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Today’s one of those difficult days with one of those difficult cases that sends them both halfway across London and back again, which makes John both excited and exhausted and makes Sherlock who-knows-what. John loses track of Sherlock once, gets found and has the case explained to him as though he’s an idiot and it’s all perfectly obvious twice, and they get home before nine with Sherlock still pacing with the exhilaration of being better than everyone else. It was the sister-in-law, it turns out. She cried when they took her off. John felt bad.
Sherlock didn’t.
That’s one thing John can assume with total confidence.
John eats semi-stale bread that Mrs. Hudson left out for them at the dining room table, and Sherlock sits in the corner and plays his violin, perched in a chair like a bird of prey, wings made of music. John tries not to look at him on purpose; it makes eating difficult. Too distracting. Sometimes John comes to the chilling re-realization that his life is all one big observation of Sherlock.
Sometimes it’s not so bad. He sees a lithe body and pretty hair and boundless intellect and an unintentionally sexy-as-hell smirk. But other times he thinks of how he doesn’t have Sherlock’s long, elegant, perfectly mobile legs, and as much as he loves every single last tiny second of it, he doesn’t care for Sherlock’s biting, casual remarks or the constant forgetting that John’s even there (and is apparently replaceable with a skull). He half doesn’t like being dragged all over England without a clue what’s going on. He tells Sherlock that Sherlock’s brilliant and Sherlock tells John he’s slow, average: this-case-is-so-easy-and-how-could-John-possibly-not-see-it. Sherlock risks both their lives and leaves the scene without John on a regular basis, and John’s only just begun to figure out that that’s because he trusts John will always be there. (Or so he hopes, anyway—with Sherlock, who ever knows.)
Sherlock’s trust is a fragile, odd thing that John has trouble wrapping his head around, if it’s even there at all. Sherlock looks mostly at his violin and once or twice at John, and every time, that gaze is smoldering. No boredom today. His bow lips don’t move, stuck in their smirk. If John had the power, he’d command Sherlock to lick them. (But that’d serve a different kind of hunger.)
He finishes his bread and he finishes his tea and he climbs out of his chair, leaving his plate there because the whole place is an unsalvageable mess.
He calls, “Sherlock,” like calling a dog, and Sherlock, a bratty puppy, pretends to ignore him.
John rolls his eyes and heads for the stairs. Sometimes he thinks all the air in this house is made out of his sighs. No matter how much about Sherlock John learns, there’ll always be infinitely more that he doesn’t yet understand.
He’s not surprised when he reaches his bedroom alone. Their bedroom. Sherlock turned the other one into... whatever that mess is. John asked once and couldn’t interpret the answer. The only way to live with Sherlock is to accept that lack of understanding and a constant stream of irritation. It’s Sherlock’s fucked-up world; John’s just living in it.
John sits on the bed and turns on the lamp—the curtained window isn’t quite enough light. It’s dark and the ceiling light in here’s broken. They could fix it, if Sherlock would pause long enough to get paid or someone told Mycroft. John settles for the lamp and pulls what he wants out of the drawer, what’ll give him his revenge for today’s sins, what both of them need after twelve odd hours of Sherlock being gorgeous but insufferable. John tucks them under his pillow even though he knows, somehow, Sherlock will know. There’s no sense hiding anything in this house. John sits on it and leans against the cracked headboard, wondering, not for the first time, how the hell he ever got into this.
Sherlock takes an hour to come up, moseying in like he hasn’t been a very, very bad boy. He barely glances at John, shrugging out of his trench, and he hangs it up on the back of the door. Today a case, tomorrow he’ll be in pajamas all day, a thin, clinging house robe that makes John’s mouth water. Sherlock tilts his neck back while he pulls his scarf slowly loose, like some high-class stripshow, maybe unintentional. Sometimes, Sherlock’s more clueless than he is a tease on purpose. No one should have a throat so kissable. It’s all practically porn: the way he moves, the way he strips, the way his eyes, half lidded, slide over to where John sits, stock-still. His shirt comes next, and he works his way down with too much grace. He’s an awkward idiot sometimes, a ballet dancer others. John doesn’t interfere. He doesn’t pretend not to watch each new patch of skin revealed. The bright purple fabric makes Sherlock look even paler underneath. It works well with his hair, his eyes. Everything works well with him. He unbuttons all of his shirt and lets it hang there, and he looks at John as though they’re done.
