Chapter Text
The village at Al Maleash consists of less than a dozen mud-walled houses near a dirt road that crosses a windswept, gray-grassed upland. Today, almost two hundred cars and trucks – many with horse trailers attached – are parked along the sides of the road and across the open ground beyond. The crowd that throngs among the vehicles is entirely male, from small boys to old men, but their clothing runs the gamut from shiny nylon sports suits, through dark camouflage canvas and indigo dyed cotton, to rigorously traditional red padded coats and round fur hats.
Goods for sale, everything from silverware and leatherwork to small electronics and pirated copies of Pakistani action movies, are arranged on truck tailgates or cloths spread on the ground. The air is smudged with smoke from cooking fires burning in empty oil drums, gusting the scents of spices and charred meats. Curtains hoisted on poles over carpets on the ground provide rudimentary backdrops for coffee-drinkers and hashish-smokers, and thin trills of pipe music are snatched and torn about by the wind.
There are horses everywhere – small, powerfully built animals with long tangled manes and tails – mostly dark bays and pale grays, with a scattering of lighter chestnuts, and one or two pure blacks. They’re harnessed in thick, roughly tanned leather, with brightly painted saddles over colorfully striped saddle cloths.
John and Hinde lead the way through the crowd, with Sherlock, McMath, and Henn just behind them. Barr, Garrett, and Cullen are a little farther back, with Blackwood at the rear. They’re all armored, but bare-headed and carrying their assault rifles slung across their backs. They’re met with mostly appraising stares, but also with some nods of recognition and even one or two quickly flashed smiles, as they make their way to the ragged edge of the crowd, on the open ground where the buzkashi game is already in progress.
There are about sixty horsemen in play, though almost half of them are content to ride to and fro on the outer margins of the game. The other thirty or so horses and riders are milling in a tight, chaotic crush. At its very center, half a dozen horses bray and bite at each other, while their riders thrash at each other with whips and fists. From second to second, it’s possible to catch just a glimpse of the dirt-coated calf carcass – headless and limbless – as it’s grabbed and dropped and grabbed up again from among the horses’ churning hooves.
“There’s Farshad,” Hinde says, gesturing back at the crowd, where a group of Afghan men are contemplating a horse plunging and pulling at its leading rein while its groom tries alternately soothing and scolding it.
John, Hinde, and Sherlock move in that direction, while the others remain where they are, watching the game.
“This is Farshad,” John says to Sherlock, “and his brothers, Mahyar and Houshmand.”
The Afghans shake Sherlock’s hand with frank smiles, but only amorphous murmurs of greeting.
“Is this his horse?” Sherlock asks, glancing from Farshad to Hinde and then to the darkly dappled gray with its streaked mane and tail.
Hinde and Farshad have a brief exchange in Dari, while Sherlock circles the horse at a circumspect distance, his gaze moving greedily over the swooping curves of its neck and chest and haunches.
“Yes,” Hinde relays in answer to Sherlock’s question.
“He’s beautiful,” Sherlock says emphatically, looking at Farshad.
Sherlock’s meaning is clear to Farshad, even before Hinde translates; he shrugs deprecatingly, but there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I bet you go like the wind, don’t you?” Sherlock murmurs, stepping closer to the horse.
The animal sidles a little, rolling its dark eyes and flaring its nostrils.
“Careful, they’re trained to bite,” John says quietly.
“Other riders,” Sherlock says, reaching one hand out slowly, “other horses, not - ”
He presses his nubuck-gloved hand firmly to the horse’s neck, and sweeps it down onto the broad slope of its shoulder. The horse shifts its hooves a little, and then stands foursquare.
“You are lovely,” Sherlock says, his voice low and vibrating with warmth.
The horse tosses its head slightly. Sherlock scratches the rough tips of his gloved fingers up and down the finely curve bone of its profile, and murmurs soft sounds of approval. Farshad watches intently, and then says something to Hinde. Sherlock glances at him questioningly.
“He says his cousin usually rides the horse,” Hinde says, looking from one man to the other, “but he took a fall right at the start of the game and can’t play now.”
“Oh, no wonder you’re cross,” Sherlock murmurs to the horse, tugging gently at its forelock. “They’re all having fun without you.”
The horse drops its head and thrusts its brow gently into Sherlock’s armored chest, making him stagger back a half step. Farshad says something to Hinde, who darts an uncertain look at John before translating.
“He says – he’d be willing to let a good rider like you take his horse into the game.”
