Chapter Text
When one lives with a man like Sherlock Holmes, the last thing he ever wants to do is to show his hand. This is especially true when his newfound ‘weakness’ can be used to bring the heat of blush to his cheeks or the unease of perceived public humiliation to his gut. That, however, is precisely what John Watson did.
John watched as Sherlock danced his way through what may have been his most eloquent deduction yet. It was almost a shame that only he and Lestrade were present to witness such a display. When a body is dumped cliffside just before a downpour, one expects nearly all evidence to have been washed away and lost in the rushing water below. But not Sherlock. With the odds stacked against him, he still gleaned more than enough information to say where the victim had come from, her relation to the killer, and even why the killer—a white male between the ages of 22 and 25, attractive, you’ll know him by the scar on his left thumb and his subtle limp –chose a cliff as his dumpsite.
Watching Sherlock deduce, watching him perform … that was nothing new. John had long since learned to tamp down the attraction he felt as Sherlock waxed poetic about a case. It was what came next that John didn’t expect and to which he certainly wouldn’t have correctly predicted his reaction.
Anderson and Donovan stood near the rocky ledge and stared down at the water frothing in small waves. “Do it. I’d happily support your decision, perhaps even encourage it,” Sherlock jibed at them as he headed toward the path that led back to civilization.
“What?” Donovan craned her next to look at him over her shoulder. “What’re you on about?”
“I can only presume you’re feeling the l’appel du vide1. I say go for it.”
“Lapel do what?” Anderson asked. “I don’t know what that means.”
The thing was, John didn’t know what it meant either. He only knew that hearing it—especially hearing it and not quite understanding it –was frustratingly sexy. He always loved when Sherlock was the smartest man in the room—which was always –but he loved even more when the man’s intellect went beyond challenging him and rather tailspun him into downright confusion. Those words… they made John’s stomach twist, his spine stiffen, his cock twitch. And, well, Sherlock… Sherlock noticed. John knew he noticed, because he kept doing it.
“No surprise.” Sherlock smirked without even turning to glance at either recipient of his insults. “Where’s an oubliette2 when you need one?” he continued with a roll of his eyes, quickly leaving them in his wake.
There it was again, and that was all the proof John needed. The first time had been accidental, but the second time was deliberate. Sherlock had used another strange yet remarkably beautiful word to gauge John’s reaction. And despite his best efforts to hide the effect, John was certain he’d failed miserably… or passed with flying colours, depending upon how you looked at the situation.
***
A few days later, when Sherlock came home without the milk—the only thing he had left to procure –John was furious. “How? How can the most brilliant man in London, possibly the entire world, forget the only thing he was meant to get?”
“Possibly?” Sherlock scoffed.
“No. Stop it! This is bloody fucking ridiculous. You simply must be doing this on purpose. I refuse to believe a genius could be so daft.” John’s face was hot, and he could feel the vein in his neck throbbing with each coming-much-too-quickly beat of his heart.
“Calm down before you have a heart attack.” As Sherlock moved to pass him, there was a deliberate brush of Sherlock’s bicep against his own. “No need for an alharaca3.”
And again. Another gloriously unfamiliar word, used superfluously and in combination with equally superfluous physical contact. It was no accident, unlike the partial erection it caused. Without further argument, John retreated to his room.
A few moments later, just when John had slipped his hand beneath his waistband to take care of said partial erection—now much less partial –Sherlock appeared in his doorway. “Eutony4. That’s what it’s called.”
“What? No. I don’t care what it’s called.” John’s eyes raked over the long lines of Sherlock’s body under his clothes and wondered what he was supposed to do with one hand down his pants and a man as beautiful as Sherlock Holmes taunting him from the threshold of his bedroom. “Get out.”
“I know you find me eesome5, which I fear makes you a bit kalopsic6, but never mind that. You whelve7 the desire away, suffer la douleur exquise8, all because you fear a lack of redamancy9, which—might I add –is completely unfounded.”