“Is that it?” John sighs.
Sherlock pouts his lips like he’s thinking. Maybe he’ll stroll right back out the door. Before he has the chance, John growls, “Come here.” He should know better than to play verbal games with Sherlock.
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. But he takes a step closer, and that’s all John needs to lunge out and grab his wrist. Sherlock must’ve seen it coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stop John from pulling him down, yanking him across the bed. Sherlock lands on all fours on the mattress like a cat, grinning in that sort of I’m-not-going-to-be-bored-tonight way of his. Because God knows boredom is the worst thing there is in Sherlock-world, never mind what John puts up with.
John’s got army training to slip him into his no-more-of-this-bullshit mode, and he pulls the handcuffs out from under the pillow. Sherlock shifts back like he’s going to fight it, but John grabs one wrist before it goes too far, slapping the hard metal closed around it. Half-petulantly, Sherlock sighs, “What did I do now?”
“Made me pay for a coffee I never had a chance to drink, twice.” Or at least, that’s one of the many things: the first to come to mind. John tugs the one hand up and loops the handcuff through the metal ring attached to the headboard—something Sherlock, for some reason, installed himself. John has to half-wrestle Sherlock’s other hand up, because Sherlock’s apparently incapable of making anything in John’s life easy. Sherlock snorts.
“It was a stakeout, why would you bother getting—”
John shoves his hand over Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock makes an annoyed sound and tries to pull away. John keeps it there like riding a bucking horse while he reaches under the pillow for the next equipment—the ball gag. As soon as it’s in view, Sherlock tries to bite John’s hand, the thrill of the game slipping off his face. John shoves his shoulder suddenly, forcing him to roll over onto his side, then his back. “John,” he grunts at the chance, voice deep and dead serious. “You can’t seriously—” John climbs over and shoves the ball in first, forcing Sherlock’s jaw wide. Sitting heavily atop Sherlock’s chest helps to squash the thrashing attempts, and he pulls the black leather straps around the back of Sherlock’s head while Sherlock tests his bonds, settles, and then starts tossing about, all logic gone, like if he’s enough of a brat the metal will snap. He’s cute when he’s angry.
He’s angry now, but won’t be for long, can’t be that wholly infuriated, or he wouldn’t come back to John next time and complain when John doesn’t do this. Wouldn’t have bought the handcuffs in the first place for an ‘experiment.’ (The gag was John’s brilliant idea—Sherlock would never volunteer to be shut up, but if they’re going to play Sherlock’s games, they’re going to play John’s, even if Sherlock’s childish about it.) He’s an enigma, this Sherlock. John never does anything he thinks Sherlock would really hate, but then, if Sherlock wanted limits, he probably should’ve just picked a safe word rather than scoffing at John’s suggestion. When the gag’s nicely clicked in place and fastened tight, John sits up to admire his handiwork.
It’s a shame to render that pretty mouth useless, especially with a voice like Sherlock’s—his voice is liquid sex. ...But it’s also a fountain of frustration, and for once it’s nice to have the verbal upper hand.
John’s cruel enough to chuckle. He pats Sherlock’s cheek and ignores the way Sherlock’s head snaps aside, chestnut hair tumbling over in the pillows. “You know,” John muses, “I wouldn’t have to use the gag if you weren’t such a prick all the time.” Sherlock glares at him, probably trying to convey that he only says what he does because it’s always obvious and ‘common sense.’ (In Sherlock-world.) John just grins down at him; he’s particularly sexy like this.
Well, he’s particularly sexy like anything. The more childish and petty and upset he gets, which he can easily spiral into, John’s realized, the more John just wants to chain him up and spank him. Which is ironic, as John’s sure Sherlock half does it just to get a reaction out of him.
