Chapter Text
Cinnamon. It had sounded so broken and desperate in that moment, and Sherlock's stomach roiled at the memory. But John hadn't fled, and that could only mean this, this arrangement, wasn't broken beyond repair. It could be fixed. Sherlock could fix it — if John would let him. Would John let him?
John took a deep breath and exhaled smoothly, and continued to stare up at the ceiling. Sherlock's gaze raked over his face, searching for clues. Was he angry? There was no unconscious tension in the usual places. His cheeks were pinker than usual, but that could be an aftereffect of sexual arousal rather than an indication of anger. His shoulders were slumped, but not from frustration or exasperation. He wasn't looking at Sherlock, but he wasn't obviously avoiding him. He seemed to be thinking, trying to decide what to do next.
He had every right to be livid, to say no, we're done, that was too much. But that would have happened by now, wouldn't it? Perhaps the fact that John was taking his time was a positive sign. Or perhaps it meant he was trying to find a way to break bad news gently. (That was something John would think needed doing.)
Fuck. Sherlock's stomach twisted at the thought. It was all he could do not to fidget, to demand John's attention. He could only wait until John was ready, and it was wretched. He focused on his own breathing, then on the lights strung on the far wall (LED, recently replaced, a bit bright for the space, hard to look at, even) and oh God why was this taking so long?
At last, John opened his mouth and hesitated a terrifying moment more before saying, "I'm sorry." He looked down at the fleece blanket with a strangely flustered expression.
Sherlock blinked. That wasn't what he'd expected at all, and it took a full second for him to wade through his own adrenaline and respond. "No, don't be sorry. That's exactly what the safeword was for."
John was apologizing. Why was John apologizing? It had all been Sherlock's doing, his own fault for choosing a random idiot from the message boards — Christ, what was he thinking? He should have screened these potential partners much more thoroughly. John deserved better.
John pressed his forehead into his knees, and Sherlock clenched the blanket hard to stop himself from reaching out for him. John had responded well to a small touch before, but his body was still closed off, turned in on itself, all the signs that usually meant stay away. Would a hand on his arm be acceptable? Sherlock's fingers twitched against the blanket. Why was this so difficult to navigate? He knew John. He was supposed to know what John liked, what John needed. That's how it was meant to work; that was his job here.
After a moment, John sighed and looked up again, eyes slightly unfocused. Just as Sherlock was about to break the silence out of sheer frustration, John turned to look at him. His eyes were clear and earnest, and Sherlock could barely breathe.
"I should explain."
"If you like. You don't have to." Oh God, please explain. Please.
John's expression became one of surprise. "No, I want to. But first, can we get off the floor?"
Despite the pretense of asking permission, John didn't wait for an answer; he stood and resettled on the sofa, tucking the blanket around him again. Sherlock sat cross-legged on the opposite end of the sofa and turned to face him. John frowned and looked as if he wasn't sure what to say, and Sherlock finally couldn't bear it any longer.
"It was too much, wasn't it?"
"No, it was amazing. I just…" John paused and seemed to be considering his words carefully. "I didn't want him to fuck me."
"Oh." Sherlock waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Could he ask about that? John was usually good about telling him to sod off when he crossed the line, but Sherlock had just directed a stranger to lick, finger, and fuck him. Etiquette was ordinarily difficult for Sherlock to navigate, but in this situation, it was impossible to know where the boundaries might lie.
And what did it mean that John said he didn't want to be fucked? They'd never discussed anal intercourse, but Sherlock had always assumed it was on the table. It hadn't been on the agenda for tonight, and perhaps wouldn't have been for a while, but Sherlock had got caught up in the moment. And that was his big mistake, wasn't it? He'd lost sight of what they were doing, had focused more on what he had wanted than on what John had wanted. There be dragons.
He swallowed. "All right."
"But the rest of it was good. Great, honestly. That thing he did with his tongue was just…" John laughed and the sound was strange, not at all like his usual laugh. Sherlock stared at him, uncertain if John was being honest about this. John was usually a terrible liar, but the signals were crossing now, unreliable.
Best to ask directly. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. I promise. I didn't want him to leave. I just didn't want that."
"Duly noted." Sherlock was still uncertain if he could believe John, but the simplest thing to do at the moment was to accept his words. And then what? Sherlock felt a twist of anxiety. "What do you want to do now?"
John relaxed into the sofa and looked thoughtful for several long seconds. Sherlock had no idea what to make of his hesitation. What was the protocol after one person had used the safeword? He didn't have to sift through his mental files to know he hadn't read anything about that.
John looked up again. "I want to come."
His expression was clear and his voice confident, and it was a full second before Sherlock's brain processed the words. He felt a wave of elation, so strong that he had to bite back an impulse to laugh, to grin manically. John hadn't been put off. He wasn't ready to leave. The experiment wasn't over, and Sherlock hadn't actually fucked it up beyond repair. He allowed himself to smile.
