New Fic: A Study in Winning (2/10) part 2 of 2
A Study in Winning
2/10 - part 2
Previous part
*
He knew all about post-match emotional crashes, having experienced quite a number in his life, but this was the first time he’d had such a serious one coming off the high of a euphoric win.
Sighing he entered the room and stowed his bags and rackets carefully out of the way. The room phone didn’t have any messages on it and his mobile was staying stubbornly silent. Sitting on the bed he switched on the telly just in time to see the tennis highlights, but switched it off again after a few minutes.
What to do now?
He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t as if he had expected to still be here by this point. Through to the third round, whoever would have thought that? And he was playing better tennis than he had done in a long time. Dimmock next and there was always the possibility that he would beat him. Then what? The fourth round. He hadn’t seen the fourth round of a competition in years. That would be nice. But no, he wasn’t about to get ahead of himself. Dimmock would be a challenge. He mustn’t take that one lightly.
Sighing, he rolled off the bed and stretched. The adrenaline and endorphins from the match had finally worn off leaving him to finally feel the extent the win had done to his muscles. Win or lose he certainly wasn’t bouncing back as he had done when he was younger, but at least it didn’t feel as if he had damaged anything. He couldn’t risk stiffening up though. Maybe another shower would do him good, the heat would help his muscles and the whole thing would take his mind off everything else.
His room might be smaller than most in this hotel, but the shower was heavenly. He lost track of how long he stayed in there, only knowing there was condensation everywhere by the time he emerged. Drying himself with the first towel, he wrapped the second around himself and wandered back into the cooler air of the main room.
He stopped in surprise. Okay, a bit more than surprise.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d occupy myself while you were otherwise indisposed.”
Sherlock Holmes was once again sat stretched out on his bed, his laptop perched on his thighs, black socked toes wiggling while he looked very relaxed and very much at home. He tried not to gape but knew he failed horribly. For a moment he wanted to ask what the other man was doing there but discarded it as a pointless question. He closed his mouth and instead ran his hand through his damp hair.
“You’ve changed your password,” Sherlock commenting not even bothering to look up as he waved briefly to the laptop before typing something incredibly fast. “PissoffSherlock, not the most imaginative, but points for style. Although, I admit I started with fuckoffSherlock but it’s pretty much the same thing.” He then looked up with a slight frown. “While I appreciate the sight of you in just a towel, you may want to get dressed before we go out.”
He blinked finally getting enough act together to move fully into the main room.
“Where exactly are we going?” he asked.
“Fish and chips,” Sherlock said simply. “I believe it’s a British delicacy you wished to treat me to. Then I thought perhaps a walk, see some of the greener London sights, and then back here so you can bend me over this bed and give me a good seeing to. How does that sound?”
“Ah, good,” he managed suddenly aware that his curious onset of light headedness was most probably due to a certain amount of blood rushing elsewhere, namely downwards so to speak. Damnit, he wasn’t fifteen.
Breathing in deeply and trying to think of something, anything else, he licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Sounds good,” he finally managed. “Uh, yeah.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock said. “Which means you might want to start moving, and don’t mind me, I’ve seen it all before.”
Well that was true, he had to admit. Pulling himself together, he crossed over to the chest of drawers to pull out a pair of pants. Then without a shred of embarrassment or hesitation he dropped his towel in order to pull them on. Next he found a decent enough shirt - one of his checked ones - a pair of non-white non-tennis socks, and finally his jeans.
“Has anyone told you,” Sherlock said having not even so much as moved an inch, “that you have the most gorgeous bottom.”
He laughed slightly buckling his belt. “Yes, actually,” he said. “Although not recently.”
“Criminal,” Sherlock said finally closing the lid of the laptop and rising from the bed, “because it really is something that should be appreciated more often.”
The hand that sneaked round to squeeze his arse did so without hesitation or compunction.
“Hmm, yes, definitely,” Sherlock said giving him a light squeeze, “but later. Come on.”
