FIC: The Seven-Day Virgin 3/7 (Sherlock BBC)
Title: The Seven-Day Virgin: Day Three
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:6500, this chapter.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.
Continued from:
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
It had been some time since John had been afflicted with blinking cursor syndrome. Unknown as it was to most medical journals, it was an illness that John had had the chance to experience first-hand. For one to spend minutes, hours, even days at a time sitting down at the computer and resulting in nothing more than staring at the cursor as it flashed mockingly. No words coming forth, no soliloquies, monologues or even a paragraph. In the days of trying to start his blog John would stare at that small, blinking line until desperation prompted him to type something, anything, just to make it stop. He'd delete it just as quickly and close his laptop, beaten.
He'd told his therapist the truth back then; nothing ever happened to him.
That had ceased to be true some time ago and it wasn't that he had nothing to say that kept John staring at the cursor today. This time he had entirely too much to say, words trembling at the edge of his fingertips, waiting to spill out into his blog and John was stifling them back. Not that he didn't want to write about the bomber case, course he did, but every time he started to write he felt as though everything else that had happened after was glowing out from every word.
Sherlock was rather one of the more brilliant liars John had ever met, coaxing information from witness, clients, before they'd even realized just what they were offering up. John on the other hand, put simply, was not. He had a feeling that anything he put in his blog today, whether or not it had anything to do with their mad bomber, was going to shine out with brilliant, neon subtext: Sherlock and I had a shag.
Not that he minded people knowing he and Sherlock were…well, whatever it was they were doing, John didn't mind if people knew about it. Most people thought they already knew about it, truth be told, and how aggravating was it that people who weren't directly involved in his sex life were observing it with the sort of fascinating usually reserved for crap telly.
There was the rub right there and not a good kind of rub that ended with lovely, messy orgasms and the like, it was the kind that forced him to endure sideways looks from Detective Inspectors when he hid behind Sherlock in hospital entryways, the kind that made him have awkward conversations with Mrs Hudson in their kitchen.
He put that memory firmly out of his mind and not for the first time, wished he had to ability to delete things from his own mental hard drive. Handy trick, that would be.
Day 2, Redux
When John finally woke up again it was well past two in the afternoon and the gritty ache of too much sleep was sharp in his head. It was disorienting, waking up where he wasn't supposed to be, tangled up with someone he wasn't sure he was supposed to be with. The sofa was cramped to say the least and Sherlock was not the most comfortable sleeping surface available, sort of bony and scrawny, not at all like the lovely mattress John had upstairs.
Add in the fact that, for a skinny bloke, Sherlock put off heat like a bloody furnace when he was sleeping and they were both fully dressed and wrapped up in a blanket. John had been in more comfortable deserts, he reckoned. Sweat was drenching off him, Sherlock's knee was digging into his hip and it felt like he had a nice handful of John's arse as well, gripping it like he was dreaming of mountain-climbing…John frowned, squirmed a bit. No, Sherlock was dreaming of sex, felt like, and John wasn't entirely sure how he felt being a second-hand participant in all that. He usually preferred these things to happen when both parties were awake.
Besides, who knew what kind of sex dreams Sherlock had and what was involved? John thought it might be safer to simply not ask. Better for his sanity, anyway.
It took effort to lift his head enough to see anything and when he did, he found Sherlock still in his normal sleep state, which was to say completely unconscious. There were still violet half-moons beneath his eyes and from this distance John had a clear view of the bruises rising up on his pale skin. Christ, they had both taken a bit of a beating, hadn't they? The scrape on his cheek was a vivid rusty line, bisecting the right side of his face.
Also, he was drooling, just a thin line of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth to dampen the pillow beneath his neck.
That was such a normal thing that it made John smile a little, pressing the softest of kisses to the saliva-free corner of Sherlock's mouth. To his surprise, it provoked a reaction, long arms winding around him, hauling him in and wrapping him in a strong web of limbs and woollen blanket. From which he could not escape.
Well, this was inconvenient.
Extracting himself took an embarrassingly long time, every aspect of his escape having to take into account that:
A. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock,
B. He also didn't want to wake Sherlock, and
C. He couldn't bloody breathe with Sherlock trying to squeeze the stuffing out of him with those wiry arms of his.
By the time he worked his way loose, John was sweating through his clothes and the only thing to be grateful for was the fact that there had been no witnesses to his botched Houdini act.
It was only then that he realized he could hear movement in the kitchen. Oh, Christ, John knew he'd ruined his relationship with the deities what with his whole, virginity-taking in clean bathrooms thing he had going, but couldn't he catch a break just once?
From the fact that Mrs Hudson was currently in their kitchen cleaning out their refrigerator, John was guessing not. He gave the little porn collage that was currently occupying the space above their mantel a resigned sort of look and decided he was more embarrassed by the fact that their middle-aged landlady had to rummage through their fridge once a week to toss out any body parts that were starting to pong a bit too much. Maybe he could scrape up just enough luck for her to have not worn her reading glasses when she'd dropped by the shopping earlier.
"Morning," John offered quietly, slipping into the kitchen and away from Sherlock before he could make with his grabby hands again.
"Missed that by about three hours, dear," Mrs Hudson said absently, wrinkling her nose at a Ziploc bag she'd lifted from the crisper bin.
"Toss it," John said promptly. He had no idea what it was and Sherlock might be annoyed with him later but the second anything started smelling was when it went in the rubbish bins as far as John was concerned.
"Yes, I think so," Mrs Hudson added it to her ghoulish collection. "If you want tea, the water is still hot."
"Ta," John said gratefully, pouring out a cup. He busied himself with that, ignoring the elephant that was sitting in the room with them, large and befuddled, and having everything to do with her coming in to find him and Sherlock asleep on the couch together, having a cuddle.
Until Mrs Hudson gave him a serious look from over the refrigerator door, "John, are you-"
"I know what you're going to say," John burst out, "You're going to ask if I'm sure about what I'm doing and if this is a good idea, and let me tell you, I've no idea, I really don't. We're flatmates and we're friends and now we're…well, I don't know what we are so I can't be sure about anything, and maybe you're right, maybe this will ruin everything and I'll regret it, and he's making collages out of internet porn and I just have no bloody idea!"
By the time he ended on a hoarse whisper, John had to take a furious sip of his tea, his eyes glued to the murky liquid, very carefully not looking at their landlady cum housekeeper.
A beat of silence, another, and then Mrs Hudson said apologetically, "I was actually going to ask if you were hungry, I brought some biscuits up as well."
"Oh." John pursed his lips. "Yes. Thank you."
"If you don't mind my saying, though, you don't seem very sure about things," Mrs Hudson said it very matter-of-factly, unperturbed by the plastic container of ears that she was setting back on the glass shelf.
"If you're going to warn me about breaking his heart, you needn't bother," John said it more to his tea than to Mrs Hudson. "I saw how he was after…her. I'll be careful."
"It's not Sherlock's heart I worry about." Mrs Hudson was always so gently admonishing, dipping her sponge into her bucket of soapy water and scrubbing the shelf clean. It made John flush a bit and he chewed on his biscuit to keep from saying anything else foolish. "I've known him for some time now, since that dreadful business with Henry," her lips pinched slightly as they always did when she mentioned her former husband. She shook her head, "All that aside, I've known him for years. You've been here for just over a year now, isn't it?"
