The Film (2/3)
Chapter One
John blinked a lot in the following three minutes.
At first he convinced himself it was to adjust to the changing light, but after a while he had to admit it was simply because he had no idea what to do next.
And of course, when John finally noticed the almost painful erection in his dirty, messy, just-chased-a-criminal-through-back-alleys pants and was about to do something about it was when Sherlock decided to burst in to the room.
So here John was, with Sherlock’s phone in one hand, half of his cock in the other through the zip and his shirt half rucked up, and busted. Big time.
Sherlock, obviously, had been planning on making an announcement about the degradation of toenails in whale sperm or something like that, but he instantly froze, his eyes focussed on the pink device in John’s hand.
Then he did something John had never seen him do before.
He swore.
A lot.
“Fuck. FUCK. Fuck shitting fuck tits cock wanker fuck crap ass dick shit shit shit fuck shit fucking SHIT.”
And then he did a little tantrum dance and thumped down the stairs. With John at his heels.
Sherlock may be light on his feet but John is an army man. Army men don’t just run down stairs, army men tear shit up.
So when John collided with Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs and they went flying into the wall hard enough to crack a few ribs, Sherlock was more surprised at the fact that John had an erection than the fact that he may actually have fractures.
“Now Sherlock,” John said almost sweetly and Sherlock moaned angrily and tried to buck him off, “you can’t just show me something like that and then not wait to see what I’d do.” He sounded like Mrs Hudson, but he didn’t care.
John pushed him harder against the wall. “Do you want to know what I’d do Sherlock?” he breathed into Sherlock’s ear. Nothing except harsh breathing and panic. “Do you!” Almost yelled this time, another hard push.
“Yes!” Sherlock’s voice broke and he closed his eyes, because he really couldn’t take this much longer.
Then the pressure was gone, but Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. Rustling, the return of warmth.
“Sherlock, open your eyes.” John said, his voice very even.
And he did. And there it was. In all it’s silvery, uneven glory. It wasn’t ugly; in fact, as far as bullet wounds go it was quite attractive. It was just interesting. So, so interesting. And beautiful.
And when Sherlock put his mouth on it and John shivered, that was beautiful too. John yanked his face up into a crushing kiss and the spell was broken, but that was okay because his tongue was in John’s mouth and everything that was happening was the best thing ever really.
Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s chest and they were flush together and so, so perfect, and there wasn’t even tongue anymore, just eye contact and lips, and breath, little carbon dioxide molecules that had been through John where now in him and wasn’t was quite wonderful?
And now John was just pecking at his lips. Just enough to make Sherlock follow him back.
“How do you even exist?” John mumbled against his lips. And Sherlock shrugged because he didn’t know.
What he did know is that they both had erections and that it was scientifically proven that it felt nice to rub such appendages together. And of course Sherlock doesn’t do things in halves, or slowly, so soon they were both out and sliding deliciously. And John’s hands brushed his and suddenly, without even realising, he was on his knees and John’s hands were now in his hair and he moaned so loud Mrs Hudson would have a smug smile for days.
Sherlock could feel the saliva dribbling down his chin and John’s eyes watching him, and that was also the best thing ever. Even when Sherlock choked and had to pull away, it felt amazing, having John in his mouth and causing his hands to scrabble against the wall for a hold before he slumped on the ground in front of Sherlock, suitably incoherent. His coherency didn’t improve when Sherlock leaned over him on all fours. Sherlock, flushed red and shaking with anticipation and arousal, sweating and sucking the pre-come off his bottom lip, with his hands either side of hips. But its Sherlock’s eyes that do him in. The irises are almost black, the pupils blown with only a ring of grey-blue-green around them. The lids were half closed, with red rims, yet they still had that Sherlockian spark of intelligence, something John could never fuck out, but damn him if he wasn’t going to try. Sherlock looked like fornication personified and that was why, without any stimulation other than Sherlock’s (garlicky, not that John noticed) breath on his face, John came with a groan.
When John came to, Sherlock was nuzzling behind his ear and thrusting steadily against his thigh.
“You’ve ruined my plans for this evening,” Sherlock comments deviously. John tried to catch his breath in reply. “Although I could just fuck you, instead.”
For a man who not long ago was having a meltdown because his flatmate saw him wanking, he seemed far too sure of himself. John, with a muttered ‘got your breath back?’, hauled Sherlock up and half-dragged him up the stairs.
