Fic - You're The One For Me, Fatty - John/Sherlock - NC-17
Title: You’re The One For Me, Fatty
Prompt: From sherlockbbc_fic, part XIII - Being back in England John doesn't get nearly as much exercise as he used to and he's eating out a lot, what with the kitchen generally being filled with body parts and his metabolism isn't nearly as fast as Sherlock's. So John puts on some weight. At first, John is really upset about this. His body feels foreign to him, he feels unattractive. But Sherlock shows John just how much he likes John just the way he is. In detail. With his penis.
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: John puts on a bit of weight and angsts over it until Sherlock and his magical healing cock convince him that really, it’s alright, and they still definitely want to tap that.
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Weight issues, porn, language, mild food!porn
Word Count: ~5,000
Notes: I am so, so sorry that this was so long in the making! I never meant for it to take as long as it did, but here we are, it’s finished, hurrah! I hope it’s what you were after, OP. :) Credit to the incomparable Morrissey for the fic title, of course. Anon commenting is turned on.
‘John, what are we doing for dinner?’ Sherlock called from downstairs. John had left him in his usual position, prone on the sofa, John’s computer on his chest, ten minutes ago.
‘Uh,’ John said, frowning and rolling his t-shirt down over his stomach. ‘I’m not really hungry, beans on toast?’
There weren’t many calories in beans on toast, were there? And they had those enormous tins of beans from that time John had done the Tesco order online and hadn’t been able to picture what 750 gram tins looked or felt like. Turns out that 750 grams was much more than John was expecting. He was even half-hoping that Sherlock would do an experiment with the bloody things, they were taking up far too much room in the cupboard.
‘What about a curry?’ Sherlock said.
‘I don’t want a curry,’ John called back, pinching the new bit of skin - no - the new hideous roll of fat around his stomach. He breathed out and turned sideways, glaring at his reflection in the mirror.
‘What do you mean, you don’t want a curry?’ Sherlock replied, sounding confused.
‘I just don’t want a bloody curry!’ John shouted, sighing in exasperation.
Sherlock didn’t reply. John sighed again, turning back to the mirror to frown at his newly-acquired belly, his bigger legs, his bloody double chin.
‘Ugh,’ he muttered, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he grabbed his fat again. Damn Sherlock and his bloody quicker-than-lightning metabolism, his gorgeous body, his apparent lack of need for food. Bloody Sherlock and his bloody, infuriating self, making John fat with their diet of nothing but bloody horrible, expensive, calorie-laden, really fucking delicious takeaway. ‘Ugh,’ he said again, frowning at the way his stomach split into three rolls when he bent a particular way.
Wrapped up in his own thoughts as he was, he jumped a fucking mile when Sherlock spoke.
‘Come away from there,’ Sherlock said, much closer than he had been, and Christ how did he manage to sneak about like that?
‘Jesus, Sherlock,’ John exclaimed, straightening up and sucking his stomach - his fat in. ‘What the bloody hell are you creeping around for?’ he demanded, glaring, annoyed at having been caught doing something so vain, so, well, personal. The fact that they were sleeping together and a bit more than that was besides the point, this was much more personal than that.
‘I’m not creeping around,’ Sherlock replied, arching one eyebrow as he leant against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. ‘You’re creeping around.’
‘Don’t be bloody juvenile, Sherlock,’ John snapped, still glaring, pushing past Sherlock and running down the stairs.
‘I’m not being juvenile, I’m stating a fact,’ Sherlock returned, following John down the stairs. ‘John, I don’t think you’re--’
‘Don’t say it,’ John said, sighing, resting his hands on the back of his chair and closing his eyes. ‘Don’t say it, because you’d be lying, because I am.’ He was. He was fat, there was no getting away from it, there were rolls and there were two chins and he was out of breath all the time and his trousers didn’t really fit anymore and he was hideous. ‘Look, I’m just... I’m just going to cook us some beans on toast, alright?’ He straightened up and went into the kitchen, his forehead still creased in annoyance.
***
Sherlock slapped a second patch onto his forearm and clenched his fist until he felt the nicotine begin to course through his system. He released the breath he’d been holding and drew another one in through his mouth, closing his eyes. He was, as was usual when there were no cases on, stretched out on the sofa. However, he did have John and his apparent body issues to occupy his brain, which was something.
Yes, John had put on weight. Yes, John now had fat where there had previously been muscle. Yes, John had a bit of a double chin and rather a lot of a belly. Sherlock wasn’t about to deny any of that. It wasn’t as though it had put him off, though... quite the contrary, really. He liked the feel of John’s stomach under his hands when they were spooning in bed. He liked curling up on John’s now slightly softer chest. He loved that there was more of John’s arse to grab (though he wasn’t about to mention that; John didn’t seem overly-preoccupied with his arse and it wouldn’t do to draw attention to it if he hadn’t noticed). Sherlock liked John being a bit... well... bigger.
There were probably some horrendous Freudian reasons behind it all as well. Sherlock was the black sheep of the family due to him being thin as well as tall; Mycroft had been fat before his diet and he was still far from thin, their father was tall and broad and just big in general, and Mummy, bless her, well, Mummy was plump, to say the least. And Nanny had always been dumpy, and Cook was fat, but cooks were meant to be fat. He had hundreds of childhood memories of throwing his arms around big middles and burying his face in softness when he had been overwhelmed, which was frequently. He remembered the summer he’d started having nightmares when he was seven and crawling into bed with eighteen-year-old Mycroft, home from school after his exams, and feeling safe and warm and happy, tucked up against Mycroft’s comforting mass.
No, the fact that John was now a bit portly was absolutely nothing for him to be ashamed of, as far as Sherlock was concerned. They’d simply have to nip this sudden self-consciousness in the bud. No more lights off when they were having sex, no more John conveniently ‘forgetting’ his lunch, no more of him not putting sugar in his tea and making a face the whole time he was drinking it, no more them not ordering takeaway or eating out. He knew what to do. He just didn’t know how to go about it.
Sherlock sat up abruptly and grabbed his phone off the coffee table, tapping out a text before he could change his mind.
I need some advice.
-S.
Thirty seconds after he’d sent it, his phone rang. He clicked the button to accept the call and held the phone to his ear without saying anything.
‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft drawled from the other end. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Sherlock pulled a face and narrowed his eyes. Mycroft would be rubbing this in for months.