The hand tapped his behind firmly before Sherlock turned away to slip on his shoes.
“And don’t forget your wallet.”
They ended up finding a fish and chip restaurant that did take-away not too far from the hotel. Laden down with the hot food and a couple of bottles of mineral water, they wandered back to Hyde Park where they sat on a bench and watched the evening draw in and the people pass by. The food was pretty good and they talked casually. It turned out that Sherlock knew very little about films or TV programmes, looking blank when John mentioned James Bond. Apparently if it didn’t concern tennis then Sherlock wasn’t hugely interested.
After the food they strolled through Hyde Park while Sherlock pointed out what he could deduce about the people they passed. It was all rather pleasant, more than pleasant in fact, and in direct conflict with everything he had been told that day - by Sally, by Sarah, by Lestrade.
“I bumped into that chap of yours,” he said after a few moments of silence. “Lestrade. In the foyer of the hotel.”
“Hmm, yes,” Sherlock said mildly, “he mentioned something of that.”
“Did he tell you what he told me?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Sherlock said, “but I can deduce. No doubt you had been asking questions of my whereabouts and he’d taken it upon himself to remind you that I care for nothing and no-one except my tennis. Am I right?”
John confirmed that he was.
“And yet we both know that already,” Sherlock continued. “I shag, I don’t date. At the end of this tournament we will go our separate ways. You know what that means. Until then I enjoy your company - which cannot be said for most of the people I ever meet - and I will physically take whatever it is you want to give. Any issues with that then you should walk away, but I’m not about to pretend that this is any more than that.”
That was… pretty much what he had expected; a brief fling, a bit of company during something that could otherwise be rather lonely, and some rather memorable sex. Yeah, he could do that. And if he won more matches along the way then so much the better. He had wanted to go out with a bang anyway. At least this would be memorable.
“I can live with that,” he said bluntly.
“Good,” Sherlock said. “Was there anything else?”
“Yeah,” he said, “that other tennis player, Donovan, she says you get off on this.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I’ve just told you that, and here you still are.”
He quirked his lips. “Coffee?” he said.
Sherlock smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
*
Feeling Sherlock’s arse stretch around him was just as good as the last time.
Easing his way in, John paused to allow Sherlock to adjust to his size while he admired the gorgeous sight beneath him. Bent forward over the bed, Sherlock’s back was stretched out before him, a multitude of tan lines from various clothing. His bare arse was the palest, protected from the sun by a variety of shorts, his back a touch darker from where he must have been practicing topless. His arms were the darkest although still not as tanned as he might have expected. He was, however, fucking gorgeous all over, and currently very much at his mercy.
“Hope you’re not waiting for an umpire before you start,” the deep voice grumbled beneath him, the body shifting impatiently.
“Hush,” he said gripping the narrow hips tighter. “Trust you to be impatient.”
Leaning over he pressed his mouth to the smooth skin, breathing out against it before curling his lips into a soft kiss. His body was screaming at him to get on with it, to slide himself in and out of the tight heat currently clenching him, but he forced himself to wait. He was going to take this slow. He was going to take it so slow that Sherlock was going to be begging him, begging him to move, to go faster, to fucking hell let him come.
The soft kiss curved into a smile. Oh yes, they were going to do things his way. They had the time after all, and there was no telling if he would ever have the chance to have the Frenchman like this again.
A whine from beneath him had him pressing his teeth into the kiss, nipping gently but warningly at the soft skin. The wiggling ceased with a heavy outward breath and he giggled slightly before running his tongue up the curve of the spine, pressing further into that delectable arse as he stretched up.
“Move, please,” he heard from beneath him, said in such a way that it shot right to his cock.
God that voice.
“Okay,” he said because that voice was just so damn hard to ignore, and slowly pulled out until only the head of his penis was inside. Then he pushed back in nearly as slowly.
“How’s that?”
He repeated the motion a touch faster, this time chuckling at the slight moan he got for his trouble.
Shifting his feet wider he moved again and knew the instant he found Sherlock’s prostate.