Sherlock spends one last colossal effort trying to buck him off, throwing John a few millimeters in the air, and when John falls right back down, he slaps Sherlock right across the face. Sherlock’s head snaps to the side, blood rushing to his cheek. He’s breathing hard. He’s said before that he can handle it rough. (Snorted at John for suggesting otherwise.) John’s got half a mind to pull out the paddle or whip, but those things require foresight, need to be gotten out ahead of time. They’re all the way across the room in the dresser, and now that John’s in bed with Sherlock, he’s not willing to leave for even a moment.
Instead, he grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s hair. He jerks it backwards until he hears Sherlock scream around the gag, and he hisses, “Can’t you behave for five bloody seconds?” Sherlock twists in John’s grasp defiantly, eyes seeming to say: no.
John snorts. He shifts himself lower down Sherlock’s body, right when Sherlock gives another weak buck, this time thrusting his crotch right into John’s. John’s snicker dies into a moan, and he leans down as Sherlock’s eyes glint halfway between horny and murderous. John’s about to lie down and crush him, then remembers the sweater. John sits back up to practically rip it off his head—it’s going to be too hot for that soon, and he leaves his disheveled undershirt and trousers how they are—Sherlock’s the one that’s going to get stripped. He flattens his body into Sherlock’s exposed chest, the shirttails slipping off to the side, and he tells his captive, “Stop pretending you don’t like it, or I won’t do it anymore.” Sherlock stills and grunts; John slaps him again.
John bites Sherlock’s perfect cheek for good measure, hissing, “You’re not fooling anyone, Sherlock. You’ve been gagging for it all day, hoping I’d whip out the handcuffs.” Sherlock turns away like he’s wanted nothing of the sort. John lets his voice grow dark with his own want as he shifts to bite the bridge of Sherlock’s nose, taunting after, “Why else would you come up here after knowing what you’ve done to me all day?” One hand climbs up to squeeze Sherlock’s neck beneath the open collar of his shirt, earning a muffled gasp, while the other pets Sherlock’s trim waist. He growls fiercely into Sherlock’s ear, “It’s because you know you’re mine, and you want to show it to me. You want me to treat you like the little bitch you are, lead you around like my dog. Why should I let you talk? All you do is mindlessly bark about shit no one cares about.” Sherlock glares, even as he strains to breathe, nostrils flaring. John grins at him.
John lets go and lets Sherlock’s head fall back into the pillow, throat practically convulsing to catch up. John shifts to pet his hair like a benevolent master. For the moment, Sherlock’s too busy surviving to jerk away. John takes advantage of that to lick along Sherlock’s top lip, tracing the perfect bow structure. The bottom lip’s next, and John gets it nice and wet before grabbing it between his teeth and tugging, leaving it bruised in lieu of kiss-swollen. Sherlock makes the first mewling noise of the night, and John purrs, pleased, “See? I knew you liked it.” Sometimes John doesn’t even know who he is like this: just what Sherlock makes him. No more bumbling, stumbling, no more cane. Sherlock turns his head away again; John chuckles and bites his jaw.
Sherlock will be covered in teeth marks tomorrow, and he’ll strut around the house anyway like he’s still all perfection, like none of this happened or matters. Until he wants it again. Frustration all over again.
But it’ll be worth it tonight. John’s pushing away the rest of the shirt, getting it all off, wanting to just feel Sherlock’s skin, while he tells Sherlock over and over, “You think you’re so smart, but when it comes down to it, you’re just some common sex-crazed boytoy, desperate for someone to put you in your place.” John scrunches his own shirt up when Sherlock’s is as gone as possible, arms still fixed in place by the handcuffs. John’s not as toned as Sherlock, not anymore, but he’s harder, somehow, stronger without the nice lines, and he loves the feeling of Sherlock’s lithe stomach beneath him. He has to take a second to close his eyes and take it in. Sherlock obviously likes it too; he tries to lean his body up into it, getting more skin-on-skin. John smirks. “See? I knew it.”
