The Experiment (NC-17)
I
"I need to run my tongue over your neck."
John flinches but doesn't look up from the filing cabinet.
"That's nice."
Sherlock's not sure how to take that answer.
"It's for an experiment," he states dumbly.
"Oh really? I though you just woke up with a craving."
Wh-wha? Oh. Sarcasm. What an annoying part of the English language. One should just say what they want to say.
"However for the experiment to be valid it must have an element of surprise."
John turns around holding a manila file.
"Sherlock, if you ever licked my neck, whether or not you told me of your intentions, I would be surprised."
II
John tasted of soap and salt and his hair was wiry and smelt like strawberries. Sherlock would know. He'd just licked him.
Other observations:
Unfortunately for the experiment, the last point interested Sherlock the most.
He followed John back to his room, his head swimming, and his usually tiny amount of common sense drowned.
"You taste good." Sherlock said, his voice sugary and his head tipped forward.
John's Observations:
This last point interested John minorly, however nothing more than Sherlock's tongue interested him much really after that.
Because Sherlock really was a slut (or a cat) - he was attempting to rub as much of himself against as much of John as possible while also trying to consume him. John pushed him back on the bed - Sherlock spread his legs as far apart as they could go (the guy was flexible even in suit pants) and began rutting up against John's hips, head pushed back and mouth open.
Sure, Sherlock hadn't had sex in a long time (ever, if we were being honest) and John was more than happy to oblige him, but first he dragged off those expensive pants (already saturated) and was pleasantly surprised at the lack of underwear he found there. A shiver ran down his spine as his mind ran through all of the times he'd touched…
III
He stood back for a moment to take in the picture, despite whimpered protests. Sherlock Holmes was lying pantless on his bed, arching upwards, and eyes rolling into the back of head, mouth open and gathering spit at the edges. His breathing was harsh, his arm and legs were spread wide, and that ridiculous purple silk shirt was stained with pre-come leaking from his throbbing member that was thrusting into nothingness.
Sherlock Holmes was lying on his bed and the only thing he wanted in the world was John H. Watson, apparently, by the way he was moaning John's name. Which is probably what prompted John to do what he did next (and something he'd never done, so kudos to him for bravery), an act that involved taking as much of Sherlock's penis into his mouth as possible. Of course, John did choke (something he was prepared for, he is a doctor), however the absolutely guttural groan Sherlock as he scrabbled at the sheets and spread his legs impossibly far apart was definitely worth it. John pulled his mouth off after a few seconds of Sherlock whimpering and stood up. He inspected Sherlock while he was undoing his belt (at lightning speed) - the way Sherlock too-thin chest rose and fell quickly, the way his eyes were hooded and his red mouth lay open, emitting a light 'hnnnnng' every now and then. John saw the whiteness of Sherlock's knuckles that gripped the sheets like vices and the way the pre-come matted Sherlock's pubic hair.
And John jumped back on top of Sherlock. The first proper foreskin on foreskin contact sent an electric shock through John and he moaned into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock rutted against John, clawing at his back now and writhing in fiery ecstasy. This wasn't going to last long, John realised as he squeezed his fingers into Sherlock's thighs, moving them upwards, his breath becoming harsher. He reached underneath his body and pressed his thumb and against Sherlock's perineum and that was all, folks. John locked his eyes onto that beautiful, sharp face as he felt warmth splash his chest and ended just moments afterwards.
John lay with his face in Sherlock's neck for a little longer before standing up and shuffling (he still had jeans on) into the bathroom to clean himself up. He looked into the mirror and saw a mess, and dread spread through his heart - not because his favourite shirt might not ever be rid of these stains, but because Sherlock would be stupid to want him. His hair was completely ruffled and he generally looked horrible.
He stood there looking at himself, lost in thought, for about three minutes before he realised he hadn't moved. He buttoned and belted himself up and stood in Sherlock's gaze, awaiting the verdict.
"I need to run my tongue over your neck."
John flinches but doesn't look up from the filing cabinet.
"That's nice."
Sherlock's not sure how to take that answer.
"It's for an experiment," he states dumbly.