"Something like that," John agreed, warily. Come to think of it, it had been a year, two months, and one week, and John was mildly impressed that he knew that. He imagined Sherlock knew it to the hour, the minute, possibly the second if he was giving a chance to turn on his mental calculator.
She nodded. "And I already can't imagine him without you." She sighed a bit. "Oh, listen to me prattle on. I don't want either of you hurt, John. We both know what he's like, don't we?"
I know slightly better, John did not say. He rather thought Mrs Hudson had gotten enough of an eyeful earlier and probably didn't need any information on just what had happened before the snuggling.
He did care about her, Mrs Hudson who was not their housekeeper but was certainly more than their landlady. Sherlock might’ve been unconsciously looking for a mummy figure and if so, Mrs Hudson was a lovely choice. Murderous husbands aside, she adored him, coddled him and indulged him, not afraid to be stern when he needed it. She'd taken him in and Sherlock soaked in all her attention like a greedy sponge.
And without him even realizing it, John had gotten swept along in it. Spent days watching crap telly with her, changing the light bulbs in his high closets for her, shovelling off the stoop in the wintertime and setting out the rubbish bins to be picked up once a week. Adopted and loved, the older, more responsible son in comparison to her baby, the youngest, spoilt one. Or perhaps he was more like the well-loved son-in-law.
Son-in-law. John swallowed down a bite of biscuit painfully, his mouth suddenly dry. Was he about to have his heterosexual crisis now? John waited a moment, considering.
No, didn't seem like. Good, he expected this to be a lot more enjoyable without all that rubbish.
"I'll be careful," John promised and he gave her a one-armed squeeze, felt her warm affection when she kissed his temple. By the time Sherlock awoke, shuffling into the kitchen and seating himself a the table with a groan that would have done a walking corpse proud, the two of them had put the kitchen to rights and Mrs Hudson had something lovely smelling bubbling in a pot on the stove. If she noticed the way Sherlock leaned against John in an odd sort of armless hug, rubbing his face into John's hair before he'd sagged onto his stool, she didn't say, only patted his shoulder and set his steaming tea with sugar and milk in front of him without a word.
Sherlock drank his tea and ate whatever Mrs Hudson placed in front of them without ever coming into a state that John would call awake. He watched, bemused, as Sherlock shambled back to his feet and staggered into his own bedroom, heard the sound of him flopping down on the bed.
Well, then. Further sex was called on account of impermeable exhaustion. John cleaned his own plate, mopping the last traces of gravy away with a slice of bread and shooed Mrs Hudson off before she could do the dishes. He could at least do that much, particularly since it didn't seem like he was going to be doing much else. Sherlock was intent on sleeping the day away and John's only chore was to avoid Lestrade's increasingly vulgar text messages about them coming down to the Yard to discuss the mad bomber.
The last one had made John wince. Blimey, he'd been in the military and he didn't recall anyone using that particular turn of phrase. He doubted Lestrade would appreciate him texting back that as a doctor, John knew for a fact that what he was suggesting was not, actually, physically possible.
Much later that night, fresh and clean from the shower and in his pyjamas, John wavered at the closed door to Sherlock's room uncertainly. Thus far the only discussion they'd gotten in had to do with the varying levels of virginity that Sherlock had left and even though they'd both gotten to tick another box off on the chart this morning, they hadn't said anything about, well, anything else.
From what John had gathered, Sherlock had a fair interest in adding an element of sex to their relationship and John was most certainly on board with that. Christ, just the memory of their wank this morning sent a hot throb through him. It was the question of what else Sherlock might or might not want that had him shuffling his bare feet on the cold floor for a ridiculous amount of time, indecisively, before he squared his shoulders and decided on the fuck-it route. If Sherlock didn't want him to sleep here at night, he'd certainly have no qualms about tossing John out on his ear.
He hadn't actually been in Sherlock's room many times and it felt odd slipping in, finding Sherlock's slim form curled beneath the blankets. John lifted one corner of the duvet, half-wondering if Sherlock could be coaxed to nudge over a bit. A hand curling around his wrist made John bite back a surprised yelp and he followed its insistent tug down, burrowing in with Sherlock already coiling around him like a persistent, viney weed, arms and legs both finding parts of John to twine through until he was wrapped up in Sherlock like a present made of body parts. Sherlock would probably appreciate the simile.
John supposed that this answered any number of questions.
When he woke a bit in the pre-dawn hours, John wasn’t surprised to find he was alone, not considering how much Sherlock had slept the day before. The sheets beside him were already cool. John curled up into that spot anyway, buried his face into a pillow that smelled of Sherlock and went back to sleep.
Day Three, Continued
Lacking the ability to remove memories left John sitting here staring at his blinking cursor, listening to Sherlock moving about in the kitchen doing whatever experiment was on his mental list for the day. He hadn't asked; once the experiments started involving blowtorches and asbestos gloves, John was well quit of it.
When John had finally gotten up just before dawn, Sherlock had barely offered him a good morning, already peering intently through his microscope at some such thing. They'd had breakfast, or their version of it, John having toast and Sherlock ignoring all food in favour of his worktable, and all in all, it had been a normal, pre-virginity-taking morning for them; Sherlock was caught up on his sleep and back to his usual, unusual, self.
John might have thought he'd imagined it all if it weren't for their new sitting room art project. Sometime earlier John had gamely given a go at studying it; if Sherlock had spent the entire night putting it together it obviously had some meaning behind it. John couldn't say he found any of the pictures particularly titillating, bunches of naked blokes in a variety of positions. There were pieces of string attached to a few of them with pushpins, indicating some link between them, something John was familiar with Sherlock doing with his cases but whatever Sherlock had found in common between them was something only he could deduce.
What connection was there between that dark-eyed bloke sprawled out in his pants and the one of two men sucking each other off? There were a few John was rather impressed with and perhaps Lestrade's texts hadn't been quite as off about human anatomy as John had thought. Medical school hadn't had a Kama sutra class, after all.
None of them stirred more than the mildest interest in him. Perhaps that should be concerning him more than his lack of a heterosexual crisis. He should be more worried that he wasn't having a homosexual one. All it had taken was a glance into the kitchen to rid him of that particular uneasiness.
Sherlock had been sitting at the table, his hands resting on either side of the microscope and all John could think of was those long, slim fingers, the way they'd felt wrapped around his cock. The coolness of his skin that had warmed so quickly, the possessive way Sherlock had touched him, stroked him.
John had had to take a deep breath, dragging his eyes away, and that had been when he'd snatched up his laptop, intent on typing up their latest case. Only it wasn't working out very well, since John was trying to write about bombers which should have been easy since his ribs were still aching from the results of it. Except John's thoughts were all still caught up in remembering the soft, sweet noises Sherlock had made when he'd touched him, the way he'd squirmed beneath John, all pale skin and wide eyes, first time touched and he'd been simply gorgeous.
No, John told himself firmly, this wouldn't do; he'd be having enough trouble yanking Sherlock away from his experiment long enough for a trip to Scotland Yard. Trying to coax him away for the slightly more selfish purposes of relieving him of another shred of his virginity was simply not on, not as far as John was concerned, and he was giving the thought of going out for a long walk serious thought when his laptop was abruptly yanked away, the lid closed sharply as Sherlock set it ungently on the floor.
