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“So Sherlock is okay with this.”
John smirks.
“Yes. Yes he is.”
“Good.” Lestrade clears his throat, smiles. John is already taking off his shoes with sure hands.
“I'm still surprised you want this? And the guys.” He gently kicks his shoes towards the white wall. Lestrade rolls his eyes affably, smirks again.
“Well, Sherlock is – something.” He looks at John sideways at that, sheepishly checks his reaction. “We all think so. And you two together are quite-“ John looks at him pointedly, but with amusement dancing in his eyes, his dark, dark pupil enlarged with interest and glittering. “—you, look good,” Lestrade concludes.
John sniggers.
“Anderson and Donovan aren't here though,” Greg adds almost as an afterthought. “They don't… Deserve it.”
This time, John downright laughs.
Once they are in the interrogation room, at Scotland Yard, John is surprised at how easy it is.
The place is grey and aseptic and more than a little worn down. There's nothing in there save from a wide table made of hard plastic; its two companion plastic chairs have been lined up against one of the walls.
John smiles, impishly, at Sherlock. Walks towards him, smiles again when Sherlock lets himself be backed up against one side of the table, his backside bumping against the plastic and stopping his retreat. John places his hands on each side of Sherlock’s hips.
A long, black window takes up half of the wall on his left, the glass darkened to the point that it's almost reflective from the inside. Behind that is where Lestrade and eight men from Scotland Yard are hiding right now, just like they do every day to oversee criminal interrogations; except, this time, they're here to watch John and Sherlock have sex.
John realises he's very aware of that window, of being watched.
Realises he's getting off on it.
His hands travel up Sherlock’s chest, over his shirt. They stop just below the armpits, and John lets his thumbs stroke the thin silk just over Sherlock’s nipples. Back and forth, slowly. “Let's get you undressed,” he rumbles quietly. His eyes are black, and burn with desire.
Sherlock leans over to kiss him. His lips are soft and, as ever, John relishes their fullness, the way that kissing them makes him feel – like an all-encompassing experience. He unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt as they kiss; they've been together a while now and know what to do with each other, how to fit together, when to be assertive and concede and comfort.
He makes a show of sliding the fabric from Sherlock’s shoulders, and as he ends the kiss with short, gentle bites to the lips, he feels a rush of pleasure as he thinks of the men watching them, seeing Sherlock’s bare chest, his beautiful unmarred skin, the tight biceps, pecs and belly.
John leans down and kisses Sherlock under his jaw, on the side of his throat, as he starts to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers. The rush of adrenaline is powerful and he wants more, more; he kisses further down on the throat, bites on the delicate skin there. He finishes unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers, and slides them down, leaving him to sit on the table, completely naked.
“I'm looking forward to this,” Sherlock murmurs, so that only John can hear, smiling cheekily. His hand reaches out to touch the side of John’s face, stroke under his cheekbone and towards his mouth. John's eyes are still burning and chained to Sherlock’s, and they don't move when John leans to kiss Sherlock’s palm.
The metal of Sherlock’s wedding ring feels slightly colder than his skin, of course. John's hand goes to hold Sherlock’s against his own face, then lifts it and angles it so John can kiss the knuckles – and so that the gold band shines, with surety, in the neon of the prison-like room. The message, to their spectators on the other side of the dark glass, is clear: you can look, but he belongs to me. I made him mine.
Sherlock, clearly, understands immediately.
“I love it when you get like this,” he once again murmurs, purrs, letting John hold his hand up, and against his lips. “Possessive. Marking your territory.”
John kisses him. His hand dives into Sherlock’s thick curls – the other goes down to grab his behind, encourage him to slide forward and more against John’s still clothed body. Sherlock hooks his arms around John’s neck; John is hard as steel in his trousers.
Sherlock speaks against John’s lips.
“I don't have to deduce, to know what they want to see.” His eyes are wide, and look straight into John’s black irises. His hand – large, elegant, manicured – slides down to palm and stroke John’s erection through his jeans, and John struggles to keep his eyes open.
“I see it in their faces, whenever they're around – the way they stare at my mouth. At my lips,” Sherlock continues, in a slow, low drawl. Deliberately impish; and, on cue, John reacts. He growls, and his hands around Sherlock’s backside grab and press him harder against John’s groin. He's caught between wanting to show Sherlock off, and making sure he stakes his claim on him once again at the same time. Sherlock kisses his mouth, then lower, his chest, in a trail of kisses that follows the slide of his other hand along John’s shirt. When both his hands are on John's crotch, Sherlock unzips him – John’s hands, restless, rack through his curls - and then Sherlock looks up, asks. John takes a step back; gracefully, Sherlock slides to his knees.
“Hold onto my hair,” he murmurs, his voice rough as if John has already begun to fuck his throat. He takes John’s hands, now holding at his sides, unresponsive, undecided, and guides them back to his head, encourages the short sturdy fingers to stretch and sink into the curls, and squeeze. He does all this looking up at John the whole time, intensely; his eyes are so wide and so innocent that John’s abdomen spasms, and he feels like he could come already. Which wouldn't be good, especially in front of a bunch of horny men watching them greedily. Christ.