"Good. Go to it then."
"I have to do it myself?"
"Our guest fled when he realized you had safeworded. I could go upstairs and find someone else—" (Sherlock couldn't imagine bringing another person into this right now) "—but the most efficient course of action would be for you to take matters into your own hands. So to speak."
John looked mildly annoyed, but he began touching himself all the same, and just like that, Sherlock felt a spark along his spine. John settled back into his role so easily, so perfectly.
"Will you… talk to me?" John asked, so quietly that Sherlock almost missed it.
The words sank in, and then Sherlock couldn't breathe. John, beautiful John, needing this as much as Sherlock did. It was clear that he enjoyed submitting to Sherlock's direction, but this was the first time he'd asked for it so directly. He felt a rush of affection and gratitude, the combination of which made him nearly giddy. He reined it in, swallowed it down. Yes, he could do this for John. Yes.
"Of course," he said, and pulled the blanket away from John's lap. John's cock was thick again but not yet completely erect. John's fingers wrapped around the base of the shaft, completely still, and he seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to speak. Sherlock exhaled, slowly, trying to bring his heart rate back down. "Slowly, long strokes."
John's face relaxed as he pulled up on the shaft, and he seemed to melt into the sofa. The pad of his thumb lingered on the glans for a moment before he stroked down again, pulling the foreskin down with it. Oh this, this – Sherlock hardly knew where to begin, what to ask for first. He wanted John to take his time, to tease himself, not let himself come until Sherlock let him, until Sherlock ordered him to come. Could he do that?
They were going to be here for a while, so perhaps some lubricant would ease things along. Sherlock scanned the floor and yes, there was a packet there, one that had fallen out of Zhivago's pocket earlier.
"Here, use this."
"Yes," John said, and nearly fell into Sherlock's lap in his haste to snatch it up. Sherlock watched him tear the packet open and then stroke his slick hand upwards again, tighter now. His eyes fell closed and his face went slack, and oh, he was completely bare now, exposed in so many ways. It was delicious and Sherlock wanted even more, wanted to curl up inside John's mind and feel what he was feeling, to understand what this was like. Had this experience affected John's perspective on sex as much as it had Sherlock's own?
Sherlock focused on the movement of John's hand. "What do you think about when you masturbate?"
"Right now I'm thinking about that guy's tongue in my arsehole. Have you ever done that?" Sherlock felt a stab of arousal as the words stirred the memory, and he shook his head. "Neither had I until tonight. God, it was bloody amazing. Add that to your spreadsheet."
Noted. How interesting that John found anal stimulation and penetration with fingers and tongue so very erotic, but had drawn the line at being penetrated with a penis. It was a question he'd ask, but not tonight. He dragged his gaze up to see that John was staring at him.
John's lips curled up just a bit. "What do you think about while you watch?"
Sherlock stared back at him, surprised. John hadn't asked about Sherlock's motivations before. Did he know how much it affected him to watch John like this, to see him give over his body to others so easily, just because Sherlock asked him to do so? Sherlock assumed that he knew – or at least suspected, on some level. But he didn't know what Sherlock fantasized about, the things he thought about when he retreated to his bed after these nights and lay in the dark. Some things were better left as amorphous thoughts, as hints of fantasies, things not to pursue in the light of day. But others…
He looked down again, watched the slow, steady strokes of John's hand, the way the glans disappeared into his fist, over and over. "You're so expressive. You are all the time, but when you're just feeling like that, when you seem to lose yourself in sensation — it's breathtaking."
"Is it?" John stared back at him, heat building in his gaze. "You get off on it, don't you?"
"Yes."
"It gets you hard. You're getting hard now."
Christ. "Yes."
"Care to join me?" John asked, and tossed the packet of lube towards him.
Sherlock inhaled sharply. Yes, he cared, and that was the difficulty, in a nutshell. He cared, and he needed not to have his own tangled, freakish feelings exposed to the light. The more of them John saw, the less willing he would be to continue. It wasn't something Sherlock could take back, once it was out there. It would change everything.
He picked up the packet of lube and pretended to examine the label. On the other hand, John had made it clear that he was uncomfortable with Sherlock keeping his own sexual interests completely separate. He'd been angry when he found out Sherlock had masturbated in private. He was, right now, asking Sherlock to be honest about his own physical response.
It wasn't all that different from the sofa, the first night. It had been fine then. More than fine. Sherlock looked back up at John, and was surprised by the raw desire on his face, in his eyes. He wanted this desperately, was aroused by the idea of watching Sherlock do this. John obviously enjoyed porn, so it was reasonable that he'd find the idea of watching a live sex act erotic.