‘John has put on weight,’ Sherlock said shortly.
There was a short chuckle from Mycroft. ‘I had noticed that the good doctor appeared to carrying around a little extra these days, yes.’
Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘He hates it.’
‘Well, he would do,’ Mycroft said. ‘He’d been a soldier for years, he had an active lifestyle before that, not to mention that he was younger and therefore his metabolism was quicker. Now he’s living with you and living off takeaway - no doubt due in part to your infernal experiments cluttering up your kitchen--’ Sherlock bristled, ‘--his job as a general practitioner doesn’t require much movement, certainly nowhere near what he was used to in Afghanistan, and he’s far too happy to stay indoors sitting with you in the evenings, so the only exercise he gets is running around with you when you have a case.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point, brother dear, is that John isn’t going to be feeling like himself.’
Sherlock frowned, casting his eyes off to the side.
‘You needn’t look so confused, Sherlock, it’s an obvious conclusion to draw.’ Sherlock shifted his glare to the general direction of where he knew Mycroft had had one of his cameras installed (he still hadn’t pinpointed its exact location). ‘He’s going to be feeling inadequate and unattractive and uncomfortable in his own skin, hence the changes in his behaviour and his new relationship with food.’
Breathing out through his nose, Sherlock clenched his fist again, biting his lip as the nicotine rushed through his system. He could feel what he was about to say sticking in his throat - this was why he used texts, phone calls were always so much worse and Mycroft was going to be smug and horrible, but...
‘What should I do?’ he ground out.
Mycroft huffed a laugh. ‘That was honestly delicious, Sherlock, how much did that hurt you to say?’
‘Mycroft--’
‘Alright, alright. Calm down. You’re going to have to spend some time reassuring John that you don’t find him repulsive in the slightest. Perhaps try and think about something other than yourself for long enough to--’
‘I think about things other than myself!’ Sherlock retorted, raising his voice slightly. ‘Of course I do, I resent that accusation!’
The eye-roll was almost audible. ‘Yes, well. Consider his feelings,’ Mycroft said. ‘Think about what I’ve just told you.Think about what you say before you say it, spend some time with him, make him dinner - he’s far too polite to not eat something you’ve made, especially when it’s such a rarity. Compliment him, don’t just notice when he looks good and not say anything about it. Think about getting John comfortable with himself again as a problem you need to solve, though for Heaven’s sake, don’t go about it in your usual bull-in-a-china-shop manner.’
Sherlock pulled yet another face. ‘Alright,’ he muttered.
Mycroft laughed softly. ‘Goodbye, Sherlock. Oh, and you owe me a favour for this.’
‘I thought as much,’ Sherlock snapped, clicking his phone off.
He hated to admit it, but he knew that he’d gone to the right person for advice. And even if it did mean doing something horribly tedious and time-consuming for his brother, he now knew how to go about rectifying this new problem. He checked his phone for the time. He still had two hours before John was due home. Jumping up from the sofa, he smiled as he grabbed his keys and wallet from the dish on the coffee table John always put them in, threw on his coat and ran down the stairs.
The game was indeed on.
***
‘What’s all this?’ John demanded when he arrived home that evening only to find Sherlock using the (oft-abused) kitchen for its intended purpose of cooking food, rather than dismembering a cow’s head or cultivating mould or even trying to get John to shag him over the kitchen table.
‘Dinner,’ Sherlock replied shortly, turning round and smiling widely at John, a slightly manic glint in his eye. He’d gone completely to town and prepared three courses from the Jamie Oliver cookbook he’d bought along with the food from Sainsbury’s. Mycroft had rung him when he’d picked up the Heston Blumenthal one, said ‘Don’t you even think about it,’ and hung up.
‘Dinner?’ John repeated.
‘Supper, tea, the evening meal,’ Sherlock said, waving his hand around and pulling the starter out of the oven where he’d been warming it for the past quarter of an hour. ‘Sit down, come on,’ he said, pulling a chair out for John and dropping a kiss onto the top of his head as a bit of an afterthought as he put the large mushroom, soft cheese, spinach and pancetta starter on the table.
‘And what exactly is this in aid of?’ John asked, putting his jacket on the back of the chair and sitting down, eyeing the food as though he expected it to contain human body parts, which in all fairness was more likely than it not containing body parts.
‘I was bored,’ Sherlock replied, which was partly true, at least. He sat down opposite John and poured them both a glass of red wine. ‘Eat it before it goes cold.’
‘It looks... lovely,’ John said, clearly puzzled.
‘Cooking is science, John. How is it possible to go wrong if one follows instructions?’
‘Goes wrong enough when I try it,’ John grumbled, though he began to eat, still slightly hesitant.
Sherlock ate a bit of his mushroom and nodded his approval. ‘Mm. Well?’ he raised an eyebrow at John.
‘It’s nice,’ John said. ‘Very nice. Thank you.’ He smiled, and Sherlock smiled back, sipping his wine, pleased with himself.
‘There’s pasta in a moment, and crème brûlée for afters,’ Sherlock said, watching John carefully. If Sherlock hadn’t been looking for it he might not have noticed John’s almost-imperceptible flinch, no doubt at the thought of so many calories when he’d been avoiding them as much as possible recently. ‘Problem?’ he asked, sipping his wine, narrowing his eyes at John.
John looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes, a frown appearing on his brow almost instantly. ‘Are you doing this on purpose?’ he snapped, putting his knife and fork down.
‘Doing what?’ Sherlock asked smoothly.
‘You know full well what, Sherlock! I’m not a fucking experiment, you’re not observing the effects of cooking calorie-laden food for someone who’s struggling with their weight--’
‘So you admit it,’ Sherlock said, sitting up a little straighter.
‘Admit -- admit what?’ John shouted, looking flustered, slightly red in the face, his jaw tight.
‘That you’re struggling with your weight.’
John sighed loudly, clearly angry with himself. He stood up and rested his hands on the back of his chair. ‘Yes. Fine. I admit it. Now you’ve achieved your objectives, you’ve got your desired outcome, experiment a sucess, well done you.’
‘John,’ Sherlock said, slightly wounded that John would think Sherlock was toying with him like that. ‘John, I wasn’t conducting any sort of experiment,’ he said, standing up when John folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. ‘Really. I made dinner because I wanted you to eat something that’s not dry toast. And I was bored,’ he added, because that was at least partly true.
