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It had been shaping up to be a fine evening. Their latest case had been solved, the blog had been updated, and John was just thinking about making a cup of tea and settling in with a nice book.
"Bored."
Of course, things were never so simple on Baker Street, were they? John sighed, "Sherlock–"
"Bored!"
"We've only just finished the case, Sherlock. Can't you just... take a nap or something?"
"A nap? A nap? How am I to sleep when I'm. So. Bored!"
John finally looked over at Sherlock. He was laid out across to sofa in a dramatic sprawl with a petulant frown on his face and a challenging glint in his eye. John was beginning to sincerely doubt his patience in dealing with such an attitude tonight. "Find something to do, then," he said mildly.
"Do? What am I to do? There's nothing to do, there is only the Work, and the work is done, and I am bored!" He snatched the couch cushion from beneath his head and flung it at the window. It fell to the floor with a spectacularly unsatisfying fwump.
The two men stared eachother down for a brief moment before John said, "I am not fetching that for you," and Sherlock huffed like the absolute toddler he liked to pretend he wasn't.
Sensing a lull in Sherlock's dramatics, John attempted to return his attention back to his book. Sherlock, however, would not have it.
"Give me something to do, then," he said.
"It's not my job to entertain you."
"Yes, it is."
John shot Sherlock another look. Sherlock stared back unabashedly. A stalemate.
"You've your violin," John tried.
"That's only to help me think." Sherlock replied.
"Are there any experiments currently rotting inside our refrigerator?"
There was a pause, wherein John felt a brief flare of hope.
"Nothing interesting." Sherlock claimed.
"...Want to watch anything on the telly?"
"Drivel."
John put his head in his hands and sighed. He gave one last, valiant try, "Can't we just have a quiet, relaxing evening?"
There was blessed silence for one, two, three, four seconds before:
"Bored!"
"Dammit, Sherlock, if you don't shut up I'll give you something to do with that bloody mouth of yours!"
The silence stretched quite a bit longer after that. John stared very hard at his knees, lips pressed firmly together, and trying in vain to fight back the bright flush he could feel burning in his face. At the very least, he seemed to have rendered Sherlock momentarily speechless.
"Was that an innuendo?"
"Oh, god."
"Are you propositioning me?"
"No, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say that."
"What would you do?"
John looked up at him incredulously. "You can't be serious."
"I am always eager to attempt new forms of distraction."
"Absolutely not."
"Well, you're the one who offered."
"I did not– I'm going to bed."
"You're just going to leave me here? Bored??"
John stopped halfway to the stairs and took a deep breath and pressed his fists to his mouth an an attempt to rein in the great shout that wanted to burst forth.
"Tell me."
"Sherlock–"
"Tell me."
"Drop it–"
"Tell me.
"Please, Sherlock–"
"Tell me."
His patience well and truly snapped, John said, "I would pin you to that damn sofa and fuck your throat until it was so raw you couldn't shout anymore!" He was, ironically, shouting.
There was another four seconds wherein they simply stared at one another from across the room, John having become quite flustered and Sherlock descended into his calculated coolness.
Finally, Sherlock said, "I see," and John released the breath he'd been holding and began to turn away whilst contemplating nursing his utter shame in something quite a bit stronger than tea.
"And how would you do that, exactly?"
John would need to go to a pub and get absolutely piss drunk at this point. He put is head in his hand and shook it vigorously.
"Show me."
"Sherlock–"
"Show me."
"You can't be serious–"
"Show me."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm bored."
John stomped around to the end of the sofa where Sherlock's head rested, grabbed Sherlock under the chin, and pulled his head back over the arm with some force. He felt terrible about it immediately but Sherlock just looked up at him with bright, wide eyes set in a carefully neutral expression.
"I see," Sherlock said again, his voice somewhat strained from his position. "What next?"
"Just how far are you expecting this to go?"
Sherlock shrugged as well as he could with his head tilted so far back over the arm.
John continued, "You're not even interested in sex,"
"Who said I'm not interested in sex?"
"You've never shown any inclination–"
"Not with people who bore me, no."
"It'll be terribly uncomfortable for you."
"I'm sure I'll manage."
"I'm not going to be gentle with you, Sherlock–"
"May I undo your belt?"