Sherlock could absolutely give him more of that, on another level of the club. His brain began to spin possibilities, and it took effort to still his thoughts again. Later – tomorrow, perhaps. For now, this would suffice.
But oh God, the idea of doing this in front of another person – in front of John, who was the center of Sherlock's sexual universe – it was momentarily paralyzing. His fingers fumbled at the zip of his trousers, not making any progress for several awkward seconds.
It was John, and John had seen this before. More or less. It was still strange, to expose himself literally and figuratively, to let someone else see this thing that was so very private. He'd only had orgasms with another person a handful of times, and generally under circumstances that were… well. Not like this.
He finally managed to draw down the zip and push his trousers down over his hips, and John went completely still. He watched Sherlock pull his cock from his pants and stroke himself to hardness, mouth open and eyes wide, and he stared at Sherlock's hands, followed the movement with his eyes. His gaze was nearly a physical force, and it was strange to be on the receiving end of it. It was simultaneously erotic and distracting, and it was nearly a minute before Sherlock realized that John was touching himself in exactly the same way Sherlock was.
Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that: John was so desperate for direction, such a beautifully willing sub. Sherlock sped up his strokes and John followed, grinning. Sherlock twisted his hand, and John mirrored the movement. Sherlock slowed down again and so did John, though clearly with a bit of reluctance.
"So what do you think about when you masturbate?" John asked a minute later. "I assume your answer has changed since the last time I asked."
"It's obvious, isn't it?"
"I still want to hear you say it."
There was a touch of a command in his tone, and Sherlock humoured it. He stroked faster and John faltered slightly, staring hungrily at him for several moments before matching his pace. "I think about how you respond when people—"
"Men," John interjected.
"—touch you. Your face when you come. The way they watch you." It was better with men; that was true. Sherlock wasn't bothered by the idea of John having sex with women, but it was so much easier to push his boundaries with a man, to set him off-balance and to watch him recover. And he always did, beautifully.
He'd done it tonight as well, hadn't he? Sherlock reached between his thighs to tug his testicles, and oh God, John John John.
"God, Sherlock," John whispered, and it almost sounded like a revelation. John was nearly breathless just from watching this, from hearing Sherlock say those words, and he wasn't turning away. He wasn't disgusted or frightened by any of it. He found it erotic — he wanted it, wanted more. He could handle whatever Sherlock gave him, and he wasn't afraid to say no when Sherlock crossed the line. He could take it, all of it.
Sherlock's fear and apprehension drained away, so quickly that it left him breathless, filled only with an intense longing he couldn't quite pin down. It was going to be fine, all of it. John had set a limit, and Sherlock had listened, hadn't failed completely. And John still wanted to continue, to experiment, to submit, to be played and bound and pushed and fucked in so many ways.
Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was close to orgasm, far more quickly than he'd expected, but he didn't want to stop. He could hear John's breathing speed up, the wet sounds of John's hand and his own, the sharp smell of lube, and it was too good, too much, too close. The sounds were off-balance then, as if John had become lost in his own pleasure, no longer trying to keep up with Sherlock but just wanting to come. Sherlock forced his eyes to focus and watched him, watched his hand fly over dark, wet skin and his expression become strained and then, there. John was still moving, but Sherlock's orgasm sparked low in his groin and built steadily up before it shot through him, bright and hot, and he closed his eyes.
He could hear John's groan of completion through the fog in his brain, could feel the sofa cushions shift as John's body shuddered in waves and finally relaxed again.
"That was…" John began, and then exhaled, letting the words melt into a moan.
Sherlock opened his eyes to see him sprawled back against the sofa cushions and panting. The blanket in John's lap was striped with semen, and Sherlock felt an impulse to drag his fingers through it.
"Yeah." Breathe.
"I imagine it's had worse on it," John said, so much more composed than Sherlock felt. Sherlock wiped his own sticky hand on the blanket and John laughed. "Oh, God, I shudder to imagine what the laundry folks must think."
Sherlock laughed at that and looked up. John stared back at him and Sherlock suddenly felt far too exposed. He pulled the blanket over his lap and his knees toward his chest, but then John's cold toes wriggled their way under his arse. Sherlock leapt to his feet with an undignified squawk and then nearly toppled over, hobbled by his own trousers. He finally managed to pull them up, but not before John was howling with laughter.
"Glad to be a source of entertainment," Sherlock said, and plucked John's trousers from the floor. He couldn't stop himself from grinning, though he didn't let John see. "Get dressed."
John stood, still chuckling, and put his clothes back on excruciatingly slowly, in a sort of reverse strip-tease.
Sherlock watched him, watched each inch of skin disappear beneath a veneer of plain, ordinary clothes. There was nothing ordinary about John Watson, whether his clothes were on or off, whether he was in bed with a man or a woman. He was beautiful, strong, clever… perfect.
Sherlock looked away and closed his eyes. Oh, God.