“No,” John says, his voice cresting above the surrounding noise.
“How can he tell that I can ride?” Sherlock asks, pushing the horse’s muzzle aside with one hand.
Hinde relays the question, and Farshad grins as he answers.
“He says he can’t, but the horse can,” Hinde translates with a laugh.
“Sherlock, no,” John says more insistently. “Hitting other riders with the butt of the whip is a legitimate piece of play.”
“Polo’s faster and the mallet weighs more than a whip,” Sherlock says lightly, but there’s bright-edged steel in his eyes.
The horse’s groom is already cinching up the girth of the saddle more tightly. Sherlock shrugs the strap of his assault rifle over his head and passes the weapon to Hinde, before starting to tear the tapes of his body armor open.
“Oh – fuck it,” John says, swinging his own assault rifle off and thrusting it at Hinde.
Farshad throws his hands up in delight and says something around a gust of laughter.
“Sir, he says you said you’d never do this again after the last time,” Hinde says, as Farshad says something quick and sharp to Houshmand, who ducks away into the crowd.
“Yeah,” John mutters darkly.
“You’re going to play?” Sherlock beams, handing his armor off to Mahyar.
“No, you’re going to play,” John says. “I’m going to stop you getting killed.”
Houshmand returns, a hank of thin rope over one shoulder, leading a horse by the bridle: a bright chestnut with a lopsided white blaze down its face. John approaches, tugging the tapes of his armor tighter.
“Look at me,” he says, spiking his forked fingers from in front of the horse’s eyes to in front of his own. “I’m John Watson. I’ve got a medical degree, a Queen’s Commission, and a big fucking gun. You roll me one more time, and I will fucking end you. Are we clear?”
Sherlock pauses with his foot in the stirrup to watch this exchange. The chestnut rotates one ear very slightly.
“Good,” John says grimly. “Good talk.”
He moves to the horse’s side, claps both hands on the saddle, boosts himself straight up without touching the stirrup, and swings his right leg over the saddle. Sherlock completes his own smooth, swift step up on his stirrup and seat into the saddle.
Houshmand takes hold of John’s left boot, shoving John’s heel to a more satisfactory angle in the stirrup, and then binds it into place with one end of the rope. Sherlock weaves both reins through the fingers of his left hand, grasps the whip in his right.
“Ask him what the horse’s vice is,” Sherlock says to Hinde, who relays the question to Farshad.
“He says – he says, only that it eats calf-meat,” Hinde says doubtfully, but Sherlock and Farshad grin at each other in perfect comprehension.
Houshmand flicks the loose end of the rope under the horse’s belly, hurries round to John’s right, and ties that boot into its stirrup.
“You can’t ride so you let them tie you to the horse?” Sherlock says, simultaneously horrified and awed.
“I prefer to think of it as tying the horse to me,” John says coolly as Houshmand passes up the whip.
Houshmand and the other groom wheel the horses, and the crowd draws back to give them open passage to the game. Sherlock’s groom releases his grip on the bridle and more or less flings himself aside as Sherlock claps both heels to his horse’s sides. The horse surges forwards and Sherlock bends lower in the saddle.
It’s instantly obvious that the horse’s plan is simply to crash the broad flat of its chest against the churning wall of horses and men separating it from the thrashing, rearing heart of the game. Sherlock twists the reins and drops his weight aside, wheeling his mount and then kicking it forward again, directing its attack to the one spot where the alignment of horses’ shoulders and flanks produces a momentary weakness in the barricade.
Sherlock’s horse rears under him, whinnying in exalting anger, and then plunges down again to cleave itself a place between the pressed flanks of the two horses in front. The rider on Sherlock’s right lashes out with the butt of his whip, but Sherlock’s horse is already writhing forwards, and Sherlock has only to dip his head and lift his forearm to deflect the already half-avoided blow. His horse is shoved strongly from the other side; Sherlock looks over, already flinching low in anticipation of another attack. Instead, he sees that John’s chestnut is pressed along his horse’s side, John gripping both the reins and his horse’s mane in his left hand, while he catches another rider a brutal blow across the head with the butt of the whip in his right fist.
“Stay down,” John barks at Sherlock.
Sherlock takes him at his word, crouching low in the saddle. There’s a scuffle of hooves and shouted curses, while Sherlock’s horse stamps and snorts in frustration. There’s the sharp slap of knuckles on flesh, and John gives a short, angry shout and then someone else howls in pain. John’s horse sidles away from Sherlock’s slightly, and Sherlock’s horse thrusts itself into the somewhat looser tangle of half a dozen horses and riders contesting immediate possession of the calf.