"I'm still very irritated–"
Sherlock reached up and began undoing John's belt. It soon became quite obvious that John could follow through on his threat, as it were. He was hard and aching in his pants when Sherlock managed to open his trousers. Sherlock didn't seem particularly perturbed by it, and a quick glance at his crotch confirmed that he was, if not fully invested, then at least interested in the current proceedings.
"Are you really sure?"
Sherlock forged ahead without response, reaching up to pull his pants down.
"Oh, alright, fine," John said, batting Sherlock's hands away. "Open your mouth, wider, relax your throat,"
Sherlock did as he was bid and John took himself out and slid inside Sherlock's waiting mouth. He paused and said, "Alright?" and waited for Sherlock's muffled confirmation before pressing furthur in.
John did, of course, try to be gentle. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock, regardless of how irritated he might have been. He moved slowly, carefully, and it wasn't long before he noticed Sherlock's attention beginning to drift.
Well, he couldn't have that, could he? He was meant to be entertaining, damn it all.
He pressed in with a bit more force, meeting resistance at Sherlock's throat. Sherlock gave a quiet groan and shifted in discomfort. It was a pity John couldn't see his eyes from this angle. He tilted Sherlock's head further back, said "Relax," and pushed forward into Sherlock's throat.
Sherlock groaned again, louder. It might have been a shout if he weren't currently choking on John's cock. His back arched, feet kicking, arms scrambling for purchase–
John pulled back and Sherlock's body went limp, taking a deep lungful of air before John pressed back in. Sherlock keened, and John shuddered with it. The wet, clenching, vibrating channel of Sherlock's throat was absolute perfection.
He started up a steady rhythm: press in, grind, pull back, let Sherlock breathe. He watched, fascinated, at the way Sherlock's throat stretched to accommodate him on every inward thrust and laid his unoccupied hand gently against Sherlock's neck to feel the way his cock slid in and out.
Sherlock was making all sorts of delightful noises: choking and gasping and whining and groaning. Another quick glance confirmed that he was fully invested now, and was in fact clutching John about the waist as though he thought the other man might up and run off.
John jostled him a bit with the hand still firmly grasping his chin just to wrench another lovely sound from him, and slid the hand which rested against his throat down the smooth planes of his chest. He should have had Sherlock strip down first.
Knock, knock
It almost didn't register amidst all the other little noises Sherlock was busy making beneath him, but it came again:
Knock, knock
John swiftly pulled away with a slick schlock and a great, heaving gasp and cough from Sherlock, hurriedly stuffed himself back into his trousers with mutterings of, "damnit, fuck, who the hell–" and went to answer the bloody door.
On the other side stood Lestrade, which certainly took care of the problem of his lingering erection.
"Lestrade," he said.
"Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine."
"I thought I heard–"
"Everything's fine."
A pause. Then, "Right, can I come in?"
"It's late."
"I've got a case."
John sighed and opened the door wider, hoping that Sherlock had at least thrown a cusion over his lap or something. When he came around the wall with Lestrade, Sherlock was halfway to sitting, head bowed and breathing hard with the back of his hand pressed against his reddened mouth.
"Um," Lestrade said, "Are you okay?"
Sherlock swallowed once, twice, before he was able to reply, "Experiment," in the most delectably wrecked voice John had ever heard.
Lestrade narrowed his eyes and turned, very slowly, to look at John. John tried very hard to sink into the floorboards, unsuccessfully. Lestrade turned back to Sherlock.
"Right, well, I think I've got a case for you."
Sherlock nodded. When he looked up at John his eyes were bright and his lashes wet.
After another job well done, and with the thrill of adventure swiftly falling away, John finally got to settle into his armchair with his tea and his book. They'd even lit a little fire in the grate. John was downright cozy.
"I'm bored."
Slowly, John turned to look at Sherlock. He was draped artfully across the sofa, his head tilted back over the arm just so, and though his face remained quite blank his eyes were sharp with anticipation.
The eyes, John had found, were the key to deciphering many of Sherlock's placid expressions.
"I've only just made tea," John said.
"I'm terribly bored."
"Oh, for goodness sake. I knew I shouldn't have indulged you. Now, your going to be insufferable about it." He looked mournfully as his gently steaming tea. It would be stone cold by the time he got back to it.
"Please?"
John looked over again. There was a smirk playing at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. John stood up.
"Take your clothes off, you manipulative bastard."
Sherlock swiftly sat up and began to work on the buttons of his shirt. He looked up at John and said, "You too."