"Hey!" John said automatically and any protest he had wuffed out of him when he caught a lapful of surprisingly heavy Sherlock, both his legs snugging in on either side of John's as he straddled him.
"I can't concentrate on the experiment while you're out here thinking about sex," Sherlock informed him and it was the only warning John had before a mouth was covering his own. For all that Sherlock was barely kissed, his mouth still as unspoiled as a fresh peach, he certainly seemed to learn quickly enough. His tongue was markedly more clever than the day before as it slid past John's lips and delved into the warm darkness of his mouth, tracing his teeth.
John didn't even think about not kissing him back. He already had two handfuls of Sherlock's hair and was sucking gently on the plush softness of his lower lip when actual thought resumed and John pulled back a bit.
Christ, one kiss and Sherlock looked utterly debauched. His mouth was reddened, a lovely flush of colour brought to his normally pale lips and his hair was tousled into wild tufts.
John gave himself a mental shake and forced a little focus to this thoughts, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be distracting. You don't have to try to entertain me."
"Entertain you?" Sherlock scoffed, "I think you should know by now that I am hardly that altruistic." He grabbed one of John's hands and cupped it over his crotch, moulding it over the firm length of his cock. Just the way his eyes fluttered closed, his mouth parting on a breathy moan made John swallow back a bit of choice language. Fuck, Sherlock was simply the sluttiest virgin in existence, had to be.
He confirmed it with his next words, "I think we should try fellatio."
Oh. John swallowed hard. Imagining it, Sherlock's mouth against him, those soft lips spread wide and that pink tongue that felt glorious against his own sliding over his prick. He tried to speak, had to stop and clear his throat before he could force words from it, "You're sure you want to try that now?"
"Very," Sherlock assured him and to John's surprise, he scrambled back out of his lap and sprawled into his own chair, legs spread wide. He gave John an impatient look when he only stared. "Well? You can't very well do it from over there."
"Can't do what?" John said dumbly, his voice cracking at the end as it occurred to him just exactly what Sherlock might mean.
Only to have it confirmed with a truly withering look from Sherlock, "Fellate me, of course. This was what we were discussing, you haven't forgotten in the thirty seconds between, have you?"
"Fellate…" John stopped and not for the first time wondered how it was he always lost the thread of the argument before it had even started. "Why exactly am I the one who has to do it?"
"I'm the virgin," Sherlock said, and everything from his raised eyebrows to his tapping fingers indicated that he thought this should be completely obvious, thank you, do try to stop being an idiot, John.
John took a moment to draw from his well of infinite patience he'd developed since becoming Sherlock's flatmate before he attempted to answer that challenge. "Sherlock, while I'm gratified with the confidence you have in my experience, I haven't done fellatio…do we have to call it that? Can we just call it, I don't know, something else?"
"If you have a preferred euphemism, I suggest you pick it now as something we can carry on with. Blow job, sucking dick, gobbling the crank, giving head-"
"Blow job is fine!" John interrupted loudly, before Sherlock could wind through the no doubt endless list he'd discovered on his porn romp through the internet. "You might be the virgin in the equation but I haven't done it from this side either, you know. I'm no mathematical genius but unless something has happened since yesterday then zero plus zero still equals zero."
"And you don't want to?" Sherlock raised both eyebrows at him and that gave John a bit of a pause. Did he want to?
Yesterday Sherlock had asked John to help him rid himself of his semi-virginal existence and John had agreed. He supposed he hadn't thought the logistics of all that through yet. A mutual wank and a bit of rubbing off was all right for a while but eventually one of them was going to have to man up, as it were, and take a real step into the homosexual ring.
John licked his lips, imagined he could still taste Sherlock's mouth on them and decided so long as he wasn't have any sort of sexual crisis, it may as well be him. From the way Sherlock smirked at him, his knees falling apart as he slouched down a bit in his seat, he had already deduced exactly where John's thoughts had fallen.
"Keep looking smug like that and I'll prove you wrong," John warned, snagging the cushion out from behind him and dropping it on the floor. He might never have sucked another man off before but it didn't mean he had no idea about how it went. The thought of the hard floor on his already colourfully bruised knees wasn't much of a turn on.
It was no idle threat and Sherlock seemed to realize it, scooting back up and catching John's face in his hands, pressing their mouths together again in a startlingly tender kiss. John tipped his head up into it helplessly, let Sherlock slide their tongues together deftly, ah, fuck, he really did learn quickly. John already had an arm wound around Sherlock's neck before he considered it, holding him in while John licked roughly into his mouth, a soft moan vibrating between them.
"John," Sherlock pulled back enough to whisper and John was already panting, staring up into pale, wide eyes. John was leaning in between his legs, Sherlock's knees beneath his elbows and if he leaned in further, John knew exactly what he'd feel straining through the front placket of Sherlock's trousers.
He swallowed, hard, licked his lips and this time he didn't have to imagine Sherlock's taste. Licked them again when Sherlock's eyes followed the movement of his tongue. "You should…" John cleared his throat, "You should lean back."
Instantly, Sherlock did and it pushed his hips forward, those slim, boyish hips covered in expensive linen trousers. They did nothing to hide the bulge at the front and John didn't need to shore up any bravery to cup his hand over it, feel Sherlock shudder beneath him.
John slid his thumb down that hard line, back up again, and Christ, the sounds Sherlock could make. He groaned as though John was murdering him, low, throaty moans and it was fascinating to watch the shift up his hips as he pushed up into John's fairly innocent touches, his hands clenching and loosening on the arms of the chair as he squirmed.
Oh, that was just lovely, wasn't it? John did it again, again, both thumbs sliding up and down the clothbound length of Sherlock's prick until he was a whimpering, gasping mess, his normally pale cheeks flushed with brilliant colour, a low sheen of sweat rising on his forehead. Again, John was amazed and bewildered to be the first one touching him; how was it even possible that Sherlock hadn't found someone to try this with, just once, in his entire life? No one who was this perfectly easy, this gorgeously eager should still be a virgin and John might have felt a thin thread of pity for him if it weren't for the way his ego all but swelled over with it. First time touched and the only one this stunning, frustrating, enigmatic man wanted to try it with was John, John who was as ordinary as his name. John was the one unbuckling his belt and pulling the smooth leather through the loops, tossing it aside, unfastening his trousers and sliding down the zip.
No pants, Jesus, nothing but bare, damp skin against his hands and John tugged slightly on his trousers, startling back as Sherlock jerked his hips up to help.
"Careful," John groused, "You're going to poke me in the bloody eye."
"I'm sorry...I can't..." Sherlock shuddered under him, a wild tremor running through his body. Christ, John hadn't even done anything yet. "I keep thinking about your mouth, the internal temperature of it, the consistency of your saliva, John…please, John, I can't…"
Of course he couldn't stop thinking about it. If just the thought of getting a blowjob was doing this to him, John couldn't imagine what he'd be like during.
John had gotten a good look at Sherlock's cock the day before, long and slim, perfectly suited to its owner but this was a bit more of a bird's eye view, as it were, and he eyed it warily. If he tried to take all that his first time on the pitch, he was probably going to choke to death or worse, and Sherlock might have taken the remedial course in sexual education the night before but John had nothing to go on except his own memories. Memories that were failing him quite spectacularly at the moment with Sherlock all but writhing and begging in front of him, trousers down around his thighs and his hands clutching at the chair arms.