The carcass – its brindled brown and black hide dulled by a thick coating of dust – is drawn between two riders, each of whom grasps it with one hand while striking at the opposing rider with the other. Three other horses are shoving and shouldering in on the pair, snapping and snorting, while their riders alternately snatch at the carcass and strike at those in possession of it. Sherlock’s horse shrieks in fury, darting its bared teeth at the horse between it and the calf’s carcass. John’s horse shoulders in against Sherlock’s, but just far enough behind not to draw its attack. John doesn’t even glance at the carcass or the riders struggling for control of it, instead he twists and leans in his saddle, fending off the whip blows meant for Sherlock’s back, and repaying them with solid punches and well-aimed jabs of his whip butt. Sherlock catches a glimpse of his face – bright eyed and hard-mouthed despite the smudge of blood at one corner of his lips – and grins.
“Get the fucking calf,” John shouts above the cacophony of hoof thuds and harness jingles.
Sherlock narrows his eyes and digs his heels into his horse’s sides. The horse leaps forwards again, plowing straight into one of the two horses whose riders are in partial possession of the calf carcass, ears flattened, eyes rolling, and teeth snapping viciously. The other horse rears in alarm and twists aside; his rider’s hand is wrenched from the carcass, leaving it hanging heavily from the other rider’s hand. The knot of horses unwinds and rewinds rapidly as riders jostle for an advantage of position. In that second or two of respite, John leans across his saddle and lashes out at full-reach with the butt of his whip, catching the one hand that’s gripping the calf’s carcass. The carcass drops to the ground among the quick, heavy cuts of the horse’s hooves.
Sherlock’s horse tries to rear, but Sherlock swoops forwards to lie on its shoulder, the press of his weight turning the upward thrust to forward push. The horse catches Sherlock’s intention, stabbing itself low among the other horses instead of trying to batter its way in from above. John’s horse is rearing, half-mounting Sherlock’s in a frenzied attempt to put itself between Sherlock’s horse and the battering mass of the other animals. John rises in his stirrups, leans half out of his saddle as reaches over Sherlock’s bent back, whipping off the riders who are trying to break Sherlock’s advance to where the calf carcass is rolling and pitching on the ground among a flashing thicket of hooves.
Sherlock cries out triumphantly as he swings back up into the saddle, throwing the calf carcass across his thighs. His horse rears up, striking out with both front hooves, cleaving a sudden path through the churning crush of horses and riders. Sherlock kicks him on ruthlessly, and they explode free, scattering the less determined horses and riders on the periphery of the game. Sherlock’s horse flings itself forwards, hooves battering on the hard ground as it gallops for the thin stake stuck in the ground a hundred or so yards away. Sherlock rises in his stirrups and bends low over the horse’s shoulder, his eyes narrowed against the lash of its mane.
He slants in the saddle, dropping the hand holding the reins to one side, and his horse carves a wide circle around the marker stake. About a third of the horses and riders have gathered between Sherlock and the scoring circle at the far end of the pitch. On the other side of the group, John turns his horse and gallops a short way off.
Sherlock presses his heels in and tightens his reins, shortening his horse’s stride until it’s chopping the turf with its hooves, its body one sprung line from haunches to head.
John turns again and comes galloping back, straight for the center of the herd. Several riders realize what’s happening and hastily unwind from the group.
Sherlock drops his rein-hand and his horse explodes into motion. Several more riders lose their nerve and kick aside from the group. John’s horse careens straight into the remaining half dozen, scattering horses in snorting, stamping confusion. Sherlock tilts in the saddle, his bodyweight gesturing to an opening gap in the chaos. The gray reads his intent perfectly and surges forwards. John stands in his stirrups, yelling for pure joy as Sherlock and the gray flash past.
Riders wheel, whipping their horses in pursuit, but the gray is away, hooves hammering and breath bellowing, a comet with a rag-taggle tail of Afghans. Sherlock gathers the gray slightly, and it scuffs past the scoring circle as Sherlock shoves the calf carcass off his thighs to flop inelegantly onto the ground. A shout of mingled annoyance and admiration and amusement goes up, and Sherlock finds himself in the middle of gesturing, laughing, gesticulating group of riders.
