift his chin to bring their lips together. Which Sherlock knows, if the way his eyes drag slowly down to John’s lips.
Bastard.
“Do you consent, John?”
The less said about the sound that comes out of him in response to that, the better.
“Yes. Yes I do, of course I do.”
His cock twitches against his belly as Sherlock reaches past him, their lips brushing just enough to steal John’s breath and have him gasping when Sherlock sits back with a pillow in his hands.
“For your comfort.” He says, simple as anything.
John can only nod.
The pillow goes under his arse, lifting him up and forcing him back into the softness of Mariana’s tits in a way that he is, at least, familiar with at this point. He’d make a nuisance of himself, if he weren’t so compelled by how Sherlock is settling comfortably between his legs in a way that is entirely reminiscent of how John saw him beneath the desk earlier.
Sherlock’s hands are a little cold as they cup his arse and spread him, with a confidence that should put him at ease, but manages to set his anticipation at fever pitch.
“Are you ready, John?”
“Not really.”
Sherlock sees through his clever ruse, ducking down to nose tenderly at his balls, like they’re something worth that sort of attention - who knows, maybe they are, he’s pretty new to this - and then down, past his perineum and—.
“Oh my god.”
“Not quite so cocky now, are you?” Mariana purrs, and he shivers all the way down to his toes.
“Actually I think that's a problem I definitely have.”
He doesn't remember making much sense after that. He's faintly aware of Mariana whispering to him that he should pull Sherlock's hair, he likes that but aside from that? It's all sensation. Sensation and confusion, flaring hot in his belly.
It’s hardly the first time one of them has opened him up, but that was with fingers and a lot of lube. This is… wet. Moist? No. Christ no.
New. That’s better.
The feeling of Sherlock’s tongue pressing into him makes him shout, his legs flexing uselessly on either side of Sherlock’s torso as his cock jumps. He looks down, which is a huge mistake because Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on his face, heated and amused without saying a word.
“I don’t…” He winces, the wet press inside him feeling so odd and so good all at once. “I couldn’t. Handle this. All morning.”
Mariana presses a kiss to his cheek. “I think that’s what kids these days call a ‘skill issue’.”
He groans, swatting at her.
“Shall I stop?” Sherlock asks, pulling back to show his chin almost as wet as it was when he sat back under the desk earlier. “There’s no shame in—.”
“No. No, did I say that?”
Sherlock smiles, and then there’s a thumb pressing at where he’s a bit open. “I didn’t think so.”
Sherlock moves him with an ease that he might be embarrassed about, later. Pulls his hips up and buries his face into John with an eagerness that is flattering, the quiet little sounds of enjoyment going right to John’s gut and making the heat there grow.
Could he come from this? Do people come from this?
Mariana’s finger traces over his belly, and he looks down to see her outlining the shape of his cock, catching the mess he's making but not touching him. It’s cruel, he thinks. Feels a bit like she’s edging him, which is something they’ve barely started playing with but keeps coming to his mind in the middle of doing other things, like a sexy curse.
“Shall I?”
Sherlock hums, his tongue now probing deep enough that John faintly wonders how long it is, how he’s never noticed that before, before it was stuck up his arse—.
Mariana’s hand is soft and warm as it settles around him, the sensation a bit too dry at first before she gathers some of the mess on his stomach and uses it to ease the way.
He shudders like he’s about to fall apart at the seams, which is very embarrassing if he stops to think about it for even a moment, so he doesn’t, just allows them to utterly ruin him because that’s clearly what they want to do.
When he comes, Sherlock’s fingers dig right into his arse and Mariana purrs against his throat, working him. It feels too much to be the focus of both of their satisfaction, enough that he knows he’s muttering nonsense that’s probably too much, too exposing.
They work him to the point of oversensitivity just because they can, what’s he going to do about it? Come at them some more?
When Sherlock places what might be a gentle kiss to his hip he finally finds the strength to open his eyes, peering down at the mess he’s made of himself with something that’s almost awe. He didn’t know he could—.
“Are you with us John?”
Forever he thinks, slightly giddy.
“I need a minute.” He says, instead. “Or five.”
Mariana laughs, and Sherlock gets to his feet, looking just as handsome as he had when he walked into the bedroom ready to rock John’s entire world.
“It would be remiss of me not to brush my teeth.” He says, and then he’s gone, leaving John still trembling in Mariana’s embrace.
“He’s just doing that so he doesn’t have to cuddle.” He grouses, feeling less exposed than he expected to.
Mariana makes a quiet noise of agreement. “I know. That’s why you’ve got me.”
They stay that way until he hears the sound of the bathroom door opening, Sherlock wandering off into another part of the flat without another word. John rolls his eyes, trying to stretch and feeling every part of him that’s not used to bending to the whims of an extraordinary man protest at him doing so.
“Mari.” He says quietly. When she hums, he continues. “I’m a bit of a state.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.” She says, more kindly than he was expecting. “Do you need a hand to the shower?”
He thinks about it for a moment, then sighs, flopping over and pressing his face into her stomach. “In a bit.”
Mariana laughs, teasing her nails through his hair. “Alright, John. In a bit.”