Chapter Text
John
It had started with the desk.
A new one. Big. We’d renovated my old bedroom. It had stood empty for a while now, and I had proposed the idea of turning it into an office – an office for me to write in, and with more storage for Sherlock to collect his monographs and countless magazines and newspapers. We had been an item for only two months at that point, but I had been absolutely sure that I was in it for the long run. I had no interest of ever returning to a separate bedroom ever again; I wanted to fall asleep and wake up next to Sherlock for the rest of my, hopefully very, very long, life. When I’d voiced my offer, he had looked at me for a long moment, until I had noticed how misty his eyes were becoming.
Needless to say, he had been more than happy to get rid of the now useless second bed in our household.
It had taken ages until we’d actually come around to renovating it, but now it was finally done. We were both more than happy with the result.
Looking around, Sherlock had sat on the massive desk, solid oak, dark like his curls, and I had smirked, breathing, “You look fucking delectable right now”, and he had blushed but smiled softly and ever so slightly opened his thighs for me. Inviting me in.
We had been an us for over a year now.
Fifteen Months, to be exact.
I had loved every single second of it.
The desire I felt for this man hadn’t wavered, either. Quite on the contrary, it felt like it was just getting better and better, with every time fingers raked through dark or light hair, lips and tongues connecting, clothes being discarded off, sometimes slowly, sometimes in such a hurry that multiple shirts and pants and especially buttons had needed to be sewn together or back on again.
I loved knowing exactly what I needed to do to make his brain turn off. To make his eyes roll back in his head, to reduce his beautiful, intelligent mouth to only be able to produce stuttered iterations of my name, gasps, moans, and sometimes screams.
It was perfect. It was bliss. I could have never asked for anything better.
And so, I had stepped into the space he had provided for me, had put my hands on his thighs, letting my thumbs slide to the inside ever so slowly, and his gaze was already hazy, but I knew I could get him to a state of complete arousal with just one more thing.
I had stopped my hands just before they reached the tenting fabric of his pyjama bottoms and whispered against his lips:
“Spread your legs for me, baby.”
And immediately, he had listened, obeyed so perfectly for me, legs spreading as wide as the fabric would allow, which was quite far for sure, and his hands pulled me closer, head falling back, and I wasted no time in pulling him against me. The height of the desk had been chosen for comfortable sitting positions, not so our groins would be perfectly aligned in this position, but by God, I could’ve sworn that it was for this reason and this reason only.
He’d moaned my name so, so beautifully, and I had busied my mouth at his neck, licking, sucking, kissing, ever so gently biting the sensitive skin there. Sherlock was by far the most sensitive and vocal lover I had ever had the honor of being with. Quite convenient, really, because that was just how I liked it, and he was the last one I would ever be with. He was everything. I couldn’t imagine ever being with anyone else again. It was this man, for me, till the end.
We’d both come like that, Sherlock sitting on our brand-new desk, both of us fully clothed, but we hadn’t needed more, and although I loved slowly undressing him and feeling his hands and perfect, long fingers doing the same for me, I also loved this.
There wasn’t really any kind of sex with him that I hadn’t liked so far. I couldn’t really imagine that there could be such a thing.
I’d held him through the aftershocks, stroking over his back and through his curls – applying just a little bit more pressure with my fingertips than usual, just the way he liked it after coming. It grounded him, he’d told me many months ago, and I was only too happy to give that to him.
I wanted to take care of him. Always.
We’d shrugged off our clothes after all and stumbled into the bathroom, where I’d gone down on my knees for him, and after our shower he had insisted on spreading me out on the bed to return the favor. And far be it from me to deny him such a request.
Afterwards we’d lain there, the sun slowly sinking, stroking over naked arms and backs and through hair, kissing softly, murmuring sweet nothings to each other.
“I love it when you call me that”, he’d confessed. “Baby”, he clarified, almost whispering.
A grin had spread on my face, and I’d kissed the tip of his nose.
“What do you love about it?”, I’d asked, curious, but not exactly expecting him to have an answer.
But he did.
“Just something about… Knowing you’ll take care of me, I think. It makes me want to just… submit. Let you do whatever you want to me.”
“Oh, God”, I’d whispered hoarsely and had taken Sherlock’s face into my hand, pushing myself up with my elbow, half on top of him, so I could kiss him – properly and deeply.
Sherlock had sunk back into the pillows, a soft moan escaping his lips.
If he keeps talking like this, I’ll have no choice but to take him apart again, I’d thought.
We had talked about our dynamic before. When we were out, on cases, I was happy to play the role of the assistant. I’d do exactly what he’d tell me to, run if he said run, jump if he said jump.