It'd been some time since John had even been with a woman much less gotten creative with anyone and he couldn't for the life of him recall just what they'd done to keep from being strangled in the course of things.
Best just try then and see how things got on. John took a deep breath and wrapped a hand around the length of it, gently pulled the foreskin down a little to get a better look at things. The tip was shiny and wet, a testament to Sherlock's eagerness as much as his soft swearing and squirming. It made John's mouth water a bit, thinking about what he was about to do and John didn't give himself time to reconsider, only leaned in and touched his tongue to the tip, tasting slick, bitter salt.
That was familiar at least; a memory of his own taste on a woman's mouth after and John didn't shy from it, sliding his tongue over the soft, soft skin, tasting more wetness seeping out.
Distantly, he could feel Sherlock trembling beneath him, tremors shivering through his thighs beneath John's arms. He was really doing this, John realized, really giving Sherlock his very first taste of an actual sexual act. A first taste for himself as well, sliding his tongue through another slick rush of salt and John pulled back a bit, let his tongue slide down hot, stretched skin.
He was only just sliding downward when Sherlock jerked beneath him, coming in wet stripes over his belly, dampening his shirt and narrowly missing catching John full in the face.
Well. At least he'd enjoyed it.
He waited until Sherlock's breathing eased into something a closer to normal before he asked, conversationally, "Was it all right, then?"
Instantly, a flood of brilliant colour rose up his chest, flaming into his cheeks and John was utterly chuffed to see Sherlock was ten shades of embarrassed. Now there was a sight to treasure, tuck that mental picture right in next to the one of Sherlock gasping and coming all over himself.
"I am so sorry," Sherlock covered his face with a hand, muffled his words into it and John leaned up to tug it away, met the tightness in his face, didn't let him lower his eyes.
"Don't apologize. Please. Don't," John leaned up to kiss him, ignoring the whinging protest of his knees as he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, "You were gorgeous."
"I'm a mess is what I am." There was a hint of sullenness to those words, mingled with lingering embarrassment and John bit his lower lip in a gentle reprimand, none of that, thank you much.
"No," John said firmly. "No, you were, are, gorgeous. You are."
Sherlock sighed resignedly into his mouth, a surrender if John had ever heard one. "I suppose I could do it for you now."
"No, no, it's all right," John said without thinking and that got him an unexpected reaction.
"No?" Sherlock echoed and he didn't sound confused, he sounded offended. "No?"
"Now, look, I didn’t mean-" John tried and his heart sank a bit as Sherlock glowered at him. Damn it all to hell, it was like trying to juggle a gun, a stick of dynamite, and lit candle with him, wasn't it, and right now John was trying that entire balancing act with a blindfold on.
"No," Sherlock spat back at him, scowling with barely restrained anger, "You’ve been imagining sex all morning and now that I'm offering it to you, you're turning me down. Normally I'd put this down to everyday stupidity but this is beyond even that. Care to explain?"
"I didn't say I didn't want sex from you," John corrected him sharply and that got his attention, didn't it, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. John struggled up from his knees, shifting to slide into Sherlock's lap for a change. His shirt was streaked with wetness and John took a moment to unfasten his jeans before he swept a hand through it, slicking it.
"Help a fellow out, will you?" John asked, huskily, already groaning at the feel of his own hand as he slid it, wet with come, into the front of his jeans to curl around his prick. Sherlock, who had been blinking at him with wide, confused eyes, jolted into action as John's words. He slid one hand down to cover John's, their twined fingers sliding jointly around his cock and John closed his eyes, rocking his hips into the slick tunnel formed by their hands.
"Oh, that's good," John groaned. "That's it, right there, you were gorgeous when you came, did you know that?"
"You said," Sherlock whispered and John forced his eyes open, met shocky eyes with his own. So wide, hardly more than a thin line of grey around the endless black of his pupils and Sherlock's fingers tightened, sliding between John's, all the better to touch him.
"Gorgeous," John husked out, his breath catching as Sherlock chose to take a little initiative, his other hand pushing into the back of John's jeans to cup his bare arse. It was enough to tip him over the edge and he came in a shuddery burst, pressing his face into warm space between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. He gulped in air, the nubby linen of Sherlock's shirt chafing slightly against his forehead and it was all wonderful.
"John?" Sherlock turned his head enough to speak it almost into John's ear. His voice was quiet and thoughtful, not a sound John was accustomed to hearing, "Why didn't you want me to give you a blowjob?"
He almost winced at hearing that word rolling off Sherlock's posh tongue until he recalled that he was the one who'd chosen that particular euphemism.
"Because you're supposed to go first," John replied, firmly. "You can try it out on me after I give you a proper one."
Sherlock was quiet, digesting that, before he ventured, "You're assuming I'd be inferior because you didn't manage it with me and so my point of comparison would be faulty?"
"No, I'm sure you'd be brilliant," John said honestly. He let the dig that he hadn't managed with Sherlock go; pointing out that Sherlock had been the one a tad quick out of the gate was a sure-fire way to guarantee he wouldn't get another chance very soon. "I'd like it to be brilliant for both of us. I don't want to be basking in post-orgasmic bliss while you're upset."
"That doesn't make sense," Sherlock complained.
"Trust me. It does."
Something in the kitchen made a sound, a quiet ding, and Sherlock's eyes went to it instantly. The normalcy of it made John smile, a little. To be honest he felt a bit unsteady just now, in a way that had nothing to do with the pleasant aftermath still twinging through him.
"Look, you have an experiment to do. Why don't I get out of here for a bit, I've got some laundry I need to get done. Be less distracting for you if I'm out of your hair entirely."
To his surprise, Sherlock hesitated, his hands sliding free of John's trousers to his back, one of which was still very damp from the feel of it. John resigned himself to tossing another shirt in the wash. At this rate, he'd be down to his rain coat and swim shorts and wouldn't that be a sight at the laundry.
"All right," Sherlock said finally and something in his voice made John lean back, studying his face. Sherlock seemed keen on avoiding that from the way he pushed John gently from his lap, his hands already going to the buttons on his decidedly messy shirt. John watched him go with a frown but he let it go, for now. Post-virginity jitters were bound to come up and pressing Sherlock when he didn't want to talk was a fool's bet.
John took a moment to change his own clothes, gathering them into a wad to add to his collection in the basket downstairs. He was just grabbing it up when he happened to glance into the kitchen and froze.
Sherlock was peering into his microscope again and this time, he was shirtless, his beltless trousers hanging low, and all that pale, smooth skin was bared beneath the stark lights. Bruises from the night before had bloomed in various places; discoloured continents scattered between oceans of soft skin and if Sherlock had thought John's thoughts were loud before they must be pounding into the back of his skull right now.
Right. Time to go.
John grabbed up his basket and made for the laundry room and if his thoughts on sex permeated through three doors and two flights of stairs, well, Sherlock would have to try to find another way to deal with it.
John tried not to think about just how he might go about that. He really did.