John released some of the tension he was holding in his muscles. ‘I didn’t think you’d noticed.’
‘Don’t insult me,’ Sherlock bit back, causing John to laugh softly.
‘Of course you noticed,’ John mumbled, rolling his eyes.
‘As if catching you staring at your body in the mirror wasn’t indication enough. Not to mention that you haven’t been putting sugar in your tea and you’re irritable because you don’t eat enough during the day.’ Sherlock sighed and went round to John’s side of the table, leaning against it, mirroring John with his arms folded over his chest. ‘If it’s really bothering you that much then we could look at a... gym or something else frightful if it will make you feel better about yourself,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘But your not eating properly is tiresome and--’
‘This has a bit of an air of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think, Sherlock?’
‘I’m an exception to the rule, John.’
‘What rule?’
‘The eating properly rule.’
‘And the rest,’ John said, one side of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.
‘If you’d let me finish, you not eating properly is tiresome and I actually prefer you the way you are at the moment.’
John raised his eyebrows. ‘You like me better fat?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, John, you’re not fat, you’ve put on a bit of weight because you’re not running around a desert for fourteen hours a day,’ Sherlock said with another sigh. ‘It was bound to happen.’
‘But you like me better like this?’ John said, folding his arms. ‘Bullshit, Sherlock!’
‘What makes you think you’re qualified to say what I do and don’t like?’ Sherlock returned.
‘I know you!’ John yelled. ‘I know you, I listen, I absorb information, even if you think I’m a bloody idiot!’ he shouted, pushing his chair into the table with more force than was strictly necessary. ‘Domestic bliss must be suiting you, Molly, you’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you,’ he quoted in a slightly cruel, not very accurate impression of Sherlock, complete with a superior look on his face. ‘Diet’s going well, then, Mycroft, putting on weight again, are we?’ he added, cutting across Sherlock, who’d just begun to protest. ‘Just... just spare me, Sherlock, alright? I’m going out,’ John muttered, and Sherlock watched, feeling utterly helpless, as John grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the flat.
***
When John returned a couple of hours later, Sherlock was curled up on the sofa in his dressing gown, the television turned down low, the only light in the room coming from its flickering screen. He was having what Mycroft would call an almighty sulk. He’d abandoned his own dinner as soon as John had left, gone to his room to change into his pyjamas and had plonked himself down on the sofa in front of the telly, ignoring the kitchen still full of food and dishes to wash. John could deal with those. It would serve him right.
At the sound of John’s key in the lock downstairs, Sherlock rolled onto his side to face the back of the sofa, stretching his legs out so that he was taking up all the space. He glared at the leather he was facing and refused to turn round when John entered the flat and cleared his throat.
‘Sherlock.’
Sherlock sniffed obstinately. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘Sherlock, come on,’ John said quietly, and Sherlock heard the creak of the floorboards as John made his way over to the sofa. When John tried to pull his legs out of the way he stiffened them deliberately and stretched them out even more.
‘Oh, stop being such a bloody child!’ John snapped, dropping Sherlock’s legs back to the sofa.
‘I’m being the child?!’ Sherlock shouted, whirling round and sitting up in one fluid motion, narrowing his eyes at John. ‘Me? I’m not the one that stormed out because someone cooked me a meal,’ he spat, folding his arms across his chest.
‘Sherlock,’ John sighed again, sitting down next to Sherlock, who (childishly) moved up so that their legs weren’t touching. ‘I’m sorry.’
Sherlock sniffed again and looked out of the window.
‘Look, the meal was... it was a lovely gesture,’ John said, resting his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. ‘I’m sorry, I overreacted about it.’
‘You did rather,’ Sherlock muttered.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I’m glad you’re aware.’ Sherlock moved a little closer to John, but addressed the muted television when he spoke. ‘You know I only say those things to Mycroft because I like sending him batty, don’t you? And Molly, well... Molly had put on three pounds, I just stated it as a fact, you’re the one adding the negativity to it. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, John.’
There was a moment of silence before John spoke.
‘You don’t?’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Sherlock replied, turning to look at John, sighing in exasperation and leaning in to kiss him. ‘I like it. Now stop being ridiculous and come and eat this food I spent all evening cooking.’
***
How John ended up in bed, naked, with crème brûlée smeared across his stomach after their eventful evening of arguing, he wasn’t quite sure. He wasn’t overly pleased about being so very exposed, lying on top of the covers as he was, though he was very approving of the current occupation of Sherlock’s tongue.
‘Mm,’ he gasped, brushing his hand through Sherlock’s hair. ‘Tickles.’
Sherlock chuckled against his skin. ‘I’m sure it does,’ he said throatily as he licked his way down John’s ribcage and across his stomach, spooning out some more crème brûlée and eating it messily.
‘Going to need a shower after this,’ John said.
‘Just shut up and let me enjoy you,’ Sherlock snapped, glancing up at John for a second before returning to his task, nipping sharply at John’s soft middle, rubbing over the spot he’d bitten with the tip of his nose. ‘Mmm,’ he sighed, kissing John’s stomach, running his hands up and down John’s sides.
‘Should I give the two of you some privacy?’ John said, giving Sherlock’s hair a gentle tug.
‘What?’
‘You and my fat,’ John said, though he grinned.
Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled as well, moving up John’s body to kiss him thoroughly. ‘Stop being ridiculous,’ he murmured against John’s lips after a long minute, slithering backwards until he was kissing John’s chest, then his stomach, then his hips. He pressed a kiss to the head of John’s cock and smirked wickedly before opening his mouth and drawing John in, swallowing around him.
‘Oh,’ John breathed, groaning as he arched his back just slightly. ‘Sherlock, fuck.’
Originally, John hadn’t been at all pleased about Sherlock insisting on keeping the lights on. Now, however, he was all for the notion, now that he could see Sherlock’s adam’s apple bobbing furiously as his throat worked around John’s cock, now that he could see that look in Sherlock’s eyes, now that he could see - oh, oh - now that he could see Sherlock’s mouth moving around him, could see those perfect heart-shaped lips stretched wide and obscene.
‘Mm,’ Sherlock hummed, sucking for a moment longer before he pulled off slowly, grabbing the tube of lubricant from the bedside table and slicking his fingers up. He straddled John’s lap and bent down, assaulting John’s mouth with his tongue. ‘Lovely,’ he mumbled into John’s mouth, sitting up again and beginning to prepare himself with two fingers.