But here, at home? I could take care of him. He could just turn that beautiful, but sometimes agonizing brain of his off, and let me handle the rest.
We’d fallen into it naturally, but had actually discussed it a few weeks after falling apart under each other’s hands for the first time.
Neither of us were averse to the roles being reversed from time to time, but this just… felt good. Felt right. For both of us.
So, of course, I’d known that Sherlock liked it. Liked to submit to me. Because both he and I knew that I would take care of him, make him feel so, so good, and I really can’t say that I wasn’t getting anything out of it, either.
“John”, he’d murmured against my lips, and I’d wanted to listen to him but also to keep kissing him, so I made a soft Hm?, while pressing kisses to his cheeks, down until I almost reached his neck and back up.
“John, do you… oh God”, he interrupted himself with a moan when I sucked softly on his earlobe and I couldn’t help but smile at it. He tried again, this time successfully.
“What would you think of – of roleplaying with me?”
This did give me pause.
Not because I wasn’t up for it, but because we’d never really discussed it before.
I’d leaned back so I could properly look in his beautiful, ethereal face.
“Roleplay? I assume you don’t mean joining in on one of Harry’s DND sessions, do you?”
He’d snorted and smiled. I pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before sitting up properly.
Sherlock had done the same, and replied:
“No, John, obviously I don’t mean that.”
“Right, right, sorry, love.”
We both leaned back against the headboard and I stroked a hand through his curls, while Sherlock’s hands landed on my calf and knee, softly stroking there.
I loved this beautiful, safe intimacy we had created with each other.
“You mean like – a scene, right? Sexual roleplay.”
“Yes, that”, he’d said softly.
“Anything particular you have in mind?”
That’s when he’d looked down to where his thumb was currently stroking though the light hairs on my thigh.
“It just occurred to me… when I sat on that desk. I do… I do have an idea. But I – I mean, what do you think about it?”
I think I love you more than words can say and every single new way in which I can make you happy and make you come is music to my ears.
“I like it. I mean, I’d like to talk about it first, what exactly you have in mind. There’s definitely going to be a safeword, and – I mean, you know my hard limits.”
Our sex life had been pretty vanilla, all things considered. A little temperature-play, a blindfold, wrists tied to headboards, some toys, mostly vibrating ones, but that was about it. We had discussed everything under the sun, though, and while there were things we weren’t interested in in the least, the list of things we were both curious to try wasn’t exactly short.
For a moment I’d become worried. I couldn’t help it.
“Are you – do you just want to try something new or… I mean, you’re not unhappy with what we’ve been doing, right?”
Sherlock’s eyes had widened, and I’d known instantly that there had never been any need for worry.
“No, no, John. Definitely not. I love it, I love – everything. U-us, I mean. It’s… it’s perfect. It’s so, so much better than I could have ever imagined.”
I’d nodded and gently bent his head to kiss his forehead, brushing through more of those silky curls.
“I agree, love, completely agree. Just making sure. It didn’t seem like you were unhappy, either.”
When our eyes met again he was smiling.
“Just making sure”, I repeated gently.
Sherlock lifted my hand from his face and kissed my knuckles.
“I love you”, he murmured against them and I closed my eyes for a moment, taking it in.
It’s not like he wasn’t constantly telling me. He was. And showing it, too - it felt like once he’d received explicit permission, there was no end to gentle kisses, caresses and thoughtful gestures. Putting it into words was still sometimes difficult, which had meant that, especially in the first few weeks, sentiment had been mainly communicated through gestures. But words came more easily to him now.
“I love you, too, Sherlock”, I answered and he smiled that sweet, hopeful smile that never failed to make my heart ache. “Now, tell me about that scenario involving our new desk, yeah?”
And he had.
Which is why now, three days later, I was here, sitting behind our new desk, in my best suit, which I was quite sure would have to be taken to a very discrete drycleaner once we were done with this.
Sherlock had selected it, after I’d asked, smirking and with a quirked eyebrow, what he would like to see me in. Or rather, my character.
The script was lying on the desk, but there were some documents on top of it. I felt like I’d memorized it anyway, and there was plenty of room for improvisation. Sherlock had explicitly asked for me to surprise him, which was essentially a part of the whole power dynamic inherent to the scene.
I felt anticipation buzzing through me. Any worries that this might be just a tad awkward – Sherlock was, after all, definitely the better actor of the two of us – were overridden with excitement and a good amount of arousal at the prospect of what was about to happen.
And then, I heard the knock over the soft music playing on the stereo behind me.
I smiled to myself.
“Come in”, I called, and the door opened.