He’s still doing it. John’s response came in the form of a susurrus10 ‘fuck.’
“Even now, as I speak, you’re apodyopsizing11 me whilst touching yourself, which might inspire a twinge of myötähäpea12 if it weren’t so bloody arousing.” Sherlock stepped closer. “Don’t stop. Please.”
With every word he said, every selcouth13 utterance, John’s fingers begged to curl, grip, and stroke. Jesus, he can’t possibly realize what he’s doing. The deep rumble of Sherlock’s baritone, the rampantly seductive tone of his voice, his piercing gaze that could leave John feeling exposed no matter how innocent his activity—this specific one being far less innocent than most –they were coalescing to make for an oddly erotic situation. Wait… Did Sherlock say he was aroused? And—oh, god –did he just palm his own cock?
“You don’t even realize how foudroyant14 you are, do you?” Sherlock stepped closer still and sat on the edge of the bed, eyeing the subtle and involuntary movement of John’s hand beneath the fabric over his groin. “The basorexic15 quality of your lips…” he continued and trailed off, tracing the contour of John’s lower lip with the pad of his thumb.
John dirled16 under his touch, no longer able deny what he was feeling. “Sherlock, I—”
“The ustulation17 you stir within me, I can’t keep suppressing it… not when I see you like this. I’ve tried to let you come to me, to let you know your feelings aren’t unrequited, but you’re… so nedovtipic18 sometimes. The only reason I’ve never approached you before—” Sherlock ran his fingers down John’s chest in an effleurage19. “—is because this is the one area where I suffer a bit of atychiphobia20. I just don’t want you to be… disappointed.”
The sentiment barely registered given the way it was presented. Sherlock was using linguistics as foreplay. And, if syllabic sensuality wasn’t a thing before, Sherlock was in the process of inventing it.
“I couldn’t… I’d never… you’re—” John froze. When long, elegant fingers slid atop his own, his brain shorted out for a brief moment and he just goddamn froze. “Stop. We can’t do this,” he said and immediately hated himself for saying it
And Sherlock stilled. “Why? We’re two consenting, sturmfrei21 adults, are we not? Or have I misjudged the way you—”
“No. No, of course not. I just… I’m not sure we can go back after this… I mean, if we… we still could right now… all’s not yet lost. If we keep going, though… I just don’t think—”
“And you’d prefer we go back. I was under the impression you were interested in seriously pursuing—”
“No. I am… it’s jussss-nnngggg” Sherlock’s finger twitched against John’s prick. “Oh, god.” John tried to collect himself. “It’s just… if it doesn’t work out…”
“But… what… if… it… does?” Sherlock leaned closer with each word, his lips nearly brushing John’s with his final syllable. He nudged John’s nose with his own. “Do you really want me to stop?”
“No,” John replied, his voice more breath than sound. “Don’t stop.”
And clothes were quickly shed. Hands that were always so sure—so steady and confident –were suddenly timid as they explored the expanse of skin just beneath the fabric cloaking it from Sherlock’s eyes. Lips that were generally so presuming and audacious moved awkwardly, his kisses more questions than statements. For once, Sherlock wasn’t the smartest or most experienced person in the room, though he still had the market cornered on observational skills. And observational skills would be all he needed, if only he could remember to use them. Just to be sure, John was all too eager to remind him. Every kiss, lick, suck, and touch was met with an encouraging moan, which—let’s face it –was probably going to happen anyway.
But the most amazing thing about an unpracticed genius is his level of sheer curiosity. He explores the deepest reaches of his partner’s mouth, investigates exactly how many ways one tongue can glide along and curl around another. He laps at beads of sweat in the hollow of the throat just to see how well his tongue might fit within it. Nipples are tweaked, flicked, rolled, and sucked. Fingertips brush and fingernails rake. Teeth are used to nip and bite and mark—as property of Sherlock fucking Holmes –because he’s aggressive and all-consuming and possessive. But John knew that, and he loved the idea of becoming Sherlock’s territory.