The group half-disperses, someone hefts the calf casually, and abruptly the game is on again.
Sherlock is able to score twice more, but each successive fight is harder and longer as more and more of the Afghan players abandon their own attempts to score in favor of driving Sherlock and John apart in the melee. Sherlock has to divert some of his attention from securing the calf’s carcass to defending his own, and John has to fight to reach Sherlock before he can fight to protect him.
“And that is how we’ll unite a viable Afghan state,” John says, as they both wheel their horses around and ride away from the game. “We’ll piss them off so badly they’ll work together to kick us out.”
John’s section has joined Farshad and the other Afghans on the edge of the crowd; all of them are grinning and applauding. The grooms catch at the horses’ bridles as Sherlock and John slide, breathless and boneless, from their saddles. Farshad flicks his fingers against his own forehead, throws his hand out towards Sherlock, and makes an emphatic pronouncement in Dari that elicits a great deal of approving laughter from the other Afghans.
“He says – the horse fathered you?” Hinde laughs dubiously. “Or – you fathered the horse, or – you fathered something on the horse – I – have no idea, but I think it’s a good.”
Sherlock drops his head in acknowledgement.
“I’ve got something I want to show you,” John says, as their rifles and Sherlock’s armor are returned.
His tone is light, almost indifferent; it’s only when Sherlock glances down into his face that the razor gleam in John’s eyes betrays his meaning. Sherlock is already flushed and breathless from the game, but his eyes widen and his mouth quirks.
“Half of these houses aren’t occupied anymore,” John announces. “We should check one out, it’s interesting.”
“Smooth,” Blackwood says.
John scowls at him, but when Sherlock moves past them he follows at once. A single loped stride puts him side by side with Sherlock, and they walk together to the nearest house. They go through the open gateway in the chest-high surrounding wall, and then through the unfastened doorway of the house.
Sherlock crosses the threshold and turns sharply. John follows him in, picks up the splayed remains of a small wooden stool from the dirt floor and swings it back-handed against the wall. There’s a crash of splintering wood and a puff of dust as it breaks apart, the seat and one leg separated from the other leg. John throws the seat portion aside, picks up the single leg, and shoves the rickety wooden door closed with his forearm. He jams the broken end of the stool leg into the gap between door and doorframe, and rams it tight with the heel of his gloved hand.
“Is this a good idea?” Sherlock asks, though he’s already lowering his rifle to the floor and stripping his gloves off his hands.
“It’s a terrible idea,” John says shortly, setting his rifle against the crumbling wall plaster and crossing the room in two quick strides.
He walks straight into Sherlock, hard enough to carry him back against the wall, their breaths breaking from their open mouths in soft grunts under the impact.
“You’re incredible,” John mutters, dragging the two sides of Sherlock’s pale camouflage shirt up out of his belt. “You’re fucking incredible.”
Sherlock exhales a smile, his eyes dropping half-closed and his body unraveling against the wall as John shoves both hands up inside his shirt.
“Incredible,” John says again, thrusting his mouth into Sherlock’s open shirt collar, and then pushing brief, hard kisses against the side of his neck and beneath his ear.
John wrenches back again, his fingers moving swiftly on Sherlock’s belt and then on his fly buttons.
John drops to his knees, palming Sherlock’s pants and underwear down his long thighs as he goes. Sherlock moans softly and squirms against the rough plaster wall.
“Yes,” he breathes. ”Yes.”
John pushes the tails of Sherlock’s shirt up onto his stomach and twists them into a half-knot to keep them out of his way. He slides both hands down Sherlock’s thighs, and then back up again until his thumbs are tracing the creases between Sherlock’s groin and his balls. Sherlock’s cock stands stiffly, slanting away from his belly and pulsing fractionally with each beat of his heart.
“You have to be quiet,” John warns, tilting his head slightly as he eyes Sherlock’s cock.
Sherlock nods, taking a deep breath and pressing his mouth closed emphatically. John takes hold of Sherlock’s hip, and runs the fingertips of his other hand up the shaft of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s nostrils flare and his eyes flicker wide in the gloom. John leans closer, pursing his lips to blow softly over Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock shifts slightly and brings his hand gently to curve around John’s skull. John’s eyes flutter closed as he opens his mouth and circles his lips over the tip of Sherlock’s cock.
Sherlock exhales - a long, unwinding sigh – and his fingers splay in the short strands of John’s hair. John presses forwards, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks the length of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.