“Oh yes,” he breathed as the body flexed beneath him. “That’s the shot.”
He sped up a touch giving in to the desires of his own body, but kept his strokes long and steady in what he knew would be a pleasant but slightly maddening way. It was certainly both for him, his eyes falling briefly shut as he breathed in and relaxed into the sensations.
Christ it had been a long time since he’d had a long slow fuck. The last time they had done this had been fucking gloriously brilliant, but there was something to be said about taking the time to build things slowly.
“You know, you left marks on me last time,” he said as casually as he could, punctuating the sentence with a stronger than usual thrust at the end.
“Did I?” the Frenchman said, his voice not quite as steady as he might have been aiming for.
“Hmm,” he said. “On my back. Mike, my doctor, commented, wanted to know who the lucky lady was.”
“Ah!... oh yes, there. God, John, do that again!”
He sped up briefly giving half a dozen faster, harder thrusts that had Sherlock groaning in appreciation. Oh, yes, he could groan so nicely. Then he slowed down again, chasing back his instinct to turn this into some quick, fast romp that would be good, very good, but over far too soon.
“Bâtard!” he heard Sherlock mutter. He didn’t know what he meant but he could give a very good guess.
He chuckled again, sneaking a hand round to play with an offered nipple.
“Hmm, yes,” he said. “It was your fingers actually. Left lines down my back.”
“Long…hmmm… thin fingers. Yes, there! Mon Dieu! Good for the violin.”
“You play the violin?” He nipped at the curved back and pinched the nipple between his fingers.
Sherlock jerked, clenching around him at the sensation.
“Hmm, yes,” the Frenchman finally managed after a number of deep breathes. “Violin. Yes.”
“A man of many talents.”
“A man… hmmm… who will only take… putain!... oh, yes… so much… teasing.”
He could feel the tension in the body beneath him, the growing desperation in wanting more, in wanting something, anything to touch his swollen cock, but being denied.
Shifting his weight forward he finally gave in and sped up, pressing more force into each thrust, pushing up onto his toes as he did. Sherlock’s head dropped, his shoulders sloping in relief as his thrust back against him, hips jerking, mouth gasping.
“There you go,” he said entranced by the curve of the Frenchman’s back, the warm embrace of his arse. “Oh god, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Oui… Mon Dieu, oui,” he heard, a jolt shooting through him and directly to his balls at the knowledge that he had reduced Sherlock back to French. “Plus fort, Jean. S’il-te-plait! Tout cela… Baise moi! Baise moi, Jean!”
“Oh god, you have no idea what you sound like, how good you feel.” He pressed his lips against that back again throwing in three quicker, shorter thrusts directly against Sherlock’s prostate, marvelling wide eyed at the way the body beneath him jerked.
“So fucking gorgeous,” he breathed out. “Can you come from just this?”
“Non,” came the reply, breathy with just a hint of desperation. “Touche-moi. Je t’en prie, Jean… touche-moi!”
“Hmm?” he asked having a good idea what was being asked of him but really wanting to see what Sherlock would do next.
What happened was that the body shifted and a hand scrambled to grab one of his, tugging it impatiently to where Sherlock’s cock had so far been neglected. Smiling, John obediently wrapped his fingers around it, a single pump causing Sherlock to buckle with a long and hard appreciative groan.
“God you’re so hard,” he said sliding his hand up and down it in time with his thrust. “Not going to last long, are you?”
Hell, he wasn’t going to last much longer either, not with the way Sherlock’s hips were now buckling and a stream of broken French was flooding from his lips. His hands were sliding now, struggling to keep a grasp, one from the thin sheen of sweat coating each of their bodies, the other from the pre-come on the hard, aching cock.
“Oh god, so close,” he gasped pressing his forehead into Sherlock’s back as he felt the heat build-up in his own groin. Oh Christ that felt good.
