Hospitalized
TW VERY SLIGHT DUBCON BLOWJOBS MENTIONS OF INJURIES AND A FIGHT
"Ow! OW! Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?", John whispers as he looks down at himself, his arm in a sling, bruises all over, lying in a bed.
He had been hospitalized after a fierce fight with a suspect, he had been about double John's weight and loomed over him, about what also felt like twice John's height. In the end Sherlock had shot him from behind, and John wasn't sure where he'd gotten the gun, but he was immensely grateful that he had found it and shot the attacker. Otherwise John might not look as alive as he did now, even though there were injuries and bruises all over. His left wrist had been broken, the right severely bruised when his attacker had slammed them against the concrete floor. Both his eyes were black, and his lip split, his midriff was sprinkled with all sizes of bruises, some of which were blue and black, others green and yellow. The brute who had John pinned had nearly also shattered John's right kneecap, the way he'd sat down on him, crashing his whole weight on top of him.
Now he was lying in the hospital bed, in the dark, and he was awoken by the feeling of his gown being pushed up to his navel, revealing some of his darkening bruises. Sherlock looked up at him from where he was kneeling between John's legs, mischief glimmering in his eye. "I want to make it up to you that I came late to the rescue." John gasped when he felt Sherlock's hot hand encircle his now quickly swelling cock. Languidly stroking Sherlock grinned at John, who was panting, lips parted. "You can't - fuck - we can't, we're in the bloody hospital Sherlo - OH FUCK!" His protest was cut off by Sherlock's lips sealing over the head of John's cock, and the feeling of how his clever tongue flicked against the slit. Wide eyed John was lying there, lolling his head from side to side, moaning. Normally he would tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair, urging him to go faster, to take him deeper, but not tonight. With his left arm in the sling, his wrist in a cast and his right bandaged lying on his side, he had no way of helping Sherlock along. Even as he tried to lift his right hand, he gasped at the pain, and quickly lay it back on the mattress. "God damn you Sherlock -", Sherlock took him all the way into his mouth, and John writhed, and arched into the touch, inhaling sharply as much with pain as with pleasure, when Sherlock's hands pushed down on his bruised hips to keep him still.
Incoherent words spilled from John, as he closed his eyes, trying to get more of the delicious hot wet heat around him, and whenever he wanted to curse Sherlock for going torturously slow, he would lick a long stripe up the underside of John's throbbing length, silencing his protest and turning them into whimpers and moans instead.
The pain was a strange enhancement of the pleasure, and he was sure that no rope or cuff would have kept him in place as much as his injuries did. The feeling of pained helplessness made him whine as Sherlock bobbed his head quickly now, hollowing is cheeks.
John had no time to think about how mortified they both would be if a nurse or a doctor entered the room catching them at it.
He had long given up to ask Sherlock to either stop or go faster, his eyes were unfocused, as was his tongue unable to produce the right sounds to create actual words.
With a gentle tug and roll of John's balls he came, strangling a moan, trying to not to cry out and alert the whole hospital staff. He twitched and groaned as Sherlock kept him in his mouth, bobbing slowly, swallowing John's come, eradicating any evidence that could have told the truth of what had happened that night, in that hospital bed.
-purrlockholmes
