Work Text:
John Watson was a humble man; he was a decent shot, he considered himself considerate, average looking, and he was patient. In fact, he was incredibly patient, considering the fact that he was living with the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock Sodding Holmes.
Being in the taller man’s close vicinity required an insurmountable amount of patience. He was prone to childlike sulking, extreme boredom and self-destructive tendencies. If you didn’t watch closely, he would be gone within the blink of an eye, running off to a crime scene, or chasing a criminal around London. Although John made a point out of complaining about all these things, he wouldn’t want it any other way.
It hadn’t taken John long to realize his deeply rooted attraction for Sherlock. There was something in his slender figure and long, pale limbs that spoke directly to his groin. The way his cheekbones were highlighted in certain lightings, the way his dark, auburn curls lay chaotically across his forehead, and the way his silver eyes bore into John’s soul. John was completely, utterly lost to the powers of this married-to-his-work man. His Sherlock Holmes.
They had solved more crimes together than John could count, but the criminals of London never ceased to fight for dominance, providing an endless stream of–a bit not good—entertainment for Sherlock. When Lestrade had called that afternoon, John wasn’t sure what he had expected; he never knew what to expect when it came to Sherlock. He certainly hadn’t expected this, however.
This, as John had named the situation in his mind, was very problematic indeed. For their case, Sherlock and John would have to go undercover. They wouldn’t have to go undercover in just any place either. No, that would be far too convenient and un-Sherlockian. This time, they had to act undercover at a swingers club, and they would have to act as couple.
John had no idea what to make of it, but he knew, in the furthest depths of his soul, that this couldn’t end well. There was no way he was going to be able to suppress his emotions if they had to act like a couple, and definitely not in a bloody swinger’s club. Realizing he was becoming slightly hysterical, he tried to ignore the confounded look Sherlock gave him as they rode in the cab to their location together, his left knee twitching nervously. The fact that they hadn’t really talked about this properly didn’t help calm his nerves, either. John really had no idea what they were going to do. How far were they going to go to ensure their cover remained intact? Were they going to hold hands? It was a little silly, of course. They would have to do more than hold hands to blend in with the crowd of people in various states of undress. Would they… kiss? John just didn’t know.
He didn’t have much time to think, yet alone react, when the cab suddenly stopped, signaling that they had reached their destination. Looking over at Sherlock, who was wearing his tight, purple shirt and dark, black jeans, he noticed the slight smirk, rolling his eyes. He would have to remember, when they entered the building, that this was for a case, and wouldn’t be anything but the means to acquire information that would otherwise be impossible to retrieve. Somewhere, inside this dark building, a criminal was waiting to make a mistake.
Sherlock grabbed him by the hand and dragged them inside, John’s hands already moist with sweat. He desperately hoped Sherlock wouldn’t notice his erratic pulse, but he didn’t count on it; Sherlock wasn’t one to miss the details.
Following the dark curls, he found himself inside a dimly lit, damp room, the air heavy with the smell of sweat and bodily fluids. There were men and women in compromising positions to either side of the entrance, couples entwined in each other on couches and makeshift beds, some engaging in group activities. John felt his pulse rise, his breathing becoming heavier, the sounds in the room tickling his arousal, praying desperately that Sherlock would be too occupied by the case to notice. Looking around, John noticed a few people stopping to look at them. Well, more accurately, looking at Sherlock, practically ogling him. John couldn't really blame them; Sherlock was the most gorgeous human being he had ever encountered.
Sherlock was hardly paying any attention to the commotion around them, his eyes focused on finding the man they were here to gather information about. Quickly spotting him in a more secluded corner, he dragged John with him, trying to make it seem like they were searching for an available spot for themselves. All beds were taken, the only available space being a sofa in the far back, next to a bald man in his forties. He was looking at his phone, seemingly texting, waiting for somebody to arrive. Sherlock pulled John a little closer to the man on the sofa, standing in between two marble pillars, the stones on either side obscuring them from curious eyes like a heavy curtain. The sounds were muffled, but John was already too aroused and terrified to think of anything but how absolutely stunning Sherlock looked, his lips parted, his fingers absentmindedly running along the soft bottom lip.
Being pulled further into their corner, John suddenly found himself harshly pushed backward, staggering into the wall, his breath leaving his chest as he collided with the hard surface.
“Sherlock, wha—” John began, but he was interrupted by the press of another set of lips on his, and John froze, unable to respond. The detective slid his tongue across his bottom lip, but still, John found himself completely unable to move, his mind trying to catch up with the fact that Sherlock had just kissed him.