He forced himself in harder and deeper relinquishing all pretence of maintaining a tight control. He wanted this, god he wanted this so much. The warm body beneath him, the tight burning clasp round his cock, the erection sliding back and forth through his fingers, thick and wet. Oh god he wanted to taste it.
“Oui!” he heard the Frenchman gasp beneath him, the rest of his words sliding together into an indistinguishable babble, hips thrusting back and forth with an almost desperate drive. “J’vais… j’vais….”
And then he was there, back arching, arse clenching as John felt the cock in his hand momentarily harden impossibly further as then Sherlock came with a groan barely short of pornographic, stripping John of any and all control he had left.
Jerking his hips faster, he squeezed his eyes shut and gave into all the sensations, wringing out some last breathy groans before burying himself in deep and letting the orgasm roll over him like an unstoppable tide.
It was so good, so fucking, gloriously good, the pinnacle of a brilliant day. His body shook, his mouth falling open as he sucking in air, his head falling to rest on the smooth skin, rubbing his cheek against the dampness of the back.
When he came back to himself he found himself draped over Sherlock’s, the Frenchman’s arms shaking slightly from the exertion of keeping them from plummeting head first onto the bed.
“Jean,” he heard and then a firmer, “John,” which had him drawing back and apologising as he carefully slid out mindful of the condom.
Sherlock didn’t move for a moment, his head still hanging between his shoulder blades, his breaths deep, his now softening cock partially coated in the remains of their activities. He looked wrecked, absolutely fucking wrecked, stripped away of everything people knew him as. Then he was standing up, head up, shoulders back, suddenly looking completely in control despite the mess of his stomach and crotch.
“Wait, ah, let me get you something,” John said suddenly finding it imperative to put a little distance between them.
Heading to the bathroom, he quickly located a spare flannel, dampened it and then returned to the main room, wordlessly handing it over.
Sherlock’s wiping down of himself was quick and perfunctory before he tossed the cloth back into the bathroom.
Now it was over John found he wasn’t too sure what to do or say. This wasn’t a relationship, that had been made very clear. There wasn’t about to be some post-coital cuddling or emotional whisperings in each other’s ears. They had already eaten and the only distractions in the room were the telly and his laptop. They were also both still naked, although being athletes both were used to nudity, except not exactly in this situation. Should he say something? Do something?
“Oh for god’s sake stop looking so bloody awkward,” Sherlock snapped from where he was now reclining on the bed. “I can practically hear you thinking from here. Put some pants on if it makes you feel better, and if you want me to leave just say. I won’t be staying too long anyway, but if it’s a choice between you and Lestrade you’re infinitely less irritating. Oh, and pass me my phone while you’re thinking about it.”
The phone was in the pile of clothing that had been quickly discarded before Sherlock had handed him the condom and lube and promptly bent over the bed, pale arse high.
“Looks like you’ve got some messages,” he said handing it over and finding somewhere safe to perch on the bed.
Sherlock snorted as he flicked through them. “Lestrade, mainly,” he admitted.
“Oh,” John said. “You know you haven’t actually told me what he does, other than bombard you with texts that is.”
Sherlock tossed the phone down. “Glorified babysitter mainly,” he said scornfully. “Apparently I require looking after. He organises everything; hotels, clothing, interviews, what I do, where I go, who I do and don’t see.”
“Oh, right,” John said.
“It’s hateful,” Sherlock said, “but it could be worse.”
“Worse? How?”
“He could be harder to walk over.”
“So, is he the reason I couldn’t find out which room you’re staying in?” John asked. “That is, I’m presuming you are in fact actually staying here, in this hotel.”
“Suite 212,” Sherlock said, “but you don’t want to go in there. Much prefer it down here. Better… view.” Sherlock’s gaze spread appreciatively across John’s body causing him to blush again and clear his throat.
“So,” he finally managed, “practice again tomorrow?”
“I’ll let you know,” Sherlock said, before his mouth quirked up into a strange half smile… “Although, after tonight’s performance, I can attest that there is absolutely nothing wrong with your stroke play.”
