Fic: Presumed Guilty
Title: Presumed Guilty
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Word Count: 890
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The shower isn't really big enough for two.
AN: Written for the Five Acts Meme.
The shower isn't really big enough for two, but Sherlock is very, very good at being where he isn't supposed to be.
John can feel the wet spread of fingers low on his back, the way they drift and curve round his waist, thumb sliding on the skin where the water runs.
"You have bruises," Sherlock says, quietly fascinated
"I think you'll find that you put them there," John reminds him, head tipped down under the spray, so water doesn't run into his mouth.
Sherlock makes a curious noise, like he'd briefly forgotten the consequences involved in having sex with someone. Sometimes John has to wonder where exactly he fits in the grand architecture of Sherlock's brain. What exactly it means that Sherlock lets himself get distracted by him - by this.
"You never protest," Sherlock muses, wet fingers drifting somewhere warm and sensitive, higher up his back. John suspects he has bruises there too. Sherlock likes to dig his fingers in.
"I'm usually rather busy at the time," John says.
"You could protest, if you wanted to." There's a quiet, strangely serious tone to the words. It makes John think he means something more than the obvious.
"I'm well aware of that." John blinks water out of his eyes. "Did you want something specific or did you just come in here to observe the pattern of my bruises?"
"Hmm," Sherlock agrees.
There's a strong possibility Sherlock is using him, in a clandestine sort of way, an observational study into the nature of bruises.
"You're not an experiment, John," Sherlock says quietly, hand flattening and moving slowly downwards, in a way that feels strangely like an attempt to settle him. "But you are very distracting, and it's hard to concentrate when you're naked and...slippery."
John snorts. "I think you'll find you're the one that got in the shower with me."
Sherlock makes a dismissive noise that tells him he's being an idiot. John's too used to hearing that to still be genuinely annoyed by it.
"I knew you were in here. I would have accomplished absolutely nothing."
"You're making it sound like I should apologise for that."
Sherlock hums again. "Maybe you should."
"Maybe I should have locked the door," John says.
"But you didn't."
Not that Sherlock has ever let a locked door stop him. But John's not apologising for showering, he doesn't care what Sherlock says. He shakes water out of his face and turns around - Sherlock's hand slipping from the curve of his hip to his stomach. There's a faint press of fingers into his skin, the very real threat of them sliding down and John knows he will lose any argument that comes after. Because Sherlock is very, very good with his hands and John's been hard since the moment Sherlock started touching him.
John pushes him back into the wall, holds him there with wet fingers and kisses him through the spray. Until Sherlock has to turn his head away to breathe - because he's human, no matter what he likes people to think. It leaves his face too high for John to kiss again, not without pulling him down or risking going up on his toes. Which is briefly irritating, but the way the water slowly soaks Sherlock where he's pressed against the tiles more than makes up for it. His hair is a wet mess that curls and curves over his neck and forehead, mouth shiny, throat running trails of water. The angle is good for him, it makes him look pale and half wild.
John can't help slipping a leg between Sherlock's thighs and holding him there.
"I don't object," John tells him. "To any of it."
Sherlock grunts like he doesn't quite believe it, like he suspects John is simply trying to placate him.
"If I object to something you want, I'll tell you." John can't resist sliding a wet hand round Sherlock's jaw and tugging it down.
The water soaks his own hair again, it runs between them to flow past where their mouths are joined and down John's chest. Sherlock twists until they're both out of the spray and John can't help but take advantage of the fact that the soap's within reach.
It's far too easy to pick up and slide between his hands and Sherlock's skin is slippery and warm and as wet as his own. He relaxes back into the wall under John's urging, bites his lip when John's hand drops, slippery fingers curling round his cock in one tight grasp.
Sherlock's head falls back, knocks against the tiles, a rare, colourful curse slips out.
There's a hand on John's arm, pale fingers curled round his bicep. They flex and relax in restless demand.
"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asks.
Sherlock's hand slides up, folds round the back of his neck, long fingers tangling through the wet ends of John's hair.
"So many things," Sherlock says, voice low like he's already admitted something scandalous. Though he doesn't elaborate, words caught behind his teeth, tensing and shifting under John's slowly moving hand.
There's something unwilling there.
"You'd be surprised what I'd let you do," John murmurs into his collarbone, he opens his mouth where the skin is thin, where he can feel the curve of bone underneath. It's both hard and strangely vulnerable under his tongue.
Sherlock inhales and then goes completely pliant.