Huffing with annoyance, Sherlock snapped, “John, we are undercover, please do act the part.”
Dumbfounded, and extremely aroused, John tentatively opened his mouth as Sherlock crushed their lips together once again, their bodies close, but not quite pressed together. John’s hands moved up into Sherlock’s hair, and he blamed it entirely on the fact that they had to keep their cover and blend in. He was playing his part.
Well, sort of.
Breaking away from their kiss, Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John’s head, his mouth coming down to nip at his neck, biting gentle marks onto John’s sensitive, flushed skin. John was fighting the urge to moan loudly, aware that Sherlock would know immediately that he wasn’t acting. It was difficult to not let his urges take over, so very difficult.
John tilted his face enough to allow Sherlock better access to his neck, and he licked a long streak down his sternocleidomastoid muscle. Unable to suppress a shudder, John's body trembled, but Sherlock didn't seem to pay that any mind. Instead, his hands had come up into John's hair, and they were tugging at his strands hard enough for it to be painful, but not quite so painful that it hurt. Unable to see Sherlock’s face properly in the dim lighting, he closed his eyes, adamant to remember as many details from their encounter as possible, as it was very likely this would be their first and their last.
Then, as suddenly as it had happened in the first place, Sherlock broke away from their embrace, grinning triumphantly. Nodding at John, he signaled that they had gotten what they came for.
“Come along, John,” Sherlock said cheerfully, already walking back toward the exit, leaving John a second to compose himself and to attempt to look like he had not just been snogged. Inhaling a deep breath, he held the air in his lungs for a moment before exhaling through his nose, attempting to stop his weak knees from buckling as he started walking out. Hormones were racing through his bloodstream and his erection was painful against the tight denim of his jeans. Swearing under his breath, he headed for the exit, desperately thinking unsexy and off-putting thoughts. It helped, sort of.
The ride back to Baker Street was silent and uncomfortable. Sherlock was lost in thought, staring at the passing landscape from behind the car window. John was thankful for the fact that his friend was distracted, because it gave him further opportunity to will his erection away. He felt mortified because this situation didn’t affect Sherlock the way it had affected him, arousal and attraction pooling in his lower abdomen, hormonal like a bloody teenager. But Sherlock was, and always would be, Sherlock. He always would be disinterested in romantic entanglement and considered his body a mere means of transportation. Neither of those facts seemed to reduce the burning desperation in John’s chest, his skin practically burning from desire. It would take an extremely long, cold shower to rectify this situation.
*****
Later that same evening, after a long, freezing shower, John still found himself unable to still his racing thoughts. They were becoming increasingly obscene, and John thought it was a wonder Sherlock hadn’t deduced them from his face. The detective, however, was distracted with the case, his eyes never leaving his laptop, a pair of white earphones plugged in. Whatever he had been watching, it must have been interesting, because he hadn’t lifted his eyes from the screen for hours.
Curiosity finally getting the better of him, he walked over to Sherlock and was about to peek over his shoulder when the taller man shut the laptop, tossing it aside on the carpet. He crossed his arms over the blue bathrobe he was wearing and looked up at John, his cheeks flushed and his pupils dilated.
“Wha--” John began, but the look in Sherlock’s eyes told him not to ask any questions. Raising his eyebrows, John simply shrugged his shoulders and muttered something about being tired, making an excuse for himself to retire into his bedroom. Sherlock’s flushed face fresh on his mind, he felt his cock stiffening again, and he had to fight the urge to bite down on his hand in frustration. Out of all the people he had to go and develop feelings for, of course he had to choose the most complicated man on the planet.
Stalking off toward his bedroom door, John quickly entered and slammed the door shut behind him, slowly lowering himself into a sitting position, his back resting against the wooden surface. He basically tumbled backward when the door suddenly opened behind him, falling right into the crotch of one Sherlock Holmes.
Desperately scrambling onto his feet, he regarded Sherlock with bewilderment, the detective’s hair unruly and the bathrobe he was wearing open, leaving very little to the imagination.
“Sherlock?” John asked as he took a step backward into the room. Sherlock took a step forward and closed the door with his foot. Fighting to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s face instead of his muscular abdomen and pale, translucent skin, he saw the small movement the tall man made, the tip of his tongue grazing across his own bottom lip.
John snapped, arousal getting the better of his judgment at this point.