---
Continue To Day Three: Reprise
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:6500, this chapter.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Genre: First-times, Humor
Warning(s): None
Summary:In thirty-odd years, Sherlock hasn't felt the urge to lose his virginity. Until John Watson. God help him. Set after 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.
Continued from:
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
It had been some time since John had been afflicted with blinking cursor syndrome. Unknown as it was to most medical journals, it was an illness that John had had the chance to experience first-hand. For one to spend minutes, hours, even days at a time sitting down at the computer and resulting in nothing more than staring at the cursor as it flashed mockingly. No words coming forth, no soliloquies, monologues or even a paragraph. In the days of trying to start his blog John would stare at that small, blinking line until desperation prompted him to type something, anything, just to make it stop. He'd delete it just as quickly and close his laptop, beaten.
He'd told his therapist the truth back then; nothing ever happened to him.
That had ceased to be true some time ago and it wasn't that he had nothing to say that kept John staring at the cursor today. This time he had entirely too much to say, words trembling at the edge of his fingertips, waiting to spill out into his blog and John was stifling them back. Not that he didn't want to write about the bomber case, course he did, but every time he started to write he felt as though everything else that had happened after was glowing out from every word.
Sherlock was rather one of the more brilliant liars John had ever met, coaxing information from witness, clients, before they'd even realized just what they were offering up. John on the other hand, put simply, was not. He had a feeling that anything he put in his blog today, whether or not it had anything to do with their mad bomber, was going to shine out with brilliant, neon subtext: Sherlock and I had a shag.
Not that he minded people knowing he and Sherlock were…well, whatever it was they were doing, John didn't mind if people knew about it. Most people thought they already knew about it, truth be told, and how aggravating was it that people who weren't directly involved in his sex life were observing it with the sort of fascinating usually reserved for crap telly.
There was the rub right there and not a good kind of rub that ended with lovely, messy orgasms and the like, it was the kind that forced him to endure sideways looks from Detective Inspectors when he hid behind Sherlock in hospital entryways, the kind that made him have awkward conversations with Mrs Hudson in their kitchen.
He put that memory firmly out of his mind and not for the first time, wished he had to ability to delete things from his own mental hard drive. Handy trick, that would be.
Day 2, Redux
When John finally woke up again it was well past two in the afternoon and the gritty ache of too much sleep was sharp in his head. It was disorienting, waking up where he wasn't supposed to be, tangled up with someone he wasn't sure he was supposed to be with. The sofa was cramped to say the least and Sherlock was not the most comfortable sleeping surface available, sort of bony and scrawny, not at all like the lovely mattress John had upstairs.
Add in the fact that, for a skinny bloke, Sherlock put off heat like a bloody furnace when he was sleeping and they were both fully dressed and wrapped up in a blanket. John had been in more comfortable deserts, he reckoned. Sweat was drenching off him, Sherlock's knee was digging into his hip and it felt like he had a nice handful of John's arse as well, gripping it like he was dreaming of mountain-climbing…John frowned, squirmed a bit. No, Sherlock was dreaming of sex, felt like, and John wasn't entirely sure how he felt being a second-hand participant in all that. He usually preferred these things to happen when both parties were awake.
Besides, who knew what kind of sex dreams Sherlock had and what was involved? John thought it might be safer to simply not ask. Better for his sanity, anyway.
It took effort to lift his head enough to see anything and when he did, he found Sherlock still in his normal sleep state, which was to say completely unconscious. There were still violet half-moons beneath his eyes and from this distance John had a clear view of the bruises rising up on his pale skin. Christ, they had both taken a bit of a beating, hadn't they? The scrape on his cheek was a vivid rusty line, bisecting the right side of his face.
Also, he was drooling, just a thin line of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth to dampen the pillow beneath his neck.
That was such a normal thing that it made John smile a little, pressing the softest of kisses to the saliva-free corner of Sherlock's mouth. To his surprise, it provoked a reaction, long arms winding around him, hauling him in and wrapping him in a strong web of limbs and woollen blanket. From which he could not escape.
Well, this was inconvenient.
Extracting himself took an embarrassingly long time, every aspect of his escape having to take into account that:
A. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock,
B. He also didn't want to wake Sherlock, and
C. He couldn't bloody breathe with Sherlock trying to squeeze the stuffing out of him with those wiry arms of his.
By the time he worked his way loose, John was sweating through his clothes and the only thing to be grateful for was the fact that there had been no witnesses to his botched Houdini act.
It was only then that he realized he could hear movement in the kitchen. Oh, Christ, John knew he'd ruined his relationship with the deities what with his whole, virginity-taking in clean bathrooms thing he had going, but couldn't he catch a break just once?
From the fact that Mrs Hudson was currently in their kitchen cleaning out their refrigerator, John was guessing not. He gave the little porn collage that was currently occupying the space above their mantel a resigned sort of look and decided he was more embarrassed by the fact that their middle-aged landlady had to rummage through their fridge once a week to toss out any body parts that were starting to pong a bit too much. Maybe he could scrape up just enough luck for her to have not worn her reading glasses when she'd dropped by the shopping earlier.
"Morning," John offered quietly, slipping into the kitchen and away from Sherlock before he could make with his grabby hands again.
"Missed that by about three hours, dear," Mrs Hudson said absently, wrinkling her nose at a Ziploc bag she'd lifted from the crisper bin.
"Toss it," John said promptly. He had no idea what it was and Sherlock might be annoyed with him later but the second anything started smelling was when it went in the rubbish bins as far as John was concerned.
"Yes, I think so," Mrs Hudson added it to her ghoulish collection. "If you want tea, the water is still hot."
"Ta," John said gratefully, pouring out a cup. He busied himself with that, ignoring the elephant that was sitting in the room with them, large and befuddled, and having everything to do with her coming in to find him and Sherlock asleep on the couch together, having a cuddle.
Until Mrs Hudson gave him a serious look from over the refrigerator door, "John, are you-"
"I know what you're going to say," John burst out, "You're going to ask if I'm sure about what I'm doing and if this is a good idea, and let me tell you, I've no idea, I really don't. We're flatmates and we're friends and now we're…well, I don't know what we are so I can't be sure about anything, and maybe you're right, maybe this will ruin everything and I'll regret it, and he's making collages out of internet porn and I just have no bloody idea!"
By the time he ended on a hoarse whisper, John had to take a furious sip of his tea, his eyes glued to the murky liquid, very carefully not looking at their landlady cum housekeeper.
A beat of silence, another, and then Mrs Hudson said apologetically, "I was actually going to ask if you were hungry, I brought some biscuits up as well."
"Oh." John pursed his lips. "Yes. Thank you."
"If you don't mind my saying, though, you don't seem very sure about things," Mrs Hudson said it very matter-of-factly, unperturbed by the plastic container of ears that she was setting back on the glass shelf.
"If you're going to warn me about breaking his heart, you needn't bother," John said it more to his tea than to Mrs Hudson. "I saw how he was after…her. I'll be careful."
"It's not Sherlock's heart I worry about." Mrs Hudson was always so gently admonishing, dipping her sponge into her bucket of soapy water and scrubbing the shelf clean. It made John flush a bit and he chewed on his biscuit to keep from saying anything else foolish. "I've known him for some time now, since that dreadful business with Henry," her lips pinched slightly as they always did when she mentioned her former husband. She shook her head, "All that aside, I've known him for years. You've been here for just over a year now, isn't it?"