*
End Part Two
*
Part Three
2/10 - part 2
Previous part
*
He knew all about post-match emotional crashes, having experienced quite a number in his life, but this was the first time he’d had such a serious one coming off the high of a euphoric win.
Sighing he entered the room and stowed his bags and rackets carefully out of the way. The room phone didn’t have any messages on it and his mobile was staying stubbornly silent. Sitting on the bed he switched on the telly just in time to see the tennis highlights, but switched it off again after a few minutes.
What to do now?
He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. It wasn’t as if he had expected to still be here by this point. Through to the third round, whoever would have thought that? And he was playing better tennis than he had done in a long time. Dimmock next and there was always the possibility that he would beat him. Then what? The fourth round. He hadn’t seen the fourth round of a competition in years. That would be nice. But no, he wasn’t about to get ahead of himself. Dimmock would be a challenge. He mustn’t take that one lightly.
Sighing, he rolled off the bed and stretched. The adrenaline and endorphins from the match had finally worn off leaving him to finally feel the extent the win had done to his muscles. Win or lose he certainly wasn’t bouncing back as he had done when he was younger, but at least it didn’t feel as if he had damaged anything. He couldn’t risk stiffening up though. Maybe another shower would do him good, the heat would help his muscles and the whole thing would take his mind off everything else.
His room might be smaller than most in this hotel, but the shower was heavenly. He lost track of how long he stayed in there, only knowing there was condensation everywhere by the time he emerged. Drying himself with the first towel, he wrapped the second around himself and wandered back into the cooler air of the main room.
He stopped in surprise. Okay, a bit more than surprise.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d occupy myself while you were otherwise indisposed.”
Sherlock Holmes was once again sat stretched out on his bed, his laptop perched on his thighs, black socked toes wiggling while he looked very relaxed and very much at home. He tried not to gape but knew he failed horribly. For a moment he wanted to ask what the other man was doing there but discarded it as a pointless question. He closed his mouth and instead ran his hand through his damp hair.
“You’ve changed your password,” Sherlock commenting not even bothering to look up as he waved briefly to the laptop before typing something incredibly fast. “PissoffSherlock, not the most imaginative, but points for style. Although, I admit I started with fuckoffSherlock but it’s pretty much the same thing.” He then looked up with a slight frown. “While I appreciate the sight of you in just a towel, you may want to get dressed before we go out.”
He blinked finally getting enough act together to move fully into the main room.
“Where exactly are we going?” he asked.
“Fish and chips,” Sherlock said simply. “I believe it’s a British delicacy you wished to treat me to. Then I thought perhaps a walk, see some of the greener London sights, and then back here so you can bend me over this bed and give me a good seeing to. How does that sound?”
“Ah, good,” he managed suddenly aware that his curious onset of light headedness was most probably due to a certain amount of blood rushing elsewhere, namely downwards so to speak. Damnit, he wasn’t fifteen.
Breathing in deeply and trying to think of something, anything else, he licked his lips and cleared his throat. “Sounds good,” he finally managed. “Uh, yeah.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock said. “Which means you might want to start moving, and don’t mind me, I’ve seen it all before.”
Well that was true, he had to admit. Pulling himself together, he crossed over to the chest of drawers to pull out a pair of pants. Then without a shred of embarrassment or hesitation he dropped his towel in order to pull them on. Next he found a decent enough shirt - one of his checked ones - a pair of non-white non-tennis socks, and finally his jeans.
“Has anyone told you,” Sherlock said having not even so much as moved an inch, “that you have the most gorgeous bottom.”
He laughed slightly buckling his belt. “Yes, actually,” he said. “Although not recently.”
“Criminal,” Sherlock said finally closing the lid of the laptop and rising from the bed, “because it really is something that should be appreciated more often.”
The hand that sneaked round to squeeze his arse did so without hesitation or compunction.
“Hmm, yes, definitely,” Sherlock said giving him a light squeeze, “but later. Come on.”
The hand tapped his behind firmly before Sherlock turned away to slip on his shoes.
