Birthday Suit || John/Sherlock || NC-17 || Sherlock (BBC)

[doodle_writes]

Title: Birthday Suit
Author: _doodle
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 2010) FPS
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes / John Watson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,700
Beta: alizarin_nyc (thank you, darling! ♥)
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All things originally Holmesian belongs to ACD. No profit is being made, no offense is intended.

Summary: Sherlock has developed a predilection for nudity around the flat. If he doesn't stop it soon and put some bloody clothes on John is going to have to do something drastic. Like shag him senseless.

Notes: This was insanely good fun to write, I only hope it's half as fun to read! ♥



The first time it happens John’s convinced it’s a dream.

After all, it’s not that much of a stretch considering how often his dreams feature Sherlock naked. Only this time Sherlock isn’t slick with sweat and begging in needy tones for John to touch him before John wakes up, gasping and desperate.

Instead, Sherlock wanders back out of the living room a few minutes after he passes John - who is fully dressed and about to leave for work - outside the bathroom. He’s completely starker’s and eating a jammy dodger.

John’s too shocked to even get a proper ogle in.

The second time it happens John is even less prepared. He’s sat minding his own business, enjoying watching a spot of QI on Dave without Sherlock spoiling it by answering all the questions before the panellists. It’s much more effective that way for trying to bolster up his general knowledge for the pub quiz he’s started doing on Sunday nights with Lestrade and a few others from the Yard.

Then Sherlock walks in and throws himself onto the sofa with one of his more dramatic sighs. Nothing new there, except for the fact that when John looks over at him Sherlock’s wearing nothing but a pair of black socks with a hole in the right big-toe.

It’s impossible not to stare.

If anything, Sherlock appears even more impressively tall and lean, all pale naked skin stretched out from one end of the sofa to the other. John has always been able to tell there’s more muscle and strength to Sherlock than one would assume, from glimpses of flesh seen under open top buttons and rolled up shirtsleeves. Now it’s all out on display for John, the cut of Sherlock’s hips, the smooth planes of his chest and light definition of his stomach.

John can’t help but let his gaze drop lower and despite being a realist about his and Sherlock’s relationship, this wasn’t what John had been hoping his first real encounter with Sherlock’s cock would be. That doesn’t mean that it’s not getting him hot under the collar. Or that it’s not going to fuel his marriedtohisbloodyworkwhydoIputupwiththeshaggablebastard wank sessions.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock says and startles John out of what he’s pretty sure was some fairly obvious staring, and possibly even more obvious lusting. He snaps his gaze up to Sherlock’s face where his brows are furrowed and his lips pursed slightly.

“You’re naked,” John answers in what has to be the stupidest and most obvious thing he’s said to Sherlock in quite some time. He blames the fact that he’s still thinking about all the things he’d rather be doing with Sherlock’s cock than looking at it, but will never get the chance to because Sherlock couldn’t be less interested if he tried.

John is expecting some sort of scathing retort insulting his intelligence, or worse, a horribly insightful speech exposing the fact that John’s pretty much been a walking hard-on for Sherlock since he moved in. Despite the not so gentle, or subtle, let-down that night at Angelo’s.

Instead Sherlock looks down at himself, and for a moment appears genuinely surprised to find himself in his birthday suit and a pair of old socks. “So I am,” he declares, fidgeting himself into a more comfortable position on the sofa and shutting his eyes. “Sometimes I think better naked.”

John chokes on his own response. Clearly Sherlock has no intention of being naked in private or at least putting something on more disposed to modesty than footwear.

John reaches a new level of loathing for Sherlock and somewhere behind him Stephen Fry asks something about Cornflakes. Sherlock supplies the answer while the audience laughs at Jonny Vegas.

“Do you have to be naked in the living room?” John finally manages.

Sherlock frowns again and aims it at John, who’s using nearly all of his brainpower to keep his own eyes above Sherlock’s shoulders and not on his nipples. “Is it a problem?”

“Yes,” John answers instantly because it is one. A very big one.

John can cope with all the other kinds of madness that come with living with Sherlock. The dubious uses of the kitchen table, the body parts in the fridge and the persistent and belligerent demands for John’s attention one hundred per cent of the time. He can’t live with Sherlock walking around stark bollock naked all the time when John’s starting to be more than a bit mad on him and can’t do anything about it.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise so high they almost vanish into his hairline as he announces, haughtily: “I’ll have you know I’ve been informed more than once that my physique is extremely easy on the eyes.”

Determined that the words that’s the bloody problem won’t slip out John bites his tongue hard enough he tastes blood. Then he escapes to his room where the door locks and Sherlock isn’t sprawled out and naked and so very out of reach.