"Something like that," John agreed, warily. Come to think of it, it had been a year, two months, and one week, and John was mildly impressed that he knew that. He imagined Sherlock knew it to the hour, the minute, possibly the second if he was giving a chance to turn on his mental calculator.
She nodded. "And I already can't imagine him without you." She sighed a bit. "Oh, listen to me prattle on. I don't want either of you hurt, John. We both know what he's like, don't we?"
I know slightly better, John did not say. He rather thought Mrs Hudson had gotten enough of an eyeful earlier and probably didn't need any information on just what had happened before the snuggling.
He did care about her, Mrs Hudson who was not their housekeeper but was certainly more than their landlady. Sherlock might’ve been unconsciously looking for a mummy figure and if so, Mrs Hudson was a lovely choice. Murderous husbands aside, she adored him, coddled him and indulged him, not afraid to be stern when he needed it. She'd taken him in and Sherlock soaked in all her attention like a greedy sponge.
And without him even realizing it, John had gotten swept along in it. Spent days watching crap telly with her, changing the light bulbs in his high closets for her, shovelling off the stoop in the wintertime and setting out the rubbish bins to be picked up once a week. Adopted and loved, the older, more responsible son in comparison to her baby, the youngest, spoilt one. Or perhaps he was more like the well-loved son-in-law.
Son-in-law. John swallowed down a bite of biscuit painfully, his mouth suddenly dry. Was he about to have his heterosexual crisis now? John waited a moment, considering.
No, didn't seem like. Good, he expected this to be a lot more enjoyable without all that rubbish.
"I'll be careful," John promised and he gave her a one-armed squeeze, felt her warm affection when she kissed his temple. By the time Sherlock awoke, shuffling into the kitchen and seating himself a the table with a groan that would have done a walking corpse proud, the two of them had put the kitchen to rights and Mrs Hudson had something lovely smelling bubbling in a pot on the stove. If she noticed the way Sherlock leaned against John in an odd sort of armless hug, rubbing his face into John's hair before he'd sagged onto his stool, she didn't say, only patted his shoulder and set his steaming tea with sugar and milk in front of him without a word.
Sherlock drank his tea and ate whatever Mrs Hudson placed in front of them without ever coming into a state that John would call awake. He watched, bemused, as Sherlock shambled back to his feet and staggered into his own bedroom, heard the sound of him flopping down on the bed.
Well, then. Further sex was called on account of impermeable exhaustion. John cleaned his own plate, mopping the last traces of gravy away with a slice of bread and shooed Mrs Hudson off before she could do the dishes. He could at least do that much, particularly since it didn't seem like he was going to be doing much else. Sherlock was intent on sleeping the day away and John's only chore was to avoid Lestrade's increasingly vulgar text messages about them coming down to the Yard to discuss the mad bomber.
The last one had made John wince. Blimey, he'd been in the military and he didn't recall anyone using that particular turn of phrase. He doubted Lestrade would appreciate him texting back that as a doctor, John knew for a fact that what he was suggesting was not, actually, physically possible.
Much later that night, fresh and clean from the shower and in his pyjamas, John wavered at the closed door to Sherlock's room uncertainly. Thus far the only discussion they'd gotten in had to do with the varying levels of virginity that Sherlock had left and even though they'd both gotten to tick another box off on the chart this morning, they hadn't said anything about, well, anything else.
From what John had gathered, Sherlock had a fair interest in adding an element of sex to their relationship and John was most certainly on board with that. Christ, just the memory of their wank this morning sent a hot throb through him. It was the question of what else Sherlock might or might not want that had him shuffling his bare feet on the cold floor for a ridiculous amount of time, indecisively, before he squared his shoulders and decided on the fuck-it route. If Sherlock didn't want him to sleep here at night, he'd certainly have no qualms about tossing John out on his ear.
He hadn't actually been in Sherlock's room many times and it felt odd slipping in, finding Sherlock's slim form curled beneath the blankets. John lifted one corner of the duvet, half-wondering if Sherlock could be coaxed to nudge over a bit. A hand curling around his wrist made John bite back a surprised yelp and he followed its insistent tug down, burrowing in with Sherlock already coiling around him like a persistent, viney weed, arms and legs both finding parts of John to twine through until he was wrapped up in Sherlock like a present made of body parts. Sherlock would probably appreciate the simile.
John supposed that this answered any number of questions.
When he woke a bit in the pre-dawn hours, John wasn’t surprised to find he was alone, not considering how much Sherlock had slept the day before. The sheets beside him were already cool. John curled up into that spot anyway, buried his face into a pillow that smelled of Sherlock and went back to sleep.
Day Three, Continued
Lacking the ability to remove memories left John sitting here staring at his blinking cursor, listening to Sherlock moving about in the kitchen doing whatever experiment was on his mental list for the day. He hadn't asked; once the experiments started involving blowtorches and asbestos gloves, John was well quit of it.
When John had finally gotten up just before dawn, Sherlock had barely offered him a good morning, already peering intently through his microscope at some such thing. They'd had breakfast, or their version of it, John having toast and Sherlock ignoring all food in favour of his worktable, and all in all, it had been a normal, pre-virginity-taking morning for them; Sherlock was caught up on his sleep and back to his usual, unusual, self.
John might have thought he'd imagined it all if it weren't for their new sitting room art project. Sometime earlier John had gamely given a go at studying it; if Sherlock had spent the entire night putting it together it obviously had some meaning behind it. John couldn't say he found any of the pictures particularly titillating, bunches of naked blokes in a variety of positions. There were pieces of string attached to a few of them with pushpins, indicating some link between them, something John was familiar with Sherlock doing with his cases but whatever Sherlock had found in common between them was something only he could deduce.
What connection was there between that dark-eyed bloke sprawled out in his pants and the one of two men sucking each other off? There were a few John was rather impressed with and perhaps Lestrade's texts hadn't been quite as off about human anatomy as John had thought. Medical school hadn't had a Kama sutra class, after all.
None of them stirred more than the mildest interest in him. Perhaps that should be concerning him more than his lack of a heterosexual crisis. He should be more worried that he wasn't having a homosexual one. All it had taken was a glance into the kitchen to rid him of that particular uneasiness.
Sherlock had been sitting at the table, his hands resting on either side of the microscope and all John could think of was those long, slim fingers, the way they'd felt wrapped around his cock. The coolness of his skin that had warmed so quickly, the possessive way Sherlock had touched him, stroked him.
John had had to take a deep breath, dragging his eyes away, and that had been when he'd snatched up his laptop, intent on typing up their latest case. Only it wasn't working out very well, since John was trying to write about bombers which should have been easy since his ribs were still aching from the results of it. Except John's thoughts were all still caught up in remembering the soft, sweet noises Sherlock had made when he'd touched him, the way he'd squirmed beneath John, all pale skin and wide eyes, first time touched and he'd been simply gorgeous.
No, John told himself firmly, this wouldn't do; he'd be having enough trouble yanking Sherlock away from his experiment long enough for a trip to Scotland Yard. Trying to coax him away for the slightly more selfish purposes of relieving him of another shred of his virginity was simply not on, not as far as John was concerned, and he was giving the thought of going out for a long walk serious thought when his laptop was abruptly yanked away, the lid closed sharply as Sherlock set it ungently on the floor.