‘God,’ John murmured, stroking Sherlock’s thighs as he enjoyed the sensation of Sherlock moving up and down as he worked himself open, his pert arse occasionally brushing over John’s stiff cock. ‘Sherlock.’
‘Nearly ready,’ Sherlock said, his voice slightly strained.
‘Take your time,’ John replied, moving one hand round to squeeze Sherlock’s arse and the other onto his cock, stroking firmly, thrilling at Sherlock’s gasp. ‘That’s it,’ he purred, moving his hand up and down slowly, rubbing his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock at the end of every upstroke.
‘Oh, hell, that’ll do,’ Sherlock muttered, dragging a moan out of his chest as he shuffled forward slightly on his knees and reached back to stroke John before lowering himself onto John’s cock.
‘Sherlock,’ John gasped, closing his eyes, his toes curling. ‘Christ.’
A soft moan escaped from Sherlock’s lips, his spine arching as he adjusted to John being inside him.
‘Christ, you’re gorgeous,’ John murmured, circling the pad of his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s prick, how he knew Sherlock liked it.
‘Ah!’ Sherlock gasped, his fingers clutching at John’s good shoulder, his thighs trembling. ‘Ah-- as are you.’ He began to move up and down around John’s cock, slowly at first, steadily gaining momentum. ‘Hon-- honestly, John,’ he said, closing his eyes and swallowing as John continued to stroke him as he fucked himself on John’s prick. ‘You are.’
John frowned and pulled Sherlock into a deep kiss, tangling their tongues together. He moved his right hand - his left still occupied - into Sherlock’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled when he pulled away a little, squeezing the back of Sherlock’s neck.
‘I won’t be repeating myself,’ Sherlock said, somewhat breathless as he continued to move up and down in a steady, measured pace.
John laughed, moving both hands onto Sherlock’s hips, drawing his knees up so that his feet were flat on the bed. ‘I don’t expect you to,’ he said, thrusting up once, hard.
‘John!’ Sherlock shouted, his back arching again, his hand tightening on John’s shoulder, the other splayed on John’s chest. ‘John, John, oh...’
Growling under his breath, John sat up, pulling Sherlock into a needy kiss. ‘Hands and knees,’ he murmured against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock moaned, nodded, and did as he was told, pushing himself up and disengaging their bodies with a sigh, stretching his miles of limbs out on the bed as John moved to kneel behind him. ‘Alright?’ he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s back.
‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock huffed, turning his head to look at John over his shoulder. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Come on, John.’
‘Patience,’ John said with a soft laugh, though he pushed in again anyway, his nose wrinkling slightly at the sight of his... his fat pressed against Sherlock’s arse. However, he was determined not to dwell on it any more, and it appeared that Sherlock wasn’t having him on and really did like it, that bit of extra weight John was carrying. He did like it, didn’t he?
‘John, for the love of-- would you stop looking at your stomach and concentrate on the matter in hand?’ Sherlock said tersely, without moving his head to look at John.
‘Alright, sorry,’ John said, beginning to move.
‘Mm,’ Sherlock groaned in satisfaction. ‘I’ve already told you I won’t be repeating myself but yes, for the last time, I like it, I don’t care, now get on with it.’
‘Such a romantic,’ John said, though he was smirking, flushed with pleasure at Sherlock’s words. On the Sherlockian scale of things, it was close to Sherlock declaring his undying love to John beneath a balcony in Verona.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Sherlock said, though John could detect a note of amusement in his voice.
‘Come here,’ John said, pulling Sherlock up and sitting back so that Sherlock was in his lap. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressed several warm kisses to the top of his spine, moving his hips slowly but insistently. ‘Lanky streak of piss,’ he muttered affectionately, grinning as he ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s bony sides.
‘Fat bastard,’ Sherlock replied without missing a beat, turning his head, grinning widely.
Laughing, John shook his head and spread his knees so that he could thrust into Sherlock that little bit harder. ‘Twat,’ he said, pinching Sherlock’s nipple.
‘Ah,’ Sherlock hissed, pushing into John’s next thrust. ‘Come on,’ he murmured, dragging John’s left hand down to wrap around his cock, moaning loudly. ‘Harder.’
John didn’t need telling twice. He pushed Sherlock onto his hands and knees again and began to thrust quickly, his own need for release increasing at the tone of Sherlock’s voice. ‘Christ, Sherlock...’
‘More,’ Sherlock demanded, shoving back as he clutched at the sheets beneath him. John thrust harder, holding onto Sherlock’s shoulder with one hand for leverage, the other curled possessively around Sherlock’s bony hip.
‘Touch yourself,’ he ordered Sherlock, who wrapped a hand around himself immediately, moaning unashamedly. ‘That’s it,’ John murmured, pushing into Sherlock hard and fast, his grip tightening on Sherlock’s shoulder and hip. ‘Sherlock,’ he gasped, his breathing coming short as he bent to kiss Sherlock’s back again. ‘Sherlock are--’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock ground out, falling forwards onto his chest, one hand on his prick, reaching back with the other to grab John’s thigh, fingers clutching hard enough to bruise. ‘Yes, John, John,’ he grunted, moaning long and low as his body tensed and shuddered, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against John’s leg.
‘Sherlock!’ John gasped, thrusting in once more then stilling as he followed Sherlock over the edge, his head dropping backwards as he sighed in pleasure. ‘Oh.’
‘Mmm,’ Sherlock groaned, sounding thoroughly satisfied as he pushed his knees back so that he was lying on his front and John had no choice but to pull out and move back. ‘Come here,’ Sherlock mumbled, a slight smile on his face as he reached for John, his eyes closed. Smiling, John stretched out next to Sherlock and brushed his hair back, kissing his damp forehead. ‘Wonderful,’ Sherlock said quietly, wrapping his arms around John and resting his head just at the top of John’s stomach. He sighed, the look on his face utterly blissful as he ran a large, spidery hand over John’s soft middle, the other reaching round to grab a handful of John’s arse.
‘Don’t you ever change, John Watson,’ Sherlock mumbled into John’s skin.
John smiled. ‘Alright, then,’ he said, scratching gently at Sherlock’s scalp until, exhausted, with crème brûlée still smeared in odd places, they both fell asleep.