“Touch me,” John begged, and he refused to be ashamed of the desperation in his voice.
“How? Tell me what you want.”
But how could he? John wanted so much, where would he possibly start? “With your hands and mouth, with every inch of you available. I want to be slick with our sweat, your saliva, my release. I want to be closer to you than is sane or rational. I want… no, I need you inside of me, whatever you’ll give me. Your fingers, your tongue, your co—” John choked on the word and coughed it loose. “—oh god, your cock. Take me, have me anyway you like, possess me and make me yours. Fuck me, Sherlock. God help me... I want you to fuck me.”
And the grin which formed on Sherlock’s lips was absolutely indecent. It was terrifying and predatory and the goddamn sexiest thing John had ever seen in his entire fucking life. It was damn near enough to make him cum without so much as a single stroke.
Then a tongue dipped into his navel, violinist’s fingers pressed into his mouth, and as the fingers were extracted, they moved to circle and tease at his arsehole. And, when that same mouth engulfed John’s prick, those fingers finally wriggled inside him. Long, slow strokes of hot, wet suction, impossibly long digits pistoning in and out of him. The gentle graze of fingertips against his prostate, lending a fullness that taunted him but wasn’t quite enough. And that mouth… those lips—perfect to damn near pornographic proportions –licked and sucked at his cock in such a way that felt less like pleasure and more like worship. And with Sherlock’s nose pressed against his groin, he hummed and bloody well swallowed, John’s prick buried deep enough to feel the clench of his throat when he did.
And if worshipping false gods was worthy of Hell, then John would gladly pack his bags that very night. He’d be off, ready for whatever fire and brimstone he was dealt, and it would damn well have been worth it. But false implied unworthiness, and despite having forgotten his own name, John Watson was still more than certain that the man whose mouth was wrapped ‘round his cock was absolutely real and more than deserving of every ounce of praise he could offered. So he spoke Sherlock’s name like a prayer, ensconcing and cushioning it with a string of utter profanity. He gripped raven curls like a rosary and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. And then, with the courage of a saint, he begged his new deity to stop. Because it couldn’t be over when it had only just started, but over was exactly what it was about to be.
So, Sherlock stopped, and his weight lay heavy against John’s chest. Swollen and abused lips pressed so hard against John’s that they threatened to leave a bruise. And John noticed that they tasted of pre-cum, desire, and himself. When Sherlock finally hoisted John’s legs onto his shoulders and slowly interred his cock where his fingers had previously resided, John didn’t care that it burned like fire. He’d take every bit of that pain and more to reap the rewards of having Sherlock so close, having something he’d wanted for so long after having previously denied himself the acceptance of that longing.
The pain soon turned to pressure and then morphed into pleasure before John’s eyes. And, when arse adjusted to cock and they fell into a proper cadence, it was simply the sweeping of prick against prostate and John crying out for more. It was like some beast residing deep within him had lain dormant for years but was suddenly awoken, caged and ferocious. It charged and rammed, snapping and growling all the while, and it absolutely demanded more of that which it had so long been deprived.
But instead Sherlock slowed, almost stilled. And, when their eyes met, Sherlock’s were blown dark with lust that pooled and rippled around underlying fear—the emotion John was least accustomed to seeing reflected in the detective’s gaze.
And the beast cowered. “W-what’s wrong?” John asked. “Am I—”
“You’re perfect.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t think I should continue. I’m not sure what I’m feeling could be described as healthy.”
“So, talk to me. Trust me enough to tell me, the way I’m trusting you.”
“And such is the dilemma. You’re imbuing me with such trust, yet I find myself wishing to own you, to claim you.”
The words weren’t meant to make John even harder, but they’d served to do just that. “Then claim me, Sherlock. Make me yours.”