The third time it happens John is more surprised by Mrs Hudson than the fact that Sherlock’s strolling around the kitchen with his cock out like it’s perfectly normal practice for doing experiments on a Sunday morning.

John’s let her in to collect the plates she sent some toad-in-the-hole and mash up on the night before and she doesn’t even bat an eyelid as they step into the kitchen and Sherlock’s naked as the day he was born. Not even socks this time.

John’s brain short-circuits for a minute because it’s Sunday morning and Sherlock is naked. Again. While experimenting with what looks an awful lot like acid and taking notes directly onto his laptop and there is no way that can be safe.

Thankfully for everyone involved John is too concerned about having to treat an unfortunately located acid burn to focus on how much he’d like to bend Sherlock over the kitchen table and shag him senseless.

“Sherlock dear, you really should put some clothes on. You’ll catch a chill,” Mrs Hudson frets. Reaching up and patting Sherlock on the cheek as she bustles past him, her eyes never once dropping from eye level in a show of true British stiff upper lip that John can only admire.

“It’s May,” Sherlock replies almost petulantly.

Mrs Hudson practically clucks, collecting the washed and drip-dried plates from the draining rack by the sink. “But it’s chilly in here, and think of poor John. He doesn’t want to see you in your birthday suit.”

John is certain he’s not imagining the little wink Mrs Hudson gives him. Thankfully Sherlock is too busy being indignant to notice it.

“I am not the first naked man John has seen,” Sherlock snaps, sounding more irritable than usual. Mrs Hudson’s eyebrows go up and she fails to contain a titter of laughter before Sherlock adds. “He was in the army.”

“Pop down for a cup of tea John dear,” Mrs Hudson says, ignoring Sherlock completely as she heads back to the stairs. “When you’ve had enough of his pasty little bum.”

John rolls his eyes and swears he hears Sherlock mutter under his breath, “Nothing wrong with my bum.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, put some clothes on!” A familiar voice bellows from somewhere downstairs, marking the fourth time. At least, the fourth time John’s aware that Sherlock is stark bollock naked in the flat when John could run into him at any time.

“I’m not talking to you until you’re at least wearing a pair of sodding underpants!” The sound rattles up through the floorboards and John’s fairly certain they’re in the living room and it’s Lestrade doing the shouting.

If there’s anyone else with Lestrade they’re certainly keeping quiet. John can’t help but wonder if it’s out of horror or because they’re just as stunned as John was the first time he was properly exposed to all the miles of perfect, pale flesh that make up Sherlock’s body.

He hopes that it’s horror at Sherlock’s complete disregard for accepted social conventions regarding clothing. He’s fairly certain it would be frowned upon if he shot a Met officer for lusting after Sherlock in the manner of want but can’t have.

Doing that was clearly John’s job.

The fifth time John finds Sherlock sprawled across his chair. Violin cradled carefully under his chin, bow moving gently to produce a soft, almost mournful melody.

His legs are crossed but there’s no hiding the fact that once again, he’s completely, ridiculously naked. There is nothing for it. John is going to have to tackle the issue head on. He’s even more afraid than usual to go into the communal areas of the flat since Sherlock started embracing nudism and there is only so much John can take.

“Don’t tell me, you play better in the buff?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks up at John, clearly disgruntled by the interruption. John finds it very hard to give a toss.

Sherlock keeps playing as he questions, “You disapprove?”

“Of that fact I never know if you’re going to be wearing clothes or not? Yes, I disapprove.”

Sherlock considers what John has said for a moment. “I don’t see why,” he finally proclaims.

“Are you from a family of nudists, or something?” John asks then instantly regrets it as an image of Mycroft with nothing on pops into his head and refuses to leave until he’s thoroughly traumatised by the idea.

From the face Sherlock is pulling his mind has obviously gone to the same place and John thinks it’s almost worth it seeing as it’s clearly mentally scarring Sherlock even more. “Was that really necessary, John?”

“Is you not wearing clothes really necessary?” He shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers quickly and finally. “Clothes are restrictive.” Then shuts his eyes and resumes his playing, this time something more vigorous, almost aggressive.

John sighs and has the horrible feeling that he’s not going to get anywhere fast in the battle to keep Sherlock’s clothes on. Granted, it’s not one he ever imagined he’d be having, but he also imagined if he was ever faced with Sherlock naked it would be because they were about to have the best shag of their lives.

“Sherlock, what you do in your own room and when I’m not here is up to you. What I don’t know - and can’t see - can’t hurt me. Just, please, keep your bloody kit on when I’m about,” John pleads in a last ditch attempt.

Sherlock doesn’t respond and John knows he probably shouldn’t be hopeful. He’ll only end up being disappointed, and even more inescapably horny.

