Chapter Text
It was.
It was everything.
John’s whole universe spun and shrank until all that remained was his body and Sherlock’s. The usual words skittered around John’s head: tight and hot and absolutely fucking perfect, and none of them, none of them at all, came even close to being enough to describe the deliriously glorious sensation of being buried to the hilt inside Sherlock Holmes.
“Fuck,” said Sherlock, soft and low beneath him.
“Too much?” John asked, barely daring to breathe.
“Not enough,” Sherlock growled, tilting his hips just so, in a way that seemed calculated to make John see stars in another galaxy entirely.
John gasped, pulling back and out until just the tip of his penis was resting inside Sherlock, needing space, needing not to come within ten seconds of being inside the man. Then he slammed back into him, because he needed to be inside Sherlock like he needed air. More than air, truth be told. Sherlock was right: breathing could go hang.
The noise Sherlock made was intensely gratifying and gratifyingly intense. John was prepared to swear that he’d felt it vibrate from the root of his cock, pressed against that magnificent arse, to his very bones. It sounded, point in fact, that Sherlock was enjoying this just as much as John.
“God, I’ve wanted this,” said John in a sudden burst of honesty. He gave two short, sharp thrusts for the sheer and utter joy of it. Sherlock made the noise again, quieter this time, and John took a moment to relish the fact that there was no Sarah watching over his shoulder, telling him to do it again, only louder. “Wanted you so badly.”
“Mmm,” said Sherlock helpfully, squirming deliciously beneath John’s hands, moving to meet every increasingly urgent thrust.
“Wanted you so many ways,” John went on, unable to stop himself. “Wanted you like this—or in bed, under me, so I can see your face while I fuck you—on top of me, riding me until you come all over my chest—Jesus, fuck, you’re incredible, you’re amazing...” John broke off his litany of dirty, dirty things he’d been wanting to do with Sherlock to break into a stream of broken, nearly incoherent praise.
“What else?” asked Sherlock, reaching behind himself to touch John’s thigh.
“You’re brilliant.” John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. If he hadn’t been afraid of twisting the other man’s arm, he would have raised it to his lips and kissed it.
“What else have you wanted?” elaborated Sherlock, his tone as much of a warning not to be boring as it was possible for a man with his arse full of cock.
“Everything.” John sighed helplessly. It was impossible to prevaricate while he was fucking Sherlock Holmes, but it was similarly difficult to string two words together. “This.”
“Hm.” The sound was non-committal.
John tried harder: “For you to do this to me. Fuck, for you to bend me over a table, bins, anything, and bugger me till I’m yelling your name.” His hips stuttered gracelessly but Sherlock only moaned encouragement.
“Go on.”
John squeezed his eyes shut briefly to ground himself, breathed in, and pushed back roughly on the exhale. “Wanted you to fuck me from behind, against the wall, with neither of us naked like you couldn’t help yourself—want to put my mouth on you—God, you would not believe how badly I want to put my mouth on you—I’d suck you off in the back of one of those cabs you always take, swallow you down, all of it”—John gasped, the imagery, the sensation of his cock repeatedly breaching Sherlock was almost, but not quite yet, too much—“Wanted you to fuck me just before a shoot, have your cum in me while I film you having sex with other people. Been jealous of every damn actor or actress I’ve ever seen you with...”
Sherlock gave a huff of laughter in between the glorious sounds he was making. “You’ve seen me with a lot of people.”
“Been jealous of every damn one,” repeated John, punctuating each word with a thrust. “And I’ve wanted this—to fuck you afterwards, when everyone’s gone.”
Sherlock groaned. John reached around him, found his cock hard and leaking. He closed his hand around the shaft, stroked upwards until he could spread the pre-ejaculate over the head with his thumb. Sherlock gasped, clenched, tightened impossibly and John went on stroking him, doing his best to time it with his thrusts.
“Want you to come with me inside you,” he said, bending low to whisper the words brokenly into Sherlock’s ear. “Want to make you come for me—will you do that, Sherlock?”
“John, I—I—”
“C’mon.” John kissed Sherlock’s neck, his ear, his cheek. “Let me feel it. C’mon.”
Sherlock moved his head to kiss John, sideways and messy. He gave a couple of taut, ragged breaths. And he came.
John fucked him through it, feeling a tightening in his own bollocks before Sherlock was quite done, and coming himself, almost like they were sharing one long, drawn-out orgasm between them.
Afterwards, nothing felt quite real.
It was to be expected, perhaps, in a world where John’s fantasies apparently came true. Sherlock turning, bracketed in his arms; their kissing gently, slowly now that the sex was out of the way; John disposing of the condom and retrieving the towel to clean Sherlock off...all of it felt distant and fragile, as if it were happening on the inside surface of a soap bubble and John just had to breathe wrong for it to shatter.
Somewhere from the region of Sherlock’s coat, a phone buzzed.
