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It's hardly the most questionable piece of wall John Watson has ever found himself pressed up against, the brick rough against his back and long-fingered hands groping fervently at his arse. At least there's less rubbish about, no threat of hidden explosives, and most importantly, no sand or grit, because those damn grains get everywhere.
But the handcuffs are new. As is hiding from the police, though the feeling is remarkably similar to hiding from: 1) criminals, 2) various elements designated by the British Army to be the enemy, and 3) Mycroft's people.
His too-loud, "oh fuck, Sherlock, not here" is not new, either.
"People might talk," Sherlock agrees, and then goes back to applying that clever, clever tongue to the undefended skin of John's neck.
The gun they'd lifted from the now-dead hitman is very happy to see him, bumping against his thigh from Sherlock's coat pocket. He thinks, at least it's not as bulky as a rifle, and realises that his alcoholic sister may have a point about his life choices.
He tries to steer things back on course. "Shouldn't we be-?"
Sherlock gives him a rebuking nip, presumably for interrupting. "Kitty Reilly is on the eve of releasing an article that will change her career. She will be working late tonight, and won't be returning home for at least two more hours. From here, it will only take us twenty minutes to get to her address and break in."
John can feel the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, close together as they are, and Sherlock's voice has taken on the husky tone he always gets when he's aroused. John, mired in lust and the gorgeous pressure of Sherlock's lean body all down his front, takes far too long to process the actual words; he eventually responds with a breathless, "Oh, right," though from the snort of derision he gets, he might as well not have bothered.
Sherlock sucks a line up John's neck. John's skin doesn't mark as easily as Sherlock's, which Sherlock eagerly takes advantage of. John tilts his head to give him better access. He reaches up to grab at Sherlock's hair, but only half-succeeds, and several seconds pass before he can recall why there is a ring of metal around his right wrist.
"Bloody 'cuffs," he grumbles. His left hand sinks into Sherlock’s hair, fingers carding through the curls. He feels the shape of Sherlock's skull. Sherlock makes an approving noise when John gently massages his scalp. John hides a smile, and lightly grips a section of hair. Sherlock resists for a second, then allows John to direct his mouth to a patch of skin under John's left ear.
A bit of suction, a bit of John's flesh between Sherlock's teeth, and John lets out a low moan, hips shamelessly jerking against the pressure of Sherlock's upper thigh. Sherlock automatically grabs at John’s sides, and the unexpected pull at an odd angle causes John’s elbow to bang against the wall.
“Damn it, Sherlock,” John hisses, “you can’t just keep moving however you like. We’re taking these handcuffs off as soon as possible.”
Sherlock chuckles, nosing at John’s ear. "But John, from your internet history, plus that case with the amnesiac milliner, I’d have thought you’d welcome the opportunity to try out restraints." He lifts his left hand and places it on the wall above John's shoulder, pulling John's right hand up with it. A slow smile spreads over that pale face, and the look in his eyes makes John shiver. "Now. I do believe that you are my hostage."
Suddenly, the gun is in Sherlock's free hand. John glances at it, to check that the safety catch is still on. It shouldn't surprise him, nothing should surprise him at this point - but he still lets out a soft gasp when Sherlock touches the weapon to John’s cheek, traces the line of his jaw with the top of the slide. The metal is smooth and cool against the skin of his neck, highlighting the parts which are still sensitive from Sherlock's earlier attentions, the faint imprints of Sherlock's mouth.
"You're worried for your safety," Sherlock continues, his deep voice pouring the words directly into John's ear. "You’re handcuffed to a fugitive. You don't know how stable I am. People act in unpredictable ways when they feel cornered."
John shivers again, and doesn't bother pointing out that, even with most of his blood detouring south, he can still think of at least three ways to disarm Sherlock and reverse their positions. He licks his lips, says, "I try to reason with you. But I haven't got any money, or anything that can be useful to you right now, and we both know it." He pulls at his cuffed hand, a token effort at attempting to escape.
Sherlock shoves him hard, pushing his thigh between John's legs and pinning him against the wall. "You’d do anything to ensure your safety," Sherlock growls. Voice dropping even lower, “You know what I want, John.”