Prompt: From sherlockbbc_fic, part XIII - Being back in England John doesn't get nearly as much exercise as he used to and he's eating out a lot, what with the kitchen generally being filled with body parts and his metabolism isn't nearly as fast as Sherlock's. So John puts on some weight. At first, John is really upset about this. His body feels foreign to him, he feels unattractive. But Sherlock shows John just how much he likes John just the way he is. In detail. With his penis.
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: John puts on a bit of weight and angsts over it until Sherlock and his magical healing cock convince him that really, it’s alright, and they still definitely want to tap that.
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Weight issues, porn, language, mild food!porn
Word Count: ~5,000
Notes: I am so, so sorry that this was so long in the making! I never meant for it to take as long as it did, but here we are, it’s finished, hurrah! I hope it’s what you were after, OP. :) Credit to the incomparable Morrissey for the fic title, of course. Anon commenting is turned on.
‘John, what are we doing for dinner?’ Sherlock called from downstairs. John had left him in his usual position, prone on the sofa, John’s computer on his chest, ten minutes ago.
‘Uh,’ John said, frowning and rolling his t-shirt down over his stomach. ‘I’m not really hungry, beans on toast?’
There weren’t many calories in beans on toast, were there? And they had those enormous tins of beans from that time John had done the Tesco order online and hadn’t been able to picture what 750 gram tins looked or felt like. Turns out that 750 grams was much more than John was expecting. He was even half-hoping that Sherlock would do an experiment with the bloody things, they were taking up far too much room in the cupboard.
‘What about a curry?’ Sherlock said.
‘I don’t want a curry,’ John called back, pinching the new bit of skin - no - the new hideous roll of fat around his stomach. He breathed out and turned sideways, glaring at his reflection in the mirror.
‘What do you mean, you don’t want a curry?’ Sherlock replied, sounding confused.
‘I just don’t want a bloody curry!’ John shouted, sighing in exasperation.
Sherlock didn’t reply. John sighed again, turning back to the mirror to frown at his newly-acquired belly, his bigger legs, his bloody double chin.
‘Ugh,’ he muttered, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he grabbed his fat again. Damn Sherlock and his bloody quicker-than-lightning metabolism, his gorgeous body, his apparent lack of need for food. Bloody Sherlock and his bloody, infuriating self, making John fat with their diet of nothing but bloody horrible, expensive, calorie-laden, really fucking delicious takeaway. ‘Ugh,’ he said again, frowning at the way his stomach split into three rolls when he bent a particular way.
Wrapped up in his own thoughts as he was, he jumped a fucking mile when Sherlock spoke.
‘Come away from there,’ Sherlock said, much closer than he had been, and Christ how did he manage to sneak about like that?
‘Jesus, Sherlock,’ John exclaimed, straightening up and sucking his stomach - his fat in. ‘What the bloody hell are you creeping around for?’ he demanded, glaring, annoyed at having been caught doing something so vain, so, well, personal. The fact that they were sleeping together and a bit more than that was besides the point, this was much more personal than that.
‘I’m not creeping around,’ Sherlock replied, arching one eyebrow as he leant against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. ‘You’re creeping around.’
‘Don’t be bloody juvenile, Sherlock,’ John snapped, still glaring, pushing past Sherlock and running down the stairs.
‘I’m not being juvenile, I’m stating a fact,’ Sherlock returned, following John down the stairs. ‘John, I don’t think you’re--’
‘Don’t say it,’ John said, sighing, resting his hands on the back of his chair and closing his eyes. ‘Don’t say it, because you’d be lying, because I am.’ He was. He was fat, there was no getting away from it, there were rolls and there were two chins and he was out of breath all the time and his trousers didn’t really fit anymore and he was hideous. ‘Look, I’m just... I’m just going to cook us some beans on toast, alright?’ He straightened up and went into the kitchen, his forehead still creased in annoyance.
***
Sherlock slapped a second patch onto his forearm and clenched his fist until he felt the nicotine begin to course through his system. He released the breath he’d been holding and drew another one in through his mouth, closing his eyes. He was, as was usual when there were no cases on, stretched out on the sofa. However, he did have John and his apparent body issues to occupy his brain, which was something.
Yes, John had put on weight. Yes, John now had fat where there had previously been muscle. Yes, John had a bit of a double chin and rather a lot of a belly. Sherlock wasn’t about to deny any of that. It wasn’t as though it had put him off, though... quite the contrary, really. He liked the feel of John’s stomach under his hands when they were spooning in bed. He liked curling up on John’s now slightly softer chest. He loved that there was more of John’s arse to grab (though he wasn’t about to mention that; John didn’t seem overly-preoccupied with his arse and it wouldn’t do to draw attention to it if he hadn’t noticed). Sherlock liked John being a bit... well... bigger.
There were probably some horrendous Freudian reasons behind it all as well. Sherlock was the black sheep of the family due to him being thin as well as tall; Mycroft had been fat before his diet and he was still far from thin, their father was tall and broad and just big in general, and Mummy, bless her, well, Mummy was plump, to say the least. And Nanny had always been dumpy, and Cook was fat, but cooks were meant to be fat. He had hundreds of childhood memories of throwing his arms around big middles and burying his face in softness when he had been overwhelmed, which was frequently. He remembered the summer he’d started having nightmares when he was seven and crawling into bed with eighteen-year-old Mycroft, home from school after his exams, and feeling safe and warm and happy, tucked up against Mycroft’s comforting mass.
No, the fact that John was now a bit portly was absolutely nothing for him to be ashamed of, as far as Sherlock was concerned. They’d simply have to nip this sudden self-consciousness in the bud. No more lights off when they were having sex, no more John conveniently ‘forgetting’ his lunch, no more of him not putting sugar in his tea and making a face the whole time he was drinking it, no more them not ordering takeaway or eating out. He knew what to do. He just didn’t know how to go about it.
Sherlock sat up abruptly and grabbed his phone off the coffee table, tapping out a text before he could change his mind.
I need some advice.
-S.
Thirty seconds after he’d sent it, his phone rang. He clicked the button to accept the call and held the phone to his ear without saying anything.
‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft drawled from the other end. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Sherlock pulled a face and narrowed his eyes. Mycroft would be rubbing this in for months.
‘John has put on weight,’ Sherlock said shortly.
