Fic: Timeline
Title: Timeline
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1310
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: There are certain things you have to get used to when you share a bed with Sherlock Holmes.
AN: Written for the Five Acts Meme.
There are certain things you have to get used to when you share a bed with Sherlock Holmes. Though John honestly isn't sure if anyone else ever has done. Most importantly, Sherlock isn't going to be in it much. Because he views sleep as a horrible necessity that he indulges in grudgingly and thoroughly disapproves of. The rare times when Sherlock is in the bed and he's not sleeping it's because he's distracted. Whether by sex, or his phone, or his laptop, or some sort of shiny, jingling thing which manages hold his attention for more than ten seconds. John is learning to sleep around most of it.
So, yes, it's more complicated that he'd originally been prepared for.
Waking up to Sherlock's weight settled on top of him isn't exactly a new sensation. Sherlock thinks nothing of experimenting when John's sleeping, mostly in a way that he approves of - or eventually ends up approving of. And though Sherlock's a lot heavier than he looks, John isn't going to complain.
The slow, tickling trail of pressure on his back, that's new.
John blinks, frowns, and gradually the low mutter from Sherlock starts to make some sort of sense.
" - but it was cold, she would have hurried, seventeen minutes to get home, no, fifteen. She would have taken the stairs. Seen again at 8:45 - that's twenty six minutes unaccounted for."
John frowns and turns his head a little.
"Sherlock, are you writing out a crime timeline on my back?"
"Shush," Sherlock says, too fast. "Thinking, John."
The warm slide and catch of Sherlock knees just above his waist is quick and distracted. There's a rock of weight so he can lean over, wrist resting on John's shoulder blade. John recognises the tap of plastic that suggests he's being written on in biro.
John sighs into the pillow, rolls his eyes, tries to figure out the odds of managing to go back to sleep.
Sherlock shifts lower, draws a line down his spine and adds brief, tiny notations that John swears he can still feel even when Sherlock moves on. His whole back is strangely sensitive, it's probably an odd mess of blue pen and strange inky fingerprints. Though there's something hypnotic about Sherlock's quick, fluttering handwriting. The press of the pen is gentle but certain. Competent, controlled.
Until it stops, pressed in hard for a fraction of a second.
"I'm a genius," Sherlock says fiercely.
"You're a genius," John agrees, without having a clue what he's agreeing with. Sherlock's almost certainly done something clever after all.
The biro clatters against the wall.
John's fully prepared for Sherlock to slither off of him and bound off to inform whoever needs to be informed of whatever Sherlock has just discovered. That's how it usually goes.
He's not prepared for Sherlock to stretch out over his back, warm fingers sliding into his hair.
He makes a surprised noise - which quickly turns into a startled yelp when Sherlock's teeth bite into his ear.
"Christ, Sherlock."
"You were much less distracting when you were asleep," Sherlock says, and it's all accusation and sudden, obvious interest against the curve of his arse.
There are long legs easing John's apart and he exhales and grumbles complaint when Sherlock slips between them, hand pushing his boxers down in a way that's determined.
"You didn't want to have sex earlier because you were busy," John reminds him.
"I'm not busy anymore."
"Maybe I'm busy," John says.
Sherlock huffs amusement against the back of his neck. "I know I'm not the only one of us who's aroused."
John grunts, unwilling to confirm or deny.
There's another shift of weight and then a pointed and familiar click of plastic.
John's tempted to protest again, because Sherlock gets far too many things his own way.
Until Sherlock says his name, in that heavy, familiar way that John's completely incapable of saying no to. Moreso since he ended up in Sherlock's bed, which he's not sure if he should worry about or not.
But then he's breathing through the slow push of a finger into him and he can't help the noise he makes. Everything Sherlock does is efficient and meticulous, including this. Though there's a impatience that John can feel, the rush of breath that's audible and not entirely steady.
Sherlock drags one of the pillows down the bed, curves his hand round John's hip and tugs until there's enough space to shove it underneath him. Sherlock’s fingers are still moving inside him, but he's swearing under his breath, and watching. He's always watching.
John pulls a leg up the bed, says Sherlock's name, sharp, and just a little shaky.
Sherlock exhales, fingers sliding free and then he's shifting his weight, all tightly grasping fingers and then pressure where John doesn’t think he's ever going to get used to it. Sherlock doesn't stop until he's buried all the way inside him and John's making quiet noises that aren't in any way unhappy but always manage to sound so shocked. He doesn't know when this became something he wanted, something he needed.
Narrow fingers catch at his waist, nails digging in, there's an impatient growl in Sherlock's throat. Like he never had to learn restraint, and can't understand why he needs it.
