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the island of conclusions

and the heat goes on.... (John/Sherlock, NC-17)

the island of conclusions

bright star

and the heat goes on.... (John/Sherlock, NC-17)

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bright star
Here’s the second prompt I answered at the sherlockbbc_fic meme last week, in my massive fit of procrastination. This one was posted anonymously, because, well, it’s not what I usually write. Feel free to scroll on by, if it's not what you usually read.

Apparently, when I told a bunch of people last week that Benedict Cumberbatch didn’t do much for me, what I really meant was, “oh, look, the man who’s going to push me past the NC-17 barrier in fic.” IDEK. I think it’s the voice.

Title: “and the heat goes on….(where the hand has been)”
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Sherlock.
Word count: ~1,500 wds.
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit.

Summary: “Well,” Sherlock said, “you can ask me to do anything, anything at all. Just, no touching.” He smiled that strange half-smile of his, “Are you game?”

a/n: for the prompt: Sherlock enjoys orgasms. What he doesn't enjoy is being touched. And so; Sherlock and John, face to face, Sherlock touching himself and John talking, telling him how...
a/n: title from the Talking Heads, “Born Under Punches.”


and the heat goes on...(where the hand has been)

It had finally come to this.

Another night, another roof-top chase, another return to Baker Street, another pause at the bottom of the stairs, breathless and disheveled. And when Sherlock turned to him, eyes lit up with deviltry, and something else, John knew what he was seeing.

He might not have been the smoothest operator on the block, but he recognized an invitation when he saw one.

And if it wasn’t his usual M.O., well, he would just add it to the list of ways Sherlock Holmes had turned his world topsy turvy.

And if it seemed dangerous, well, maybe that was the best part about it—John could feel his balls tightening just at the thought of the perils involved. So he turned his body towards Sherlock’s, pressed those thin shoulders back against the wall, pushed a knee between those racehorse legs.

Sherlock shoved him away instantly—used both hands to do it, too.

Shit, John thought, chagrined and frustrated, misread that one. He put his head down for moment to get himself under control. When he looked up, Sherlock was a few steps up the staircase, regarding him contemplatively.

Here it comes, John thought, the ridicule, the condescension.

But all Sherlock said was, “Not here.”

He started up the staircase. And John followed him.

Followed him all the way to his disastrously untidy room, where Sherlock courteously held the door open for him, flicked on the light, waited for John to go through.

And then there they were facing each other, both breathing a little quickly, as if the chase had never really ended.

Well, in for a penny, John thought, and moved toward Sherlock slightly, his arousal only increased by their weirdly decorous progress.

But Sherlock fell back, leaning against the closed door. “Just so you understand,” he said, only the slightest thickening of his voice suggesting he might be equally excited, “I don’t touch.”

“You don’t--?” John was confused, “What? You mean—not at all?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“But you still--?” Sherlock nodded. “Oh,” John said, flummoxed, “But how do you--?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “you can ask me to do anything, anything at all. Just, no touching.” He smiled that strange half-smile of his, “Are you game?”

Oh, John was game. He had the same feeling he’d had peering out of the plane’s open hatch during parachute training, thousands of feet up, the same butterflies in his stomach, but, fuck, yeah, he was game. Just too dry-mouthed to say anything. He nodded instead.

“Anything at all,” Sherlock repeated, propping himself against the door now with indolent grace.

“Um, okay, then” John said. He wished it didn’t feel quite so much like a quiz. Given the level of complexity Sherlock brought to everything he did, from breakfast foods to text messaging, John was sure he was expecting something exotic, something arcane—something interesting. And John knew himself well enough to know that inventiveness wasn’t his greatest strength in bed.