There was a short chuckle from Mycroft. ‘I had noticed that the good doctor appeared to carrying around a little extra these days, yes.’
Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘He hates it.’
‘Well, he would do,’ Mycroft said. ‘He’d been a soldier for years, he had an active lifestyle before that, not to mention that he was younger and therefore his metabolism was quicker. Now he’s living with you and living off takeaway - no doubt due in part to your infernal experiments cluttering up your kitchen--’ Sherlock bristled, ‘--his job as a general practitioner doesn’t require much movement, certainly nowhere near what he was used to in Afghanistan, and he’s far too happy to stay indoors sitting with you in the evenings, so the only exercise he gets is running around with you when you have a case.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘My point, brother dear, is that John isn’t going to be feeling like himself.’
Sherlock frowned, casting his eyes off to the side.
‘You needn’t look so confused, Sherlock, it’s an obvious conclusion to draw.’ Sherlock shifted his glare to the general direction of where he knew Mycroft had had one of his cameras installed (he still hadn’t pinpointed its exact location). ‘He’s going to be feeling inadequate and unattractive and uncomfortable in his own skin, hence the changes in his behaviour and his new relationship with food.’
Breathing out through his nose, Sherlock clenched his fist again, biting his lip as the nicotine rushed through his system. He could feel what he was about to say sticking in his throat - this was why he used texts, phone calls were always so much worse and Mycroft was going to be smug and horrible, but...
‘What should I do?’ he ground out.
Mycroft huffed a laugh. ‘That was honestly delicious, Sherlock, how much did that hurt you to say?’
‘Mycroft--’
‘Alright, alright. Calm down. You’re going to have to spend some time reassuring John that you don’t find him repulsive in the slightest. Perhaps try and think about something other than yourself for long enough to--’
‘I think about things other than myself!’ Sherlock retorted, raising his voice slightly. ‘Of course I do, I resent that accusation!’
The eye-roll was almost audible. ‘Yes, well. Consider his feelings,’ Mycroft said. ‘Think about what I’ve just told you.Think about what you say before you say it, spend some time with him, make him dinner - he’s far too polite to not eat something you’ve made, especially when it’s such a rarity. Compliment him, don’t just notice when he looks good and not say anything about it. Think about getting John comfortable with himself again as a problem you need to solve, though for Heaven’s sake, don’t go about it in your usual bull-in-a-china-shop manner.’
Sherlock pulled yet another face. ‘Alright,’ he muttered.
Mycroft laughed softly. ‘Goodbye, Sherlock. Oh, and you owe me a favour for this.’
‘I thought as much,’ Sherlock snapped, clicking his phone off.
He hated to admit it, but he knew that he’d gone to the right person for advice. And even if it did mean doing something horribly tedious and time-consuming for his brother, he now knew how to go about rectifying this new problem. He checked his phone for the time. He still had two hours before John was due home. Jumping up from the sofa, he smiled as he grabbed his keys and wallet from the dish on the coffee table John always put them in, threw on his coat and ran down the stairs.
The game was indeed on.
***
‘What’s all this?’ John demanded when he arrived home that evening only to find Sherlock using the (oft-abused) kitchen for its intended purpose of cooking food, rather than dismembering a cow’s head or cultivating mould or even trying to get John to shag him over the kitchen table.
‘Dinner,’ Sherlock replied shortly, turning round and smiling widely at John, a slightly manic glint in his eye. He’d gone completely to town and prepared three courses from the Jamie Oliver cookbook he’d bought along with the food from Sainsbury’s. Mycroft had rung him when he’d picked up the Heston Blumenthal one, said ‘Don’t you even think about it,’ and hung up.
‘Dinner?’ John repeated.
‘Supper, tea, the evening meal,’ Sherlock said, waving his hand around and pulling the starter out of the oven where he’d been warming it for the past quarter of an hour. ‘Sit down, come on,’ he said, pulling a chair out for John and dropping a kiss onto the top of his head as a bit of an afterthought as he put the large mushroom, soft cheese, spinach and pancetta starter on the table.
‘And what exactly is this in aid of?’ John asked, putting his jacket on the back of the chair and sitting down, eyeing the food as though he expected it to contain human body parts, which in all fairness was more likely than it not containing body parts.
‘I was bored,’ Sherlock replied, which was partly true, at least. He sat down opposite John and poured them both a glass of red wine. ‘Eat it before it goes cold.’
‘It looks... lovely,’ John said, clearly puzzled.
‘Cooking is science, John. How is it possible to go wrong if one follows instructions?’
‘Goes wrong enough when I try it,’ John grumbled, though he began to eat, still slightly hesitant.
Sherlock ate a bit of his mushroom and nodded his approval. ‘Mm. Well?’ he raised an eyebrow at John.
‘It’s nice,’ John said. ‘Very nice. Thank you.’ He smiled, and Sherlock smiled back, sipping his wine, pleased with himself.
‘There’s pasta in a moment, and crème brûlée for afters,’ Sherlock said, watching John carefully. If Sherlock hadn’t been looking for it he might not have noticed John’s almost-imperceptible flinch, no doubt at the thought of so many calories when he’d been avoiding them as much as possible recently. ‘Problem?’ he asked, sipping his wine, narrowing his eyes at John.
John looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes, a frown appearing on his brow almost instantly. ‘Are you doing this on purpose?’ he snapped, putting his knife and fork down.
‘Doing what?’ Sherlock asked smoothly.
‘You know full well what, Sherlock! I’m not a fucking experiment, you’re not observing the effects of cooking calorie-laden food for someone who’s struggling with their weight--’
‘So you admit it,’ Sherlock said, sitting up a little straighter.
‘Admit -- admit what?’ John shouted, looking flustered, slightly red in the face, his jaw tight.
‘That you’re struggling with your weight.’
John sighed loudly, clearly angry with himself. He stood up and rested his hands on the back of his chair. ‘Yes. Fine. I admit it. Now you’ve achieved your objectives, you’ve got your desired outcome, experiment a sucess, well done you.’
‘John,’ Sherlock said, slightly wounded that John would think Sherlock was toying with him like that. ‘John, I wasn’t conducting any sort of experiment,’ he said, standing up when John folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. ‘Really. I made dinner because I wanted you to eat something that’s not dry toast. And I was bored,’ he added, because that was at least partly true.