He aims the gun at John's chest - no, at his shoulder. The barrel presses into the mound of scar tissue, unseen under John's layers of clothing. It is unquestionably deliberate, because of course Sherlock knows exactly where John's scars are, and the unyielding touch of a loaded gun on the exact place where a bullet had torn through John's flesh sends John's insides tumbling, a rush of something dark and sharp and vicious.
John is impossibly, breathlessly hard, more than he’s ever been before.
"On your knees," Sherlock orders. Considerately, he lowers their cuffed hands. John's right arm, mostly forgotten at this point, is beset by a swarm of pins and needles.
He sinks down. Sherlock shifts back slightly onto his heels, not even a step; John's back scrapes against rough brick as he lowers himself to kneeling, and his face ends up only inches away from Sherlock's crotch. The distance becomes even less when Sherlock shuffles forward again so that his shoes are on either side of John's knees.
Sherlock's hand hovers over his own abdomen, dragging John's hand with it. John takes the hint and efficiently undoes Sherlock's belt. He can feel how hard Sherlock is, brushes his fingers over the bulge straining the cloth. The smell of musk and sweat and arousal fills up his nose, chasing out the night air and the skip they'd passed earlier. Saliva builds up in his mouth. Sherlock's coat flares out on either side of him, closing him in and partially obscuring him from view.
"Open," Sherlock says tersely. Like John isn't literally panting for it. The gun brushes down the side of John's face, the nub of the front sight catching on the tip of his ear. John dutifully parts his lips. Sherlock stares down at him, devouring John with his eyes. There is the slightest moment of hesitation, not in Sherlock's body but in the movement of the gun, and John makes the connection between the weapon and the pale gaze fixated on his open mouth.
It's loaded, he thinks; he's clearly not averse to gunplay but he wouldn't trust his own steady doctor's hands for something like this. He should tell Sherlock to take out the bullets, or do it himself, and then they can do whatever they want.
Except, he doesn't say anything. The knowledge lodges under his skin: that he would let Sherlock do it, one more stupid risk after the marathon that is the last year and a half.
Sherlock sees. His cock twitches, along with the muscles in his legs and abdomen, and John hears the shift in his breathing. The gun doesn't move towards John's mouth, though. Instead, Sherlock uses the butt of the magazine on John's left shoulder to nudge John closer towards the erection John has uncovered.
John lets out a long, ragged breath over the delicate skin, teasing the exposed glans with a light kiss before taking Sherlock into his mouth. He can feel the flush on his own face, and not from the blowjob. Somehow, Sherlock has decided that knowing John would let him stick a loaded gun into his mouth is good enough to forgo actually doing it. Sherlock has willingly introduced experimental substances into John’s food and drink in order to observe their effects. John’s not sure what this means, except maybe, unbelievably: sentiment.
He shelves the thoughts, for now. Sherlock’s cock is no thicker than John’s, but slightly longer, and John can only get half of him in. He teases for a bit, licks and laves at the hot length of flesh until it’s nicely wet with his saliva. When he starts to suck in earnest, he uses a combination of his mouth and his free hand. He is dimly aware that the angle is awkward and the hard wall is right behind his head and this position is killing his knees, but those details matter as little as the police scouring the city for them and criminal organizations converging on their flat. He tightens his lips around the shaft in the way he knows Sherlock likes, and his fingers drops light, teasing touches over the tender sacs below. The trickle of precome over his tongue only makes John salivate even more.
"That's it," Sherlock whispers. John tugs on his right hand until Sherlock grudgingly allows his left hand to follow the movement, and rests his hand on Sherlock's hip, feels the muscles there twitching with the effort of not thrusting forward. He casts his gaze upwards and raises an eyebrow, thinking, awfully considerate for a hostage-taker. He places the other hand on Sherlock's hip as well, and loosens his jaw as much as he can, though it’s starting to ache. Sherlock either reads his mind or just interprets the nonverbal cue.