Sherlock’s knee hits John’s back lightly. John’s not sure if that’s a protest or a message to hurry up. He takes it for the latter, musing in between nips at Sherlock’s long neck, “Look at you, begging for it. I have half a mind not to fuck you at all—it’s hardly a punishment if that’s what you want.” Sherlock’s head snaps around to look at him, and John’s knocked away. Sherlock’s eyes are unreadable; he probably sees John’s bluff, reads right into him. Of course he’ll fuck Sherlock. Sherlock’s irresistible. Especially all tied up and waiting like this. But John plays the game anyway, stroking Sherlock’s cheek and drawling, “But I suppose you’ll go mad if I don’t, desperate thing that you are. I’ll just have to make it a little less fun for you...”
A shot of the room in his peripherals gives John an idea. Somehow his cane’s found its way to the other side of the bed—perhaps Sherlock put it there? Who knows. John lets his voice slip darker, much darker, serious and almost growling, and he bites the bottom of Sherlock’s ear hard first. “Maybe I should fuck you with my cane, since you always seem to forget I need it, running off like that. We both know you love it when I spank you with it—maybe you’ll love it plundering that tight ass of yours. How would you like that?” He bites Sherlock’s ear again, and Sherlock attempts to stifle a groan deep in his chest. He tries to give John a weak glare, but his game’s slipping. Maybe he would actually like it. He seems to like everything John does to him, in his own way, even or especially more when it’s new: an experiment.
John’s not really that cruel. Not even this hard. Just horny and a little mad and swept away with it. He wouldn’t, probably couldn’t, but he keeps the game up anyway as he feels his way down Sherlock’s chest, stopping to pinch Sherlock’s nipples enough for him to whimper. Then it’s down his stomach, around his sides, tracing his sharp hipbones. He’s long and lean and too pretty—John enjoys everything he touches. He traces the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers as he asks, “What does that say about me, hm? Are you getting all sort of clues about my character?” He finds Sherlock’s fly and works it down, snickering. “When we first met, could you tell by looking at me that I’d want to fuck your pretty ass with my cane?” Sherlock looks like he has some clever retort, always does, but none of it can come out. It’s adorable, in a way.
When the fly’s open, John pushes down Sherlock’s trousers, right down his thighs, as far as John can reach. The underwear goes with it. His hand slides back up to Sherlock’s cock, and he hovers over Sherlock on one elbow while he squeezes Sherlock’s long shaft, relishing the sharp moan it elicits. Sherlock’s rock hard already, almost as hard as John is. John laughs once, then croons, “Look how hard you are from all that cane talk. I told you you were a naughty thing. What kind of man wants to be fucked with something hard and unforgiving?” This kiss goes right in between Sherlock’s eyes. He lowers his mouth to Sherlock’s ear to add, “You’re not a man, Sherlock. You’re a bitch. My bitch.” Sherlock doesn’t seem to care—he tries to thrust his crotch further up into John’s hand. Practically an order.
He’s probably not going to last much longer. Either of them. With a final look at Sherlock’s precious face, bitten and sore and forced open, John sits up. Sherlock protests as soon as John’s hand slips away from his cock, but John ignores it. He lifts up on his knees and grabs Sherlock’s shoulder, and he hauls Sherlock up onto his side, then pushes him down, shuffling over. Sherlock jerks sharply in his chains, maybe to fight it, maybe to help. Either way, he ends up on his stomach, and John shuffles lower to sit on his thighs. This is another of Sherlock’s many great angles.
Sherlock’s ass is firm and taut, gorgeous, inviting. The purple shirt cuts off the top, and John shoves that all the way up, exposing as much of Sherlock’s elegant back as possible. His face is turned in the pillows, hazy, half-lidded eyes trying to look back at John. John puts one hand on the small of his back and runs it up his spine, just to see him shiver.