John clears his throats and elects to look away for a few moments – at the dull grey wall, those depressing chairs. Wonder who was in this room last? A criminal. Some gap-toothed, roughened street scum, the kind John would very much like to punch in the stupid face. The kind he would never let anywhere near Sherlock, even for a second.
The thoughts have succeeded in distracting him, and he's almost startled to feel Sherlock’s warm, hot tongue on his glans, gently licking, around and around. John hasn't encouraged him or talked to him, and he feels like, this time, he prefers it this way. He finally allows himself to look, and watches Sherlock’s tongue circle the tip of his penis, then his perfect hands hold him more tightly – one at the base, the other on the shaft, pulling, and exposing the head – and he starts sucking, gently, his eyes closed. John wants to let his own eyes close, too, but forces himself not to as this show is too damned sexy for him to miss. He thinks back at the lowlives in this very room – John protects Sherlock from them, and this is how Sherlock rewards him. Uhhhh.
Sherlock has now started to take him deeper into his mouth. He still licks gently, and bobs up and down, but each time it’s deeper, the suction more intense. John closes his eyes a moment. He feels different – the adrenaline cursing through his veins is making him tremble all over from anticipation, and he is so aware of everything around him. Aware of being stared at, being watched, even though he can't see anyone but Sherlock, there. John feels mad with desire and unbridled, impatient and growling. His hands slide down around the side of Sherlock’s face, and hold onto his cheeks and chin. His cock is harder than it’s been in a long while and he thrusts forward, slow but resolute, until he is nearly all inside the warmth and wet of Sherlock’s mouth and throat. He watches Sherlock take an urgent breath, eyes closed, and swallow carefully around him. It feels magnificent.
“That's it, beautiful. You're so gorgeous like this. That's it,” John chants, voice low and roughened, and only for Sherlock’s benefit. He thrusts a bit deeper, feels Sherlock’s tongue still licking gently and attentively, even as he's struggling a bit for deep breaths. He's so good. His husband is so good.
“You want to show them a good time, don't you? We both do. Keep going. Look at you.”
He loves how Sherlock is so responsive to words and praise, and that he doubles his efforts as John talks to him, low and rough. Still cupping Sherlock’s cheeks, John’s left thumb reaches to trace Sherlock’s lips around his cock. They are still full, swollen - it's hormones and exertion – and stretched around his shaft, and John knows that's exactly what the men wanted to see. What man wouldn't.
Sherlock is so good, so good and on the next thrust he manages to take all of John in - it's because their bodies were made for each other, built and fitted for each other – and his nose is nearly in John's pubic hair, and John can feel more of his snug, hot throat – and then he has to stop it.
He gently pulls out; watches, as Sherlock, eyes still closed, catches his breath through his nose and half-open mouth. John’s hands slide down over Sherlock’s shoulders and over his arms, and he helps him get up, lean once again back against the table. John checks that he's breathing more regularly, and that his eyes have re-opened – though John can't see much blue, it's only a sliver of cerulean-gold around a blown, dark pupil – before leaning over to kiss him. Slowly, deeply – to reassure him, reassure each other, though the kiss soon turns hungry.
John thinks again at the men behind the glass – wonder what they're thinking? Wonder what they're doing – and when Sherlock smiles into their kiss, John knows he's thinking the same thing. They’re getting off to us.
“Take the lube out of my pocket,” John growls. His mouth slides down against Sherlock’s jugular; he gives a small, sharp bite. “Before I fuck you dry.”
Sherlock inhales, exhales quickly, gives a brief chuckle while his eyes close for a moment. “Oh.” He opens his eyes again and stares into John’s; their mouths a breath apart. “I want you so much right now, I wouldn't even care.”
They start kissing again, hungry, famished, full mouths and teeth and tongues and breaths. Because Sherlock is so good at multitasking, the lube is soon liberated from John's pocket, and they don't even have to break the kiss; John pulls his trousers down all the way in a couple of tries, grunting into Sherlock's mouth.
He's demanding and urgent when he leaves Sherlock’s lips to kiss his clavicles, the hollow between them, back up under his chin. With his hand he traces an imaginary line from Sherlock’s groin, over his flat abdomen, to his chest; then John's sturdy thumb and index pinch a nipple, sharp and quick.
Sherlock’s whole body trembles, as he's now holding himself up with his arms down on the table behind himself. John gives a push with his hips and Sherlock opens his thighs wider, leans backwards on his arms a bit more.
“They're all looking at you,” John growls against the patch of chest he's kissing. “Sherlock. They're all looking at you. You, naked, on this table.” The growl comes from deep within John’s throat, and it makes Sherlock close his eyes, throw his head back further. John bites his nipple; closes his eyes at Sherlock’s deep, pleasure-pain moan.
“Lean back, beautiful. Show them. Let them see your body.”
John surprises himself at his request, at the fact that he's really feeling this, the moment, this challenge. He's usually an extremely jealous man, extremely possessive, he knows and Sherlock knows and hell, even their friends know – but right now he's giving in to this, this fantasy, and he's enjoying it.