Still, here he was, being offered something he now realized he’d been wanting for a long time, every sinew in his body thrumming with anticipation, so—

“Uh, could you take your clothes off?” he asked awkwardly, “If you don’t mind, that is…”

“John,” Sherlock said, half-stern, half-indulgent, “you really can ask me to do whatever you want; you don’t have to ask permission.” He pulled his arms out of his jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

And Jesus if that, already, wasn’t one of the hottest things John had ever experienced. It wasn’t that Sherlock put on a show—far from it. He disrobed with exactly the same deftness and precision with which he inspected a crime scene, or conducted an experiment in chemistry, the falling layers of clothing making a little cloud of black and white at his feet.

It was more the way he kept his eyes on John as he did it—all that brilliance, all that power, in a tight, ardent beam, offered to John like a secret treasure.

John wondered vaguely whether it would be polite for him take his clothes off too, whether that was the etiquette in this type of situation, but honestly, he didn’t think he could have mustered up the coordination if he’d tried, so mesmerized was he by the long, pale limbs gradually emerging from their habitual restraints.

Sherlock’s hair looked very dark against those planes of white flesh, sparse and straight down his narrow chest, surprisingly thick and wiry around his sex, which curved, red, already hard, against his belly. It was as long and taut as the rest of him, and John would have called it elegant, except he didn’t think that was a word one used about another man’s prick. But long, yes, and thicker than he would have imagined (not that he’d ever imagined it), with a decided bend to the right.

“Touch yourself,” John said hoarsely, hardly recognizing his own voice, and Sherlock did, curling tapered fingers around his cock, running smooth strokes down its length.

“Faster,” John told him, a little surprised at his boldness, but entirely caught up in the thing now, “squeeze—that’s it—drag your nails along the back there—rub your thumb over the top—that’s right. You like that, huh? That feels good?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but his changed demeanor was answer enough. His face had gone a little slack, his focus blurred, turned inward, his head looser on his neck. A flush had started to spread down his throat, over his collarbone. A few drops of pre-cum glistened on the head of his cock.

Suddenly, John’s own jeans were too tight against his straining erection. Without thinking, he reached down, undid a button, adjusted.

“Now,” John said, leaving the plane without a parachute, “now finger yourself.”

If Sherlock was surprised, he didn’t show it, just pushed himself away from the door, started reaching behind himself with his other hand.

“No,” John said, “get them wet first. Suck them.”

And Sherlock did, slid two fingers into his mouth with almost pornographic slowness. John could see his cheeks hollow out as he took them in, imagined he could feel Sherlock’s tongue sliding over them, between them, slicking them.

The fingers emerged, glistening, and John could read the burn of their entry on Sherlock’s face—the muscles around his mouth tightened; then he gave a little gasp of pleasure as he hit the sweet spot.

Suddenly, everything in the room seemed more intense to John—he could smell the sweat on both their bodies, feel the rasp of his clothing against skin grown sensitive to every pressure. He drew in a shaky breath, tried to wrap him mind around what they were doing.

Sherlock was close now, John could tell, the hand pumping his cock had lost its rhythm, devolving into jerky, frantic strokes. His head had fallen forward, waves of dark hair shadowing his face. With a deep, guttural sound, halfway between a growl and a groan, he came, thick ropes of cum striping his stomach, spattering over the pile of clothes at his feet.

It was the sound, more than anything, that pushed John over the edge—there was something uncivilized in it, something almost savage. To know that his words had pulled that noise past Sherlock’s polished surfaces, his brittle veneer, it—

He pushed one hand into his briefs, grasped himself, and came more quickly than he had since was fourteen.

+++

Slowly, John came back to himself. Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor, back propped against the bed. Sherlock mirrored his position against the door, still naked, eyes closed. And there they were, two civilized men, in a room they’d left even messier than they’d found it. He located a box of tissues, ineffectually tried to clean off his jeans.

“Hey,” he said to Sherlock, “don’t fall asleep over there.” Sherlock blinked, and John tossed the tissue to him, not sure whether the embargo against touching had lifted yet. “Um,” he said self-consciously, “was that--?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered, “yes it was.” And the rare warmth of his smile was like a caress.

fin

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