“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, his back scraping down the dusty wall a little as he slumps.
John draws back, clasping the root of Sherlock’s cock in one hand as he flicks his tongue over the upper shaft and tip. Sherlock jolts minutely with each touch. John dips forwards again, slipping Sherlock’s cock into his mouth again. He starts to rock, a quick, fluid motion from his hips up his spine to his head. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces open mouthed at the intensity of the pleasure.
“John,” he whispers, “oh – oh that’s exquisite.”
The corners of John’s mouth quirk around Sherlock’s cock. He skims both hands up over the crests of Sherlock’s hipbones, and reaches farther back, lifting Sherlock’s pelvis away from the wall a little, drawing his cock deeper into John’s mouth. Sherlock presses a hand over his own mouth, stifling his soft cry of pleasure. John’s breath billows from his nostrils as he pushes his mouth farther down on Sherlock’s cock, saliva beading in Sherlock’s pubic hair. Sherlock’s eyes go wide, gleaming in the half-dark. He starts to writhe against the wall, hitching himself up slightly and then sliding lower again, his hips rolling restlessly until John’s forced to pin him with both hands.
Sherlock starts to squirm. His voice catches in his throat, soft shapeless moans and little gasps of anticipation. He keeps one hand clasped over his mouth; the other dips down, fingers splaying and biting into the thickness of muscle between John’s shoulder blades, clawing up the damp cloth of his camouflage shirt. John flexes his spine under Sherlock’s hand, and groans. The vibration of it makes Sherlock grimace and then sink his teeth hard into the base of his thumb. His breathing turns shivery and uneven. John throats another groan of encouragement, and Sherlock whines quietly into his hand.
The long pale muscles of his thighs begin to quiver. John is breathing hard, his nostrils flaring with each inhalation. The corners of his mouth and the tipoff his chin are wet, his thin lips flushed dark red around Sherlock’s shaft. He rocks fluidly, alternating long deep, slides of his mouth down to the root of Sherlock’s cock with short pulls that just play the ring of his lips up and down over the ridge of Sherlock’s retracted foreskin.
Sherlock gives a muffled, drawn-out moan, and the quivering of his thighs turns to a deep, spasmodic shuddering. John jolts slightly, his cheeks rounding as he struggles to breath and swallow and not cough.
Sherlock’s head falls forward, his spine curls away from the wall, and his hand drops to the nape of John’s neck. John rolls his shoulders, sucking lavishly along Sherlock’s softening flesh to clean him.
“John,” Sherlock breathes, “oh … John.”
John leans back, tonguing messily over the soft, swollen flesh of his own lips. Sherlock slumps, slides down the wall a bit. John murmurs a slight sound of protest. He pushes up from his knees onto his feet, gathering Sherlock’s arms over his shoulders and half-holding him up, half-pinning him back against the wall with a full body press from knees to chests.
John twists his head, cutting his face close to Sherlock’s. Sherlock exhales in a long, shaking sigh as John pushes in even closer. Sherlock closes his eyes, his brows folding together, and hums a sound of pleasure as John’s mouth, silky and heated and tasting of Sherlock’s own semen, touches his. For several seconds there’s just the whisper of clothing against clothing, and the slight flurry and ruffle of their breathing. John brushes his fingertips over Sherlock’s bare hips, and then slides his hand back and down to draw his buttocks away from the wall and grip them firmly. Sherlock arches lazily, letting John pull him forwards off the wall, turn him, and push him against the rough plaster again.
John runs his hands up over the rucked, damp folds of the back of Sherlock’s shirt, and grasps at his arms, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. Sherlock growls, the hard-edged noise at odds with the sated softness of his expression – brow smooth, eyes almost shut, and cheekbone pressed to the dusty wall. John surges up onto the balls of his toes, sliding his body upwards over Sherlock’s back. John’s cock – soft skin over rigid flesh, heated but with a cool wisp of wetness at the tip – brushes the back of Sherlock’s bare thigh, and then pokes awkwardly under the curve of his buttock. John mutters, eager and impatient. Sherlock circles his hips slightly, and the head of John’s cock drags across his buttock and slips into the space between his thighs. Sherlock scrapes one boot in the dirt, pressing his thighs together tightly. John exhales noisily, and his fingers bite hard into the crests of Sherlock’s right shoulder and left hipbone. He rocks his hips, and his cock stutters forwards and then slides back on the sweaty skin of Sherlock’s inner thighs. Sherlock slumps a little farther down on the wall, and John can ease down onto his heels, cant his hips, and thrust forwards more forcefully. His shaft plumbs forwards between Sherlock’s legs, along the underside of his balls to nudge the soft weight of his cock.