“There you go, beautiful,” he croons, pleased, as Sherlock does as he's told: leans back on his arms, thighs around John’s hips, even stretches his neck back a bit so that his throat, chest and belly are aligned in a breath-taking curve. His skin is alabaster white, perfect, unblemished; his nipples are pink-brown and tight, gorgeous; and his profile, stunning, with his dark eyelashes skimming his cheeks and perfect nose and red, swollen, full, peculiar mouth.
Upper lip sharp and defined; only I know what it means to kiss it. Me.
They can only see this because of me. I would tear them to shreds if they even just tried to come near you.
Sherlock is still breathing hard, his chest expanding and contracting, as John straightens up a moment later and watches him while grabbing the lube, opening it, pouring some on his fingers. He's painfully, painfully hard; his cock juts up stiffly against his belly. He grabs Sherlock under his left thigh and lifts up a bit so that Sherlock’s behind leans just that much over the edge of the table. Sherlock reaches back up, wraps an arm around John’s neck to support himself.
“Will you kiss me,” John asks, closing his eyes already, against Sherlock’s lips. His hand flies down in between Sherlock’s thighs, under his testicles.
“But hurry,” Sherlock retorts, just before complying. He's breathing hard. “I need you to fuck me. I need it.” John's fingers, at Sherlock’s entrance, nearly falter.
And keep faltering - it's the lube, as his index finger slips out, so then he pushes two in, then three, impatiently. Only after he realises he has been growling and moaning against Sherlock’s lips.
“Going to fuck me so hard?” Sherlock knows exactly how loud to speak for his voice to carry behind the glass wall. “So hard and deep. Don't open me up too much – I want to be tight, for you.”
John smiles, eyes closed, against Sherlock’s lips. Smirks. “You devil.” He knows Sherlock's saying that for the benefit of their audience.
They don't know how tight you are.
And they will never know.
The first moment is always so intense, and Sherlock cries out and sucks in a breath, and John knows it's genuine. He fucks into him, hard, straight off, holding Sherlock against himself with his hands around Sherlock’s backside. He wants to last a long time, give a good show and give Sherlock so much pleasure, but he's so overstimulated that he fears it'll be over so soon. He fucks some more, hard, muscles of his biceps flexing and tense as he leans over the table; Sherlock is holding onto his neck, has given himself over to him, to their fantasy, so completely John feels like he's going to burst.
“What if they're filming,” he growls against Sherlock’s mouth, out of the blue and drunk with desire, as he stops for a moment, to stave off the end. “What if they've got their phones on us, and they're filming, so they can watch you being fucked whenever they want.”
His tone is threatening, threatening Sherlock, snarling low in his throat, and Sherlock moans helplessly, obviously way beyond the point of thinking – or caring.
As if I would let them do that, John thinks, with another growl from his chest. As if I'd let them take their phone in there, and steal this. The only video of this is the one Lestrade is going to give me, and then delete it from anywhere else.
I am the only one who can have it.
“Do you think they want to see something else,” John smirks again, against Sherlock’s mouth. This time, his tone is only teasing; Sherlock is quick to reply.
“From behind,” he says, his eyes still closed. He lowers his legs, turns around to bend over the table when John steps back and lets him. He urges John against himself once again, and John, of course, doesn't hesitate. It's one of their favourite positions; he presses a hand to the middle of Sherlock's back to hold him down, the other hooked around a bony hip, and starts thrusting. It's deep and satisfying and soon Sherlock is pushing back, chasing his own orgasm.
When it's over – John wishes Sherlock weren't so tall, or that he were not so short, because then he could pull him back and kiss him through the aftershocks, delicious around his penis- John pulls out, slowly, and watches Sherlock turn around, grimace a bit at the feeling of semen trickling a little down his inner thigh.
John kisses him, gently.
“Sperm, everywhere.” Sherlock’s sentence is mangled, as he is still trembling and with his eyes closed. He is smirking.
John, of course, understands easily, and chuckles. “Well, they've asked for this.”
He, too, is still trembling after his orgasm. He leans over to kiss Sherlock again – he adores kissing after sex, when they're both soft, warm, and satisfied, and just want to kiss. They nuzzle into each other’s faces; when John glances at them, Sherlock's eyes are shining, so adoring.
“I’m in love with you, John,” Sherlock says, his voice low and sure.
John smiles. “I know.”
Sherlock leans over to kiss him again – the corner of his mouth, his cheek, the side of his neck, his shoulder. He rests his cheek on it, waiting for his breath to even out, finally. On the table next to them, John’s phone lights up with a text.
Getting the chaps out of here now. You two take ur time GL
John reads it with the corner of his eye, wants to smirk – is impressed that Greg managed to have the presence of mind to realise that this moment, now, is private, certainly not interesting to them as everything before it. He is touched by Greg’s concern, and amused by his text, obviously written in haste. Perhaps with tense fingers.
John giggles quietly to himself and turns to hide his face into Sherlock’s neck, take him in his arms. Wait for them both to calm down, for their hearts to beat normally again.
For their fantasy to be over.