“And don’t forget your wallet.”
They ended up finding a fish and chip restaurant that did take-away not too far from the hotel. Laden down with the hot food and a couple of bottles of mineral water, they wandered back to Hyde Park where they sat on a bench and watched the evening draw in and the people pass by. The food was pretty good and they talked casually. It turned out that Sherlock knew very little about films or TV programmes, looking blank when John mentioned James Bond. Apparently if it didn’t concern tennis then Sherlock wasn’t hugely interested.
After the food they strolled through Hyde Park while Sherlock pointed out what he could deduce about the people they passed. It was all rather pleasant, more than pleasant in fact, and in direct conflict with everything he had been told that day - by Sally, by Sarah, by Lestrade.
“I bumped into that chap of yours,” he said after a few moments of silence. “Lestrade. In the foyer of the hotel.”
“Hmm, yes,” Sherlock said mildly, “he mentioned something of that.”
“Did he tell you what he told me?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Sherlock said, “but I can deduce. No doubt you had been asking questions of my whereabouts and he’d taken it upon himself to remind you that I care for nothing and no-one except my tennis. Am I right?”
John confirmed that he was.
“And yet we both know that already,” Sherlock continued. “I shag, I don’t date. At the end of this tournament we will go our separate ways. You know what that means. Until then I enjoy your company - which cannot be said for most of the people I ever meet - and I will physically take whatever it is you want to give. Any issues with that then you should walk away, but I’m not about to pretend that this is any more than that.”
That was… pretty much what he had expected; a brief fling, a bit of company during something that could otherwise be rather lonely, and some rather memorable sex. Yeah, he could do that. And if he won more matches along the way then so much the better. He had wanted to go out with a bang anyway. At least this would be memorable.
“I can live with that,” he said bluntly.
“Good,” Sherlock said. “Was there anything else?”
“Yeah,” he said, “that other tennis player, Donovan, she says you get off on this.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I’ve just told you that, and here you still are.”
He quirked his lips. “Coffee?” he said.
Sherlock smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
*
Feeling Sherlock’s arse stretch around him was just as good as the last time.
Easing his way in, John paused to allow Sherlock to adjust to his size while he admired the gorgeous sight beneath him. Bent forward over the bed, Sherlock’s back was stretched out before him, a multitude of tan lines from various clothing. His bare arse was the palest, protected from the sun by a variety of shorts, his back a touch darker from where he must have been practicing topless. His arms were the darkest although still not as tanned as he might have expected. He was, however, fucking gorgeous all over, and currently very much at his mercy.
“Hope you’re not waiting for an umpire before you start,” the deep voice grumbled beneath him, the body shifting impatiently.
“Hush,” he said gripping the narrow hips tighter. “Trust you to be impatient.”
Leaning over he pressed his mouth to the smooth skin, breathing out against it before curling his lips into a soft kiss. His body was screaming at him to get on with it, to slide himself in and out of the tight heat currently clenching him, but he forced himself to wait. He was going to take this slow. He was going to take it so slow that Sherlock was going to be begging him, begging him to move, to go faster, to fucking hell let him come.
The soft kiss curved into a smile. Oh yes, they were going to do things his way. They had the time after all, and there was no telling if he would ever have the chance to have the Frenchman like this again.
A whine from beneath him had him pressing his teeth into the kiss, nipping gently but warningly at the soft skin. The wiggling ceased with a heavy outward breath and he giggled slightly before running his tongue up the curve of the spine, pressing further into that delectable arse as he stretched up.
“Move, please,” he heard from beneath him, said in such a way that it shot right to his cock.
God that voice.
“Okay,” he said because that voice was just so damn hard to ignore, and slowly pulled out until only the head of his penis was inside. Then he pushed back in nearly as slowly.
“How’s that?”
He repeated the motion a touch faster, this time chuckling at the slight moan he got for his trouble.
Shifting his feet wider he moved again and knew the instant he found Sherlock’s prostate.