As predicted, nudity incident number six follows shortly on the heels of Sherlock’s naked violin concert.

Sherlock barges into John’s room completely starker’s again and entirely unselfconscious, waking John up as he goes. It takes John a moment to work out what the fuck is going on, as Sherlock had the cheek to snap him out of a spectacular dream where they’d both been naked for entirely different, and much more enjoyable reasons.

Until now Sherlock has restricted his predilection for nudity to the communal areas of the flat and John has learnt to be prepared for anything. Or thought he had at least.

This he is not prepared for. Sherlock standing naked in front of him while John tries to forget about dreaming of the taste of Sherlock’s skin and the feel of his mouth, hot and wet around him.

It is more than enough to push John over the edge and he finally snaps.

“That’s it!” He explodes, sitting up in bed and giving Sherlock his angriest glare. He’s full of enough annoyance and sexual frustration to power London for a week. “If you do not put on some bloody clothes I am not going to be responsible for my actions.”

Sherlock stops rummaging around John’s medical kit - thermometers, stethoscope, basic first aid and a few added extra’s for dealing with his and Sherlock’s rather more dangerous endeavours - and turns. It’s suddenly impossible for John to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s face.

Not when Sherlock’s stood there gloriously naked, perfection embodied, and John’s hard and horny and is literally having the object of his desire waved around in his face. His brain isn’t anywhere near being in control any more. All he can think about is Sherlock.

He wants and Sherlock is either going to shag him senseless or stop getting naked.

“What sort of actions?” Sherlock questions, dropping whatever he’d been rooting for in John’s bag back inside with a soft thump.

“The sort that start with me getting naked too and finishes with mutual orgasms,” John answers before he can stop himself. He’s so preoccupied with the miles of pale skin on display and everything he wants to do it but isn’t allowed to that there’s no hope of controlling what’s coming out of his mouth.

Sherlock blinks, sits on the end of the bed and stares at John for a long moment before requesting, “Say that again, please?”

It gives John long enough to pull himself together and remember that he’s annoyed at Sherlock for strolling around starkers all the time and being so bloody tempting. And it has to stop, even if it means telling Sherlock he’s going to bend him over the nearest surface and do extraordinarily dirty things to him if it doesn’t. “You can’t just bloody walk around stark naked half the time and not expect me to want to jump you, no matter how married to your work you are.”

Sherlock appears to process this for a second, before fixing his most intense stare on John and despite the rather distracting nudity it sends a shiver running down John’s spine. “To clarify, you’re talking about sex, yes?”

“Yes I’m talking about sex,” John says, nodding, halfway between a sigh and a growl. “With you. Very soon if you don’t put some sodding clothes on.”

Sherlock grins in a way that’s deeply disturbing before announcing, “I was beginning to think you were never going to ask.”

“What?” John chokes out as Sherlock stands. He’s not sure what’s causing his brain to turn to jelly the most, the implications of Sherlock’s words or the fact that his beautifully, wonderfully naked body is suddenly close enough to touch.

“I have not been walking about without my clothes on because I enjoy the draft,” Sherlock breathes into John’s ear, easing him back onto the still warm and rumpled sheets, Sherlock’s long, pale limbs enclosing him.

“I’ve been attempting to gauge your interest,” Sherlock explains, pushing and pulling at John’s sleepwear to expose skin that he’s suddenly exploring with lips and tongue and needy touches that have John arching and gasping. “You realise you would be very good at poker?”

John growls as Sherlock bites at the curve of his ribs. “Your determination that I not be naked around you caused me a great deal of doubt,” Sherlock continues, dragging bites and kisses down John’s sternum towards his navel and it’s good, setting his skin on fire good but it’s not enough. He wants naked skin on naked skin after so long watching and wanting and not bloody having.

“Then why didn’t you ask like a bloody normal person?” John demands, rolling them both to the centre of the bed and more importantly, so he’s on top. If Sherlock thinks he’s just going to lay back and let him drive after weeks of this mad test he’s got another thing coming. If he’d not been such a git about the whole thing they could have been doing this weeks ago. John could know the taste of Sherlock’s skin from every inch of his body, could know how to make him writhe and moan, how to draw out his pleasure until it’s almost unbearable and how to make him come hard enough to see stars.

“Because if you were not interested in me sexually it would have made our partnership and cohabitation significantly more awkward,” Sherlock continues to explain and John is only half listening, almost completely consumed with the want that Sherlock has been stirring in him since he stretched out across the sofa in nothing but a pair of holey socks. With all the things he wants to do Sherlock, all the things he plans to do now they both know this is okay, that they can do this.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock breathes as John shimmies out of his underwear and fits their bodies together. Heat and desire and oh fuck yes shudder through John as their cocks slide together and it’s too fucking perfect to be a coincidence. They were made for this.

