#johnlocknsfw

John backs away from his mate, maintaining eye contact. Sherlock sighs loudly. “John. You can be so melodramatic. What exactly is the problem?”

John’s eyes go wide. He gets a strong urge to hit his friend in the mouth. He is baffled by Sherlock’s sudden sexuality, he is confused by his own torrent of feelings, and he is especially annoyed that his erection is painfully rigid and half-exposed.

“The problem, Sherlock,” John yells as he re-adjusts his pants and fastens his trousers, “is that you are a complete prick!”

“Hmmm.”

“I AM NOT one of your bloody experiments, Sherlock! What was tonight all about?”

Sherlock eyes him calmly. “John, I’ve told you,“ he explains, casually buttoning up his fly. “We went undercover as a couple to solve a case about allegedly bad drugs. Once I asked the bartender one pertinent question I discovered that the case is pedestrian in nature, therefore boring, and hence, a complete waste of time. As for ‘everything else,’ as you put it, I believe you were a completely willing participant. Am I wrong?”

John has no idea what to say. Hurt, embarrassed, and bloody well confused, he turns and walks away from Sherlock. He strides straight to the door of the club, pivots right, and starts walking briskly towards the university rugby house. It is a ferociously cold night in London, but John is so hot he is literally steaming. His head is a jumbled mess, and he isn’t nearly drunk enough to handle the implications of his actions tonight.

The lads at rugby house SHOULD have been exactly what he needed to push the image of leather-clad Sherlock out of his head. After drinking six generous glasses of whiskey and flirting with every girl in the house that night, somehow he still can’t stop thinking about the smoky sweet taste of Sherlock’s mouth, the way it felt to be pressed against him, that bloody black lace.

***

When John eventually finds his way home, it is almost four in the morning. It takes a few tries to get his key into the lock, and when he stumbles upstairs he nearly falls through the flat door. To his surprise, Sherlock is awake, and in the living room.

He doesn’t look up as John enters . His nose is crinkled in disgust as he watches telly, legs akimbo. His hair is wet and pushed to one side, and he is scowling and rolling his eyes. He is wearing gunmetal grey silk pyjama pants and a long, black robe. His chest is bare, and there are droplets of water drying on his smooth, pale skin. John just stares, fuming silently for what feels like an hour. At the commercial break, Sherlock looks up.

“You left just when the evening was becoming interesting.”

John runs his fingers through his hair, exasperated. He tries to think of how best to explain his hurt and anger, but before he can even speak a word, Sherlock pre-empts him –

“You ARE overreacting, you know.”

“The hell I am!”

“If you’d only listen to reason…”

“Oh, fuck off!”

Sherlock stands and takes a step toward John.

“Excessive vulgarity is often a crutch to a poor vocabulary…”

The admonition is barely out of Sherlock’s mouth when John launches a huge right hook. The punch connects solidly with Sherlock’s left cheekbone. Sherlock reels, but isn’t knocked off of his feet.

Sherlock raises his hand to his cheek and admires the blood shining bright red on his fingertips. “I know you are angry with me and I am sorry. You are angry because I have made you realize something about yourself tonight, something that makes you incredibly uncomfortable. You cannot reconcile this new information with your ego. Your sexuality has been called into question and…”

This time, John jabs with his left and hits Sherlock in the left eye socket. His knuckles break skin on his brow line and the bridge of his nose. Sherlock grimaces, cocks his head to the side, and surveys the damage in the mirror by the door.

“You’d better stop that, John. I’m starting to like it.”

“I am warning you, Sherlock…”

“Just admit you’re attracted to me, John.” They lock eyes. “I was as shocked as you were about your rather intense response to my proffered sexual stimuli. I admit that I was initially clinically curious about your potential reaction, but then your enthusiasm produced feelings in me that I can only describe as…blatantly sexual.” Sherlock wiped some blood from his eye. “Your obvious lust and your jealousy stirred something inside me, John.”

Sherlock raised his bloodied fingers to his face and ran them along his lips. It was perverse and bewitching, and John was now painfully rock-hard.