“Oh yes,” he breathed as the body flexed beneath him. “That’s the shot.”
He sped up a touch giving in to the desires of his own body, but kept his strokes long and steady in what he knew would be a pleasant but slightly maddening way. It was certainly both for him, his eyes falling briefly shut as he breathed in and relaxed into the sensations.
Christ it had been a long time since he’d had a long slow fuck. The last time they had done this had been fucking gloriously brilliant, but there was something to be said about taking the time to build things slowly.
“You know, you left marks on me last time,” he said as casually as he could, punctuating the sentence with a stronger than usual thrust at the end.
“Did I?” the Frenchman said, his voice not quite as steady as he might have been aiming for.
“Hmm,” he said. “On my back. Mike, my doctor, commented, wanted to know who the lucky lady was.”
“Ah!... oh yes, there. God, John, do that again!”
He sped up briefly giving half a dozen faster, harder thrusts that had Sherlock groaning in appreciation. Oh, yes, he could groan so nicely. Then he slowed down again, chasing back his instinct to turn this into some quick, fast romp that would be good, very good, but over far too soon.
“Bâtard!” he heard Sherlock mutter. He didn’t know what he meant but he could give a very good guess.
He chuckled again, sneaking a hand round to play with an offered nipple.
“Hmm, yes,” he said. “It was your fingers actually. Left lines down my back.”
“Long…hmmm… thin fingers. Yes, there! Mon Dieu! Good for the violin.”
“You play the violin?” He nipped at the curved back and pinched the nipple between his fingers.
Sherlock jerked, clenching around him at the sensation.
“Hmm, yes,” the Frenchman finally managed after a number of deep breathes. “Violin. Yes.”
“A man of many talents.”
“A man… hmmm… who will only take… putain!... oh, yes… so much… teasing.”
He could feel the tension in the body beneath him, the growing desperation in wanting more, in wanting something, anything to touch his swollen cock, but being denied.
Shifting his weight forward he finally gave in and sped up, pressing more force into each thrust, pushing up onto his toes as he did. Sherlock’s head dropped, his shoulders sloping in relief as his thrust back against him, hips jerking, mouth gasping.
“There you go,” he said entranced by the curve of the Frenchman’s back, the warm embrace of his arse. “Oh god, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Oui… Mon Dieu, oui,” he heard, a jolt shooting through him and directly to his balls at the knowledge that he had reduced Sherlock back to French. “Plus fort, Jean. S’il-te-plait! Tout cela… Baise moi! Baise moi, Jean!”
“Oh god, you have no idea what you sound like, how good you feel.” He pressed his lips against that back again throwing in three quicker, shorter thrusts directly against Sherlock’s prostate, marvelling wide eyed at the way the body beneath him jerked.
“So fucking gorgeous,” he breathed out. “Can you come from just this?”
“Non,” came the reply, breathy with just a hint of desperation. “Touche-moi. Je t’en prie, Jean… touche-moi!”
“Hmm?” he asked having a good idea what was being asked of him but really wanting to see what Sherlock would do next.
What happened was that the body shifted and a hand scrambled to grab one of his, tugging it impatiently to where Sherlock’s cock had so far been neglected. Smiling, John obediently wrapped his fingers around it, a single pump causing Sherlock to buckle with a long and hard appreciative groan.
“God you’re so hard,” he said sliding his hand up and down it in time with his thrust. “Not going to last long, are you?”
Hell, he wasn’t going to last much longer either, not with the way Sherlock’s hips were now buckling and a stream of broken French was flooding from his lips. His hands were sliding now, struggling to keep a grasp, one from the thin sheen of sweat coating each of their bodies, the other from the pre-come on the hard, aching cock.
“Oh god, so close,” he gasped pressing his forehead into Sherlock’s back as he felt the heat build-up in his own groin. Oh Christ that felt good.