John pulled his jumper over his head, tossing it down into his armchair and then glaring at it with some resentment. At least one of them would get to enjoy the fire, he thought. Sherlock flung his shirt across the room and proceeded to wriggle out of his trousers before flinging them in a different direction. John left the rest of his clothes very sensibly in his armchair before making his way over.
"Are you sure?" John asked.
"Oh, don't start that again, John, or we'll be here all night."
"Same as last time?"
"Yes."
John stopped at the end of the couch as Sherlock laid himself back down.
"You know, this doesn't have to be some sort of sofa ritual. We can do this in a bed."
"That will take too long, we're already here."
John glanced at the tall windows. "Just to let you know," he said, "If we're being spied on by your brother and I end up shot by a sniper from across the street, I'm blaming you."
"If my brother were spying on us then the bugs he's surely planted in our flat will have recorded my consent. Both times."
John looked around the room balefully. It probably was bugged, damnit.
With a sigh, John took hold of Sherlock's jaw and tilted his head back, a tad gentler than he had the last time. Sherlock reached overhead and ran his hands up John's flanks. His hands were were cold, but not enough to put John off.
A quick glance: fully invested.
John worked Sherlock's mouth open with his thumbs and slid his cock inside that perfect, wet heat. Sherlock hummed and shifted closer. The first push into Sherlock's throat was just as glorious as it had been last time. Sherlock was better prepared and didn't react quite so violently, though he still arched and gave a little groan of pleasure. A quick learner though he was, John still hoped to have him shaking before too long.
Press in, grind, pull back, let Sherlock breathe.
Sherlock clutched at him again, pulling John deeper into his throat. At the crest of each thrust, when John was a deep as he could get, Sherlock's body would arc off of the sofa before shuddering back down with a throaty groan. John could feel him leaving long scratches all along his back.
John smoothed one hand down the length of Sherlock's body, petting the soft, fine hair of his chest before rolling and squeezing a nipple. Sherlock choked out what might have been a little sob and rolled his hips up.
It was a bit of a stretch, but John could just about reach Sherlock's cock, jutting tall and proud and flushed so prettily. He fit his hand around it and squeezed, gently, before giving a firm pull upward. The sound Sherlock rewarded him with was a long, high whine that John felt all the way down to his toes. He ground down into Sherlock's throat to keep that beautiful sound going as long as he could.
Unfortunately, their position meant that John couldn't fully pull out of Sherlock's throat without releasing his cock and Sherlock was probably running out of air down below. So, John let go and leaned back with some reluctance.
He pulled out of Sherlock's mouth and took a step back so that he could look down at the other man's face." You alright?" he asked.
Sherlock, panting heavily, nodded, his throat working. His face was flushed; his mouth was red, likely a bit bruised; and though his eyes were shut tight John could tell there had been some tears. He looked ruined and positively gorgeous. John thought he wouldn't mind at all getting to see Sherlock like this every night. Perhaps multiple times a day, if they could manage it.
"Want to keep going?"
Sherlock nodded again, and reached for him. John moved his hands away as he stepped back in.
"Touch yourself."
And Sherlock, for all his cold indifference to just about everything that wasn't grisly murder, seemed to be well-versed in chasing his own pleasure. He was a bit rough with himself, but considering what he was letting John do to his mouth, maybe that was simply his preference.
Sherlock used both hands to bring himself off, his noises had changed to short, desperate grunts even as John continued to plunder his throat. John came first, pressing in as deeply as he could, with Sherlock choking so sweetly around him; and John stayed sheathed inside him as Sherlock redoubled his efforts with his own hands, coming with a deep groan that clenched his throat down against John's cock and prolonging both their pleasure.
Eventually John had to remove himself and Sherlock shuddered helplessly when the pressure in his throat finally eased. John stood panting a moment, waiting to his legs to stop feeling quite so jelly-like and petting over Sherlock's chest and shoulders in a delirious daze before leaning down to press a kiss under Sherlock's jaw. He stumbled off to the restroom for a flannel and cleaned Sherlock up, then himself, before banking the fire (with only one sad look at his cold tea) and bullying Sherlock off of the sofa.
He was absolutely not climbing the stairs in this state. He and Sherlock both tumbled into Sherlock's bed, still naked, and curled around eachother before succumbing to sleep.
Sherlock's hoarse rasp the next morning was positively delicious.