It’s a shame John still hasn’t trained Sherlock enough to have Sherlock come to him prepared, all lubed up and stretch. The thought of Sherlock fingering himself makes John’s cock strain against his still-fastened trousers. He knows it’s because Sherlock wants to be fucked raw, thinks he can take it. ...John’s not that kind of master.
He only has to stretch a little bit off Sherlock to reach the drawer—the top one—where lube’s always ready. John doesn’t bother to shut the drawer again. He practically rips the lid off the bottle, and then he’s pouring an ample amount right over Sherlock’s crack, loving the way the cold ooze makes Sherlock squirm. He caps the bottle and tosses it aside, and he grabs both of Sherlock’s cheeks to pry them apart, watching the lube drip down between them. John gets one good luck at Sherlock’s tiny, puckered hole before the lube’s drizzling over it, making it shimmer a brighter pink.
Sherlock wriggles his ass. Always impatient. Or just wants a reaction. John slaps one cheek and ignores him. John doesn’t start in until he’s had a good look, and then it’s just one finger, the blunt tip swirling around to make sure it’s nice and slick. It takes a bit of rubbing to be able to pop inside, and Sherlock’s ass clamps down on him immediately.
John slaps him again in lieu of an order; Sherlock moans and tries to loosen. It’s difficult to decide between staring at his flushed face or his twitching ass, but John figures he gets enough of Sherlock’s face all day. (Even if it’s never drenched in an emotional reaction like it is now.) He watches the way his own finger slides up inside Sherlock, slow and careful, following the natural angle that Sherlock’s ass seems to take him on. He waits until he’s all the way to the knuckle, and then he lightly pistons in and out, getting the tight hole used to him. By the time he’s pulling out to add a second finger, Sherlock’s thighs are nearly trembling. John has to go quicker—he doesn’t want to come in his pants before they even start.
Sherlock needs at least three fingers, pulled apart and tested, before John bothers with his own fly. He hates having to pull out of Sherlock, but he needs both hands, one for the zipper and one to get the lube again. He doesn’t bother pushing his trousers down, just pulls his cock out, coats it, and pumps it once. He can feel Sherlock straining to look backwards at it. John forces himself not to look at Sherlock’s face now; it’ll just make him want to climb up the mattress and fuck Sherlock’s mouth instead, which would put all his work on Sherlock’s ass to waste.
Sherlock’s ass lifts again the moment John’s done, clearly tired of being empty. The way his hole drips a bit of clear liquid down to his balls makes John swear under his breath; some days he really can’t believe his life’s amounted to this. Yeah, it’s hell half the time, living in a cramped mess with a sociopath, but he gets to fuck that ass, so that makes him pretty damn lucky.
As soon as the tip of John’s cock is pressing against Sherlock, Sherlock tries to move back onto it, and John has to growl, “Stop it,” and slap him again. Naturally, Sherlock doesn’t listen. John has to use one hand to grab Sherlock’s hip and keep the other at the base of his cock, guiding it in. The head pops inside, and Sherlock moans, handcuffs rattling as his fists tighten and his head slides back along the pillow. John loses his own breath—so tight already. He still wonders if Sherlock was a virgin before him. Probably. He teases Sherlock about being easy, but he’s only that way for John’s.
John gets halfway in and drops back to his elbow, hovering over Sherlock’s back and adjusting to the new angle. Sherlock’s ass tries to curve up to accommodate him. John grunts, “So good,” and buries his face in Sherlock’s chocolate hair. It smells musky like it hasn’t been washed recently enough, and that just makes John want to bathe Sherlock, see Sherlock wet, and his cock slides faster. He thinks he can hear Sherlock smirk at his comment.
Once John’s all the way in, he doesn’t have the control to do this slow. This isn’t a slow ‘make love’ day, anyway, it’s a you-dragged-me-all-over-London-and-now I’m-going-to-fuck-your-oversized-brains-out day. Night. He’s going to make Sherlock too exhausted to go anywhere. He squeezes Sherlock’s hip and grabs a chunk of Sherlock’s hair, dropping his whole weight onto Sherlock’s body. Sherlock moans again—John knows he likes being crushed under John more than he’ll admit. He tries to meet John’s first thrust, but John holds him down and won’t let him.