"Oh really? I though you just woke up with a craving."
Wh-wha? Oh. Sarcasm. What an annoying part of the English language. One should just say what they want to say.
"However for the experiment to be valid it must have an element of surprise."
John turns around holding a manila file.
"Sherlock, if you ever licked my neck, whether or not you told me of your intentions, I would be surprised."
II
John tasted of soap and salt and his hair was wiry and smelt like strawberries. Sherlock would know. He'd just licked him.
Other observations:
- John either did not enjoy or was completely surprised by this action.
- When one is licked by their male flatmate, they jump of the couch, let out a string of swear words, lecture you on personal space and stalk off.
- Sherlock did indeed have a libido.
Unfortunately for the experiment, the last point interested Sherlock the most.
He followed John back to his room, his head swimming, and his usually tiny amount of common sense drowned.
"You taste good." Sherlock said, his voice sugary and his head tipped forward.
John's Observations:
- When having your shirt rucked up by your flatmate - who has just licked you - there is little more that you can do than stand their speechless.
- John also had a libido (although this information was nothing new it was worth noting for referencing future events)
- Sherlock was a slut.
This last point interested John minorly, however nothing more than Sherlock's tongue interested him much really after that.
Because Sherlock really was a slut (or a cat) - he was attempting to rub as much of himself against as much of John as possible while also trying to consume him. John pushed him back on the bed - Sherlock spread his legs as far apart as they could go (the guy was flexible even in suit pants) and began rutting up against John's hips, head pushed back and mouth open.
Sure, Sherlock hadn't had sex in a long time (ever, if we were being honest) and John was more than happy to oblige him, but first he dragged off those expensive pants (already saturated) and was pleasantly surprised at the lack of underwear he found there. A shiver ran down his spine as his mind ran through all of the times he'd touched…
III
He stood back for a moment to take in the picture, despite whimpered protests. Sherlock Holmes was lying pantless on his bed, arching upwards, and eyes rolling into the back of head, mouth open and gathering spit at the edges. His breathing was harsh, his arm and legs were spread wide, and that ridiculous purple silk shirt was stained with pre-come leaking from his throbbing member that was thrusting into nothingness.
Sherlock Holmes was lying on his bed and the only thing he wanted in the world was John H. Watson, apparently, by the way he was moaning John's name. Which is probably what prompted John to do what he did next (and something he'd never done, so kudos to him for bravery), an act that involved taking as much of Sherlock's penis into his mouth as possible. Of course, John did choke (something he was prepared for, he is a doctor), however the absolutely guttural groan Sherlock as he scrabbled at the sheets and spread his legs impossibly far apart was definitely worth it. John pulled his mouth off after a few seconds of Sherlock whimpering and stood up. He inspected Sherlock while he was undoing his belt (at lightning speed) - the way Sherlock too-thin chest rose and fell quickly, the way his eyes were hooded and his red mouth lay open, emitting a light 'hnnnnng' every now and then. John saw the whiteness of Sherlock's knuckles that gripped the sheets like vices and the way the pre-come matted Sherlock's pubic hair.
And John jumped back on top of Sherlock. The first proper foreskin on foreskin contact sent an electric shock through John and he moaned into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock rutted against John, clawing at his back now and writhing in fiery ecstasy. This wasn't going to last long, John realised as he squeezed his fingers into Sherlock's thighs, moving them upwards, his breath becoming harsher. He reached underneath his body and pressed his thumb and against Sherlock's perineum and that was all, folks. John locked his eyes onto that beautiful, sharp face as he felt warmth splash his chest and ended just moments afterwards.
John lay with his face in Sherlock's neck for a little longer before standing up and shuffling (he still had jeans on) into the bathroom to clean himself up. He looked into the mirror and saw a mess, and dread spread through his heart - not because his favourite shirt might not ever be rid of these stains, but because Sherlock would be stupid to want him. His hair was completely ruffled and he generally looked horrible.
He stood there looking at himself, lost in thought, for about three minutes before he realised he hadn't moved. He buttoned and belted himself up and stood in Sherlock's gaze, awaiting the verdict.