"Hey!" John said automatically and any protest he had wuffed out of him when he caught a lapful of surprisingly heavy Sherlock, both his legs snugging in on either side of John's as he straddled him.
"I can't concentrate on the experiment while you're out here thinking about sex," Sherlock informed him and it was the only warning John had before a mouth was covering his own. For all that Sherlock was barely kissed, his mouth still as unspoiled as a fresh peach, he certainly seemed to learn quickly enough. His tongue was markedly more clever than the day before as it slid past John's lips and delved into the warm darkness of his mouth, tracing his teeth.
John didn't even think about not kissing him back. He already had two handfuls of Sherlock's hair and was sucking gently on the plush softness of his lower lip when actual thought resumed and John pulled back a bit.
Christ, one kiss and Sherlock looked utterly debauched. His mouth was reddened, a lovely flush of colour brought to his normally pale lips and his hair was tousled into wild tufts.
John gave himself a mental shake and forced a little focus to this thoughts, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be distracting. You don't have to try to entertain me."
"Entertain you?" Sherlock scoffed, "I think you should know by now that I am hardly that altruistic." He grabbed one of John's hands and cupped it over his crotch, moulding it over the firm length of his cock. Just the way his eyes fluttered closed, his mouth parting on a breathy moan made John swallow back a bit of choice language. Fuck, Sherlock was simply the sluttiest virgin in existence, had to be.
He confirmed it with his next words, "I think we should try fellatio."
Oh. John swallowed hard. Imagining it, Sherlock's mouth against him, those soft lips spread wide and that pink tongue that felt glorious against his own sliding over his prick. He tried to speak, had to stop and clear his throat before he could force words from it, "You're sure you want to try that now?"
"Very," Sherlock assured him and to John's surprise, he scrambled back out of his lap and sprawled into his own chair, legs spread wide. He gave John an impatient look when he only stared. "Well? You can't very well do it from over there."
"Can't do what?" John said dumbly, his voice cracking at the end as it occurred to him just exactly what Sherlock might mean.
Only to have it confirmed with a truly withering look from Sherlock, "Fellate me, of course. This was what we were discussing, you haven't forgotten in the thirty seconds between, have you?"
"Fellate…" John stopped and not for the first time wondered how it was he always lost the thread of the argument before it had even started. "Why exactly am I the one who has to do it?"
"I'm the virgin," Sherlock said, and everything from his raised eyebrows to his tapping fingers indicated that he thought this should be completely obvious, thank you, do try to stop being an idiot, John.
John took a moment to draw from his well of infinite patience he'd developed since becoming Sherlock's flatmate before he attempted to answer that challenge. "Sherlock, while I'm gratified with the confidence you have in my experience, I haven't done fellatio…do we have to call it that? Can we just call it, I don't know, something else?"
"If you have a preferred euphemism, I suggest you pick it now as something we can carry on with. Blow job, sucking dick, gobbling the crank, giving head-"
"Blow job is fine!" John interrupted loudly, before Sherlock could wind through the no doubt endless list he'd discovered on his porn romp through the internet. "You might be the virgin in the equation but I haven't done it from this side either, you know. I'm no mathematical genius but unless something has happened since yesterday then zero plus zero still equals zero."
"And you don't want to?" Sherlock raised both eyebrows at him and that gave John a bit of a pause. Did he want to?
Yesterday Sherlock had asked John to help him rid himself of his semi-virginal existence and John had agreed. He supposed he hadn't thought the logistics of all that through yet. A mutual wank and a bit of rubbing off was all right for a while but eventually one of them was going to have to man up, as it were, and take a real step into the homosexual ring.
John licked his lips, imagined he could still taste Sherlock's mouth on them and decided so long as he wasn't have any sort of sexual crisis, it may as well be him. From the way Sherlock smirked at him, his knees falling apart as he slouched down a bit in his seat, he had already deduced exactly where John's thoughts had fallen.
"Keep looking smug like that and I'll prove you wrong," John warned, snagging the cushion out from behind him and dropping it on the floor. He might never have sucked another man off before but it didn't mean he had no idea about how it went. The thought of the hard floor on his already colourfully bruised knees wasn't much of a turn on.
It was no idle threat and Sherlock seemed to realize it, scooting back up and catching John's face in his hands, pressing their mouths together again in a startlingly tender kiss. John tipped his head up into it helplessly, let Sherlock slide their tongues together deftly, ah, fuck, he really did learn quickly. John already had an arm wound around Sherlock's neck before he considered it, holding him in while John licked roughly into his mouth, a soft moan vibrating between them.
"John," Sherlock pulled back enough to whisper and John was already panting, staring up into pale, wide eyes. John was leaning in between his legs, Sherlock's knees beneath his elbows and if he leaned in further, John knew exactly what he'd feel straining through the front placket of Sherlock's trousers.
He swallowed, hard, licked his lips and this time he didn't have to imagine Sherlock's taste. Licked them again when Sherlock's eyes followed the movement of his tongue. "You should…" John cleared his throat, "You should lean back."
Instantly, Sherlock did and it pushed his hips forward, those slim, boyish hips covered in expensive linen trousers. They did nothing to hide the bulge at the front and John didn't need to shore up any bravery to cup his hand over it, feel Sherlock shudder beneath him.
John slid his thumb down that hard line, back up again, and Christ, the sounds Sherlock could make. He groaned as though John was murdering him, low, throaty moans and it was fascinating to watch the shift up his hips as he pushed up into John's fairly innocent touches, his hands clenching and loosening on the arms of the chair as he squirmed.
Oh, that was just lovely, wasn't it? John did it again, again, both thumbs sliding up and down the clothbound length of Sherlock's prick until he was a whimpering, gasping mess, his normally pale cheeks flushed with brilliant colour, a low sheen of sweat rising on his forehead. Again, John was amazed and bewildered to be the first one touching him; how was it even possible that Sherlock hadn't found someone to try this with, just once, in his entire life? No one who was this perfectly easy, this gorgeously eager should still be a virgin and John might have felt a thin thread of pity for him if it weren't for the way his ego all but swelled over with it. First time touched and the only one this stunning, frustrating, enigmatic man wanted to try it with was John, John who was as ordinary as his name. John was the one unbuckling his belt and pulling the smooth leather through the loops, tossing it aside, unfastening his trousers and sliding down the zip.
No pants, Jesus, nothing but bare, damp skin against his hands and John tugged slightly on his trousers, startling back as Sherlock jerked his hips up to help.
"Careful," John groused, "You're going to poke me in the bloody eye."
"I'm sorry...I can't..." Sherlock shuddered under him, a wild tremor running through his body. Christ, John hadn't even done anything yet. "I keep thinking about your mouth, the internal temperature of it, the consistency of your saliva, John…please, John, I can't…"
Of course he couldn't stop thinking about it. If just the thought of getting a blowjob was doing this to him, John couldn't imagine what he'd be like during.
John had gotten a good look at Sherlock's cock the day before, long and slim, perfectly suited to its owner but this was a bit more of a bird's eye view, as it were, and he eyed it warily. If he tried to take all that his first time on the pitch, he was probably going to choke to death or worse, and Sherlock might have taken the remedial course in sexual education the night before but John had nothing to go on except his own memories. Memories that were failing him quite spectacularly at the moment with Sherlock all but writhing and begging in front of him, trousers down around his thighs and his hands clutching at the chair arms.