John's breath shakes out of him when Sherlock moves, when he slides away and then pushes back in. It's hard and deep and at just the right angle to straddle the line between good and uncomfortable. John's discovered that he doesn't mind that half as much as he should.
Sherlock can be enthusiastic when he remembers he has a sex drive.
John has to wonder, has to, if Sherlock's getting off on the complex map of crime he's written across his shoulder and down his spine. The flowing beauty of mystery to solution. It wouldn’t surprise him but - stranger still, John doesn't think he minds. He's the only one Sherlock gets to write on after all. The only one who gets to see the unfinished pictures, to watch the whole thing come together behind Sherlock's eyes.
John folds his hand round the headboard and pushes back. Which gets him a quick, startled, appreciative grunt, smoothly followed by the warm curve of Sherlock's body plastered against the back of his own. There are teeth in John's shoulder, hard enough to make him hiss, hard enough that there's going to be a mark there tomorrow, and the day after.
John doesn't know if Sherlock even realises how human that is. That greedy stab of possessiveness that's so shamefully obvious. The one that John pretends to find irritating as hell - when he knows the exact opposite is true.
His thoughts are scattered to pieces by the next sliding thrust, fingers going white round the wood at the force behind it.
He forgets about everything then, about the timeline and the ink across his skin and Sherlock's greedy, impatient need to have whatever he wants whenever he wants it. Because John wants this too, this impossible, intimate thing that he'd never wanted before, and he wants it with Sherlock. Frustrating, arrogant, impossible Sherlock.
He comes first, he always accuses Sherlock of having no self-control but he'd never expected it to be so intense. He'd never expected to like it so much and it's always too much, too deep, not enough. Until John's gasping and breathing into the pillow and taking every hard, shaky thrust when he's shivery and over-sensitised.
Sherlock bites out his name, over and over, until there's no rhythm at all, just reckless, greedy pushes and then stillness and warmth - and the untidy weight of Sherlock slumped against his back.
John's not sure he can move.
Sherlock makes an indistinct noise into his shoulder blade.
"I appear to have smudged 9:15 to 11pm," he says and he sounds somewhere between annoyed and disappointed.
John sighs into the pillow, doesn't bother opening his eyes. "Let me shower and you can write it all out again."
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1310
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: There are certain things you have to get used to when you share a bed with Sherlock Holmes.
AN: Written for the Five Acts Meme.
There are certain things you have to get used to when you share a bed with Sherlock Holmes. Though John honestly isn't sure if anyone else ever has done. Most importantly, Sherlock isn't going to be in it much. Because he views sleep as a horrible necessity that he indulges in grudgingly and thoroughly disapproves of. The rare times when Sherlock is in the bed and he's not sleeping it's because he's distracted. Whether by sex, or his phone, or his laptop, or some sort of shiny, jingling thing which manages hold his attention for more than ten seconds. John is learning to sleep around most of it.
So, yes, it's more complicated that he'd originally been prepared for.
Waking up to Sherlock's weight settled on top of him isn't exactly a new sensation. Sherlock thinks nothing of experimenting when John's sleeping, mostly in a way that he approves of - or eventually ends up approving of. And though Sherlock's a lot heavier than he looks, John isn't going to complain.
The slow, tickling trail of pressure on his back, that's new.
John blinks, frowns, and gradually the low mutter from Sherlock starts to make some sort of sense.
" - but it was cold, she would have hurried, seventeen minutes to get home, no, fifteen. She would have taken the stairs. Seen again at 8:45 - that's twenty six minutes unaccounted for."
John frowns and turns his head a little.
"Sherlock, are you writing out a crime timeline on my back?"
"Shush," Sherlock says, too fast. "Thinking, John."
The warm slide and catch of Sherlock knees just above his waist is quick and distracted. There's a rock of weight so he can lean over, wrist resting on John's shoulder blade. John recognises the tap of plastic that suggests he's being written on in biro.
John sighs into the pillow, rolls his eyes, tries to figure out the odds of managing to go back to sleep.
Sherlock shifts lower, draws a line down his spine and adds brief, tiny notations that John swears he can still feel even when Sherlock moves on. His whole back is strangely sensitive, it's probably an odd mess of blue pen and strange inky fingerprints. Though there's something hypnotic about Sherlock's quick, fluttering handwriting. The press of the pen is gentle but certain. Competent, controlled.
Until it stops, pressed in hard for a fraction of a second.
"I'm a genius," Sherlock says fiercely.