He forced himself in harder and deeper relinquishing all pretence of maintaining a tight control. He wanted this, god he wanted this so much. The warm body beneath him, the tight burning clasp round his cock, the erection sliding back and forth through his fingers, thick and wet. Oh god he wanted to taste it.
“Oui!” he heard the Frenchman gasp beneath him, the rest of his words sliding together into an indistinguishable babble, hips thrusting back and forth with an almost desperate drive. “J’vais… j’vais….”
And then he was there, back arching, arse clenching as John felt the cock in his hand momentarily harden impossibly further as then Sherlock came with a groan barely short of pornographic, stripping John of any and all control he had left.
Jerking his hips faster, he squeezed his eyes shut and gave into all the sensations, wringing out some last breathy groans before burying himself in deep and letting the orgasm roll over him like an unstoppable tide.
It was so good, so fucking, gloriously good, the pinnacle of a brilliant day. His body shook, his mouth falling open as he sucking in air, his head falling to rest on the smooth skin, rubbing his cheek against the dampness of the back.
When he came back to himself he found himself draped over Sherlock’s, the Frenchman’s arms shaking slightly from the exertion of keeping them from plummeting head first onto the bed.
“Jean,” he heard and then a firmer, “John,” which had him drawing back and apologising as he carefully slid out mindful of the condom.
Sherlock didn’t move for a moment, his head still hanging between his shoulder blades, his breaths deep, his now softening cock partially coated in the remains of their activities. He looked wrecked, absolutely fucking wrecked, stripped away of everything people knew him as. Then he was standing up, head up, shoulders back, suddenly looking completely in control despite the mess of his stomach and crotch.
“Wait, ah, let me get you something,” John said suddenly finding it imperative to put a little distance between them.
Heading to the bathroom, he quickly located a spare flannel, dampened it and then returned to the main room, wordlessly handing it over.
Sherlock’s wiping down of himself was quick and perfunctory before he tossed the cloth back into the bathroom.
Now it was over John found he wasn’t too sure what to do or say. This wasn’t a relationship, that had been made very clear. There wasn’t about to be some post-coital cuddling or emotional whisperings in each other’s ears. They had already eaten and the only distractions in the room were the telly and his laptop. They were also both still naked, although being athletes both were used to nudity, except not exactly in this situation. Should he say something? Do something?
“Oh for god’s sake stop looking so bloody awkward,” Sherlock snapped from where he was now reclining on the bed. “I can practically hear you thinking from here. Put some pants on if it makes you feel better, and if you want me to leave just say. I won’t be staying too long anyway, but if it’s a choice between you and Lestrade you’re infinitely less irritating. Oh, and pass me my phone while you’re thinking about it.”
The phone was in the pile of clothing that had been quickly discarded before Sherlock had handed him the condom and lube and promptly bent over the bed, pale arse high.
“Looks like you’ve got some messages,” he said handing it over and finding somewhere safe to perch on the bed.
Sherlock snorted as he flicked through them. “Lestrade, mainly,” he admitted.
“Oh,” John said. “You know you haven’t actually told me what he does, other than bombard you with texts that is.”
Sherlock tossed the phone down. “Glorified babysitter mainly,” he said scornfully. “Apparently I require looking after. He organises everything; hotels, clothing, interviews, what I do, where I go, who I do and don’t see.”
“Oh, right,” John said.
“It’s hateful,” Sherlock said, “but it could be worse.”
“Worse? How?”
“He could be harder to walk over.”
“So, is he the reason I couldn’t find out which room you’re staying in?” John asked. “That is, I’m presuming you are in fact actually staying here, in this hotel.”
“Suite 212,” Sherlock said, “but you don’t want to go in there. Much prefer it down here. Better… view.” Sherlock’s gaze spread appreciatively across John’s body causing him to blush again and clear his throat.
“So,” he finally managed, “practice again tomorrow?”
“I’ll let you know,” Sherlock said, before his mouth quirked up into a strange half smile… “Although, after tonight’s performance, I can attest that there is absolutely nothing wrong with your stroke play.”
*
End Part Two
*
Part Three