It'd been some time since John had even been with a woman much less gotten creative with anyone and he couldn't for the life of him recall just what they'd done to keep from being strangled in the course of things.
Best just try then and see how things got on. John took a deep breath and wrapped a hand around the length of it, gently pulled the foreskin down a little to get a better look at things. The tip was shiny and wet, a testament to Sherlock's eagerness as much as his soft swearing and squirming. It made John's mouth water a bit, thinking about what he was about to do and John didn't give himself time to reconsider, only leaned in and touched his tongue to the tip, tasting slick, bitter salt.
That was familiar at least; a memory of his own taste on a woman's mouth after and John didn't shy from it, sliding his tongue over the soft, soft skin, tasting more wetness seeping out.
Distantly, he could feel Sherlock trembling beneath him, tremors shivering through his thighs beneath John's arms. He was really doing this, John realized, really giving Sherlock his very first taste of an actual sexual act. A first taste for himself as well, sliding his tongue through another slick rush of salt and John pulled back a bit, let his tongue slide down hot, stretched skin.
He was only just sliding downward when Sherlock jerked beneath him, coming in wet stripes over his belly, dampening his shirt and narrowly missing catching John full in the face.
Well. At least he'd enjoyed it.
He waited until Sherlock's breathing eased into something a closer to normal before he asked, conversationally, "Was it all right, then?"
Instantly, a flood of brilliant colour rose up his chest, flaming into his cheeks and John was utterly chuffed to see Sherlock was ten shades of embarrassed. Now there was a sight to treasure, tuck that mental picture right in next to the one of Sherlock gasping and coming all over himself.
"I am so sorry," Sherlock covered his face with a hand, muffled his words into it and John leaned up to tug it away, met the tightness in his face, didn't let him lower his eyes.
"Don't apologize. Please. Don't," John leaned up to kiss him, ignoring the whinging protest of his knees as he whispered into Sherlock's mouth, "You were gorgeous."
"I'm a mess is what I am." There was a hint of sullenness to those words, mingled with lingering embarrassment and John bit his lower lip in a gentle reprimand, none of that, thank you much.
"No," John said firmly. "No, you were, are, gorgeous. You are."
Sherlock sighed resignedly into his mouth, a surrender if John had ever heard one. "I suppose I could do it for you now."
"No, no, it's all right," John said without thinking and that got him an unexpected reaction.
"No?" Sherlock echoed and he didn't sound confused, he sounded offended. "No?"
"Now, look, I didn’t mean-" John tried and his heart sank a bit as Sherlock glowered at him. Damn it all to hell, it was like trying to juggle a gun, a stick of dynamite, and lit candle with him, wasn't it, and right now John was trying that entire balancing act with a blindfold on.
"No," Sherlock spat back at him, scowling with barely restrained anger, "You’ve been imagining sex all morning and now that I'm offering it to you, you're turning me down. Normally I'd put this down to everyday stupidity but this is beyond even that. Care to explain?"
"I didn't say I didn't want sex from you," John corrected him sharply and that got his attention, didn't it, his eyebrows creasing into a frown. John struggled up from his knees, shifting to slide into Sherlock's lap for a change. His shirt was streaked with wetness and John took a moment to unfasten his jeans before he swept a hand through it, slicking it.
"Help a fellow out, will you?" John asked, huskily, already groaning at the feel of his own hand as he slid it, wet with come, into the front of his jeans to curl around his prick. Sherlock, who had been blinking at him with wide, confused eyes, jolted into action as John's words. He slid one hand down to cover John's, their twined fingers sliding jointly around his cock and John closed his eyes, rocking his hips into the slick tunnel formed by their hands.
"Oh, that's good," John groaned. "That's it, right there, you were gorgeous when you came, did you know that?"
"You said," Sherlock whispered and John forced his eyes open, met shocky eyes with his own. So wide, hardly more than a thin line of grey around the endless black of his pupils and Sherlock's fingers tightened, sliding between John's, all the better to touch him.
"Gorgeous," John husked out, his breath catching as Sherlock chose to take a little initiative, his other hand pushing into the back of John's jeans to cup his bare arse. It was enough to tip him over the edge and he came in a shuddery burst, pressing his face into warm space between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. He gulped in air, the nubby linen of Sherlock's shirt chafing slightly against his forehead and it was all wonderful.
"John?" Sherlock turned his head enough to speak it almost into John's ear. His voice was quiet and thoughtful, not a sound John was accustomed to hearing, "Why didn't you want me to give you a blowjob?"
He almost winced at hearing that word rolling off Sherlock's posh tongue until he recalled that he was the one who'd chosen that particular euphemism.
"Because you're supposed to go first," John replied, firmly. "You can try it out on me after I give you a proper one."
Sherlock was quiet, digesting that, before he ventured, "You're assuming I'd be inferior because you didn't manage it with me and so my point of comparison would be faulty?"
"No, I'm sure you'd be brilliant," John said honestly. He let the dig that he hadn't managed with Sherlock go; pointing out that Sherlock had been the one a tad quick out of the gate was a sure-fire way to guarantee he wouldn't get another chance very soon. "I'd like it to be brilliant for both of us. I don't want to be basking in post-orgasmic bliss while you're upset."
"That doesn't make sense," Sherlock complained.
"Trust me. It does."
Something in the kitchen made a sound, a quiet ding, and Sherlock's eyes went to it instantly. The normalcy of it made John smile, a little. To be honest he felt a bit unsteady just now, in a way that had nothing to do with the pleasant aftermath still twinging through him.
"Look, you have an experiment to do. Why don't I get out of here for a bit, I've got some laundry I need to get done. Be less distracting for you if I'm out of your hair entirely."
To his surprise, Sherlock hesitated, his hands sliding free of John's trousers to his back, one of which was still very damp from the feel of it. John resigned himself to tossing another shirt in the wash. At this rate, he'd be down to his rain coat and swim shorts and wouldn't that be a sight at the laundry.
"All right," Sherlock said finally and something in his voice made John lean back, studying his face. Sherlock seemed keen on avoiding that from the way he pushed John gently from his lap, his hands already going to the buttons on his decidedly messy shirt. John watched him go with a frown but he let it go, for now. Post-virginity jitters were bound to come up and pressing Sherlock when he didn't want to talk was a fool's bet.
John took a moment to change his own clothes, gathering them into a wad to add to his collection in the basket downstairs. He was just grabbing it up when he happened to glance into the kitchen and froze.
Sherlock was peering into his microscope again and this time, he was shirtless, his beltless trousers hanging low, and all that pale, smooth skin was bared beneath the stark lights. Bruises from the night before had bloomed in various places; discoloured continents scattered between oceans of soft skin and if Sherlock had thought John's thoughts were loud before they must be pounding into the back of his skull right now.
Right. Time to go.
John grabbed up his basket and made for the laundry room and if his thoughts on sex permeated through three doors and two flights of stairs, well, Sherlock would have to try to find another way to deal with it.
John tried not to think about just how he might go about that. He really did.
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Continue To Day Three: Reprise