“But I’m scared.” Sherlock looked away. “You aren’t an object. You shouldn’t be owned.”
John nudged Sherlock’s chin and coaxed him to once again allow their eyes to meet. “I do freely and willingly give. So, take. Please. Just… take.”
“And if I hurt you?”
“You won’t. You wouldn’t. Never intentionally. And trust I can give as good as I get. I want you to take me apart and allow me to do the same to you. I want to crumble beneath you, let you see what you do to me, what you’ve always done to me.”
“I-I want to see you cum and know it was because of me—for me.”
“Then do it, Sherlock. Make me cum. Then take me however you like and fuck me until you fill me up.”
Sherlock shuddered. “John, I—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sherlock…” The beast was again rumbling, no longer content to wait quietly. “I need you to move. I need you to thrust.” John’s voice was a low growl as the beast gripped him and swallowed him whole. “Fuck me… now.”
And that’s precisely what he did. With one hand between them, Sherlock seated himself as deep as he could and stroked John in time with the roll of his own hips. He licked into John’s mouth, his fist trapped in the infinitesimally narrow space between them, the momentum of his thrusts forcing John’s cock to slip-slide through his tightly encircled fingers.
Then John came screaming, his vision gone fuzzy, his body positively vibrating, and his extremities gone numb. And, if John had been watching as the warmth of his release splattered between them, he’d have known how intensely Sherlock stared, how mad he was driven by the very sight of it.
“John… oh, god… I want—”
“Then take, and don’t make me say it again.”
With a low, guttural noise, Sherlock hunkered down—nearly folding John in half. His fingernails left angry red crescents in the flesh at John’s shoulders. He growled and bit and pounded hard and deep. And when his body began to tense and downright tremble, John whispered his encouragement.
“Fuck. Yes. Harder, Sherlock. I want you to cum inside of me with my reflection in your eyes and my name on your lips.”
Sherlock lifted his head ever so slightly and peered out through thick, dark lashes. Even with just a sliver of his eyes visible, his gaze was still able to pin John to the mattress. He looked absolutely ravenous. His nose crinkled into a near snarl with every buck of his hips—bearing his teeth until his jaw went slack –yet he never lost eye contact. His eyelids fluttered as John felt the heat of a long overdue release erupt deep within him, John’s name on quiet repeat each and every time Sherlock exhaled. It became a mantra, a chant, until it was choked out by a sob.
Sopping wet curls slapped against John’s neck as Sherlock buried his face, breathing heavily and heart pumping double time. He pressed an open-mouth kiss to John’s collarbone. “I… that…” he breathed and rolled off, curling into John’s side with a chuckle. “Words… words are hard.”
“Sherlock Holmes? Speechless? I’m must be better than I thought.” John grinned. “Words are what got us into this brilliant mess, you know. Show some respect.”
“Forgive me for still being a bit anomic22.”
“I don’t even know what that means, and you’re already forgiven.”
“You’re certainly agreeable when you’ve been well fucked… assuming you would consider that—”
“Oh, yes.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Well fucked is an accurate description.”
“Can I stay in your bed while I sleep?”
John quirked a brow. “You don’t sleep. Sleep is boring.”
“Sleep has never before seemed quite so mooreeffoc23,” Sherlock replied with a small, sleepy yawn.
“No. Mooreeffoc? Now you’re just making stuff up.”
“All words are made up, John. But the credit for that one goes to Charles Dickens rather than myself. Now, can’t we just lie here in kef24 until I drift off to sleep, hoping to wake up with a sense of euneirophrenia25?”
“If you keep talking like that, you’re going to wake up with a sense of your cock in my mouth.”
“Mm… you just turned my hope into all but a guarantee. While there are worse ways to wake, I only care that you’re still beside me when I do.”
“That sounds a lot like sentiment, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock nuzzled at John’s side. “You might want to get used to that. Oh, and John? Invest in a dictionary. You’re going to need it.”