Sherlock's first thrust is shallow, testing. John isn't used to this at all but knows how to keep still, how to relax some muscles and maintain tension in others. He lets out an approving moan at the second thrust. Saliva and precome mix in his mouth and he doesn’t stop them from trickling out, down his chin and all over Sherlock's prick.
There's a scuffling sound from the direction of the main street. They're not in plain view, precisely, hidden by the way the front half of the building they're having sex against juts out a little; but someone walking down the alley would certainly see them.
What little light manages to reach their hiding place is cut off; darkness envelopes him. John blinks and turns his head as much as he can with Sherlock's cock still stuffing his mouth. He realizes that Sherlock has pulled his coat further over him. With the length of the material and being sandwiched between Sherlock and the wall, the only visible parts of John are his knees and lower legs.
The possibility of discovery doesn't put Sherlock off at all. If anything, he gets into a rhythm - slow and devastating, pushing his cock into John's mouth a hair's breadth shy of too much. Exhibitionist, John thinks fondly.
"I should have had you do this every time we had a run-in with Scotland Yard," Sherlock murmurs. A stranger would find his voice as steady as ever, but John can hear the edge of breathlessness, the slowness with which he’s forming his words. "Or back at the flat. Get an absurd desk like Mycroft's and have you service me while we interview new clients."
There have been times when John would have willingly gone to such lengths rather than have to diplomatically refuse yet another case that Sherlock had found too boring.
The ache in his jaw is definitely making itself known, so John brings his tongue into play, adding pressure to the underside of the shaft on the inward slide, flicking over the head as Sherlock pulls out.
"Oh God, John," gasps Sherlock. His hips stutter, the rhythm breaking. John can tell he's getting close. His thrusts turn shallow and fast; he fucks John's mouth with single-minded intensity. John’s heartbeat is loud in his ears and the air is thick within the confines of Sherlock's coat; his face is wet and he feels like he's drowning and at the same time he's floating above it all, buoyed up by soft heat and his name broken down by Sherlock's voice.
One last thrust, hard and too deep, or it would have been except John knows how Sherlock is and uses his grip on his hips to keep him from driving forward too far. Sherlock lets out a wordless gasp, head thrown back to expose the sweet line of his neck. John swallows and swallows. His mouth is still thick with Sherlock’s come when he’s pulled up by his shackled wrist. His legs don't want to work, but there's a wall to take his weight and hands pulling at his trousers.
The first firm, perfect stroke of Sherlock's fingers bring him back into himself. He almost shouts out "Sherlock!" except Sherlock's tongue gets in the way by invading his mouth. Sherlock hums and licks the taste of himself from John's gums, teeth, the inside of his cheeks.
Sherlock switches to their handcuffed hands. John dazedly takes account of the number of hands on his person and realizes that Sherlock is no longer holding the gun. He locates the familiar weight and shape of it back in the coat pocket. While John was distracted, Sherlock had wrapped John's right hand around his own achingly hard cock, and draped his long fingers over both.
John groans in relief and starts thrusting into the channel formed by their hands. The chain of the handcuffs bumps against his balls. It's good, gorgeous, as surreal and unexpected as he's come to expect anything to do with Sherlock Holmes. John tries to catch his breath, and fails, because Sherlock is busy licking the mess off John's chin. John dips his face and steals another kiss from Sherlock's lips.
It takes him an embarrassingly short time to come. He accidentally bites down on Sherlock's tongue to keep from shouting; a high, helpless moan still escapes. Sherlock just pushes him against the wall and strokes him through the aftershocks; he's pretty sure he's going to have bruises all down his back.
A handkerchief materializes out of nowhere and wipes him down. John unabashedly clings to the wall. His legs are still being recalcitrant. Sherlock tucks himself back in, then does the same for John.
"You know," John says, face tipped up towards the sky. He considers saying something ridiculous about seeing stars despite London's brightness blanking out the sky, but he suspects Sherlock will throw the soiled handkerchief at him. "Normal people have sex indoors. On beds. With restraints that are not meant for criminals."
"Oh, John," and a light kiss, as affectionate as Sherlock gets. "You're wasted on normal people."
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