He roughly pushed Sherlock back against the closed door, pinning the detective’s arms above his head, crushing their lips together desperately. After a short moment, Sherlock kissed him back, unable to move his arms, but fiercely lapping at John’s lips with his tongue. Letting out a guttural groan, John pushed one knee in between Sherlock’s legs, gasping when his erection brushed against Sherlock’s thigh. To his utter surprise, he could also feel the hard length of Sherlock’s cock against his lip, his arousal reaching a new spike which he wasn’t even aware was possible.
Moving his lips to the curve of Sherlock’s pale neck, he wasted no time in sinking his teeth into the hard flash, eliciting a loud groan from Sherlock. Encouraged, he pushed his elevated arms harder against the door, his lips sucking roughly onto his skin, most certainly leaving marks. He didn’t care; John wanted everyone to know that the great Sherlock Holmes was his, and only his.
With newfound fierce possessiveness, John released one hand from Sherlock’s wrists, his now free hand roaming across the exposed skin on his abdomen, pushing the bathrobe aside to make room for exploration.
Noticing Sherlock was entirely nude underneath the blue fabric, John suddenly released Sherlock and grabbed him by the hand, pushing him down on his bed, climbing on top in between his knees, their lips locking together again. With nimble hands, John pushed the blue robe off his shoulders, and Sherlock sat for a moment, shrugging it off entirely.
To John’s utter surprise, when he looked at the face of the man he loved, he noticed he was grinning. In fact, he seemed to be holding back laughter.
“What?” John asked, breathless and slightly annoyed. Then he realized. “There was never a case, was there?”
Sherlock let out a chuckle. “There was,” he said, his voice low and rough with desire, “I solved it when Lestrade called.”
“So this--” John gestured between Sherlock’s naked form and his fully clothed one, “was to get me in bed?”
Nodding, a blush crept across Sherlock’s feature and John rolled his eyes.
“You imbecile,” he said, but his voice was tinged with affection, “you could have just asked.”
With those words, Sherlock pulled John down again, their lips locking together, Sherlock’s fingers unbuttoning his shirt. John shrugged it off, revealing his muscular chest and abdomen, the faint silver tattered skin of his scar standing out on his left shoulder in the dim light.
“Gorgeous,” Sherlock breathed, and John felt his heart flutter pleasantly.
“Wait,” John held his hand out as Sherlock tried unbuttoning his trousers, “if there was no case, what were you doing on your computer?”
With a smug smile, Sherlock reached down again, quickly undoing John’s trouser buttons, before reaching for John’s face, pulling him down, whispering against his skin, “research.”
A little confused, John stood and pulled his trousers, boxers and socks down, before climbing back in between Sherlock’s spread legs. His cock was resting beautifully against the alabaster skin, the head leaking with precome. Pressing their lips together again, John suddenly felt Sherlock shift, and suddenly he was the one on his back, the detective looming above him, licking his lips.
“Research,” he repeated before leaning in, biting on John’s earlobe, their cocks aligned and pressed together, “I was watching pornography, John.”
Those words coming out of those lips was completely obscene, and John moaned loudly, his hands coming up to tug at Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock kissed him again, eagerly, their tongues swirling around each other, Sherlock’s tongue exploring his mouth, gently feeling his teeth and inner cheeks. A few long fingers wrapped around John’s shaft.
“Fuck, Sh- Sherlock.”
Sherlock retracted his hand and placed his palm on John’s chest, making him stay in place. He had a mischievous grin on his face, and John had to swallow around the sudden dryness in his throat.
Slowly, Sherlock climbed off him, turning around on all fours, slowly crawling backward until his face was aligned with John’s cock, and his own hard member was hanging in front of John’s face. Holding his weight up by his forearms, Sherlock experimentally swirled his tongue around John’s shaft, causing a loud moan from John, which was quickly stifled by the sensation of a hot mouth around his cock. In unison, they started moving, their tongues swirling desperately against the other’s cock, the pressure in their groins buildings, their moans only partly stifled, saliva running from the corner of their mouths. Feeling the pressure building was almost unbearable, and Sherlock sucked down harder, John matching his movements, and in a moment they were both coming, their seed spilling into each others mouth, both lapping it up greedily.
Sherlock managed to crawl back to John’s face before collapsing on his body, their breaths erratic and hearts pounding, a slick layer of sweat covering their chests and foreheads. Opening one eye lazily, Sherlock’s eyes golden in his post coital glow, he licked his lips, uttering the words that would change their lives forever.
“When can we do that again?”