The first one is brutal: a harsh slam as deep as John can get, complete with a feral growl and another bite to Sherlock’s ear. He jerks halfway out, and the next thrust isn’t any nicer. Sherlock’s slicked channel parts under the force, so tight and so warm. There’s a certain kind of suction, like Sherlock’s trying to suck him in further, trying to hold on tight. Maybe he is. John slams in again, working into a quick, steady pace. He doesn’t give Sherlock any room to breathe. He’s breathing hard himself already, the pleasure instantly exquisite. He takes several thrusts for himself before he bothers with angles, shifting around on Sherlock’s back and trying different spots. He doesn’t settle until he hears Sherlock scream, head jerking back and jaw biting around the gag. Even muffled, the sound’s gorgeous. Everything about Sherlock is. John makes sure to hit that same spot every time.
Maybe if he were younger, not new, exactly, but before the war and his limp and being tired, he could do this all night. He often wishes he could. Each thrust is better than the last, working John quickly up into a heady sort of autopilot: in, out, in, out, over and over, as hard as he can and with everything in him. His whole body focuses in on just his cock, the very idea of being inside Sherlock making his blood boil. Sherlock squirming like he loves it is just bonus. Icing on the cake. John’s eyebrows knit together in that perfect mix of pleasure-pain, wondering through it if he should let Sherlock go. He loves those long fingers on his body, those shapely lips trying to kiss him. He wants to hear Sherlock scream properly. Sherlock’s voice is sex itself—he wants to hear it break and crack in the throws of it all.
He wants to fuck Sherlock so hard that Sherlock won’t be able to move in the morning, won’t be able to putter off to document tobacco shavings or shoot at the wall. He opens his mouth and wants to tell Sherlock that he won’t ever be able to leave; John’s going to lock him up and hold him tight and turn him into some debauched sex slave chained to John’s bed. Never to go anywhere. Not get into any trouble. Never mind that sometimes John likes that. Sherlock should never go anywhere but right here, in their bed, in the bed John’s made his own, crushed down beneath John and unable to beg for mercy. John puts all of these wants, all of these shameful daydreams, into his hips, and he fucks Sherlock with a lion’s vigor. It gives him a rush he hasn’t had since the war—the forbidden, shameful victory of thoroughly dominating someone. And all Sherlock can do is writhe beneath him, loving every second.
John knows Sherlock’s getting close before he is. Sherlock has less experience, never bothers to hide it, probably never sees why he should, starts to squirm desperately and tries to growl through his gag. John hisses a, “Shut up,” he doesn’t really mean. He’s losing himself too. He pulls himself up and makes his next thrust last, grinding down against Sherlock’s bare ass, warm and ripe beneath him. “It’s not too late for me to switch to the cane...” Sherlock growls again: a dare to the hollow threat. John couldn’t pull out now if he wanted to. Moriarty could burst right into the room, and John wouldn’t stop until he and Sherlock were both spent in the pillows, clinging to each other and covered in cum.
Sherlock covered in cum. The thought of that, the memory of all the times that’s happened, makes John moan. Sherlock makes a noise again, nearly sobs. John has to force himself to concentrate, to take pity. He snakes one hand around Sherlock’s hip, beneath Sherlock’s body, tight against the mattress. His thrusts make Sherlock’s hips bounce up and down in his palm. He cups Sherlock’s hard cock, and he purrs into Sherlock’s ear, “Want me to jerk you off? Is that what you want?” Sherlock nods furiously, hair already sweat-matted and mussing up in the pillow. He can practically hear Sherlock screaming damnit, John, do it.
