Fic: Sunday Sounds
Inspired by this prompt on the shkinkmeme. I think I strayed too far from the original for a fill (no idea what a Sentient!Settee is), but it was fun. :)
Title: Sunday Sounds
Words: 884
Rating: R (to be safe)
Warnings:
Pairings : Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sadly the characters are not mine and no money is made (that would be sooo cool!).
It’s Sunday morning. Not that the days of the week matter to Sherlock per se, except for the fact that Sunday means John does not have to work. For some reason Sherlock is not ready to question just yet, Sundays are his favourite days now.
Today it is still early and John fast asleep.
Sherlock’s brain is busy watching his experiment on fly agaric, documenting the influence of smoke on the decay of human flesh and cataloguing the dirt samples from his last case. And - for another reason he does not want to think about - deducing the course of John’s yesterday's evening out. Part of his brain is ALWAYS thinking about John these days.
Sherlock stands at the book shelf in the far corner of the living room when he hears a sound from upstairs. John is waking and tossing around in the last remnants of a dream.
Sherlock tries to concentrate on the book he is looking for (John has rearranged the books again), but is distracted by the sounds of John getting up, going to he bathroom and then coming downstairs.
John appears in the door frame in his pyjama pants, shirtless, hair ruffled and brain still sleepy. He walks into the kitchen, drinks a glass of water and calls Sherlock’s name. Sherlock is frozen in the shadow of the book shelf and unable to make a sound.
John shrugs, goes over to his armchair and picks up Sherlock’s shirt, that somehow migrated from his room to the living room. Interesting.
And then he sniffs it.
Sherlock feels as if his brain just got a hiccup.
John makes a soft noise in his throat and Sherlock feels something warm moving in his belly. What is happening here?
Unfortunately his brain is still busy trying to wrap itself around the fact that John is now breathing in Sherlock’s scent deeply. So no help from there. And then he moves one hand to his groin and runs a finger along the length of his slowly growing cock.
Sherlock’s brain goes complete off-line.
John makes that soft approving noise once more, deep in his throat, an almost-hum. Again the finger moves up and down. Sherlock feels an unfamiliar twitching between his legs. Then John flattens his hand and strokes his palm along his now very impressive erection. And there is the hum Sherlock has been waiting for without knowing.
John takes the shirt, turns around and goes back upstairs.
Sherlock’s head is swimming and he has difficulties to figure out why, because his brain is still on strike. Oh! He forgot to breathe! Stupid.
His legs are a bit weak and he is shaking all over. Sitting. Yes, sitting would be good. Without a sound he drops into the nearest armchair and stares at his shaking hands lying on the armrest. Then his gaze drops to the strange pressure between his legs. He can’t remember when he last had an erection.
Ah, at least part of his brain is working again. Good. He needs to figure out what is happening to him here and why.
But he gets distracted by sounds from upstairs. John flops down on his bed, the springs softly squeaking, then leans over and rummages around in his bed table. Why can he hear everything so clearly? It takes a few seconds before Sherlock gets to the conclusion: John didn’t close his door!
Then something flips open. ‘Lube!’ Sherlock’s brain chirps in. ‘He is using lube.’
More movement as John settles into a comfortable position and then there is the humming again. Sherlock listens in amazement as his own breath goes faster in response to John’s.
It doesn’t take long until John starts moaning softly. Sherlock sits completely still, hands clenching the armrests, and listens intently. His brain is absolutely, perfectly silent.
The squeaking of the bed springs gets a distinct rhythm and John is groaning now. Sherlock notices that his hips are moving in perfect synchronisation with John’s thrusts, making small jerking motions. The soft fabric of his trousers glides along his erection, creating a soft and almost maddening friction.
He imagines himself being the one drawing these noises from John and he doesn’t notice that his right hand has started stroking the armrest.
John is getting close now, his groaning mixed with small sobs drifting down the stairs directly into Sherlock’s twitching cock. He closes his eyes and his head falls back as he gives himself up to the feeling.
Suddenly John goes entirely silent for a second and then he yells. Sherlock’s eyes fly open. Because John just yelled his name. And that is all it takes.
Something almost painful runs through Sherlock, a last jerk of his hip and a violent shiver of his body and he comes. Hard. In his trousers, without being touched once. Nails clutching the armchair. Soundless.
He gulps in big amounts of air, hearing John echoing him upstairs, both men coming down from the rush together. And yet so far apart.
After a few minutes John gets up and goes to have a shower. Sherlock sits in his chair, his brain kicking back in, trying to analyse what just happened.
What he comes up with? Not much, because his brain is still busy chanting 'John, John, John.'
God, he is in trouble!
Next chapter
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