“Fucking Jesus,” John rasps, grinding his face between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, “oh fucking Jesus.”
Sherlock groans softly and drops one hand to his own groin. He cups his fingers over himself, pressing the soft flesh down and back. The head of John’s erection pushes forwards, pulls back. John’s boots scuff in the dirt a little as he thrusts his hips.
“Fuck me,” Sherlock murmurs, “just fuck me.”
The rhythm of John’s thrusts collapses. He presses himself along the length of Sherlock’s spine.
“I’ve nothing to use,” he says, but he turns one hip and fumbles the fingertips of one hand into the cleft of Sherlock’s behind.
Sherlock hums appreciatively as John probes deeper, rough fingertips on sweat-softened skin. Then John’s fingers are replaced by the smoother, blunter pressure of his glans.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathes.
He plays his bodyweight up and down from his thighs, so that his glans slides up and down between Sherlock’s buttocks.
“Oh, fuck, that feels nice,” John says hoarsely.
Sherlock pushes his pelvis out from the wall, meeting the upward slide of John’s cock. John’s glans catches against the ring of Sherlock’s anus. Sherlock moans appreciatively.
“Sherlock,” John says, half-querying, half-warning.
Sherlock rings his thumb and forefinger around the soft shaft of his own cock, and tugs gently as he bears back against the pressure of John’s erection. John’s knuckles graze the underside of Sherlock’s behind as he draws his foreskin back, and then plays his glans back and forth over Sherlock’s anus a little.
“Just – a little,” Sherlock whispers, “just push it - ”
John works himself in small circles over Sherlock’s opening. The muscle softens, and John pushes forwards slowly but implacably. His glans pierces Sherlock’s anus, slides in, and is ringed tightly by the abruptly constricting muscle. Sherlock’s breath shakes out from between his parted lips.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” John says again, his hands glancing lightly over Sherlock’s sides and hips.
“I know,” Sherlock says softly.
John uses one hand to scoop and pin Sherlock’s shirttails up on his back. He looks down, his gaze carving down the line of Sherlock’s spine to where John’s cock is fitted into the cleft of his buttocks. John slips his free hand between their bodies and grips his shaft in his fist, knuckles brushing Sherlock’s skin. John shifts his hips tentatively, his eyelids flickering as he glances up at Sherlock’s half-averted face. Sherlock exhales, open-mouthed and smiling crookedly. John rocks his hips slightly, jerking his grip on himself to provide most of the sensation while he just tugs fractionally at the pressure of his glans in Sherlock’s anus.
Sherlock gives a shuddery little laugh. John growls his breath out, and leans in with his chest against Sherlock’s back. He moves his hand more rapidly, and more roughly. Sherlock makes a sharp-edged sound that stills John for just a second, but he starts to move again when Sherlock nods encouragingly even as he lifts his hand to cover his mouth.
“I’m going to come,” John mutters a minute later. “Oh Christ, I’m going to come.”
Sherlock gives a low, fervent gasp and sinks his teeth into the heel of his hand. John’s breathing turns shaky, and the shifts of his hips turn arrhythmic and off-kilter. He bites into the thickness of Sherlock’s shirt where it’s rucked between his shoulder blades. Sherlock whines around his own hand. John’s body goes rigid and then jerks hard enough to pull his glans from Sherlock’s body, his semen splattering between Sherlock’s thighs and into the folds of his pants crumpled around his knees. Sherlock reaches back with his free hand and clutches at John’s thigh. John lifts his head slowly, spitting out a damp circle of Sherlock’s shirt.
“Jesus,” he whispers, “oh Jesus – you are – Sherlock, you’re incredible.”
Sherlock eases the heel of his hand from his mouth, looking ruefully at the deep red indents pressed into his skin, even as he smiles slackly. John lays his cheek to Sherlock’s back gently, and strokes his hands down Sherlock’s sides.
“Are you okay?” John asks softly.
“It felt good,” Sherlock says, tightening his fingers on John’s leg. “A little dangerous and – very good.”
“Sherlock,” John says carefully.
Sherlock eyes sharpen, and a subtle tautness runs through his limbs and spine.
“Yes?” he breathes.
“I’ve never been this happy in my life,” John whispers.