“Do that again,” Sherlock demands and there’s no way that John is going to refuse him. He grabs Sherlock’s hip hard enough to leave bruises and rocks into him, dragging Sherlock up to meet him and it’s so good it’s hard to breathe.

“From now on, you only get naked for me. For doing this,” John commands with another roll of his hips and Sherlock gets the hint, his whole body moving with him in response, and he offers no complaints, no caveats.

Then they’re kissing, John isn’t sure who starts it but he doesn’t care because he’s always loved kissing. As much as he loves sex, maybe even more and this is Sherlock, and he wants to drown in it, in the taste of him, the press of his lips and wet heat of his mouth.

Sherlock’s fingers tangle in the back of the tee shirt that’s still rucked up under John’s arms and is starting to cling, damp with sweat from his and Sherlock’s skin. The heat and want are rushing through John, building in the base of his spine and the pit of his stomach and there’s no stopping it. He’s wanted this, wanted Sherlock too long and it’s going to be messy and fast and completely dirty and he doesn’t care.

“John,” Sherlock growls, hips stuttering against his own, faltering in their rhythm and John knows he isn’t the only one who’s close.

“The things I’m going to do to you, Sherlock,” John says, grinding down into Sherlock and biting the curve of his neck, damp with sweat and so very tempting. He promises into the smooth, hot flesh he’s been fantasising about for weeks. “Going to tease you, just like you’ve been teasing me, until you’re so desperate you’ll be begging me to touch you, let you come.”

Just the threat of it is enough push Sherlock over the edge. To have him gasping John’s name and blasphemies that are like music to John’s ears, Sherlock’s face completely unguarded and painted with pleasure. It’s better than he ever imagined and he wants to see it again, as often as possible.

“John,” Sherlock pants, chest heaving beneath John’s and he’s close, hanging on the edge as his heart pounds behind his ribs and he thrusts into the curve of Sherlock’s hip, slick with come.

“John,” Sherlock says again and it almost sounds like a command, but it doesn’t matter because they’re kissing again. It’s messy and desperate and then Sherlock’s long, dexterous fingers are wrapped around John’s cock.

John’s world narrows down to yes and Sherlock, firm strokes and the wet slide of tongue against his own and it’s all too much. He comes, hips stuttering into Sherlock’s grasp and groaning his name against insistent lips.

Sherlock swallows the sounds greedily. Keeps flares of white sparking behind John’s eyes and the rush of orgasm shuddering through him with gentle touches, until he’s collapsed against Sherlock’s chest and utterly wrecked by him and sex.

Eventually John can hear the sound of Sherlock’s breathing, once the rush of his own blood has cleared from his ears. He can feel the beat of Sherlock’s pulse where he’s buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and like his own it’s starting to return to normal. The sweat’s beginning to cool on their skin and John means to untangle them, get settled into bed but ends up kissing Sherlock again, just because he can, because he’s allowed.

It’s a lazy tangle of tongues and playful nips, then slow and so gentle it feels like they might just both fall apart if they’re not careful. John smiles against Sherlock’s lips, feels it mirrored against his own and the only way it could be more perfect would be if they didn’t have to breathe.

When they finally separate Sherlock’s lips are red and something hot and sharp, like pride and possession flares in the pit of John’s stomach. Sherlock looks entirely debauched as John carefully extracts himself from on top of Sherlock, settling on the bed beside him to admire his handiwork.

Sherlock seems just as pleased to be so sex-mussed as John is to have made him that way as he shifts onto his side, eyes raking up and down John’s body before asking in a rough voice. “How long would you say your recovery time is?”

John laughs, breathy but full bodied, his chest shaking with mirth as he gathers Sherlock in close. He doesn’t care if Sherlock doesn’t usually cuddle after sex, he does now. After barely a minute he’s already decided he’s not ready to let skin on skin contact go, not yet anyway, or maybe ever. “Not what it was when I was sixteen.” Which had been pretty much right away and never has John missed it so much before. “Why?”

“Because,” Sherlock says, pressing a line of kisses across John’s exposed ribs. “I’d quite like you to make good on your threats, and then finish them off by fucking me.”

Heat starts to pool in John’s stomach again at the low growl to Sherlock’s voice, at the promise of what’s to come and his cock gives an interested twitch. It’s going to be a long night, and John is more than happy for Sherlock to stay completely naked. In fact, he demands it.

“Keep talking like that,” he says, taking in the tempting expanse of Sherlock on display, just for him, all for him. “And you wont have to wait long.”

Clothes, John decides, are no longer necessary in 221b. Especially in the bedroom.