“You know I don’t typically enjoy strong emotion, so I have been unsuccessfully trying to distract myself with terrible television. Likewise, the cold shower I took was most uncomfortable as well as unhelpful. You have obviously tried to drink your feelings away with…” Sherlock sniffed the air. “Scotch. No – whiskey. Let me ask you – did it work?”

Sherlock’s eyes have warmed, and his arms start to reach for John’s waist. Before he makes contact, John seizes his wrists and slams them roughly above their heads, into the wall.

“Listen here, you arrogant twat,” he spits, “You think you know everything about everything, but when it comes to sex, I am the sodding expert. If you think I am going to stand here and listen to a lecture from you of all people about EMOTIONS and FEELINGS, you can go straight to hell.” John presses his engorged cock against Sherlock’s thigh. “But if you think you could shut the fuck up for one bloody minute maybe I could communicate exactly what I am feeling right now.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open, and then abruptly shuts. John releases his wrists, and Sherlock again opens his mouth to speak.

“Shut up, Sherlock. I won’t tell you again.” John hooks his fingers under the black robe and suddenly it is pooled on the floor.

John reaches for the pull-string of Sherlock’s pyjamas. As Sherlock opens his mouth to speak again, before he can manage a single syllable, John grabs him around the middle and carries him to the couch. He bends Sherlock over his lap, and delivers a resounding smack to his arse. Sherlock protests and John slaps him again, harder.

“Are you quite finished, Sherlock?” Smack. “No?” Smack. John is punctuating his sentences with painful spankings, and Sherlock’s whole body tenses with each hit. “You always seem to have something to say.” Smack!

Sherlock tries to squirm away from John’s grip. Smack! Smack! Smack! Three hits in quick succession and Sherlock’s whole body is convulsing. At first John thinks he’s crying, but Sherlock is actually giggling uncontrollably.

“Funny, am I?” Smack! “Well, as we are having SUCH a jolly time…” John pulls Sherlock’s pyjamas down to his knees and rains a volley of hits all over his arse and thighs. Sherlock’s skin is rapidly turning pink, then red, and John can feel Sherlock’s erection growing against his leg.

“You are absolutely loving this!” laughs John as he continues his steady stream of lust-fueled violence. “You are such a little whore, Sherlock! Fantastic!” Sherlock struggles to get away, but he can’t get any purchase. Even though Sherlock has a distinct reach advantage, John is simply too strong.

When he feels Sherlock has had enough, he pushes him off of his lap and into a smarting heap on the floor. The prone Sherlock is still for a few seconds, then attempts to pull his pants over his painful, pink arse.

“What the fuck do you think YOU’RE doing?” John’s voice stops Sherlock cold. “That arse is staying visible and accessible, have you got that, Sherlock? Now, lie on your stomach and put your hands behind your head.” To John’s great pleasure, Sherlock does exactly what he’s told. John fetches the black silk belt from Sherlock’s robe and uses it to bind his slender wrists. “Now, take those pyjamas all the way off.” Sherlock again follows John’s directions, awkwardly using his bound hands to complete his task while trying to avoid sitting on his very sore bottom. When he’s done, John orders him to kneel.

John’s cock is at Sherlock’s eye level, and Sherlock is fascinated. He cannot look away. John has never seen lust so blatantly etched on a face before, and it is an insane turn-on.

“Now, open that mouth, but keep your tongue still or I promise I will use something much more painful than a hand for your next round of punishment. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nods, still staring, and obediently turns his head up and opens his mouth. John takes his aching cock into his right hand, and places the left on the back of Sherlock’s head. He runs the tip of his cock over Sherlock’s lips, back and forth. Sherlock’s lips are a soft as a girl’s and John moans slightly. He slowly pushes the head of his cock into Sherlock’s mouth.

“Keep looking at me,” orders John. “I want you to see exactly how you make me feel.” Sherlock is now tentatively touching John’s cock with the tip of his tongue, and his bound hands have found John’s thighs. John starts moving his cock in and out of Sherlock’s mouth and he is amazed at how much skill this apparent novice has. He allows himself to slip farther and farther into Sherlock’s wet mouth.