"You're a genius," John agrees, without having a clue what he's agreeing with. Sherlock's almost certainly done something clever after all.
The biro clatters against the wall.
John's fully prepared for Sherlock to slither off of him and bound off to inform whoever needs to be informed of whatever Sherlock has just discovered. That's how it usually goes.
He's not prepared for Sherlock to stretch out over his back, warm fingers sliding into his hair.
He makes a surprised noise - which quickly turns into a startled yelp when Sherlock's teeth bite into his ear.
"Christ, Sherlock."
"You were much less distracting when you were asleep," Sherlock says, and it's all accusation and sudden, obvious interest against the curve of his arse.
There are long legs easing John's apart and he exhales and grumbles complaint when Sherlock slips between them, hand pushing his boxers down in a way that's determined.
"You didn't want to have sex earlier because you were busy," John reminds him.
"I'm not busy anymore."
"Maybe I'm busy," John says.
Sherlock huffs amusement against the back of his neck. "I know I'm not the only one of us who's aroused."
John grunts, unwilling to confirm or deny.
There's another shift of weight and then a pointed and familiar click of plastic.
John's tempted to protest again, because Sherlock gets far too many things his own way.
Until Sherlock says his name, in that heavy, familiar way that John's completely incapable of saying no to. Moreso since he ended up in Sherlock's bed, which he's not sure if he should worry about or not.
But then he's breathing through the slow push of a finger into him and he can't help the noise he makes. Everything Sherlock does is efficient and meticulous, including this. Though there's a impatience that John can feel, the rush of breath that's audible and not entirely steady.
Sherlock drags one of the pillows down the bed, curves his hand round John's hip and tugs until there's enough space to shove it underneath him. Sherlock’s fingers are still moving inside him, but he's swearing under his breath, and watching. He's always watching.
John pulls a leg up the bed, says Sherlock's name, sharp, and just a little shaky.
Sherlock exhales, fingers sliding free and then he's shifting his weight, all tightly grasping fingers and then pressure where John doesn’t think he's ever going to get used to it. Sherlock doesn't stop until he's buried all the way inside him and John's making quiet noises that aren't in any way unhappy but always manage to sound so shocked. He doesn't know when this became something he wanted, something he needed.
Narrow fingers catch at his waist, nails digging in, there's an impatient growl in Sherlock's throat. Like he never had to learn restraint, and can't understand why he needs it.
John's breath shakes out of him when Sherlock moves, when he slides away and then pushes back in. It's hard and deep and at just the right angle to straddle the line between good and uncomfortable. John's discovered that he doesn't mind that half as much as he should.
Sherlock can be enthusiastic when he remembers he has a sex drive.
John has to wonder, has to, if Sherlock's getting off on the complex map of crime he's written across his shoulder and down his spine. The flowing beauty of mystery to solution. It wouldn’t surprise him but - stranger still, John doesn't think he minds. He's the only one Sherlock gets to write on after all. The only one who gets to see the unfinished pictures, to watch the whole thing come together behind Sherlock's eyes.
John folds his hand round the headboard and pushes back. Which gets him a quick, startled, appreciative grunt, smoothly followed by the warm curve of Sherlock's body plastered against the back of his own. There are teeth in John's shoulder, hard enough to make him hiss, hard enough that there's going to be a mark there tomorrow, and the day after.
John doesn't know if Sherlock even realises how human that is. That greedy stab of possessiveness that's so shamefully obvious. The one that John pretends to find irritating as hell - when he knows the exact opposite is true.
His thoughts are scattered to pieces by the next sliding thrust, fingers going white round the wood at the force behind it.
He forgets about everything then, about the timeline and the ink across his skin and Sherlock's greedy, impatient need to have whatever he wants whenever he wants it. Because John wants this too, this impossible, intimate thing that he'd never wanted before, and he wants it with Sherlock. Frustrating, arrogant, impossible Sherlock.
He comes first, he always accuses Sherlock of having no self-control but he'd never expected it to be so intense. He'd never expected to like it so much and it's always too much, too deep, not enough. Until John's gasping and breathing into the pillow and taking every hard, shaky thrust when he's shivery and over-sensitised.
Sherlock bites out his name, over and over, until there's no rhythm at all, just reckless, greedy pushes and then stillness and warmth - and the untidy weight of Sherlock slumped against his back.
John's not sure he can move.
Sherlock makes an indistinct noise into his shoulder blade.
"I appear to have smudged 9:15 to 11pm," he says and he sounds somewhere between annoyed and disappointed.
John sighs into the pillow, doesn't bother opening his eyes. "Let me shower and you can write it all out again."