John released some of the tension he was holding in his muscles. ‘I didn’t think you’d noticed.’
‘Don’t insult me,’ Sherlock bit back, causing John to laugh softly.
‘Of course you noticed,’ John mumbled, rolling his eyes.
‘As if catching you staring at your body in the mirror wasn’t indication enough. Not to mention that you haven’t been putting sugar in your tea and you’re irritable because you don’t eat enough during the day.’ Sherlock sighed and went round to John’s side of the table, leaning against it, mirroring John with his arms folded over his chest. ‘If it’s really bothering you that much then we could look at a... gym or something else frightful if it will make you feel better about yourself,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘But your not eating properly is tiresome and--’
‘This has a bit of an air of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think, Sherlock?’
‘I’m an exception to the rule, John.’
‘What rule?’
‘The eating properly rule.’
‘And the rest,’ John said, one side of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.
‘If you’d let me finish, you not eating properly is tiresome and I actually prefer you the way you are at the moment.’
John raised his eyebrows. ‘You like me better fat?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, John, you’re not fat, you’ve put on a bit of weight because you’re not running around a desert for fourteen hours a day,’ Sherlock said with another sigh. ‘It was bound to happen.’
‘But you like me better like this?’ John said, folding his arms. ‘Bullshit, Sherlock!’
‘What makes you think you’re qualified to say what I do and don’t like?’ Sherlock returned.
‘I know you!’ John yelled. ‘I know you, I listen, I absorb information, even if you think I’m a bloody idiot!’ he shouted, pushing his chair into the table with more force than was strictly necessary. ‘Domestic bliss must be suiting you, Molly, you’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you,’ he quoted in a slightly cruel, not very accurate impression of Sherlock, complete with a superior look on his face. ‘Diet’s going well, then, Mycroft, putting on weight again, are we?’ he added, cutting across Sherlock, who’d just begun to protest. ‘Just... just spare me, Sherlock, alright? I’m going out,’ John muttered, and Sherlock watched, feeling utterly helpless, as John grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the flat.
***
When John returned a couple of hours later, Sherlock was curled up on the sofa in his dressing gown, the television turned down low, the only light in the room coming from its flickering screen. He was having what Mycroft would call an almighty sulk. He’d abandoned his own dinner as soon as John had left, gone to his room to change into his pyjamas and had plonked himself down on the sofa in front of the telly, ignoring the kitchen still full of food and dishes to wash. John could deal with those. It would serve him right.
At the sound of John’s key in the lock downstairs, Sherlock rolled onto his side to face the back of the sofa, stretching his legs out so that he was taking up all the space. He glared at the leather he was facing and refused to turn round when John entered the flat and cleared his throat.
‘Sherlock.’
Sherlock sniffed obstinately. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘Sherlock, come on,’ John said quietly, and Sherlock heard the creak of the floorboards as John made his way over to the sofa. When John tried to pull his legs out of the way he stiffened them deliberately and stretched them out even more.
‘Oh, stop being such a bloody child!’ John snapped, dropping Sherlock’s legs back to the sofa.
‘I’m being the child?!’ Sherlock shouted, whirling round and sitting up in one fluid motion, narrowing his eyes at John. ‘Me? I’m not the one that stormed out because someone cooked me a meal,’ he spat, folding his arms across his chest.
‘Sherlock,’ John sighed again, sitting down next to Sherlock, who (childishly) moved up so that their legs weren’t touching. ‘I’m sorry.’
Sherlock sniffed again and looked out of the window.
‘Look, the meal was... it was a lovely gesture,’ John said, resting his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. ‘I’m sorry, I overreacted about it.’
‘You did rather,’ Sherlock muttered.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I’m glad you’re aware.’ Sherlock moved a little closer to John, but addressed the muted television when he spoke. ‘You know I only say those things to Mycroft because I like sending him batty, don’t you? And Molly, well... Molly had put on three pounds, I just stated it as a fact, you’re the one adding the negativity to it. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, John.’
There was a moment of silence before John spoke.
‘You don’t?’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Sherlock replied, turning to look at John, sighing in exasperation and leaning in to kiss him. ‘I like it. Now stop being ridiculous and come and eat this food I spent all evening cooking.’
***
How John ended up in bed, naked, with crème brûlée smeared across his stomach after their eventful evening of arguing, he wasn’t quite sure. He wasn’t overly pleased about being so very exposed, lying on top of the covers as he was, though he was very approving of the current occupation of Sherlock’s tongue.
‘Mm,’ he gasped, brushing his hand through Sherlock’s hair. ‘Tickles.’
Sherlock chuckled against his skin. ‘I’m sure it does,’ he said throatily as he licked his way down John’s ribcage and across his stomach, spooning out some more crème brûlée and eating it messily.
‘Going to need a shower after this,’ John said.
‘Just shut up and let me enjoy you,’ Sherlock snapped, glancing up at John for a second before returning to his task, nipping sharply at John’s soft middle, rubbing over the spot he’d bitten with the tip of his nose. ‘Mmm,’ he sighed, kissing John’s stomach, running his hands up and down John’s sides.
‘Should I give the two of you some privacy?’ John said, giving Sherlock’s hair a gentle tug.
‘What?’
‘You and my fat,’ John said, though he grinned.
Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled as well, moving up John’s body to kiss him thoroughly. ‘Stop being ridiculous,’ he murmured against John’s lips after a long minute, slithering backwards until he was kissing John’s chest, then his stomach, then his hips. He pressed a kiss to the head of John’s cock and smirked wickedly before opening his mouth and drawing John in, swallowing around him.
‘Oh,’ John breathed, groaning as he arched his back just slightly. ‘Sherlock, fuck.’
Originally, John hadn’t been at all pleased about Sherlock insisting on keeping the lights on. Now, however, he was all for the notion, now that he could see Sherlock’s adam’s apple bobbing furiously as his throat worked around John’s cock, now that he could see that look in Sherlock’s eyes, now that he could see - oh, oh - now that he could see Sherlock’s mouth moving around him, could see those perfect heart-shaped lips stretched wide and obscene.
‘Mm,’ Sherlock hummed, sucking for a moment longer before he pulled off slowly, grabbing the tube of lubricant from the bedside table and slicking his fingers up. He straddled John’s lap and bent down, assaulting John’s mouth with his tongue. ‘Lovely,’ he mumbled into John’s mouth, sitting up again and beginning to prepare himself with two fingers.