John blinked a lot in the following three minutes.
At first he convinced himself it was to adjust to the changing light, but after a while he had to admit it was simply because he had no idea what to do next.
And of course, when John finally noticed the almost painful erection in his dirty, messy, just-chased-a-criminal-through-back-alleys pants and was about to do something about it was when Sherlock decided to burst in to the room.
So here John was, with Sherlock’s phone in one hand, half of his cock in the other through the zip and his shirt half rucked up, and busted. Big time.
Sherlock, obviously, had been planning on making an announcement about the degradation of toenails in whale sperm or something like that, but he instantly froze, his eyes focussed on the pink device in John’s hand.
Then he did something John had never seen him do before.
He swore.
A lot.
“Fuck. FUCK. Fuck shitting fuck tits cock wanker fuck crap ass dick shit shit shit fuck shit fucking SHIT.”
And then he did a little tantrum dance and thumped down the stairs. With John at his heels.
Sherlock may be light on his feet but John is an army man. Army men don’t just run down stairs, army men tear shit up.
So when John collided with Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs and they went flying into the wall hard enough to crack a few ribs, Sherlock was more surprised at the fact that John had an erection than the fact that he may actually have fractures.
“Now Sherlock,” John said almost sweetly and Sherlock moaned angrily and tried to buck him off, “you can’t just show me something like that and then not wait to see what I’d do.” He sounded like Mrs Hudson, but he didn’t care.
John pushed him harder against the wall. “Do you want to know what I’d do Sherlock?” he breathed into Sherlock’s ear. Nothing except harsh breathing and panic. “Do you!” Almost yelled this time, another hard push.
“Yes!” Sherlock’s voice broke and he closed his eyes, because he really couldn’t take this much longer.
Then the pressure was gone, but Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. Rustling, the return of warmth.
“Sherlock, open your eyes.” John said, his voice very even.
And he did. And there it was. In all it’s silvery, uneven glory. It wasn’t ugly; in fact, as far as bullet wounds go it was quite attractive. It was just interesting. So, so interesting. And beautiful.
And when Sherlock put his mouth on it and John shivered, that was beautiful too. John yanked his face up into a crushing kiss and the spell was broken, but that was okay because his tongue was in John’s mouth and everything that was happening was the best thing ever really.
Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s chest and they were flush together and so, so perfect, and there wasn’t even tongue anymore, just eye contact and lips, and breath, little carbon dioxide molecules that had been through John where now in him and wasn’t was quite wonderful?
And now John was just pecking at his lips. Just enough to make Sherlock follow him back.
“How do you even exist?” John mumbled against his lips. And Sherlock shrugged because he didn’t know.
What he did know is that they both had erections and that it was scientifically proven that it felt nice to rub such appendages together. And of course Sherlock doesn’t do things in halves, or slowly, so soon they were both out and sliding deliciously. And John’s hands brushed his and suddenly, without even realising, he was on his knees and John’s hands were now in his hair and he moaned so loud Mrs Hudson would have a smug smile for days.
Sherlock could feel the saliva dribbling down his chin and John’s eyes watching him, and that was also the best thing ever. Even when Sherlock choked and had to pull away, it felt amazing, having John in his mouth and causing his hands to scrabble against the wall for a hold before he slumped on the ground in front of Sherlock, suitably incoherent. His coherency didn’t improve when Sherlock leaned over him on all fours. Sherlock, flushed red and shaking with anticipation and arousal, sweating and sucking the pre-come off his bottom lip, with his hands either side of hips. But its Sherlock’s eyes that do him in. The irises are almost black, the pupils blown with only a ring of grey-blue-green around them. The lids were half closed, with red rims, yet they still had that Sherlockian spark of intelligence, something John could never fuck out, but damn him if he wasn’t going to try. Sherlock looked like fornication personified and that was why, without any stimulation other than Sherlock’s (garlicky, not that John noticed) breath on his face, John came with a groan.
When John came to, Sherlock was nuzzling behind his ear and thrusting steadily against his thigh.
“You’ve ruined my plans for this evening,” Sherlock comments deviously. John tried to catch his breath in reply. “Although I could just fuck you, instead.”
For a man who not long ago was having a meltdown because his flatmate saw him wanking, he seemed far too sure of himself. John, with a muttered ‘got your breath back?’, hauled Sherlock up and half-dragged him up the stairs.