Sherlock waved a hand at it, dismissing it like so much white noise. He settled himself in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, rather dashing John’s hopes for some post-coital holding.
“I don’t fancy the sofa at the moment,” he said, seeming to read John’s mind. “I’ve already spent the better part of the day there.”
“Right.” John took the chair opposite him, feet extended so that they were brushing Sherlock’s.
“But that was—that was, um, good.”
“You think so?” John settled back in his chair, looking at Sherlock, delighting in the fact that he could look without the camera. Sherlock was lounging in his seat like the cat that had gotten the cream. It was a sight John would have loved to frame and look at forever.
“Very good,” sighed Sherlock happily.
“Good,” John agreed, feeling a rather dopey grin tug at the corners of his mouth. He would have happily stayed in this post-coital bubble for hours on end, only he was starting to remember what he’d forgotten about Mrs. Hudson. “Listen, I hate to say it, but I think we’d better clear out. Mrs. Hudson’s lodgers—”
Sherlock waved a hand again, dismissing that statement like he had previously ignored his phone. “There’s no need to worry about the lodge—”
There were hurried footsteps on the stair, which, before either of them could move, turned into a man with silvering hair bursting into the flat.
“They might show up,” finished John weakly, torn between whether it would be more dignified to stand up and leave the room or stay in place and cover himself with whatever was at hand.
Sherlock looked up at the new arrival, gaze suddenly sharp. The man did not look like he was there to look at a flat. He did not look like someone who had intended to look at an empty flat and found it occupied by two naked—or nearly naked in John’s case—men who had very obviously been having sex. He didn’t even seem to be fazed by all the nakedness, and looked directly and only at Sherlock with a kind of desperation.
“Where?” Sherlock asked, equally unconcerned that he hadn’t a stitch on him, which was more than John could say for himself—and he had a sock and, by the grace of God, a Union Jack pillow.
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”
“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to me otherwise.”
“You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?”
“Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock was still making no effort to cover himself.
“Anderson.”
Sherlock made a face. “He won’t work well with me.”
“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” said the man. He nearly sounded testy, but just at the edge of it rather than all the way through.
“I need an assistant.”
“Will you come?” asked the man again. It was a desperate appeal.
Sherlock inclined his head. “Not in the police car. I’ll be right behind.”
“Thank you,” said the man feelingly, and he rushed out as suddenly as he had arrived.
There was silence for a beat. John was not yet done feeling mortified when they heard the front door shut and Sherlock jumped out of his seat, exclaiming, “Brilliant!”
“Brilliant?” echoed John.
“Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Ah, it’s Christmas!” Sherlock paused this unusual display of exuberance, as if remembering he had an audience, and turned to John. “You have questions.”
“Yes, I do,” agreed John, adjusting his pillow. Sherlock was already retrieving his clothes. “What the hell was that about?”
“Pornography is what I do for money, but it’s not the only thing I do.” There was a certain smugness to that statement: the cat had not only gotten the cream, but also three blind mice and a pair of shiny new boots as well. Sherlock stopped in the act of pulling on his underwear. “I’m a consulting detective.”
“And that means?”
“When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” It was the trousers next, then the posh shirt Sherlock had showed up to the shoot in. He had folded them impeccably: there was barely a crease to be seen.
This stretched the limits of John’s credulity. “The police don’t consult porn stars.”
“Lucky I don’t show up on the Met’s payroll, then,” said Sherlock cheerfully. “Now, you: cameraman is just something you’re doing for now. You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an army doctor.”
“Yes.” There was no point trying to hide it. “Damned if I can tell how you knew, though.”
“I didn’t know. I saw. Any good?”
“Very good.” It was the simple truth, after all.
“Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?”
“Yes.”
“A bit of trouble too, I’d bet.”
John blinked, wet his lips. “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much.”
“Want to see some more?”
“Oh God, yes.”
Sherlock grinned. “Then get your clothes on. We’re going to a crime scene.” He smoothed the front of his shirt. “You can leave your things—no point in your taking a camera, the forensics team won’t appreciate a civilian recording.”
“But Mrs. Hudson’s lodgers!”
“I’m the lodger. She gave me a special deal on account of my not minding the kind of films that were made here. And she owes me a favor.”
“A favor?” John was hopping to get his pants on.
“Yes. A few years ago her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out.”
“You stopped her husband being executed?” Somehow that didn’t add up. In all the time he’d known her, there’d been no hint of a Mister Hudson.
“Oh no, I ensured it.” Sherlock’s smile was positively rakish. “I’m still looking for someone to share, though. I’m a difficult man to find a flatmate for.” He shrugged on his jacket, then his coat and kissed John, who was still coming to terms with his monumental good luck and this sudden turn of events, and was still trying to find his trousers. “But I know you’ve been keen to leave your bedsit, and together we should be able to afford it. What do you say, John? Crime scene first, then we can discuss the rent?”