‘God,’ John murmured, stroking Sherlock’s thighs as he enjoyed the sensation of Sherlock moving up and down as he worked himself open, his pert arse occasionally brushing over John’s stiff cock. ‘Sherlock.’
‘Nearly ready,’ Sherlock said, his voice slightly strained.
‘Take your time,’ John replied, moving one hand round to squeeze Sherlock’s arse and the other onto his cock, stroking firmly, thrilling at Sherlock’s gasp. ‘That’s it,’ he purred, moving his hand up and down slowly, rubbing his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock at the end of every upstroke.
‘Oh, hell, that’ll do,’ Sherlock muttered, dragging a moan out of his chest as he shuffled forward slightly on his knees and reached back to stroke John before lowering himself onto John’s cock.
‘Sherlock,’ John gasped, closing his eyes, his toes curling. ‘Christ.’
A soft moan escaped from Sherlock’s lips, his spine arching as he adjusted to John being inside him.
‘Christ, you’re gorgeous,’ John murmured, circling the pad of his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s prick, how he knew Sherlock liked it.
‘Ah!’ Sherlock gasped, his fingers clutching at John’s good shoulder, his thighs trembling. ‘Ah-- as are you.’ He began to move up and down around John’s cock, slowly at first, steadily gaining momentum. ‘Hon-- honestly, John,’ he said, closing his eyes and swallowing as John continued to stroke him as he fucked himself on John’s prick. ‘You are.’
John frowned and pulled Sherlock into a deep kiss, tangling their tongues together. He moved his right hand - his left still occupied - into Sherlock’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled when he pulled away a little, squeezing the back of Sherlock’s neck.
‘I won’t be repeating myself,’ Sherlock said, somewhat breathless as he continued to move up and down in a steady, measured pace.
John laughed, moving both hands onto Sherlock’s hips, drawing his knees up so that his feet were flat on the bed. ‘I don’t expect you to,’ he said, thrusting up once, hard.
‘John!’ Sherlock shouted, his back arching again, his hand tightening on John’s shoulder, the other splayed on John’s chest. ‘John, John, oh...’
Growling under his breath, John sat up, pulling Sherlock into a needy kiss. ‘Hands and knees,’ he murmured against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock moaned, nodded, and did as he was told, pushing himself up and disengaging their bodies with a sigh, stretching his miles of limbs out on the bed as John moved to kneel behind him. ‘Alright?’ he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s back.
‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock huffed, turning his head to look at John over his shoulder. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Come on, John.’
‘Patience,’ John said with a soft laugh, though he pushed in again anyway, his nose wrinkling slightly at the sight of his... his fat pressed against Sherlock’s arse. However, he was determined not to dwell on it any more, and it appeared that Sherlock wasn’t having him on and really did like it, that bit of extra weight John was carrying. He did like it, didn’t he?
‘John, for the love of-- would you stop looking at your stomach and concentrate on the matter in hand?’ Sherlock said tersely, without moving his head to look at John.
‘Alright, sorry,’ John said, beginning to move.
‘Mm,’ Sherlock groaned in satisfaction. ‘I’ve already told you I won’t be repeating myself but yes, for the last time, I like it, I don’t care, now get on with it.’
‘Such a romantic,’ John said, though he was smirking, flushed with pleasure at Sherlock’s words. On the Sherlockian scale of things, it was close to Sherlock declaring his undying love to John beneath a balcony in Verona.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Sherlock said, though John could detect a note of amusement in his voice.
‘Come here,’ John said, pulling Sherlock up and sitting back so that Sherlock was in his lap. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressed several warm kisses to the top of his spine, moving his hips slowly but insistently. ‘Lanky streak of piss,’ he muttered affectionately, grinning as he ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s bony sides.
‘Fat bastard,’ Sherlock replied without missing a beat, turning his head, grinning widely.
Laughing, John shook his head and spread his knees so that he could thrust into Sherlock that little bit harder. ‘Twat,’ he said, pinching Sherlock’s nipple.
‘Ah,’ Sherlock hissed, pushing into John’s next thrust. ‘Come on,’ he murmured, dragging John’s left hand down to wrap around his cock, moaning loudly. ‘Harder.’
John didn’t need telling twice. He pushed Sherlock onto his hands and knees again and began to thrust quickly, his own need for release increasing at the tone of Sherlock’s voice. ‘Christ, Sherlock...’
‘More,’ Sherlock demanded, shoving back as he clutched at the sheets beneath him. John thrust harder, holding onto Sherlock’s shoulder with one hand for leverage, the other curled possessively around Sherlock’s bony hip.
‘Touch yourself,’ he ordered Sherlock, who wrapped a hand around himself immediately, moaning unashamedly. ‘That’s it,’ John murmured, pushing into Sherlock hard and fast, his grip tightening on Sherlock’s shoulder and hip. ‘Sherlock,’ he gasped, his breathing coming short as he bent to kiss Sherlock’s back again. ‘Sherlock are--’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock ground out, falling forwards onto his chest, one hand on his prick, reaching back with the other to grab John’s thigh, fingers clutching hard enough to bruise. ‘Yes, John, John,’ he grunted, moaning long and low as his body tensed and shuddered, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against John’s leg.
‘Sherlock!’ John gasped, thrusting in once more then stilling as he followed Sherlock over the edge, his head dropping backwards as he sighed in pleasure. ‘Oh.’
‘Mmm,’ Sherlock groaned, sounding thoroughly satisfied as he pushed his knees back so that he was lying on his front and John had no choice but to pull out and move back. ‘Come here,’ Sherlock mumbled, a slight smile on his face as he reached for John, his eyes closed. Smiling, John stretched out next to Sherlock and brushed his hair back, kissing his damp forehead. ‘Wonderful,’ Sherlock said quietly, wrapping his arms around John and resting his head just at the top of John’s stomach. He sighed, the look on his face utterly blissful as he ran a large, spidery hand over John’s soft middle, the other reaching round to grab a handful of John’s arse.
‘Don’t you ever change, John Watson,’ Sherlock mumbled into John’s skin.
John smiled. ‘Alright, then,’ he said, scratching gently at Sherlock’s scalp until, exhausted, with crème brûlée still smeared in odd places, they both fell asleep.