John debates whether he's too old to end up on his knees in the shower.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Word Count: 890
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The shower isn't really big enough for two.
AN: Written for the Five Acts Meme.
The shower isn't really big enough for two, but Sherlock is very, very good at being where he isn't supposed to be.
John can feel the wet spread of fingers low on his back, the way they drift and curve round his waist, thumb sliding on the skin where the water runs.
"You have bruises," Sherlock says, quietly fascinated
"I think you'll find that you put them there," John reminds him, head tipped down under the spray, so water doesn't run into his mouth.
Sherlock makes a curious noise, like he'd briefly forgotten the consequences involved in having sex with someone. Sometimes John has to wonder where exactly he fits in the grand architecture of Sherlock's brain. What exactly it means that Sherlock lets himself get distracted by him - by this.
"You never protest," Sherlock muses, wet fingers drifting somewhere warm and sensitive, higher up his back. John suspects he has bruises there too. Sherlock likes to dig his fingers in.
"I'm usually rather busy at the time," John says.
"You could protest, if you wanted to." There's a quiet, strangely serious tone to the words. It makes John think he means something more than the obvious.
"I'm well aware of that." John blinks water out of his eyes. "Did you want something specific or did you just come in here to observe the pattern of my bruises?"
"Hmm," Sherlock agrees.
There's a strong possibility Sherlock is using him, in a clandestine sort of way, an observational study into the nature of bruises.
"You're not an experiment, John," Sherlock says quietly, hand flattening and moving slowly downwards, in a way that feels strangely like an attempt to settle him. "But you are very distracting, and it's hard to concentrate when you're naked and...slippery."
John snorts. "I think you'll find you're the one that got in the shower with me."
Sherlock makes a dismissive noise that tells him he's being an idiot. John's too used to hearing that to still be genuinely annoyed by it.
"I knew you were in here. I would have accomplished absolutely nothing."
"You're making it sound like I should apologise for that."
Sherlock hums again. "Maybe you should."
"Maybe I should have locked the door," John says.
"But you didn't."
Not that Sherlock has ever let a locked door stop him. But John's not apologising for showering, he doesn't care what Sherlock says. He shakes water out of his face and turns around - Sherlock's hand slipping from the curve of his hip to his stomach. There's a faint press of fingers into his skin, the very real threat of them sliding down and John knows he will lose any argument that comes after. Because Sherlock is very, very good with his hands and John's been hard since the moment Sherlock started touching him.
John pushes him back into the wall, holds him there with wet fingers and kisses him through the spray. Until Sherlock has to turn his head away to breathe - because he's human, no matter what he likes people to think. It leaves his face too high for John to kiss again, not without pulling him down or risking going up on his toes. Which is briefly irritating, but the way the water slowly soaks Sherlock where he's pressed against the tiles more than makes up for it. His hair is a wet mess that curls and curves over his neck and forehead, mouth shiny, throat running trails of water. The angle is good for him, it makes him look pale and half wild.
John can't help slipping a leg between Sherlock's thighs and holding him there.
"I don't object," John tells him. "To any of it."
Sherlock grunts like he doesn't quite believe it, like he suspects John is simply trying to placate him.
"If I object to something you want, I'll tell you." John can't resist sliding a wet hand round Sherlock's jaw and tugging it down.
The water soaks his own hair again, it runs between them to flow past where their mouths are joined and down John's chest. Sherlock twists until they're both out of the spray and John can't help but take advantage of the fact that the soap's within reach.
It's far too easy to pick up and slide between his hands and Sherlock's skin is slippery and warm and as wet as his own. He relaxes back into the wall under John's urging, bites his lip when John's hand drops, slippery fingers curling round his cock in one tight grasp.
Sherlock's head falls back, knocks against the tiles, a rare, colourful curse slips out.
There's a hand on John's arm, pale fingers curled round his bicep. They flex and relax in restless demand.
"What do you want, Sherlock?" John asks.
Sherlock's hand slides up, folds round the back of his neck, long fingers tangling through the wet ends of John's hair.
"So many things," Sherlock says, voice low like he's already admitted something scandalous. Though he doesn't elaborate, words caught behind his teeth, tensing and shifting under John's slowly moving hand.
There's something unwilling there.
"You'd be surprised what I'd let you do," John murmurs into his collarbone, he opens his mouth where the skin is thin, where he can feel the curve of bone underneath. It's both hard and strangely vulnerable under his tongue.
Sherlock inhales and then goes completely pliant.
John debates whether he's too old to end up on his knees in the shower.