He’s can’t say no to that face, even if he does want to punch it sometimes. He tightens his grip around Sherlock’s thick shaft, and he immediately starts stroking in time with his own thrusts, letting Sherlock’s hips slam up to meet him. Sherlock tries to ride him and John fucks him hard into the mattress, pumping him mercilessly. Sherlock’s eyes are half-lidded, half their normal alertness, dilated and seeming to glow. Stray strands of dark hair are slicked around his face, cheeks pink. He looks fucking edible. John sets to marking him, scattering teeth marks everywhere and drinking all of Sherlock’s winces and moans. Sherlock’s trembling all around him. All control outside the bedroom, none of it here. Getting close, so close. John stops biting long enough to growl, “Come for your master, Sherlock.” Sherlock shivers; that’s it.
A split second of rigidity, and Sherlock’s shrieking through his gag, ass spasming around John’s cock and tip exploding in John’s fingers. John keeps pumping him, keeps fucking him, presses into the back of Sherlock’s neck and soaks it all in. Then he grabs Sherlock’s dick suddenly, holding it tight and firm, and he uses his other hand to hurriedly unclip the gag, pulling it out and tossing it aside. Sherlock splutters and nearly chokes, and John kisses his cheek and pumps him again. Somehow, hearing him struggle for air like that, seeing his mouth wide open and wet with pent up saliva, hearing his orgasm pure in the air, makes John nearly black out with the pleasure. Sometimes he wonders what that says about him. He should ask. He likes to see Sherlock struggle. But he likes to see Sherlock come, too. Sherlock tilts his neck and rasps, “John.”
And that’s all John can take. He grabs a chunk of dark hair and jerks Sherlock around, darting down to awkwardly slam their mouths together, right as he slams inside Sherlock’s ass. He plunges his tongue in and their teeth scrape and their noses are bumping, and John’s arms wrap around Sherlock tight, holding them together while he comes. He didn’t use a condom, never does with Sherlock. Probably should, but it’s too late now, and he likes filling Sherlock up too much. He keeps rutting and then stops to grind, pouring it out and pounding it in. He has to break the kiss just to breathe—he’s seeing stars.
A minute later, he’s spent, worn and panting, and his cock’s still encased. Sherlock clenches once, mumbling something indistinguishable. John leans his sweaty forehead against Sherlock’s cheek, catching his breath. John’s still stretched out along Sherlock’s back. He doesn’t want to leave.
He has to, though, at some point. Sherlock’s delicate wrists look pretty with their little red rings from jerking in their bonds, but Sherlock’s not built to be a prisoner. A doll, perhaps, but not in chains. John grunts and sits up on his elbow, reaching up to play with the locking mechanism. Given some time, Sherlock could probably figure out how to twist enough to get them off himself, but he wouldn’t do that; it’d ruin the point. He waits lazily for John to do it, to free him. The handcuffs go the way of John’s sweater and the gag: tossed somewhere else.
Sherlock moves out from under him instantly, curling up to his side instead. Sherlock’s knees draw up around him, trousers still half down, and Sherlock’s one arm grabs at his back, the other fishing to find the blankets rumpled at the side of the bed. A complete shift in tone. Now Sherlock’s a child sidling up to him. John helps pull the blankets up and over. The lamp’s a bit harder to reach, and John doesn’t bother until he’s had a good look at Sherlock’s face, laboured but pleasured. The light goes off, and the window’s a tiny panel of moonlight that barely reaches the foot of the bed.
John curls himself back around Sherlock, coming back to himself. He always wants to say sorry after, be sheepish and different. But he’s too tired and knows Sherlock doesn’t want to hear it. Sherlock drawls a slow, “Good night, John.” Like none of this ever happened; he enjoyed himself and is already over it, completely unaffected by the roughness, the brutality. His deep voice makes John shudder; he missed that.
He asks without meaning to, slower and in a low whisper, “What can you deduce about me from the way we fuck?”
There’s a pause. Then a quiet chuckle, one John can feel shaking Sherlock’s bared chest even though his still-on shirt.
Sherlock says simply, “That you love me.”
John smiles. “Extraordinary.” Sherlock always is.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
John can feel Sherlock’s smirk against his cheek. He kisses it once and settles in to sleep.